The Woman Who Heard Color (43 page)

“Maybe someday we could get a piano,” Hanna said. “Would you like to learn to play?”

“Oh, I don’t think I have your talent, Mother. But I’d love to hear you play again.”

Oddly, Hanna felt some small peace, though the entire world was engaged in a war. Together, alone, she and Isabella spoke to each other. In this forced yet voluntary isolation, she was reclaiming her daughter.

“You miss the paintings, don’t you?” Isabella said, carrying her empty bowl to the sink.

“Yes,” Hanna answered, “I do.”

“Maybe we could go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art,” Isabella offered. “My class is going. Someday we could go together.”

“I’d like that,” her mother said with a smile.

Isabella enjoyed her new school, particularly the variety of classes in which she was now able to enroll. She was taking an art history course, which delighted Hanna.

After school one afternoon, Isabella spoke with enthusiasm. “I asked Sister Mary Luke if we would study modern art, the abstract art, and she said not until second semester. She said if I was interested she could bring in some books.”

The following day, Isabella returned home in an exceptionally good mood. Hanna was pulling out the hem of a skirt by hand. She set it aside. “Would you like something to eat?” she asked her daughter, following Isabella into the small kitchen.

Isabella unfastened her school bag and pulled out two large books. She opened one, flipped to where she’d inserted a slip of paper, and placed it on the table.

“Look at this,” she said.

Hanna stood over her daughter, looking down at a painting by Cézanne.

“Didn’t we have a painting by this artist in our home in Munich?”

Hanna nodded as Isabella flipped another page.

“I saw one similar to this . . .” Isabella stared down at a Picasso reproduction of a group of women done in the Cubists’ style. “I think maybe it was at the gallery.”

“Yes, a small painting by this artist also hung in the upstairs hallway.”

“Sometimes as I’m studying the art, I think of Papa. I’m so excited to start second semester.”

Hanna poured a glass of milk for her daughter and placed several cookies on a plate. She had adjusted the recipe because of the shortage of sugar and butter, thinking fondly of the rich desserts they had enjoyed in Munich during the good times. She sat down at the table and leafed through the book with Isabella.

“I would never say,
That’s an artist my father personally knew
.” Isabella looked up at her mother. “I would never say,
That artist had a painting hanging in our home in Germany
.
That artist hung in the gallery in Munich.
Why, that would be bragging, wouldn’t it?”

Hanna knew that most of the students at Isabella’s school came from wealthy families, and many likely had a valuable painting or two hanging on the wall at home. But yes, it would probably shock them to learn that Isabella had known the work of these artists personally, that her parents had such paintings hanging in their gallery and in their home.

“No one would believe me anyway,” Isabella added, and Hanna felt a small tug at her heart. Perhaps it would make Isabella feel more like the others if they knew she had once lived in a grand home on one of the finest avenues in Munich. But Hanna knew her daughter would never share any of this. Hanna doubted any of the girls at her new school knew that she had been born in Germany. That her mother, who sat alone at home over her secondhand sewing machine, had escaped less than three years ago.

“These are good memories,” Isabella said, “thinking about the paintings.”

Hanna wondered how much Isabella remembered. She was six when they closed the gallery, eight when she came to America, certainly old enough to retain some memory, but it had been almost seven years now.

Isabella nibbled a cookie. “Thank you for sending me here to America when the bad memories had not yet started.”

Hanna was touched that Isabella seemed to understand. She was now fifteen, and in many ways she seemed much older. She had never asked again about Johann Keller or pushed her mother to reveal details of what she had done before she came to America. And yet, when Hanna offered a small glimpse into her life in Germany, Isabella grew quiet and listened as if she were recording every word in her head.

Isabella spoke only of good memories of Munich, of Germany. Sometimes she spoke of the fun they had on the farm with Uncle Frederick and the cousins, of outings with Leni and her family, visits to the Marienplatz, picnics in the park with Willy and Sasha.

Hanna wondered if Isabella remembered the day she chased the butterflies, and proclaimed loudly for the entire world to hear that, like her father, she was a Jew.

“The large painting in the music room,” Isabella said, “it was by Wassily Kandinsky.” She looked down at her book and studied a painting by the Russian, one of his colorful
Compositions
. “You sold the painting?” Again she glanced at her mother. “Do you know who bought it? Maybe we can buy it back after the war.”

“This is one of a series the artist called his
Compositions
,” Hanna said, slowly moving her fingers over the bright colors. Cautiously, she weighed the words that were now forming in her head. Should she share another small piece of the truth with her daughter? “There is something I want to tell you, Isabella,” she said slowly.

Isabella’s head jerked up.

“Before I came to America, we did sell this painting you speak of now. It was sold to a man in Berlin. But . . . just before she died, Helene purchased it. To protect it from Hitler—for Hitler hated the modern paintings.” Hanna realized she was speaking of the man in the past tense. “She took it to Uncle Frederick on the farm. To keep it safe.”

“But what happened to it?” Isabella’s eyes lit up with surprise, with hope. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” There was a sudden shift in her tone, and Hanna wondered if Isabella saw this as a betrayal, her mother telling her only part of this story until now.

“I was afraid . . . maybe it is no longer . . .” The words came out with a rough, unsure rhythm. “Uncle Frederick is gone now, but the farm . . . hopefully it is still in the family. I don’t know.”

“After the war, we could go back to the farm.” Excitement tinged Isabella’s voice. “We could go find it. Willy’s Colors.”

Hanna touched her daughter’s face, brushing away a small crumb of cookie on the corner of her mouth. “Would you want to do that? After the war? Go back to Germany?”

Isabella picked up another cookie and dipped it into her milk. “For a visit, maybe. But no, not to live again. Papa is gone, Helene, Jakob, and Willy. Our home is gone. Not to live, but yes, for a visit. I would like to see Munich again before I die.”

Here she was, just fifteen, and Isabella was speaking of death. This saddened Hanna greatly, but at the same time she felt for the first time that this war would end, that they would survive.

Later, as she lay in bed, once more unable to sleep, fearing the return of the nightmares as she did each night, Hanna wondered if she should tell Isabella about the art she had saved from Hitler’s purge. Maybe she should just tell her daughter the truth about what she had done. Surely Isabella, who had displayed a greater maturity since the war started, was old enough to understand that her mother had done what she had to do. But might she ask where the art was now? And this would bring up the subject of Johann Keller, Isabella’s father, the man who now safeguarded the rescued art.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

 

“She never explained how she eventually made her way to America,” Isabella told Lauren, “though I’m aware she traveled on a Swiss passport, using her maiden name. Shortly after she arrived, the war started in Europe, then the Americans joined the Allies. My mother was evasive and guarded when asked about those years she’d spent alone in Germany. I know so very little about that time in her life. We moved to New York City, where I could enroll in a private school. My mother took in work doing mending and alterations. Can you imagine? This beautiful, intelligent German woman who had once lived in a lovely home in Munich with Picassos, Cézannes, Van Goghs, and Kandinskys hanging on the walls?”

Lauren shook her head—she couldn’t imagine.

But she could imagine a German woman wanting to rid herself of a Jewish-sounding name. A German-American woman wanting to rid herself of a German name.

Today, Isabella Fletcher wore a mint green suit, diamond drop earrings, and a diamond pendant on a platinum chain. Lauren guessed the diamond had to be near a carat. Next to her, Lauren felt quite underdressed, though she’d worn a skirt and blouse today, not the slacks she was used to wearing. She pulled the edge of her skirt down a bit to cover her knees. She was sitting again on the sofa, Isabella in the wingback chair.

“But truthfully,” Mrs. Fletcher said, “we were happy to be together. We talked.”

Today she was serving iced tea, having made a comment about the warm weather, though it was no warmer than yesterday. Isabella picked up her glass and took a sip.

“Recalling the years I spent with my aunt and uncle and the Koebler cousins brings up conflicting memories. It was a lovely, peaceful setting. Very much like being with my cousins on the Bavarian farm in Germany. As a small child, we often visited Uncle Frederick. Though the American farm wasn’t nearly as pretty,” she said in a low voice as if someone might be offended. “Yet my mother was not there. She went back to Germany for my father. He never made it to America.”

They were treading over familiar memories, things Isabella had shared with Lauren yesterday. Again she considered how she might move the conversation along without offending Mrs. Fletcher.

Lauren glanced down at the table at the Bubble-Wrapped glass she’d had cut for the frame. She had presented it to Isabella as soon as she arrived at the apartment this afternoon. Mrs. Fletcher had said, “Thank you,” but nothing more. Lauren wanted to offer to help her put it in the frame, but decided to wait.

There was also a large manila envelope on the table. It had been sitting there when Lauren arrived. She sensed it was something important, as Isabella kept eyeing it as they spoke. More photographs? Lauren wondered. Or more art?

“Did you talk about Germany?” she finally asked. “Did you and your mother talk about Germany when you were reunited in America?”

“Yes,” Isabella replied with a half smile, “we talked, but only about the good memories, never the bad. But as I’ve told you, my memories of life in Munich were all good. As a child I really had no idea how horrible life had become. But then, of course, Papa died, then Willy.”

She said this without feeling. Yesterday during the latter part of their conversation Lauren was very much aware of how emotional the old woman had become, but today, even through a retelling of her brother’s death, the woman had remained composed.

Lauren thought of the many heartaches Isabella had gone through during her life. As a child, she had been separated from her parents, lost her father, and then watched as her brother died a painful death from pneumonia, all the while wondering why her mother was not there. How could Lauren possibly suggest that Hanna Fleischmann had aided the Nazis, filling her own pockets along the way? Again, she considered that maybe Isabella didn’t know. This was a true possibility. Maybe the old woman didn’t know about her mother’s activities in Berlin and in Lucerne. But . . . she knew about the Swiss passport.

Lauren glanced around the room, mentally separating those pictures she knew to be copies from those she suspected were originals. Then her mind wandered down the hall, past the dining room, and into the powder room, adding additional images. Just a few small pieces were possibly authentic, and according to what Isabella told her yesterday, she possessed documentation to show they had all been purchased legitimately. Maybe none of these had anything to do with the Nazi-confiscated art.

“I finally had to accept that there were things that Mother just
wasn’t
going to share with me,” Isabella explained. There was something in her tone and then in the way she looked at Lauren with an even gaze and pursed lips that seemed to say,
And there are things that I’m not going to tell you either.

She knows,
Lauren thought.

“Eventually,” Isabella said, “Mother told me that Helene had purchased the Kandinsky painting in Berlin and that she had taken it to Uncle Frederick’s farm to hide it.”

“Because of this Nazi censorship?” Lauren asked.

“Partially, yes. I think she just wanted Mother to have it. It really was her painting, hers and Willy’s. It was a showpiece in our home in Munich. In the music room.” Isabella shook her head dismissively. “Yes, I believe I told you that yesterday.”

Lauren nodded.
And where is it now?
she was tempted to ask. But instead she said, “Then after the war it was sent to your mother in America?”

“Yes. Well, no, that’s not exactly how it happened. But, as you can see, yes, it was eventually returned to our family.”

As you can see?
Lauren wondered. She had yet to see any evidence that Isabella Fletcher possessed such a painting.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

America
September 1945
—
June 1946

 

On the first day of September of 1945, Hanna woke with terrible cramps and discovered the bedsheets soaked with blood. She had stopped her monthly periods years ago, though sporadically had these cramps and bleeding. This was much heavier. She got up, went into the bathroom, and took out one of the pads Isabella had left in the medicine cabinet. Isabella had been gone for a week, leaving early to start work at the school library. She had been accepted to Vassar, a prestigious all-women’s college in Upstate New York.