The Woman Who Heard Color (45 page)

“Is this before or after the wedding?” Hanna asked. Andrew, having arrived home two days before Christmas, had given her a ring on Christmas Eve, but they had not yet set a date. “Before or after you get your degree?”

“We’re both going to finish school, Mother. I already explained that.” She gazed down at the shiny diamond on her left hand, and then looked up at her mother. “Maybe Andrew can go with us.”

But Hanna knew she would never return to Germany.

“Yes,” she said, reaching for her daughter’s hand. “Yes, we’ll go back together.”

A rim of tears hung on Isabella’s pale blue eyes. Of course, Hanna realized, the girl knew her mother was not well, but neither one of them wanted to talk about it, as if the plans for their return to Germany to claim the Kandinsky painting would keep her alive.

 

 

I
n June, Hanna knew the end was near. She was admitted to the hospital. Isabella was home for her summer break, tending her mother, both preparing for the inevitable.

“You have to get better,” Isabella said, her voice quivering, her lip trembling. Surely, Hanna thought, her daughter, who’d spoken often with the doctor, knew that she would not get better. “We have to go pick up the Kandinsky.”

“
Ja
, we’ll go home,” Hanna told her, though she had already made arrangements for the painting to be shipped to Isabella in care of Hans Koebler. She should tell Isabella, but everything was growing dark, hazy. Her mind unclear. Sometimes she thought she was only imagining that the painting had survived the war, that it would be sent to her in America. That the war was even over. “
Ja
, we’ll go home,” Hanna said again.

That night Hanna returned. She was with her brothers and sisters in the green pastures under the protective shadow of the snow-covered mountains. She ran toward the house, and her mother and father stood in the doorway to greet her. She smelled the geraniums that flowed from the window baskets, the cattle grazing on green grass, the scent of her mother as she stroked Hanna’s hair. The sound and color of her voice, the music of her childhood. And then in Munich she sat with the lovely golden Helene at the bedroom window, overlooking the city. Helene poured warm tea and offered her sweet-smelling bread. Then she stood with Moses before the Cézanne, his deep voice comforting her as they each held Willy by one hand. And then they were all smiling down upon this beautiful child. Isabella, this gift who had come so unexpectedly to them all.

She heard Isabella’s voice. “I love you, Mama. It’s okay now. Let go, Mama. Let go. I love you.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

 

“Your mother didn’t live to see the Kandinsky returned to your family?” Lauren asked.

“No,” Isabella replied. “By the time it arrived in New York from my aunt in Germany, everyone in my family had died—Papa, Willy, Mother.” She picked up her tea. The ice was melting, but the small cubes still made a tinkling sound against the side of the glass. “I was in college at the time. I had nowhere to hang it.” She set the glass down on the table. “I’m not sure I would have put it up at that time anyway. So many memories were attached to that painting . . .

“Andrew and I married. I finished college and then taught at an all-girls’ high school while Andrew got his degree. We returned to his father’s farm, which he eventually inherited along with his siblings. Andrew being the eldest, we lived for a while at the farm. He suggested we hang the Kandinsky in the dining room, though he used to say that modern painting on the wall of the old farmhouse looked about as out of place as a hula skirt on a Holstein.” She laughed and glanced over at the photo of her husband. “It had been dismantled and rolled for transport from Europe and later Andrew enlisted a couple of the farmhands to help him stretch the canvas and mount it back on the wooden frame. That was rather a comical scene, those men attempting to figure out what the heck that picture was all about. One of them—Ralph, I believe, was his name—thought it was a fine picture. Henry said he couldn’t see for the life of him what that artist was thinking.” Isabella laughed again and Lauren couldn’t help but smile as she visualized a couple of overall-clad farmworkers stretching a Kandinsky.

She asked, “How long have you been here in New York City?”

“We bought the apartment back in the seventies, but we rented earlier. Andrew always knew I was more comfortable in the city. After Mother and I made the move to New York, then after the war, everything seemed different. I’d been close to several of my cousins—actually my cousins’ children, my second cousins, as my Koebler cousins were much older than I. And I had other friends, but . . . Well, you know how sometimes those friendships of your youth . . . People move on, they change . . .”

Lauren nodded in agreement.

“Andrew always explained to anyone who asked that it was his laziness that financed our move to the city. He said he was darned tired of milking all those cows! He developed a number of machines that made it more efficient and less time-consuming, and others that are still used in the processing of milk and dairy products. He did quite well. Andrew’s sister’s son is now president of the business, Fletcher Enterprises, and the family sold the dairy farm years ago. A large corporation came in and bought Koebler Creamery, along with most of the small family-owned farms in the area that supplied milk for the production of dairy products. There haven’t been any Koeblers involved for years now, although the company still uses the recipes that originated years and years ago. And, of course, the family name.”

Lauren was aware that the company hadn’t been owned by the Koebler family in many years. She thought back to several months ago when she went to Onondaga County to look for some trace of Hanna, how she had found very few in the community who had any recollection of the original Koeblers. The only ones she talked to who might have possibly known Isabella Fleischmann Smith Fletcher were an elderly couple. The wife seemed to recall a Koebler cousin who married that Fletcher boy. Though the husband, who appeared to be several years older than the wife, said he was sure that Andrew Fletcher had married one of the Koebler sisters.

Eventually this did lead Lauren to New York City and to Mrs. Andrew Fletcher.

Isabella shook her head. “It’s hard to believe we are now so many generations removed from the original families who founded the business in America. That happens at my age—by the time you turn eighty the world has changed hands so many times. Franklin D. Roosevelt was president when I arrived in America. Most people think of that as ancient history. I’ve lived through a dozen American presidents. Do you know there are young people now who barely have an understanding of what happened during World War II? It’s hard for me to believe that.”

Again Lauren agreed. She had studied history, and along with that the history of art, but it did surprise her how many people her age and younger saw no value in learning more about the past.

“Did you ever return for a visit to Germany?” Lauren asked.

“Oh, Andrew and I talked about it . . . but so much had changed. Our home was gone, the gallery. No, I never returned.”

Neither said anything for some time, and Lauren sensed that Isabella’s story was about to end—and, thus, Hanna’s also. Then Mrs. Fletcher reached for the envelope on the table and handed it to the younger woman.

Their eyes met and Isabella nodded as if she was giving Lauren permission to open it.

On the top she found several documents, obviously bills of sale for the original artwork that hung in the Fletcher home. Lauren examined each carefully, matching the information with pictures she’d seen on Isabella’s walls. She recognized the names of galleries in New York, one in Chicago, one in Los Angeles. There were documents for several pieces that she hadn’t seen, but she hadn’t made it into the master bedroom, and perhaps there was even a third bedroom. All of the papers looked official and listed provenance—dates, previous owners, and galleries where they once hung.

The large envelope also contained a smaller manila envelope. Again Isabella gestured for her to open it.

The first document was a letter from an Anna Schmid. It was in German. Though not fluent, Lauren had a reading knowledge of the language. Anna wrote that a painting, which had been left at the farm for Hanna, was being sent to her in America. The letter was dated September 1945, the handwritten message in faded ink. The envelope, addressed in the same hand, was attached with a paper clip and was obviously authentic—proper stamp and postmark. Lauren had no doubt that the letter was sent from Germany more than sixty years ago, shortly after the end of World War II.

The second document was a shipping bill of lading with a detailed description of the item to be shipped: a very large painting, the size stated in centimeters, which would easily match the purported size of Kandinsky’s original
Composition II
.

A third document was a bill of sale from Botho von Gamp to Helene Kaufmann for one painting by Wassily Kandinsky entitled
Composition II
. It was dated March 15, 1939. Lauren ran her fingers over the inked signature. It appeared to be authentic. The original, not a copy.

“I think you’ll find everything in order,” Isabella Fletcher stated. “Everything sufficiently documented to verify that all of the originals here in our home are legitimate purchases. The documents for the Kandinsky should prove sufficient, too, if there are any questions as to its proper ownership. Helene Kaufmann was my half sister, and there are no other heirs. I don’t believe anyone would challenge that I am the rightful owner.” Isabella cleared her throat and then she said, “Being an expert on this type of thing, I thought perhaps you could write a report or whatever it is you do to verify all of this. I would pay you, of course.” She smiled. “After I’m gone . . . Well, it’s important that this be taken care of now.”

This is why I am here,
Lauren thought.
As simple as that, this is why Isabella Fletcher invited me into her home.

“I’d have to see the painting,” Lauren said.

Isabella let out a small chuckle. “Well, yes, I believe that is a legitimate request.” The woman stood. Lauren followed her down the hall, past the dining room, the bathroom, another closed door, and then another. Isabella reached into the pocket of her mint green suit jacket, pulled out a key, and unlocked the door.

They entered the room, much larger than the bedroom Lauren had peered into yesterday. The master. Above the king-sized bed hung a large colorful painting, covering a good part of the entire, high-ceilinged wall.

Kandinsky’s
Composition II
.

Breathless and stunned, Lauren approached the painting and studied it carefully. The colors, still bright, the pigments in yellows, blues, greens, reds, outlined in black. The leaping animallike figures. The vaguely human forms. A signature ran across the lower left corner: KANDINSKY in block letters, the lower portion of the
S
sweeping long and low like the tail of a snake. It was dated 1910. She was sure it was an original Kandinsky.

For several moments, the room was very quiet.

Finally Isabella said, “You will verify that everything I have shared with you is true?”

“You’ve had it appraised? For insurance purposes?” Lauren asked as she turned back to Isabella. Lauren couldn’t imagine how Isabella had kept this painting a secret for all these years.

The old woman’s face flushed with embarrassment.

“It’s not insured?” Lauren asked incredulously.

“At first when it arrived from Germany, such a thought never even crossed our minds. Andrew was an astute businessman, and yes, eventually he told me we should have it insured. Particularly as the value of paintings by such artists continued to climb. I suppose it was foolish, but I didn’t want anyone to know we had it. It just seemed . . .” Isabella shook her head, obviously aware that such a painting, a piece of history, should be protected. She didn’t look at Lauren but stared up at the painting. “I don’t know. Andrew and I argued about it now and then. He’d say something like,
What if a thief came in and stole it?
and I’d say,
No one knows it’s here, but if we have it appraised and insured, word would surely get out
. And then he’d say,
What if the building burned down?
and I’d reply,
I’ve lost this painting before, and what would we get if it was destroyed? Money?
”

She turned and looked directly at Lauren. “I’ve been rich. I’ve been poor. And then wealthy again. What does money mean?” Isabella fingered the diamond pendant and laughed quietly. “Well, I must confess I enjoy nice things, but when I look back on my life—Mother and I were happy in New York when we had nothing, and my best times with Andrew were probably those first years of our marriage when we had so little. No, money isn’t everything. And what would I do with money? Have a long-dead artist paint another picture? If I had children perhaps I would feel differently.”

“I’d suggest you have it insured,” Lauren said, attempting to keep anything Isabella might consider judgmental out of her tone.

“Yes, I suppose you are right. You could help me with that. You must work with insurance companies that specialize in such policies.”

“Yes, I could give you some names.”

Isabella gestured toward the door and they returned to the living room.

“I trust you’ve received what you came for,” Isabella said as they sat and she carefully arranged the items back in the envelope and placed them once more on the table. She drained the last of her tea and Lauren realized, by the finality in the way she said this and then placed the tea glass back on the tray, that their conversation had come to an end.

And just as it had begun, it would end with Isabella Fleischmann Fletcher calling the shots.