The Woman Who Heard Color (26 page)

“Herr Hausmann’s assistant,” she replied, though she had been given no such title.

“Frau . . . ?” He motioned with his head for her to supply her name.

“Hanna Fleischmann.”

The man’s eyes darted about, but he said nothing more. Hanna offered him wine, coffee, or tea, all of which he declined. Without explanation, he started through the first gallery, as the two young soldiers stood by the door in military stances.

After a quick walk through the second hall, Herr Brandt marched into the parlor and, without a word, he sat, again gazing about, his eyes flickering with irritation. Hanna asked if he would like something, a glass of water perhaps, and he nodded a yes.

She went to fetch it herself, handed it to him, and stood, waiting for him to speak. She wasn’t sure what it was that he wanted. She guessed that he was here to examine the art, perhaps confiscate it, or perhaps receive a gift for the Führer’s exhibition. But she didn’t know how this next step was to be conducted—remove the art, have Hitler sort through it to claim what he liked, perhaps even destroy what he did not?

“Bitte,”
the man said, with a touch of resignation, motioning for her to sit. She did.

“Herr Brandt, what may I do for you?”

He gave off an exhausted sigh and then he said, “Sometimes it is impossible to know what the Führer wants. He speaks of true German art. I bring him a painting by Franz Marc. No truer German has ever existed. Born in Munich, educated in Germany. He served his country well, a true soldier, a true German. He gave his life for his country, and yet the Führer rants and raves, ‘What have you brought me, but rubbish.’ I once brought a lovely painting for him to examine and he became so enraged he kicked a hole through the canvas and stomped out of the room.”

Hanna shuddered, and her stomach turned at the thought of Hitler kicking a hole through a painting. Particularly a Franz Marc.

“It is not a simple task to determine what the Führer means when he says German art.”

Hanna didn’t know why Herr Brandt was sharing this with her. It was not a wise move to speak any words other than adoring praise for their dictator. And though he was not actually criticizing, he was expressing some frustration. He took a deep, cleansing swallow of water, adjusted his back, stiffening his posture, then rose as a brave soldier about to do battle. “Tell me, Frau Fleischmann, if you were to choose five paintings from your gallery to display in the Haus der Deutschen Kunst for all of Germany to see what lovely art we have produced, which five would you choose?”

She was slightly taken aback by his request. Was Hanna to choose, or was he trying to catch her in some kind of betrayal? She wished only for him to gather his paintings as quickly as possible and leave.

Herr Brandt motioned Hanna to accompany him, and then quietly they walked about the gallery, the man stopping for a moment before a painting, then moving on to another. He said nothing, and Hanna tried to watch his facial expressions to determine which he found agreeable, which paintings he might consider presenting to the Führer for his approval.

German art is what the Führer says is German art,
she thought, as they continued through the gallery. There were no guidelines other than these. It was not the artist, unless of course he was Jewish, which would automatically rule him out. German art was whatever Hitler decided it was. This was the way all aspects of culture were determined now, in music and literature as well as art.

And then she realized how easily she could do this. She had spent years at the Fleischmann Gallery working with clients, generally the most difficult, as Moses always said she had a way with them.

Hanna would suggest they browse, and she would watch carefully—the movement of the eyes, a twitch of a brow, a lift of the lips or a disapproving downward tug of displeasure. On a second stroll through the gallery, she would point out subtleties in the works they seemed to favor, offer what she saw as the most striking aspects of the work. She would ask questions. Is this for your personal collection? Do you wish to buy the painting as a gift? An investment? Where will it be displayed? If the situation felt right, she might suggest that the value of a particular painting would surely increase. But always she considered that a choice must be based primarily on personal taste, rarely admitting that she preferred some artists over others.

At times she would go outside the gallery to other dealers, even scout out a particular work. Once she was even asked by Frau Hummel to match the drapes in her music room, another time to find something complementary to the hues of the marble fireplace mantel. She was delighted with the painting Hanna found by a young German artist she knew would slip into obscurity. Yes, Hanna knew her clients. She knew what they would like.

And somehow she knew what Hitler would like.

She thought back many years to the day he had come to the gallery. A mama’s boy, Hanna thought now, remembering how the young man had stomped out of the gallery. A little boy always seeking the approval of his mother. And she thought of how Leni carried on about Hitler’s respect for motherhood and German wives.

“This painting,” she said, pointing to a rather precious portrait of a blond woman, who actually looked a little like Leni—Hanna had noticed when it was delivered to the gallery how much it resembled her most beautiful sister. The woman sat on a simple wooden chair with her perfect little brood of three gathered adoringly around her. They all wore traditional German folk costumes, had a healthy glow about them, and Hanna had no doubt that it would find favor with the Führer.

“This one,” she told Herr Brandt.

He examined the work for several long moments, during which Hanna held her breath, and then he motioned to one of the two young men who stood silently at the door. The man was blond and brawny, the ideal German soldier.

Hanna let out a relieved breath, and then decided she should choose something representing the land, a scene with farmers. She picked one of workers during the harvest and looked to Herr Brandt for his approval. He smiled and nodded, first at Hanna, then the soldiers.

Ah, she thought, as the larger of the two young men lifted this one off the wall and placed it aside with her first choice, she must choose a nude—the Führer must have a nude. Inwardly, Hanna laughed a little, because she was actually having some fun here, the most fun she’d had in a long time. She could rid the gallery of the most distasteful art, have it carried off to be displayed before all of Germany in the new house of new German art.

“A good, wholesome, healthy Aryan woman,” she said out loud. It was known that the mediocre artist Adolf Ziegler, who specialized in painting nudes, was a Hitler favorite. He had recently been appointed as President of the Chamber of Art. Oh, that she would have had one of Ziegler’s beautiful nudes hanging in her gallery at this very moment! So she picked a portrait of three young women, surely done in imitation of Ziegler, as many of the young artists were painting to imitate what had already been approved. There was no originality. Originality had become
verboten
.

The three women in the painting sat in the most distorted and unnatural poses, on a stone bench—oh, cold bottoms, Hanna thought, and tried not to smile. In imitation of Ziegler, the artist hadn’t been able to get those women to appear fully sitting. Perhaps a bit of a shadow here could have improved the situation, could have done away with that floating-bottom look, could have settled those three perfect posteriors down on the bench, she mused, trying to repaint the canvas in her mind, trying not to giggle.

“Two more,” Herr Brandt encouraged her.

Surely they must represent the Aryan man also. A soldier, Hanna decided, looking around the gallery. Hitler loved anything depicting soldiers, wars, even mythical battles. Ah, there, a nice painting of a young soldier with his square—verging on cartoonish—Aryan jaw, his look of determination. “Here,” she motioned, feeling quite confident now.

And for her final choice . . . Hanna walked slowly about the gallery, and realized for this one she might have to make a sacrifice. She stood before one of the few paintings in the gallery that she truly loved, for the creation itself, for the memories it brought, for the man who had painted it. Surely not a product of Nazi Germany, as the painter had died years ago. But she knew Hitler would love it, and she knew he could claim credit for anything he wanted.

It was a lovely Franz von Stuck entitled
Spring
, a mythical figure of a woman with flowers in her long flowing hair. Hanna knew Hitler loved the work of Franz von Stuck, who in his day, before the Kandinskys, Jawlenskys, Picassos, had been considered very modern and avant-garde. And perhaps this was where those attempting to choose the perfect Aryan art were confused. There was a modern art nouveau look about the artist’s work, yet he favored mythical, allegorical, and classical themes. And Hitler identified with the classical. Hanna remembered that after the Beer Hall Putsch of 1923 he had hidden at his friend’s home, Ernst Franz Hanfstaengl, and she knew the name because they had sold him a Franz von Stuck,
The Medusa
. Oddly, Hitler later said that it reminded him of his mother. And it was said his own personal style, his physical appearance—the square little mustache, the hair combed forward—was influenced by a von Stuck painting, the Norse god Odin.

“The Franz von Stuck,” she told Herr Brandt, and here Hanna had to keep her inner laughter from turning to tears.

“Yes,” he agreed, delighted. Then something in his eyes, about his brow, shifted. “Ah, yes.” He, too, seemed almost sad, as if he understood that this was now ripping her heart out. She wondered if he had been forced, as so many citizens of Germany, to serve the Führer when he did not believe in the man’s cause, or perhaps his cause—to resurrect Germany—but not in the hateful way he wished to accomplish it.

Herr Brandt collected his paintings, and they were taken away by the two young strapping soldiers, who Hanna was sure had no idea about the origin or quality of the art, had no idea if the dictator of all things cultural and otherwise would be pleased, or if he would smash the paintings or kick holes in them.

After they left the gallery with the five paintings, Hanna felt drained. She walked around, examining the bare spaces on the walls where the paintings had hung just moments before. She was shivering, though the gallery was not cold. Finally she sat. Again she looked around the room, remembering when it had been called the Fleischmann, thinking of those bold days when they had hung the likes of Picasso, Klimt, Munch, Marc, and her beloved Kandinsky. She could see the colors, vivid and pulsing. She felt it again—an excitement and sense of innovation that vibrated in the air, a time she feared would never exist again.

And then she could hear the colors, dancing on the canvases that had covered the walls, now so drab and lifeless.

Hanna laughed out loud, a nervous, frightening sound coming forth from her own body.

And then the tears came. Slowly at first, and then profusely, her entire body shaking. She could not stop herself, as she trembled, as the tears fell, until it seemed every ounce of moisture and life had been drained from her, as if she might collapse and fall to the floor. Yes, she wept for the art, for her children, her beloved Josef, her Moses. Hanna wept for Germany.

One week later she received word that the Führer wished to meet with her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

 

“I am Herr Berger,” the handsome young man introduced himself. “I will serve as your escort, Frau Fleischmann.” Hanna had been informed of the time and date on which she should be prepared for her journey, but she was given no reason for the meeting, which had been arranged at the convenience of the Führer. All of Germany was operating on Hitler time now. Why shouldn’t she? She was advised that she would travel by train, and though Hanna was not told where she would be going, she had been told to pack a bag.

A driver was waiting out front of the gallery. Herr Berger held the door for Hanna as she slipped into the backseat. Surely if she was being transported to one of Hitler’s camps, she would not be taking a bag, and she would not be provided with escort, private car, and driver.

She was surprised at the courtesy of the young man and the respect with which he addressed her. He didn’t explain why the Führer wished to meet with her. Perhaps he didn’t know. Hanna guessed that he was sent to escort her to the train, but when they arrived at the station, unloaded the car, and the young man handed two tickets to the conductor, it appeared that he would accompany her the entire way. The thought had come to Hanna on several occasions as she prepared mentally and physically for her trip that the Führer had remembered her from years ago when he’d come to the gallery with his drawings and she had sent him away. But so many years had passed; surely he would not recognize her. Some days when she gazed in the mirror, Hanna hardly recognized herself. Her flaming red hair, now interwoven with strands of silver, barely contained the embers of fire. Her onceyouthful figure had rounded and plumped. Hitler would not recognize her. But might he recognize her name?

They traveled south from Munich, Herr Berger asking several times if he could get her refreshments, if there was anything she needed.

“Nein, danke,”
Hanna replied each time, too nervous to entertain the idea of eating or drinking anything.

They arrived at the train station at Berchtesgaden, which Hanna knew was near the Austrian border. Another young man came to fetch them in a late-model automobile and they drove silently up into the mountains. It was a beautiful part of the country in the Bavarian Alps, and under different circumstances Hanna might have felt at ease, even at home, yet her entire body was now shaking with fear. A lovely chalet perched on the hillside came into view, and Herr Berger told her this was where the Führer came to relax from his trying days. “He’s often seen in the village, dressed in the costume of the
Volk
.” It was a word that was now bandied about by Hitler and his followers—as if they were part of the common folk.