The Woman Who Heard Color (30 page)

Lauren nodded in agreement. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for talking to me.”

“Tomorrow,” Mrs. Fletcher repeated as she opened the door and Lauren stepped out, wondering how she could possibly go home to Patrick and Adam holding all of these thoughts, these emotions, these new revelations inside her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

 

When Hanna arrived in Berlin, she was taken immediately to a large warehouse on Köpenickerstrasse by the young man who had been sent to accompany her from Munich. A quick glance informed her that the building was being used to store art, most likely that which had been confiscated from government collections. She was introduced to the supervisor, Herr Strasser, a tall, thin man with an unruly head of hair that he kept slicking back with his long fingers.

“What is it that is required of me?” she asked.

“The warehouse is filled with art owned by the Reich,” Herr Strasser told her. “It must be catalogued, and because of your expertise, particularly in the area of”—and here he cleared his throat—“
the modern
, you are recognized as one most highly capable of this endeavor. There are others who are assisting, but your judgment and knowledge will be a great asset in determining the worth of this type of . . . Dare we call it art?”

So this was the reason she was here, because her knowledge and experience might be of value. The Commission was well aware that she had some usefulness.

Herr Strasser escorted her about the building. As Hanna moved down one aisle, then another, she could smell it, see it, and hear it. She stared in disbelief. Never in her life had she seen so many canvases, drawings, and sculptures gathered in such disarray in such a place. Quietly, she walked about the cold, dark building, which she guessed had been used at one time to store grain, as there was a thin dust of it on the floor, a scent hovering in the air. Paintings were stacked against the walls, one layer upon another. Sculptures sat on shelves, in no particular order. All of it appeared to be what Hitler would call
entartete kunst
.

Forcing herself to hold back the tears, Hanna continued through the warehouse, feeling as if she had been sent to identify bodies in a morgue, as she gazed upon pieces they had at one time shown at the Fleischmann in Munich. Picasso, Klimt, Munch, Jawlensky, Kandinsky. The colors were vibrating, bouncing and jumbling, and sounding about before her eyes and in her ears. She swallowed hard, and wondered, “What will become of the art once it has been catalogued?”

Only when the man replied, “Perhaps the Führer alone knows the answer to that,” did she realize she had asked the question out loud.

Surely, Hanna thought, if he wished to destroy it, he would not go to the trouble of having it catalogued.

Herr Strasser gave off a snort of disapproval, and then laughed. “Have you ever seen such grotesque representations in your life?”

Hanna smiled as if she agreed, said nothing, and then once more walked through the maze of paintings and sculptures. She felt a warmth surge through her entire body. Her knees were about to give out. She swayed and dabbed the perspiration on her upper lip. The man noticed her distress, found a chair for her to sit, and asked, “Water?”

Hanna nodded.

After fetching a drink, Herr Strasser grimaced as he handed her the glass. “Such art does make one nauseous, does it not?”

She could not reply.

 

 

H
anna was escorted to a small, run-down hotel a short distance from the warehouse. She had not mentioned that she had relatives in Berlin. She did not want to call attention to her Jewish family or put them within harm’s reach, though Jakob was in no way attempting to hide the fact that he was a Jew, as many of those remaining in Germany were. Some had escaped but, as Hanna was learning through her own frustrations, it had become increasingly more difficult.

The following morning she reported to work at the warehouse on Köpenickerstrasse. Records had come in from the various museums. She was to combine these and catalogue the art according to subject, artist, nationality, date of creation, size, medium, previous ownership, and suggested value.

Hanna knew she must initially review the contents of the warehouse. She was assigned a pockmarked youth named Ulrich to assist her. They started through the rows, Hanna taking notes as she examined individual canvases, prints, and drawings, Ulrich carefully moving or rearranging pieces for her to view. The task before them was overwhelming.

When Ulrich tapped her on the shoulder and asked if they had completed their work for the day, Hanna was amazed that it was already 6:00 P.M. She was returned to her hotel, dinner was delivered to her room, and she slept more soundly that night than she had in years.

The next morning, Herr Strasser—who Hanna had learned, after just one day, knew nothing about art—informed her that they were to identify individual pieces by putting the assigned inventory numbers on each.

“If we paint the number in a noticeable color,” he suggested, “perhaps blue, but of course very small, on the front, lower righthand corner, pieces could easily be matched to the inventory lists.”

“What?” Hanna cried out in disbelief, unable to hide her horror. “How can you suggest such a mutilation? Surely this method of identification has not been suggested by your superior.”

Herr Strasser looked startled at her outburst, then almost fearful. “Y-y-yes, yes, of course,” he stuttered. “We must devise a better system.” Nervously he combed through his hair with his fingers.

Anyone with any sense would know these paintings should not be marked, as it would severely decrease their value. She questioned how such an idiot had been put in charge. He was nothing more than a warehouse supervisor.

Finally, after she calmed down, Hanna said, “The numbers should be affixed in a manner that will not damage the art.”

Herr Strasser nodded. His Adam’s apple slid up and down his throat.

“Numbers could be recorded on the wooden stretchers of the canvases,” she suggested, “with blue wax pencils, and on labels affixed to the backs of the prints and drawings. This way they could easily be removed or changed without causing harm.”

“Yes, yes,” he replied agreeably, almost thankfully, as if he understood that she had just saved him from doing something extremely stupid. “I will see that the proper materials are ordered.”

After this particular incident, Hanna was even more determined that Hitler and his imbeciles would not defile or destroy the art.

 

 

A
s one week turned into another, the world outside the warehouse began to disappear. Hanna’s life existed only for the art. Contentment enveloped her as she passed the days in this old building with the colors and music of her paintings. Strangely, she felt that she had some purpose and she imagined herself as a protector, the devoted mother tending to her children. There were moments of true joy, joy that Hanna could not defend in any way.

Rarely did she allow her thoughts to drift away from Köpenickerstrasse and think of Willy and Isabella in America. She no longer had communications with her children or with Helene or Jakob in her attempts to protect them, and she had neither the money nor the emotional stamina to escape. Waiting it out seemed the only option, and in the process at least she might play a small role in caring for the paintings. She barely allowed herself to question what would happen to the art, or to her, after she had served her purpose.

At the end of the month, she received a paycheck, and only now did she admit what she had become. She was an employee of the Reich. She was working for Hitler!

Within two days she received a bill for lodging and meals, which her wages would barely cover. Though she had not been sent to one of the camps, she was virtually being held prisoner.

She continued the meticulous process of inventory and assigning numbers to the paintings. The records that had come from each of the museums came with great detail of provenance and ownership. None of these pieces had been taken from private owners, though many had been donated to the museums by wealthy individuals, some having been the Fleischmanns’ clients. Hanna guessed that at some point the Commission would begin looting private collections. But these, according to the records, were all legitimately owned by the government, be it state or municipality. The government, of course, was now Adolf Hitler and those who did his bidding.

She began to make her own lists. When she went to the toilet, she pulled a pen from her pocket and recorded information she had collected during the day on a thin slip of paper she kept hidden inside her stockings, abbreviating, using initials and symbols to place as much information on each small sheet as possible. Every evening when she returned to her room she finished recording information from memory. She knew that her mind and heart would forever hold the colors, the images, and the sounds, but she would record the numbers here. She hid the lists under a loose floorboard in her room.

Herr Strasser, her supervisor, addressed her with respect, asking her opinions, requesting specific information from her about the artists’ work. One day, feeling very brave, she said to him, “Perhaps the Führer should consider trading these paintings for those he finds more agreeable.” Hanna immediately wished she had used a different word—
agreeable
made it sound like she was not in agreement with the leader of the Reich. “Or perhaps selling them outside the country. Some of these artists”—she pointed to a Picasso—“might find favor outside of Germany. Perhaps if they were sold, funds would be available to fill our galleries with true Aryan art.” The word
Aryan
left a bitter taste on her tongue.

Herr Strasser pursed his lips, tapped a finger to his mouth as if considering passing this suggestion on to his supervisor, but he said nothing.

There were soon other visitors to Hanna’s museum, as she had come to call it in her mind. Herr Franz Hofmann, the chairman of the confiscation committee, visited often. Herr Strasser became very nervous when Herr Hofmann appeared and always asked Hanna to escort him and explain what they had accomplished. After several visits and numerous conversations with Herr Hofmann, she sensed that he liked her and understood that her knowledge was of immense value. He began, in an almost teasing way, to call her the “Curator of the Degenerate.”

Herr Joseph Goebbels, Minister of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, appeared more than once. Hanna easily recognized him, as she had seen many photos in the newspaper and had been just an arm’s length from him at the grand opening of the Haus der Deutschen Kunst. He was a thin, pale man with hollow cheeks and a slow, sinister smile. She knew at one time he had actually liked the “modern,” but as soon as he realized Hitler had formed an unfavorable opinion, he immediately declared it abominable.

Herr Hermann Goering, who came from wealth and married into wealth, a man who was accustomed to being surrounded by fine art, stopped by on several occasions.

“Frau Fleischmann, you are well today?” he always asked with warmth. In stark contrast to Herr Goebbels, Herr Goering was a massive, energetic, friendly man, who often visited with Hanna when he stopped by. He had been a war hero, a decorated pilot in the German Air Force. He had once served as the president of the German Reichstag. If Hanna hadn’t known that he was one of Hitler’s closest advisors, one of the top-ranking officials in the Nazi Party, she might have found the man charming.

One day he asked, “This artist Van Gogh? His work is very valuable?”

“He’s considered by many to be one of the greatest influences on contemporary art.” Hanna didn’t even know what this meant anymore. Contemporary art? In Germany it had taken on a much different meaning. “It’s believed that he sold but one painting during his life, but yes, now his work is considered very important.”

“My tastes run more to the classical art and decorative pieces. What do you think of medieval and Renaissance tapestries? I’ve collected several to decorate my estate here in Berlin. You should come visit me sometime.”

Hanna had to catch herself from laughing at this invitation. She was as likely to visit Herr Goering’s estate as she was to go to a grand ball in a gown designed in Paris.

“They are lovely,” she replied, remembering a beautiful Renaissance tapestry Moses had purchased in Paris for their own home. Of course, it was gone now. “As a professional I know little about tapestry, as this is not my particular area of expertise, but yes, I find them quite lovely.”

Herr Goering was known to entertain, and came one afternoon to borrow a piece for a “State” party, as he called it. Hanna guessed it would not be returned, particularly when Herr Strasser made a little adjustment to the inventory.

One afternoon Herr Goering chose a lovely Cézanne, then one day he arrived to claim a Munch, then a Marc. All, he explained, for Reich affairs or state-owned buildings. Again adjustments were made to the records. Hanna knew that he did not particularly favor this type of work, that Hitler would never allow one of them to hang in a government building. She guessed that Herr Goering was trading them for something he found more appealing. Perhaps even something for that lovely estate he had described to her with such fondness.

He was always friendly, always interested in conversing with Hanna about what each particular piece might be worth, and she willingly shared this information. If these paintings were traded to those who might appreciate them, they would be saved.

Hitler himself stopped by the warehouse one morning for a short visit, as if he had more important business to attend to. He was in a foul mood and barely acknowledged Hanna with a nod, a low, “Frau Fleischmann.” He stomped through the building, snorting and coughing, his head jerking about as he examined the art, poor Herr Strasser quivering at his side. “Jewish-Bolshevist subversives,” the Führer snarled.