The Woman Who Heard Color (36 page)

And so, each day she watched for Johann Keller.

During the final week of the preview, a continuous line of prospective buyers paraded through the hall. And always, Frau Fleischmann was required. An additional German representative was to be sent from Berlin by Herr Franz Hofmann to look after things, to take an accounting of what was sold, the purchase price and successful bidder on each piece, but he would not arrive until the day before the auction. It was Hanna who had the greatest knowledge of the collection, the specifics on each of the 126 paintings and sculptures offered. She was in constant demand.

Two days before the auction, she was walking down the hall with her assistant, on her way to the Grand Salon to meet with a buyer, when literally she ran right into Johann Keller. Hanna stopped, as did her heart.

“Herr Keller!” she said, feeling completely out of breath, as if he had just knocked the wind out of her—which in truth he had.

“Frau Fleischmann,” he said, taking her arm. “I was on my way to the exhibition hall. May I escort you?”

“Please,” she said. Of course, she had her own escort, so the three of them walked together.

As soon as they were inside the hall, Johann requested pen and paper, and Hanna’s young man went to fetch them.

“You’re staying here at the hotel?” Johann whispered.

“Yes.”

“I’ll come to you.”

“I’m constantly watched,” she replied quickly. “You’ve taken a room here in Lucerne?”

“Yes, here at the hotel.”

She tried desperately to hide her smile. She would not have to leave the hotel to see him. If only . . . “I’ll come to you,” she said swiftly.

“Your pen,” the young man said, handing it to Johann. “And paper.”

“Thank you,” Johann replied. “Now, this lovely piece by Franz Marc . . .”

They continued through the hall, viewing the paintings, Johann scribbling notes. Hanna’s heart thumped with anticipation over what might transpire within the next few days. She knew if she were to escape it would have to happen soon.

“Thank you for your assistance, Frau Fleischmann,” Johann said as they stood before the final piece on display. He reached for her hand. Before he released it, he held his left hand over hers and squeezed softly. She felt the folds of paper and clenched tightly until she reached her room. She opened the note and read:

 

 

 

 

 

B
ut again that evening Hanna was unable to break away, though she and Helmut walked again along the lake. She was determined that she would make her way to Johann the following night. She had to—they were running out of time.

They strolled quietly, without words. The lake was calm, the evening balmy, but in her mind, Hanna engaged in a noisy, frenzied conversation with herself. She
must
tell Johann about Isabella. No, she shouldn’t tell him. If he learned she had kept this from him all these years he might be angry and refuse to help her. Yet this knowledge might provide further reason for him to aid her in her escape, to eventually come to her.

As they turned and headed back to the hotel, Hanna realized she could not predict how Johann might react to such news. After she was free and safely in America with Isabella, she would decide if she should tell him. When her mind was clear of all this worry.

Helmut unlocked the hotel door and motioned Hanna inside.

The following day, Herr Keller appeared again. Hanna’s chest tightened at the mere sight of him. Her pulse increased as if she were a young girl in love, and she wondered how such feelings could invade her body when the world around her seemed fraught with hate. If she truly loved him, she would tell him the truth. Yes, she must tell him. Johann must know that he had a daughter.

A smile flickered quickly across his face, but his voice, calm and businesslike, betrayed nothing. Again he expressed an interest in acquiring Franz Marc’s painting of the two beautiful cats. “I believe lot eighty-eight,” he said, referring to the catalogue number, “would be a perfect time for an acquisition.”

Hanna noticed the use of the word
time
, and took it hopefully to have another meaning.

She
must
tell him now, she thought.

But again, her assistant, who had been sent off on another errand, appeared. They were unable to continue this discussion. Hanna sensed that Johann’s cryptic reference to lot eighty-eight had more to do with her own rescue than the rescue of art.

The representative from Berlin, Dr. Hopf, arrived late that afternoon and Hanna was asked to join him for dinner.

As they ate, she told him of the preparations they had made, of those who had come to preview the art.

“Herr Fischer reports that you have been extremely helpful,” he said.

“Thank you,” Hanna replied.

“You have served the Führer well. You have served Germany well.”

Hanna’s shoulders stiffened, her back ached, and her head throbbed. She didn’t want to have this conversation. She did not want to be dining with this man, pretending she was one of them, one of Hitler’s faithful followers.

Finally, after dessert and coffee, she excused herself. “There is more work ahead of me tomorrow.”

“Yes, a memorable day for all of us.” Dr. Hopf nodded to Hanna as well as Helmut, who had sat quietly during the meal.

As they approached the door to her room, Hanna stumbled and dropped her bag, the contents of it spilling out. She stooped to pick up a small scrap of paper and a hairpin, as the young man turned for a moment to grab a handkerchief and then chase a lipstick as it rolled across the floor of the hall. Suddenly, a thought came to her. Quickly, Hanna stuffed the paper inside the lock of the door, thinking this might prevent it from clicking as it opened and closed. Thankfully, Helmut didn’t seem to notice then or as he graciously handed her the hankie and lipstick and bid her a good night, the door closing quietly between them.

Just after midnight, she inched the door open, glanced into the hall, and then waited a moment. She heard nothing but her own breathing. Quietly, carrying her shoes, she made her way into the corridor leading to the staircase. She climbed one flight of stairs, then another, until she reached the fourth floor. She waited a moment, catching her breath before stepping out into the hall, which seemed impossibly long as she gazed down the stretch of plush carpet. Based on the configuration of rooms on her own floor, she guessed 408 would be the fifth on the right. Shoes still in her hand, she moved quietly past room 400. She heard voices inside. Her heart jumped. She glanced across the hall at 401, then passed 402, and 403, moving cautiously down the hall.

When she arrived at room 408, she tapped on the door, and when his beautiful face came into view as he opened it, she slid into his room and into his arms, and felt safer than she had in many years.

The world outside disappeared. All was right and good and whole, as the horrors of Hitler’s world vanished. Here in Johann’s embrace this evil could no longer harm her.

She clung to him desperately, hungrily.

“Oh, Hanna,” he said. “How I have longed for you.”

He took her shoes, which, unaware, she still clutched in her hand. He dropped them to the floor. Then slowly they began to undress each other. Untouched by another for so long, Hanna shivered as though a new and undiscovered pleasure awaited her. His flesh against hers, the sound of his voice, the smooth, soft texture of the pale hair along his arms and legs, felt so natural and yet so unfamiliar. How had she survived without him, and how could she continue if they could not be together?

L
ater, as they lay in bed, after having fallen asleep in each other’s arms, neither spoke, as though words would break the spell. And Hanna knew they would. They had but this one night before the auction, and she had much to tell him. Yet she could not bring herself to speak of Willy or Isabella. She wanted to hold on to the perfection of this moment as long as possible.

“What will become of us, after tomorrow?” Hanna finally asked.

He tightened his embrace.

“I can’t go back,” she said.

“I know,” he replied.

If she could only stay here with him in Switzerland, though she knew she could not. In Zurich, he had asked if she wished to go to America to be with her son. She had said yes. If he had made arrangements, it would be to escape to America, and she knew it must happen within the next two days. She was scheduled to return to Berlin the day after the auction.

“You will not go back,” Johann said firmly. “Papers have been prepared. You will be identified as a Swiss citizen. A driver will be waiting by the lake.” He described the automobile and exact location. “Despite the rumors of a boycott,” he told her, “there will be a heavy turnout for the auction. With many valuable pieces offered, an opportunity that will not present itself again, a good crowd should appear tomorrow, and I believe the best time for you to escape is during the auction itself when there will be many distractions.”

“Lot eighty-eight,” Hanna said.

“I was afraid I would have to deliver my plan in code, that it might prove impossible to find time together. Oh, but you are a clever girl,” he said, running his fingers across her arm. “I will have one of my assistants approach yours and ask for—let’s say a catalogue, something that will divert his attention for a moment.”

“Then I will make my way to the car waiting by the lake? He will take me—”

“You’ll leave from France.”

Again they were silent. She heard a motorcar down on the street. Was it a guest arriving from a late night? Or was it an early-morning traveler leaving the hotel?

“There’s been talk of a boycott?” Hanna asked.

“Yes, rumors are rife that funds from the art will go to Hitler’s military efforts.” He presented this almost as if he wished her to deny it.

Hanna had been cut off from the publicity surrounding the event, though she guessed there were those with concerns about Hitler’s intentions for the funds collected from the sale of the art. She had always been instructed to tell buyers the proceeds would be used to purchase new art for the German museums.

“If buyers boycott the auction,” she said, “what will become of the art if it is not purchased here? It might return to Germany to be destroyed.”

“Would Hitler do such a thing?”

“He is an evil man. Surely you know it is not by choice that I have been assisting with the art. I fear the man. I have no doubt he would destroy whatever is not sold. I also fear that my own usefulness has expired.”

She told Johann about her first encounter with Hitler many years ago, about her visit with him at his mountain retreat, about her being invited to the grand opening of the Haus der Deutschen Kunst, and then the exhibition of
Entartete Kunst
, how she’d been ordered to Berlin to help with the inventories. She described the bonfire at the Berlin fire station, the destruction of thousands of pieces of art. She told him of what she had personally witnessed in November, and of Jakob’s murder, how she feared that Helene was gone now, too.

The shadows on the wall had shifted, and Hanna knew it was morning, that the rising sun would soon lighten the sky. Their time had slipped by so quickly. She must return to her room.

“Will I see you again, Johann? Or will fate continue to dictate our future?”

“Hanna, I know that somehow, yes, we will be together, but first we must reunite you with your son.”

Hanna felt a surge of heat—ignited surely from her deception—jolt through her. She sensed that Johann felt it, too, as if this current of tension had been conducted from her body to his. His eyes narrowed and the lines fanning out from the corners deepened. She knew if they were ever to have a life together, she must tell him the truth. She must tell him now.

“Oh, Johann . . .” She was shivering. The safety and warmth of his presence could no longer calm her.

“The plan will work, I promise.” He pulled her protectively into his arms. “Don’t be afraid.”

Oh, that she could remain here forever, but she forced herself to break away. She sat, facing him. “Willy is gone.”

“Yes, in America.” His voice was low, his expression one of grave concern. She could see that he thought she was too frightened to attempt this escape. And then confusion deepened in his eyes as she begged for understanding with her own.

“No,” she said. “He—Willy . . . Willy is gone. He was very ill. His body wasn’t strong enough to . . .” Her voice trembled. “Oh, Johann, he’s . . .” Her lip quivered. “He’s dead.” Again, he reached for her, but Hanna could not let him hold her until she finished telling him what he had to know.

“When?” he said.

“Helene came to me in Berlin. Shortly after I saw you. She told me that Willy had become very ill in America.” Hanna tried desperately not to break down, to keep herself together so she could tell Johann the truth. “We lost him. In America. And I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there.” She was sobbing now, unable to continue.