The Woman Who Heard Color (38 page)

The driver, surely aware of the ripping of fabric, the scratching of her pen, did not look back and he did not question Hanna.

When they arrived at the port of Bordeaux, she handed him the bundle.

“Please, this must be delivered to Herr Johann Keller.”

The man nodded, but said nothing.

Suddenly, she thought of the contents hidden in the second smaller bag—her own drawing and the bill of sale for
Composition II
. Traveling from Germany to Switzerland as part of a government-sponsored group, she’d had no trouble, and at the French border she had crossed without difficulty, but what if the officials at the port ripped through her bags and noticed the matching set no longer matched—that there was a lining in one and not the other? What would they think? Would they become suspicious? Would this prompt them to more carefully scrutinize her papers? Hanna thrust the smaller bag into the driver’s arms, her heart beating rapidly. “And this, too,” she told him.

Startled, he took it. “Godspeed,” he told her.

Hanna’s papers were inspected. The official opened her bag and took a quick look inside. The clothes that she had replaced after she removed the lining and art were in disarray, among them the skirt in which Hanna had concealed Helene’s diamonds. She prayed he would not examine the clothing, that he would take the disorder to mean the guard at the border had done a thorough check. The port official did not seem to notice that the lining had been removed. He didn’t even glance at the photo of Hanna’s children. “Fine, fine,” he said, motioning her to move along.

Hanna stepped onto the ship, her ankle and now her entire leg throbbing, her body so wet her underclothes felt as if they had melted to her skin. She glanced back. Her driver had already left.

She stood clutching the rail of the deck and watched as the ship pulled away, until the land was but a fine line on the horizon. A breeze, smelling of the sea, blew against her face and through her hair. The warmth of her body had been replaced with a chill. Little bumps rose up along her arms and legs.

Hanna was on her way to America.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

 

The following morning after she’d dropped Adam at preschool, Lauren grabbed a cup of coffee at Starbucks and headed for the frame shop to have a piece of glass cut for Isabella’s photograph. She’d have to pick up Adam at eleven thirty, get some lunch—she’d promised him McDonald’s—then drop him off at day care. He went three mornings a week to preschool, which he loved, and she tried to arrange her work schedule around this. But often, as yesterday and again today, she had to set up afternoon appointments. Fortunately, there was a spot for him today at the drop-in day care. Adam was not happy about this. He complained that it wasn’t fun and they made him take naps and he didn’t want to go. Guiltily, she’d used the Happy Meal bribe to avoid an escalating argument with her three-year-old son.

Lauren could use a nap herself. She’d had little sleep last night, her mind jumping with thoughts of what Isabella Fletcher had told her. She kept dozing off, dreaming, waking. The colors and forms of Kandinsky’s
Composition
appeared, then vanished—in her dreams or wakeful imaginings, she wasn’t sure.

T
he previous night, after putting Adam to bed, Lauren had returned to the comfort of her own and settled under her covers, propped up by several pillows. Again, she went over the information she’d scribbled in her notebook, adding additional notes, jotting down descriptions of paintings she’d seen in Isabella Fletcher’s home, those that might be authentic and possibly taken from the collection of confiscated, state-owned art in Nazi Germany. She paged through more art books and Internet sites, matching styles to artists. She found evidence that several paintings similar to Isabella’s, if not identical, were now in museum collections, and guessed that the woman was telling the truth when she said that most of hers were copies.

As far as Lauren knew, a complete inventory list of paintings held in the Berlin warehouse did not exist. But a reconstruction of the Lucerne auction catalogue did. Complete with photographs of the art, it had been put together from materials in the archives of the Fischer Gallery in Switzerland, as well as several other sources considered reliable. Lauren found no matches with Isabella’s art and those pieces from the Lucerne auction now described with a heartbreaking
Present location unknown
.

She knew that the art auctioned off in Lucerne was lost forever to Germany. Postwar rulings concluded that it was legitimately owned and sold by the official German government, and could therefore not be reclaimed. Paintings worth millions, formerly owned by the state, now hung in museums and private collections around the world. Legally purchased art could not be reclaimed, but what of stolen art? Art stolen by the Nazis, stolen once more by Hanna Fleischmann? And there was, of course, the confiscated art that hadn’t even made it to Lucerne. Some had been sold earlier, some destroyed, and some lost.

On the Internet, she verified what she knew about the Kandinsky painting, checking the name of the owner of
Composition II
. Botho von Gamp.

“What are you looking for?” Patrick had asked as he slipped into bed beside her. He’d been sitting at the kitchen table all evening, going over a brief for an upcoming case.

“Can’t tell you,” she said with a weary tease in her voice. “Thanks,” she added, “for getting Adam.”

“Hey, he’s my kid, too. You about finished?”

Lauren shrugged, knowing she was too tired to continue. “I’m not sure what I’m looking for,” she told Patrick.

What was she looking for? she asked herself.

A lost Kandinsky painting?

Degenerate art? Confiscated art? Art that rightfully belonged to whom? The people of Germany?

Or was she searching for wealth that might have been gained illegally from the disposal of stolen art? Isabella Fletcher certainly lived in a beautiful home in an area where, even during this economic downturn, apartments were selling for millions. Yet Lauren had to admit this money could have come from completely legitimate sources. Andrew Fletcher’s business. His share of the sale of the family farm in Onondaga County. She knew little about either. The business, Fletcher Enterprises, was privately owned and she had no access to financial records.

What exactly had she been looking for all these years? Revenge for Hanna’s betrayal?

Lauren set her laptop and BlackBerry on the nightstand and lifted her pile of books off the bed, dropping them carefully to the floor. She turned off the lamp.

“Sweet dreams,” Patrick said as he gave her a good-night kiss.

But even then, as she lay staring into the darkness, Lauren knew the dreams were not to be sweet.

T
he man at the frame shop was flipping the sign on the door from Closed to Open when she arrived. Gulping the last of her coffee, she tossed the cup in the trash receptacle outside before stepping in.

She gave him the dimensions of the glass and explained it was for a very old photo, a family heirloom, and she wanted to make sure it was the best-quality glass.

“A family heirloom?” he asked. “If you bring it in, I can do the glass and frame, make sure it’s properly assembled to protect it.”

“It’s not my family. It’s a friend.”
A friend?
she thought. Had she and Isabella Fletcher become friends? “Unfortunately I don’t have the picture with me.”

“I’ll cut the glass for you,” the man said, brushing his hands over his apron, “but doing a proper framing would be much better, particularly for an older photograph. Moisture, temperature variations. If it’s not properly framed I couldn’t guarantee it.”

“How long will it take to cut the glass?”

“I’ve got a job in the backroom to finish up. Say about fortyfive minutes to an hour.”

Lauren glanced at the digital display on her BlackBerry. She had almost three hours before meeting with Mrs. Fletcher, an hour and a half before picking up Adam. If it took an hour, that would be pushing it.

“Great,” she said. “I’ll be back in half an hour.” She hoped this might encourage him to get to it sooner.

She found a coffee shop down the street, hitting it about break time, and had to wait to order. After searching for an empty seat she found a single chair outdoors and sat, sipping her second coffee, hoping this one would perk her up. She was so tired. She rubbed her eyes, and then attempted to massage the weariness out of her temples. Closing her eyes, she felt dizzy. Colorful afterimages flashed in her head.

Then everything seemed colorless, as she thought once more of the black-and-white drawing of young Hanna Schmid. An innocent girl.
Innocent.
This word played through her head.

A taxi horn honked; a group of chatty young people—summer tourists with backpacks slung over their shoulders—walked by on the sidewalk.

Mrs. Fletcher didn’t want to talk about what her mother did during the time she was in Berlin, waiting for her papers. Maybe she knew nothing about it. Could this possibly be true?

Lauren glanced at her phone, checking the time.

Isabella’s mother, Hanna Fleischmann, had lost her husband, her children were in America with her sister, and even the art she and Moses loved had been taken away—
sold
. No choice—these words kept running through Lauren’s head.
No choice. Survival. Escape. Innocent.

Now Lauren wondered—was Hanna Fleischmann’s true story one that had never been told, a story that was very different from the one that Lauren had attempted to write for her?

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

 

On July 10, 1939, Hanna arrived in America. She had not sought help on the ship for her ankle, fearing she would be discovered. After spending her first few days wondering if this was a terrible mistake, the swelling went down and she knew it was only a sprain. Nothing was broken, and it seemed to be mending on its own, though her entire leg was black-and-blue.

Despite the summer heat on the morning of her arrival, Hanna put on dark stockings to hide the remaining discoloration. She slipped on her shoe, still a painful undertaking, and walked off the boat, straight and tall, making every effort not to limp, fearing it might cause some concerns with the port officials about her health.

Thankfully, she was able to pass through customs without incident, and then step onto dry land. Her sea legs, intensified by her not-altogether-trustworthy ankle, forced her to walk slowly as she moved through the crowd. Noisy seagulls flapped overhead, their colorful shrieks mixed with the lively chatter of other passengers being greeted by family. Sweaty young men unloaded cargo, passing baggage from hand to hand, stacking trunks and boxes on carts. Hanna had but her one bag, which she had kept with her the entire trip.

The sun, bright and high in the sky, pressed down on her and she held her hand to her eyes to search about for a familiar face, though she sensed she was on her own from here. She had told Johann about her sister and brother-in-law in America, but didn’t think he knew enough about them to contact them. She would have to determine how to find her way to Käthe and Hans herself. To Isabella.

Here in New York City, she could find someone to exchange Helene’s diamonds for American dollars. Then she could take the train to her sister’s.

As she continued to walk, trying to decide where to go from here, she heard a woman’s voice call out.

“Hanna.”

She turned, and a beautiful, tall, slender blond woman stood before her.

“I’m Elsa,” the woman said.

Hanna stared, no words escaping her mouth. She was so obviously Johann’s sister.

“You’re Hanna?” the woman inquired, her voice soft and kind, the color of pink meadow saffron.