The Woman Who Heard Color (47 page)

But why, Isabella wondered, couldn’t she trust that her daughter would understand? That she would accept that her mother had no choice. “Hitler detested the art,” she said, “yet he knew it might be valuable in increasing the Reich’s wealth?”

“Yes,” Mr. Keller replied.

“Many years ago,” Isabella said, “I saw a telegram you sent to my mother.” Then, boldly, she recited the exact words, “ ‘Packages delivered. Isabella must know truth.’ ”

Mr. Keller blinked once, and then again, and Isabella could see his composure slipping away, if but for a mere second.

“Is this the truth she wished to hide?” Isabella asked. “That she aided the Nazis?”

Again his lips tightened and a tension passed over his face. He lifted his cup, but Isabella knew it was empty. She had yet to take a drink of hers. The waiter came over, refilled his cup, and asked Isabella if she’d like hers warmed. She shook her head.

“She was able, during her time in Berlin,” Mr. Keller said, “to hide, to save, several pieces of art. You are aware many were destroyed in a fire in Berlin?”

“No,” Isabella replied hurriedly, wishing Mr. Keller to continue.

Again he seemed to consider his words, and then he said, “She feared this would be the fate of the art that was not chosen to go to the auction in Switzerland. That it, too, would be destroyed. She left this rescued art with me, and I am now in the process of returning it to the proper German museums. When she traveled from Berlin to Switzerland for the auction, she concealed them in her suitcase lining, along with these items.” His thin hand swept across the rolled drawing and the document on the table, which Isabella had placed protectively under her own.

“Diamonds, too,” Isabella said, and noticed another shift in the facade of his face. He was surprised. She guessed that between the two of them, the story of Hanna might be revealed. “From Helene. Mother hid them in the hem of her skirt. She sent me to private school on Helene and Jakob’s diamonds.”

“Did you make good use of your mother’s sacrifice?”

“Are you asking if I’m a good student?”

He nodded.

“Yes, I am.”

“Your parents would be very proud of you,” he said with a smile.

“Thank you,” she replied softly, fearing again that she might cry.

“I feel you should know what your mother did,” Mr. Keller said, “because at some point her name might be linked with the art trade in Germany, and there might be accusations that she, as other German dealers, took advantage and gained personal wealth through their dealings. As the history unfolds, I believe it will be revealed that much art was stolen, looted, hidden, some regretfully destroyed, before, during, and even now after the war. The story has yet to be told. When it is, the story of Hanna Fleischmann must be told correctly.”

“Thank you,” Isabella said, “for sharing this with me.”

“The art will be returned. It was your mother’s wish that this be done anonymously. But your mother’s story must not die with her death.”

“It won’t,” she assured him. “Will you keep me informed of the developments in the return?”

“Yes, of course.”

They sat for several moments, guardedly considering each other, exchanging no further words. Mr. Keller drained his cup for a second time. He reached for his briefcase. Isabella did not want this conversation to end. She needed more.

“Mr. Keller.” She reached out and touched his arm. She felt him tense. “When did you meet my mother?” she asked.

Again, she sensed the caution, his grip tightening on the briefcase. “I was working for a gallery in Basel,” he said, slowly returning the briefcase to the floor. “I came to Berlin where your mother was working.”

“You’re Swiss?”

“Yes.”

“Please, go on,” she said.

“I represented the Kunstmuseum in Basel. We wanted to purchase some of the art. A rescue, we believed, though the pieces were eagerly received into our collection. We met again in Switzerland at the auction. It was there that arrangements were made for your mother to come to America.”

In her mind’s eye, Isabella could see the portrait of her mother as if it were still spread out before her, this young woman she would never know.

“She was a wonderful, brave woman.” Johann Keller removed a handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and dabbed at a spot of moisture on his upper lip. He folded it carefully and returned it to his pocket. “That is why you must know the truth. Your mother was a good, brave woman. A remarkable woman. Her story must not be lost.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

 

“The art was returned to the German museums?” Lauren asked.

“Honestly, Mrs. O’Farrell, I’m not sure.”

“You never heard from Mr. Keller again?”

“Never. Several years later I sent him a letter addressed to the museum in Basel where he said he worked, asking if there had been any developments regarding the conversation we’d had in New York.”

“But he didn’t answer?”

“I received a reply from the museum director. He informed me that Johann Keller had passed away a year earlier, that he could help me if the matter was related to business. If it was personal, I might contact his widow.”

“His widow?”

“Yes, he was married. It seems my mother was having an affair with a married man.”

Lauren said nothing for several moments. What do you say to an eighty-two-year-old woman who’s just admitted her mother had an affair over seventy years ago? A comment, she decided, was neither necessary nor appropriate. Finally she said, “Did you ever try contacting some of the museums to determine if any of this government confiscated art was returned?”

“Really, Lauren, do you know how many museums there are in Germany and how many paintings, drawings, and other pieces of art were stored at that warehouse in Berlin?”

This was the first time Mrs. Fletcher had referred to Lauren by her given name. “Between sixteen and seventeen thousand,” she replied.

Isabella smiled. “I suppose someone in your line of work would know these facts.”

“Yes.” Lauren smiled, too.

“Let me show you something,” Isabella said. Her tone remained calm, yet at the same time tinged with a sense of discovery. Was that final protective layer of distrust being lifted?

Slowly Isabella took the photo out of the frame and removed the cardboard backing.

“What is it?” Lauren asked, staring down.

“I think it is a list. I believe it is a description of the art that my mother saved from the warehouse.”

“Wow.” This was the only word Lauren could come up with. She studied the handwritten script. Dates, German cities, German words—some obviously names of museums, initials she thought might be artists. “She’s written the descriptions, the artists, the museums in Germany from which the art was originally taken?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Maybe he
did
return it,” Lauren thought, realizing she’d said the words aloud, realizing that her own caution and misgivings were dissipating along with Isabella’s.

“With this information,” Isabella said, “we might be able to track down the art.” Again there was a hint of tension in her voice, a slight hesitation. “For years I’ve pushed this aside, knowing that my mother had indeed worked for the Nazis, knowing what Mr. Keller told me, yet wondering if he was withholding something, always sensing there was more to the story. I felt he was attempting to protect my mother, perhaps even lying. It was so obvious that he had loved her. And I continued to wonder about the fate of the art. If it was never returned, this wouldn’t exactly clear my mother’s name if she were accused of crimes against Germany. When I met with Mr. Keller, he said that at some point accusations would be made. I believe he was leaving it to me to defend her. Yet, I felt he had withheld important facts that were essential for me to do this. Then, for more than sixty years, I waited. No one came forth with allegations of theft or Nazi collaboration, and I felt as if it would never happen, that I would not be required to speak of any of this. So, I set it all aside. But then you came . . .” Isabella stared at Lauren, as if asking,
Where do we go from here?

“I’d like to help,” Lauren said.

“We could write to these museums,” Isabella replied cautiously, “and ask if these particular paintings were returned.” Lauren could see she was putting it all on the line. She wished to move forward.

“We could,” Lauren replied. “But I’ve got an idea that might be a lot easier, and a lot quicker. At least to get us started. Using this list, the names of the museums, the cities, the artists . . . Yes, let’s start with the names of the museums. Many of them list inventories on their websites, along with contacts and phone numbers. Still fluent in German?”

“Yes, of course,” Isabella replied.

Lauren reached down into her bag and pulled out her BlackBerry. “Well, let’s get started checking this out.”

CHAPTER FORTY

 

“I wish Mrs. Fletcher could be there,” Lauren said as Patrick turned onto Fifth Avenue.

“I’m sure she’ll be there in spirit,” he replied. “If her health would allow, she’d come.”

And Hanna,
Lauren thought,
I wish she could be here, too
.
I think she’d be pleased.
She glanced in the backseat at the two children, the baby strapped securely in the infant safety seat, Adam in his booster. Five-month-old Melanie sucked away on her pacifier, her plump little chin resting against the bib Lauren had put on her to protect the new dress, at least until they got to the museum. It was a beautiful fall day, trees in the city just beginning to turn. An Indian summer, the sun bright, the sky blue. Lauren couldn’t have ordered a more perfect day, though the presentation would be held inside.

Lauren had been asked to speak. She was wearing a new suit—slender black skirt and tapestry-like jacket with more color than she was used to wearing. She’d gone over and over her notes, wanting to get every word exactly right. For the past week she’d sat daily with Isabella, adding and deleting as Mrs. Fletcher gave her approval with a nod, her disapproval with a shake of the head. Sometimes a verbal suggestion was offered, though the woman struggled at times to express herself. She’d been released from the rehabilitation facility just four months ago and, according to the therapist, she was doing wonderfully. Isabella might not agree with that assessment.

During the months following her initial meetings with Mrs. Fletcher just over two years ago, Lauren and Isabella had worked together using the information Hanna had written on the back of the photograph of Isabella and Willy. They’d determined that each piece of art Hanna had taken from Berlin was returned many years ago to its rightful home. This had been done anonymously. Lauren learned through a director of one of the museums that a Swiss man, a noted scholar on early twentieth-century art, named Peter Keller—oddly a source Lauren had used in one of her undergraduate papers—had assisted his father in returning the art. He was almost ninety years old now, and an acquaintance of the director. Peter Keller’s father, Johann Keller, had passed away before the final piece had been returned, and his son never knew the identity of the woman who had taken the art from the warehouse in Berlin and asked that Johann return each to the German museum from which it had been taken.

After they had completed their project, Lauren was satisfied that Hanna had taken nothing for herself and that her family had benefited in no way. Her careful tending of the art had, in fact, saved some that might have otherwise been destroyed.

Lauren continued to drop by now and then to see Isabella, but as the months passed, the visits were less frequent.

About a year later, she received a call from an attorney who left a message stating that he would like to set up a meeting to discuss a matter relating to Mrs. Andrew Fletcher. Lauren’s heart dropped as she recognized the name of the firm as one that had assisted her Goldman grandparents in their estate planning. Her initial thought was that Isabella had died. Relief flooded through her when she returned the call and the attorney said they would be meeting with Mrs. Fletcher at her home.

“We’re here,” Patrick announced as they pulled into the museum parking garage. “You ready?”

“Yes,” Lauren replied with an anxious smile.

Isabella had wanted Lauren to be present at the family meeting, which consisted of the attorney, Mrs. Fletcher, and her nephew, Richard Barber, who had just recently retired from Fletcher Enterprises, the business now being run by Isabella’s grandnephew. It was obvious from the items discussed that Andrew and Isabella had been very good to the remaining members of the Fletcher family. Isabella sat without words as the terms of her will and her wishes for the disbursement of her property were explained. The art was being gifted to various museums throughout the city. The attorney described each piece and Isabella’s intended recipient.

“One pencil drawing,” he read off the list, “nude woman in chair. Eighteen by twenty-four inches on paper. Circa 1900 to 1910. Artist unknown. To Lauren O’Farrell.”

Lauren glanced at Mrs. Fletcher, realizing it was the drawing of Hanna. What a wonderful gift, and how truly touched she was to be considered worthy of this. She nodded a thank-you to a completely controlled Isabella as Lauren herself fought back the tears, as the attorney continued to read.

Kandinsky’s
Composition
would be donated to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, this gift to be made as soon as possible. Lauren, because of her knowledge of the painting’s history, was being asked to coordinate this effort.

Richard Barber appeared unemotional about all of this, and Lauren guessed that he’d been informed of his aunt’s wishes earlier, that this meeting was really for Lauren.