The Woman Who Heard Color

CHAPTER TWO

Hanna

Munich, Germany

September 1900

Bright reds, then muffled tones of blue, flashed before Hanna’s eyes—the train screeching to a halt, the rustle of passengers gathering bags and parcels. The man sitting beside her stood, lifted a small case from overhead, handed it to his wife, and nodded a farewell to Hanna, who had nothing to gather.

Enjoy your visit, dear, the woman said sweetly, touching Hanna’s arm.

Passengers filed down the narrow aisle of the train carriage. Hanna remained seated, pressing her fingers to her ears, closing her eyes, seeking protection in the muted light beneath her eyelids. When she opened them, the passenger car was empty, save for a young mother and child who had occupied a seat in the back. Clutching a bag in one hand, pulling her small daughter by the other, the woman made her way down the aisle. The girl looked back at Hanna, her eyes growing wide with concern as if to ask, Are you not getting off?

Hanna forced a smile, nodded, and then rose, walked down the aisle, out the door, down the steps, and planted one shaky foot and then the other on the wooden platform of the Munich Bahnhof.

What have I done? she asked herself as she threaded through the crowd and followed the bustle into the station. Gazing up at the wide expanse of ceiling, she nearly tumbled over a small boy stooping to pick up a pfennig.

Entschuldigen Sie, bitte, she said, patting the child on the head. She continued past a family sitting on a bench sharing sausages and bread, around a man and woman engaged in lively conversation, and moved along with a collection of people leaving the station as an assortment of hurried travelers came in. Some were dressed as Hanna in Bavarian country clothes: women in dirndls, crimped skirts, and country shoes; men in lederhosen, jankers, warm woolen socks, and alpine feathered caps. Most wore dark city clothes.

She stepped out of the station into the busy Bahnhofplatz. Light reflected off the windows of tall stone buildings surrounding the square. Puffs of smoke rose from chimney stacks. Horses’ shod hooves clicked heavily against the cobblestones, sending off a splash of color.

Moisture hung in the air, clouds dimming the pale blue sky. Hanna reached up and slid her hand down one braid, then the other, giving each a little tug to smooth out the frizz. As always, she had braided it that morning, after helping Dora and then Leni with their hair. Unlike her stepsister and sister, who both possessed agreeable, fine, straight hair, Hanna’s hair was a mass of unruly curls, and even when confined to braids it seemed to protest. On a humid day her hair was most rebellious, red spirals and wisps attempting to escape.

She made her way through knots of carriages outside on the wide street. She had been to the city just once, four years ago when she was twelve and had come with her father, mother, and older sister, Käthe. Their mother had presented the trip to Munich as a grand adventure for her two eldest daughters, though Hanna had little recollection of the city other than that it was large and noisy with many sounds and colors. She had been preoccupied with fear for her mother, and the memory that stayed with her was the smell of the doctor’s office, and then the long, silent train ride back home.

She dipped her hand into her left pocket, fingering her remaining coins. After the train fare she still had enough for something to eat. She imagined her family sitting down for dinner. By now her father and older brothers, Frederick and Karl, would have returned from the upper pasture where they had gone to check on the cattle. Her stepmother, Gerta, would be home from Weitnau, the fabric and notions she’d gone to fetch tucked into her shopping basket. Would Leni tell them when they asked—for surely they would notice the empty seat at the table—that Hanna had simply walked out of the house and left them? She shivered at the thought of what she’d done.

She reached into her other pocket for Käthe’s letter. Perhaps Hanna, too, could find work in Munich. And then she chided herself for thinking such thoughts. She had not come to Munich seeking employment. She was just off for a little holiday in the city.

She walked, gazing into one store window after another, finally stopping at a bakery. Her empty stomach rumbled as she admired the cakes, breads, and tarts in the window. Buttery smells, the aroma of cinnamon and apples, wafted out as she opened the door.

Guten Tag, the woman at the counter greeted Hanna. Her plump round cheeks dimpled as she offered a smile.

Guten Tag, Hanna replied, surveying the fresh pastries. She bought a raspberry marmalade tart and stood as she ate. She licked the sugary jam from her fingers, then pulled the letter from her pocket again and asked where she might find the street address on the envelope from Käthe, which she showed the woman to make sure she understood.

My sister Käthe Schmid is employed by Herr Moses Fleischmann, Hanna explained proudly.

The Jew. His gallery is on Theatinerstrasse, the woman replied with a wave of the arm, as if the gallery might be just down the street.

Hanna nodded. Yes, but she works in his home as a cook. She pointed again to the address on the envelope and then read it aloud, guessing from the woman’s quick squinty glance that she could not read.

She instructed Hanna to go to the Marienplatz, which she described with gestures, her hands going this way and that. Catch the tram with the number one hundred eighty-seven painted on the front, then get off at the fifth stop and walk left about two blocks.

Danke, Hanna thanked her and stepped back out onto the street. She walked, following the woman’s instructions until she arrived at a large square. Her eyes spun, first to the enormous Rathaus with its spiky steeples, then to the lovely golden statue of the Virgin on the tall pedestal in the center of the square. The Marienplatz—dedicated to the mother of Christ. People scurried about, stylish women in dark skirts and fitted jackets, hair arranged neatly in sophisticated chignons; men in long pants and tall city hats, hailing carriages, greeting friends. Busy people with events to attend, invitations to honor, business to deal with. Hanna felt a sudden rush of excitement. Surely this was the adventure her mother had intended for her in Munich.

Two sets of tracks ran along one side of the Platz and a cluster of single train carriages, attached to a line overhead, stopped and then started in an orderly fashion as passengers stepped off and others got on. Hanna walked between a line of horse carriages and the trams, until she spotted the car the woman had told her to board. She paid for a place with her remaining coins, sat, and watched the street signs as they passed, Käthe’s envelope clutched in her hand. At the fifth stop she got off just as the woman at the bakery had advised her. Then she walked two blocks, and a small but ever-growing twist of delight turned in her stomach, pushing aside the shame and trepidation that had sat like two stones in her belly since she’d stepped onto the train in Kempton.

When she approached the large house with the red tiled roof she knew she had found the Fleischmann home. It was just as Käthe had described. A fountain with mermaids and sleek winged horses carved about the base stood in the garden in front of the house. The horses spewed water from their mouths, creating a lovely, colorful rhythm. The grounds still held a hint of latesummer bloom.

Hanna thought of Käthe’s earlier letters, telling of the modern kitchen with the latest equipment, the rooms with electric lights, silk drapes, flocked wallpaper, marble and wood-carved moldings around the doors, upholstered furniture, and lovely paintings and drawings hanging on the walls. Her letters were filled with details of the beautiful gowns and jewels worn by the wife of the distinguished Herr Fleischmann, of dinners and parties, of entertaining wealthy and famous guests who stayed long into the evening, eating, drinking, conversing about topics of great interest, playing games, and listening to music. Käthe’s letters were so descriptive Hanna could smell the dumplings and strudels as she read, and she could hear the music Frau Fleischmann played on her piano. Now as she walked along the street in front of the house, she tried to imagine which window she might gaze through to look into the kitchen, the dining room, the parlor, the music room. It was an enormous house with so many windows, so many rooms.

She walked around to the side of the building, staring up, wishing her sister’s face might appear. A woman stepped out on an upper balcony, stared down, then walked back in. Finally Hanna decided she must go to the back, to the servants’ entrance.

After several knocks an older woman came to the door. Guten Tag, she said, greeting Hanna with a smile.

Grüss Gott, Hanna replied.

You’ve come to seek work? the woman asked.

I’ve come to visit my sister Käthe.

A smile of recognition spread slowly across the woman’s face. "Ja, I can see you are Käthe’s sister. Bitte, do come in." She stood back, holding the door for Hanna. There was a narrow hall just inside the door and two sets of stairs, one leading up and one leading down. She motioned for Hanna to follow and they started down the steps. The smell of roasting meat laced the air, and Hanna imagined Käthe at work, preparing one of the lavish meals she had described in her letters. The woman asked her to sit in a room that appeared to be a dining area for the help, as there was nothing fancy about it. Two long wooden tables with roughly hewed benches were arranged in the center of the room. A fireplace stood against one wall, and a door on the other. The woman went through the door, and the warm smells grew stronger as the aroma of dinner drifted out and into the room where Hanna waited.

Within seconds Käthe appeared, wiping her hands on her apron, brushing a dusting of flour from her cheek, a wide, surprised grin lighting up her pretty, round face.

Hanna, she shrieked, throwing her arms around her sister. Whatever are you doing here in Munich?

I’ve come to visit.

You’ve grown! Käthe exclaimed, still smiling as if this were a good thing.

Hanna realized that she was now taller than Käthe. Bigger, too, in every way. Over the past months Hanna’s chest had gotten larger, as had her hips, causing her to question if she’d ever stop growing.

Käthe’s grin turned to a look of concern. Everything is fine at home?

Fine? Hanna replied with a sharp edge, wondering if Käthe understood that nothing had been fine at home since their father married Gerta, the tailor’s widow from Kempton, with her commands and demands and her whiny little daughter, Dora.

You should have informed me that you were coming, Käthe said.

I didn’t know myself, Hanna replied, the words catching in her throat, that I . . . How could she explain that she had simply left? Without telling anyone, not even Leni. She had not planned this visit, so she could not have let Käthe know she was coming.

She could barely believe it was just this morning that she was digging potatoes and baking bread with Leni, arguing with Dora over bringing in wood for the stove, commending Peter for his helpfulness, an image playing in her head all the while—her stepmother sitting in a café in Weitnau, sipping a nice warm cup of tea, nibbling on a bakery-made pastry. Hanna had told Leni she was going out to pee, but had instead run upstairs to the girls’ room, dug into the middle drawer of the dresser she shared with her sisters, slipped the coins—saved from her egg money and hidden under her pantaloons—into her pocket, placed Käthe’s most recent letter in the other, and then quietly tiptoed down the stairs, stepped out of the house, hurried down the lane toward the main road, and caught a ride with their neighbor Herr Hinkel. She told him she was going to Kempton on an errand for her father.

Father is well? Käthe asked in a soft voice.

Hanna nodded.

The others? The children?

Leni is fine. Leni was ten, still so much a little girl, the obedient daughter. Hanna doubted she would ever want to do anything other than tend to küch and kinder, kitchen and children, that she was perfectly content to peel potatoes, look after the little ones, and do exactly as she was told by Gerta. Peter, as sweet as ever.

Käthe smiled. At five, Peter was a delight. He had been so young when their mother became ill that he had received much of his tending from the two older girls.

Dora, as spoiled as ever, Hanna added. Their stepsister was just two months younger than Peter, but whined like a baby. Karl is almost as tall as Father, and Frederick is in love with Helga Merkel.

Käthe nodded knowingly. Käthe the romantic. Then she sighed with what Hanna perceived as homesickness. Neither girl mentioned their stepmother. It is so wonderful to see you, to have news from home, but you have not chosen the most joyful time to come for a visit. She took Hanna’s arm and led her down the hall. The mistress, she whispered as they entered a tiny nunlike cell, one of many off the long narrow hall, she is not well. She patted the quilt spread over the narrow bed butted up against the wall and the girls sat. Taking her younger sister’s hands in hers, Käthe asked, You’ve brought nothing with you?

Hanna shook her head and lowered it, the excitement of this grand adventure again overtaken with the enormity of what she had done. Father doesn’t know, she said softly.

Abruptly Käthe released Hanna’s hands, and her own rose to her mouth, reminding Hanna how everything had been so dramatic with Käthe. She wondered if life in the Fleischmann household was truly as exciting and lively as she’d written in her letters, and if her sister, who surely must have been confined to the kitchen, could really be aware of the activities she’d described taking place in the dining room, the parlor, and the music room.

Oh, Hanna, you haven’t run away from home? Käthe squealed in horror.

Hanna nodded.

Father will be so worried.

If he should even notice I’m missing . . . Hanna giggled nervously, but wondered how she could ever face her father again. She replayed the thoughts that had moved in her mind on her walk through the city. Is there work for me here? Could I get a position like you?

You plan to stay?

Hanna raised her shoulders.

Perhaps, Käthe replied thoughtfully. Brigitte has gone back home to tend her mother who is very ill. I will ask Frau Metzger, the head housekeeper. But first we must send word to Father. We must post a letter immediately to let him know you are safe, that you are here with me. Again she took her sister’s hand and held it tightly, then touched Hanna’s face. They had not seen each other for almost six months, since Käthe had come to visit last Easter. You have grown into a lovely young woman. You look very much like Mother. She reached over and lifted a braid, wrapping it around Hanna’s crown. So very much like Mother, she said.

Everyone in the family had hair with a touch of red, from Frederick’s dark auburn to Leni’s blond, which in a certain light held a hint of ginger. But Hanna’s, more than anyone else’s, resembled their mother’s, which was a fiery red. Hanna generally covered it with a good bandana because people stared, but she had neglected to cover it in her hurry.

Käthe planted a kiss on her cheek. Oh, my dear sweet little sister, what have you done? She studied Hanna for several moments, and then said, I will speak with Frau Metzger, but first a letter to Father. She knelt on the floor, pulled a box from under the bed, and took out paper and pen. She scribbled a note and sealed it in an envelope. I will ask Frau Stadler to post it when she goes to market early tomorrow morning.

Having brought nothing other than the skirt and blouse she wore, Hanna slept in her chemise and bloomers that night, snuggled against Käthe’s side. She woke often, an excitement jumping inside her, anticipating this new life that she was about to begin.

The following morning, Käthe talked to Frau Metzger and came back with a long dark skirt, white blouse, and starched apron. You are about the same size as Brigitte and these should fit perfectly. She handed the uniform to Hanna. Congratulations, you are now an employee of Herr Moses Fleischmann.

The Fleischmann home was indeed as beautiful as Käthe had described, and over the next days, as she received instructions from Frau Metzger, Hanna was able to explore nearly every corner. Heavy velvet drapes hung in the formal rooms on the ground floor. The doorframes were made of smooth, rich marble from Italy, or carved wood, one in the shape of a mythical figure with the face of a lion and the claws and wings of an eagle. The walls in the parlor were covered with flocked paper in deep, rich red. The walls and ceilings in the library and music room were made from luscious dark wood. The fine carpets, Frau Metzger told Hanna, had been imported from the Orient. Pots of shiny green ferns grew inside, which to a farmer’s daughter was very strange, and made her giggle, but they were also beautiful and exotic, as was everything in the Fleischmann home. Hanna had truly entered a new world. And the sculptures displayed on pedestals in various rooms, the pictures that hung on the walls—she had never seen anything like them. She had seen paintings of saints and angels and the Lamb of God in the church at Weitnau, but nothing like these. Scenes of nature done in the most unusual colors, and paintings and sculptures of women, slightly draped or completely nude. And mythical figures like those described in the books they had borrowed from the library.

A piano, shining and finely polished—Hanna knew because she polished it herself—stood in the music room, though it sat quietly without music. There were no parties, no entertaining of important guests as Käthe had described in her letters. The few dinners in those first weeks were attended only by Herr Fleischmann’s bookkeeper or banker in very austere businesslike settings. Käthe said it was because of the mistress, but she was sure that she would get better, and soon there would be dinners and parties again, she promised.

Even after a full week, Hanna had barely laid eyes on Herr Fleischmann, who rose early to go to the gallery and returned late. He was a stout man with dark curly hair, who spoke in a slow, deliberate, thoughtful tone. His voice was the color of the deep violet-blue of the Alpine gentian.

Hanna did not see the mistress of the house. She did not clean her room just down the hall from Herr Fleischmann’s room, which she cleaned and dusted and swept with a little sweeper with wheels and a moving brush that was much handier than the broom they used at home.

Frau Fleischmann took her meals in her room, delivered by Frau Hirsch, a kindly older woman with eyes as large and brown as the cows on the farm. Frau Hirsch was the only one who attended to Frau Fleischmann. Hanna was told by Freda, who worked as the laundress, that Frau Hirsch had been employed by Frau Fleischmann’s family since the mistress was a child and had come with her when she married Herr Fleischmann just two years after the first Frau Fleischmann had passed away.

The second Frau Fleischmann, Hanna learned, was much younger than her husband. A daughter from the first marriage lived in Berlin and was married to a wealthy jeweler. She infrequently visited the house of her father. She did not like her stepmother. Even though Hanna had met neither of them, she, too, decided she did not like the stepmother. She understood how it felt to have a woman come, disrupt the entire household, and attempt to take the place of your mother. Hanna had also left the house of her father to seek a new life. Oh, that she would have had a wealthy jeweler from Berlin come to her rescue, to shower her with diamonds and love.

Hanna’s duties involved a variety of tasks—dusting, sweeping, polishing, watering the plants, cleaning the lampshades, scrubbing the bathrooms, serving meals. The part she liked best was dusting the frames on the numerous pictures that hung along the walls in the hall and in every room. She was instructed not to touch the paintings themselves. Some were enormous in large gilt frames, others smaller drawings without color. Just as she was getting used to one, getting to like it, or deciding that she did not like it, it would disappear. Frau Metzger explained it had been taken back to the gallery to show or had possibly been sold.

One day, as Hanna was carefully running the cloth along the lower edge of the frame of a new painting that had arrived the previous afternoon, staring up at the colors, studying the thickness of the paint in one particular area, wondering how the artist knew how to do it like that, daydreaming a little, a voice from behind startled her.

Cézanne.

Hanna easily recognized the voice as Herr Fleischmann’s, and it frightened her because she realized that she was not dusting as efficiently as Frau Metzger expected. Though the woman had never scolded her, as her stepmother might have, she’d once told Hanna that she worked too slowly. But if the paintings had remained the same, perhaps she could have worked more quickly. And this one was so different from anything Hanna had ever seen. The colors were brilliant. The paint seemed to dance and vibrate. At first she was unable to determine exactly what it was, but the more she looked, she could make out the shapes of a mountain, a grove of trees. She discovered if she stood back, rather than examine it up close, the strokes of paint would blend together and it actually became a scene. Hanna wondered how the artist did that, and smiled at the thought that he had painted it with a brush twice the length of his arm.

After a long moment waiting for Herr Fleischmann, who still stood behind her, to speak, or to leave, she said, It’s lovely. She turned with a slight bow. From Paris? A French painter?

She knew Herr Fleischmann had recently traveled to Paris, and she imagined it was one of the paintings he had acquired during his visit. She also imagined it would soon disappear from the wall, so she was taking a slow, careful look.

Hanna found herself blushing now with embarrassment. Perhaps her curiosity made her go a step further than she should have in addressing her employer.

Have you ever been to Paris? he asked, a question that seemed absurd. She was a dairy farmer’s daughter from Weitnau.

In books, Hanna replied. In dreams.

He smiled. Ah, someday you will go to Paris. A girl who dreams of Paris will go one day.

She nodded politely, though Hanna thought he was again being ridiculous, maybe even mocking her. She continued her dusting and Herr Fleischmann continued standing behind her. Perhaps he was discovering something new, she thought, something he had not seen in the painting before.

Every time I look, I see something new, he mused, something different.

Yes, yes, she said with excitement, again with more animation than she guessed Herr Fleischmann was used to seeing in a maid. She couldn’t help herself.

Then he said, Very good, and turned and walked down the hall.

During her third week of employment, Hanna learned that finally there were to be guests, a real party. Herr Fleischmann was entertaining several art instructors from the Academy of Fine Arts in Munich and half a dozen of the most promising students, an event the Fleischmanns hosted at least twice a year.

Hanna took wraps and hats at the front entryway as the guests arrived. The first to enter was a handsome man with wavy dark hair and a thick black mustache that curled in such a way as to make him look a bit devilish or at least dangerous. He was followed by a tall, distinguished man with a neatly trimmed goatee, intelligent eyes, a regal posture, and pince-nez glasses, then a younger gent in a tatty coat. A bald man with close-set eyes accompanied a young fellow with greasy hair and a nervous twitch who adjusted his tie as he glanced in the mirror just inside the entryway.

As they were greeted and welcomed by Herr Fleischmann, Hanna picked out one voice, that of the distinguished guest with the goatee. His tone was deep and melodic with an exotic lilt and such a lovely color of blue. He sounded like a foreign prince, and that is what she called him in her mind—The Prince.

Herr Fleischmann addressed the man with the thick mustache as Herr von Stuck. The name sounded familiar and Hanna remembered the signature on a painting that had hung in the parlor for several days. She found the painting intriguing in a dark, sinister way. It was done in deep colors, the flesh of a naked woman, her sleek body wrapped in a snake, catching the only light that appeared in the picture. Hanna studied this man carefully now. The man who wrapped a snake around a woman with his brush and paints.

The Prince was introduced by Herr von Stuck as Wassily Kandinsky. They were led into the dining room. There were no women in attendance at this particular meal, though Hanna thought from the chatter in the kitchen that Frau Fleischmann might appear. She had not yet laid eyes on her.

As Hanna served the guests, she was in a position to catch bits and pieces of the conversation as she came in and out of the dining room.

It was in Moscow at an exhibition of French art, Prince Kandinsky said, and Hanna’s mind worked quickly, remembering the lessons in geography her mother had taught her. The Prince was Russian, which explained the way he spoke. The catalogue identified it as a work by the artist Claude Monet, and informed me that it was a haystack. The others listen with great respect. Yet I did not recognize it as such. The object itself seemed to be lacking in the painting, and I wondered if the identification of the haystack was essential to the picture.

As long as we have color, Herr Kandinsky is satisfied, Herr von Stuck observed wryly.

But perhaps the forms, the recognizable images, become less important. It was the color, the light, the feelings which drew me inexplicably to this painting, the Prince replied, as Hanna carefully placed the china plate with the second course before him. He glanced at her and with warm eyes nodded, which gave her a small start, as she had been instructed to become invisible as she served.

Herr Kandinsky wishes the painting to be just that—a painting? Herr von Stuck retorted.

It is a concept to consider, Kandinsky replied.

The guests stayed long into the evening, talking of Paris, of Vienna, of artists named Gauguin, Seurat, Klimt, and Munch, of a young artist named P. Ruiz Picasso whose work had been chosen for exhibition at the Exposition Universelle in Paris that spring.

I like to keep an eye on such artists, Herr Fleischmann said. His eyes swept over the men at the table, and Hanna wondered if some of these students would become famous, if their work would soon hang in the galleries in Paris, Vienna, and at the Fleischmann Gallery here in Munich. She felt a little prick of excitement along the back of her neck. What fun it would be to get a glimpse into the academy where they were trained, to observe the artists at work and say, Yes, this is the one who will set the trend, who will sell at the prestigious galleries.

I’d love to go, Hanna said as she slipped off her skirt and hung it on the hook next to the bed that night.

To Paris? Käthe folded back the covers. To see the artists who paint with light and color?

Hanna had shared much of what she’d overheard that evening as she and Käthe cleaned the kitchen after the guests had retired to the parlor for a smoke and after-dinner drink. Somehow Hanna felt by repeating it she could hold on to it longer, and she was surprised that Käthe had been listening that carefully.

Yes, Paris, and Vienna, too, Hanna replied, unable to hold her grin. She reached up and turned out the light so Käthe would not make fun.

Where else, you little dreamer? Käthe laughed as she slipped into bed. Käthe, Hanna feared, had no dreams other than marrying Hans Koebler, the cheesemaker’s son from Kempton with whom she corresponded regularly. Her mouth would turn up into the most ridiculous smile when she received a letter, and her eyes would glow. When too much time passed between letters she could become rather grumpy.

To the Munich Academy of Fine Arts, Hanna said.

Women are not allowed. You want to be an artist?

Not as a student. Hanna sat on the edge of the bed, not quite ready for sleep. She was too excited to close her eyes. She did not want the day to end.

As what? Käthe’s voice rose in the way it did when she thought her little sister had said something unrealistic or stupid.

I want to look at the work of the different students. To see which ones will become famous. To see how they do the colors.

To listen to the colors sing? Käthe teased. To hear the colors make music? She stroked her sister’s back. Come, let’s sleep.

Hanna crawled in beside her. She had been assigned her own small cot in the servants’ quarters, but she wasn’t used to sleeping alone, and it was so cold in the basement that most nights she slept with Käthe. Not always music, but sound, Hanna said quietly. She didn’t talk about it much anymore. Käthe knew. Leni knew. And, of course, her mother knew. The first time she told Käthe she laughed, and then told Mother. Hanna thought it was that way with everyone when she said, The cows in the barn, what green sounds they are making today. She didn’t realize that everyone didn’t hear in color. She was only three, just learning the names of the different colors, and was very confused, as there were so many colors and not enough names to call them.

You could go to the Academy, Käthe said, yanking the covers which she often accused her sister of hoarding, if you are willing to take off all your clothes.

Take off my clothes?

They must have models. Freda’s cousin is a model at the Academy.

Often Herr Fleischmann brought a painting of a nude, such as that by Herr von Stuck, home from the gallery. And the sculptures were generally of nudes, both men and women. Hanna was more curious than embarrassed, and Frau Metzger said it was art, that the human form was one of God’s greatest creations, and artists for centuries going back to the Greeks and Romans had taken inspiration from the human body. Hanna knew that the artists in the Academy must learn how to draw and paint the human body. Surely they would need real models.

Freda’s cousin takes off her clothes for the artists? she asked.

I’m tired, Käthe replied, her voice distorted by a weary yawn.

Where is it? Hanna asked after thinking this over for several moments. The Academy of Fine Arts.

But the answer came back as a soft little snore, and she knew Käthe had already fallen asleep. Hanna was too excited to sleep, but she decided that night that somehow, someday, she would get into the studio of the Academy. Even if she had to take off all her clothes.

CHAPTER THREE

Lauren and Isabella

New York City

August 2009

Lauren O’Farrell had been sitting for over half an hour with Isabella Fletcher and had learned nothing more about a Kandinsky painting, if such a painting existed. She’d discovered nothing to confirm Isabella’s mother, Hanna, had collaborated with Hitler in disposing of his degenerate art, though she could now almost smell the red geraniums hanging in the green wooden window boxes on the farm in Bavaria and feel the cool Alpine breeze blowing over her skin.

Mrs. Fletcher talked a little about her mother’s going to Munich, but then circled back, evidently deciding Lauren needed a description of the farm, which necessitated Isabella’s walking over to the bookcase and taking out several maps. Pulling a pair of reading glasses from a drawer in the end table, she settled them on her nose, unfolded the largest map, and spread it out on the coffee table in front of them. She pointed to the small dot designating the village of Weitnau, then the exact location of the farm, and traced the road to Munich with her finger. Lauren imagined she could now drive the route herself, though Mrs. Fletcher explained her mother had taken the train, as there were no automobiles at the time. After the maps, Mrs. Fletcher produced a book filled with lovely pictures of the Alps, followed by a heavy volume with scenes of Munich.

My mother once told me that at home on the farm, Mrs. Fletcher said, glancing at Lauren over her glasses, "the only things hanging on the walls were a frying pan, an axe, and a crucifix. In the Munich home, walls were covered with paintings and drawings. Sculptures sat on tables and pedestals. The only art she’d known was religious art in the church at Weitnau, the village where they attended Sunday mass—paintings of angels, saints, Mary, and Christ. But in Munich the art was like nothing she had seen before. Mother truly fell in love with the concept