The Woman Who Heard Color Read Free Page B

patiently, busying her hands again along the edge of the pillow.
    Isabella said, “To understand the history of this painting, my parents’ story must be understood. My mother’s story. Yes . . .” She let out a small, quiet laugh. “Mother always considered Kandinsky her artist.” The woman fixed her eyes on Lauren, and once, then twice, she blinked, her wrinkled lids skimming moist, soft blue eyes. “The truth must be known.”
    “I have nothing against the truth,” Lauren replied, the edge to her voice much sharper than she’d intended, so sharp it cut like a challenge.
    Mrs. Fletcher nodded and her gaze, steady on the younger woman, did not waver. The firm set of her mouth, the slight lift of her chin, seemed to be telling Lauren that she was up to this challenge.
    “Paintings by Kandinsky,” Isabella said, “as well as work by other progressive artists, were considered elitist art by Hitler, as if one needed some kind of pedigree to understand it. His theory was that if the common man off the street didn’t get it, it was crap.”
    Lauren swallowed a laugh, surprised at Isabella’s use of the word crap . The older woman let out a small refined chuckle, as if she had surprised herself.
    She continued, “He often associated the word elitist with the Jewish race.”
    Lauren touched the rim of her still-almost-full cup of tea, running her fingers over the fine, fragile edge. She could feel her breath going in and out with a quick, uneven rhythm.
    “My mother,” Mrs. Fletcher said, “she certainly didn’t come from an elitist background, yet she had a great love for this type of art.”
    “You said she was born in the country, on a farm. How did she end up in Munich?”
    Isabella pondered the question, as if deciding how to reply. “It began because she was unhappy. I guess she was probably searching for something.”
    “Like what?”
    “Independence. Excitement. A better life. What do any of us search for?”
    “Did she find it?”
    “I believe there were moments of true happiness.” A faint smile flickered across the woman’s face. “She grew up as part of a large family with a strict German father. When her mother was alive she was very happy. After she lost her mother, her father remarried. I know my mother despised her stepmother, though later I think she might have had some regrets that they never established a real relationship.”
    “What year was that?” Lauren asked. “When she went to Munich?”
    “She was just sixteen.” Isabella thought for a moment. “Nineteen hundred.”
    “Turn of the century. She was just sixteen? She went alone?”
    Isabella nodded. “Yes. Well, no, not exactly. My aunt Katie—Käthe, then—was already working in Munich. Mother hoped she too might find a position in the house where her older sister was employed as a cook. She used to write home to my mother—they were very close. Their home in Bavaria was set in one of the most beautiful landscapes in the world. As a child I often visited my uncle and cousins on the farm. Have you ever seen the Bavarian Alps, Ms. O’Farrell?”
    “Yes, I have. They’re beautiful.” She’d spent a semester in Europe, studying art, taking advantage of every opportunity to travel, and she’d been back to Germany twice, going through Nazi archives.
    “The Munich house was lovely,” Mrs. Fletcher said. “Quite exotic, particularly for a girl from the country, but something you might expect to find somewhere on the Mediterranean rather than in the heart of a German city. Red tiled roof. Marble floors. Handwoven rugs. Sleek walnut banisters.”
    Isabella closed her eyes as if imagining this scene, as if returning in her mind to her homeland. And then her eyes opened wide and again she looked directly at Lauren. “The story must be told. The true story.” These words were delivered with a heaviness that Lauren could actually feel, as if the older woman was about to hand over something of great importance, as if it