The Woman Who Heard Color by Kelly Jones Read Free Book Online

France. Slowly, in her spare time, Lauren had put bits and pieces of information together.
    Patrick had once accused her of becoming obsessed. “What will you do if you eventually fill in all these blanks?” he’d asked. “You know this woman is dead. She was born over a hundred and twenty years ago.”
    Lauren was used to dealing with such obstacles of time. In her search for looted art, the crime scene was often long ago destroyed, many of the victims in their graves for more than half a century, the perpetrators of the crimes mere remnants of history. She was generally working with descendents of the victims.
    Lauren’s eyes scanned the walls again. Could any of this art be real? Nazi censored? Nazi seized? She needed to get a closer look, perhaps even lift a piece from the wall and check the back for revealing inscriptions or numbers. She knew exactly how the paintings had been marked in Berlin.
    After replacing the maps and books on the bookshelf flanking the fireplace, Isabella settled once again into her chair and offered more tea from the pot, though Lauren guessed it was now lukewarm at best.
    “Yes, please,” Lauren said. And then she asked, “Your mother adapted well to life in Munich?” She would attempt to keep the conversation centered on events in the city, those that might relate to the art.
    “Oh, yes, she adapted very well,” Mrs. Fletcher replied as she poured more tea for Lauren and then herself. The older woman, in her expensive-looking suit and pearls, might have been a society lady serving as hostess at some social gathering. Lauren felt underdressed in her slacks and simple cotton blouse.
    “She saw it as a grand adventure,” Isabella explained. “My mother had little formal education—well, none to speak of—but her experiences in the city, her exposure to the more modern movements, yes, it was in Munich that she became acquainted with the art. She certainly didn’t get this exposure at the farm.”
    “She learned about art from studying the paintings in the home where she found work?”
    Isabella nodded. “Yes, and later in the gallery.”
    “The gallery?” Lauren asked.
    “Yes, the Fleischmann Gallery, of course.”
    Lauren felt an increase in the beat of her heart as well as her breathing. Fleischmann. Exactly the name she was searching for. She knew now that she was on the right track. She had so many questions, but feared if she spoke, Mrs. Fletcher could detect a change in her tone. It would be difficult to keep the excitement out of her voice. She took a sip of tea, gulped, and then coughed nervously, hardly believing this information had just been unceremoniously placed in her hands. Mrs. Fletcher asked if she needed a glass of water. Lauren shook her head and took another small sip of tea.
    “Initially my mother learned by observation,” Mrs. Fletcher continued, “and then she became involved in the business of art.”
    “The business of art?” Lauren asked, placing the same emphasis on the word business .
    “Oh, yes, next to family, art was the most important aspect of my mother’s life.”
    “This exposure in Munich eventually developed into a career for Hanna?” she baited the older woman.
    “She was very much involved. She and my father formed a true partnership. She knew many of the artists,” Mrs. Fletcher added, waving toward the painting that Lauren had earlier identified as a Franz Marc, a colorful mosaiclike piece with two horses in an unnatural shade of blue. “She became acquainted with most of these artists.”
    “Kandinsky?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “She purchased the Kandinsky,” Lauren asked, “from the artist himself? In Munich?”
    “Yes.”
    “You said the painting was purchased twice?”
    “I did say that.” There was a note of annoyance in Mrs. Fletcher’s tone, as if she were warning the young woman to be patient. Lauren thought of all the documents she’d examined, German records, American immigration papers, all the hours she’d