The Woman Who Heard Color by Kelly Jones

selling of antiquities and traditional art rather than modern-day paintings, but Herr Fleischmann, unlike his father who had started the business, had a particular interest in the modern trends.
    “There is so much happening now in the world of art,” she told Hanna, “all very exciting.” Hanna could hear it in her voice, the enthusiasm, the desire to be involved in her husband’s work.
    Yet sometimes she barely spoke to Hanna, asking her to leave the room. When Hanna returned to check on her, the food on the tray would be untouched.
    On a very good day, Frau Fleischmann would ask Hanna to walk her down to the music room and she would sit at the piano. She gestured for the girl to sit in a chair beside her, and she played the most beautiful music Hanna had ever heard. She told her the names of the composers—Bach, Handel, Mozart, Wagner. But, as the days passed, Frau Fleischmann’s energy often failed, and her fingers refused to perform as she wished. There were days when she could not play the music. Sometimes she cried. One day she forced her fingers one by one into a ball and banged violently on the ivory keys.
    After that particular outburst, they didn’t return to the music room for several days, and when they did, Frau Fleischmann said, “ Bitte , come sit here beside me.” She patted the bench, and as Hanna sat, she placed her hands over the girl’s. “Fingers here,” she said, guiding with her own. “Press this key ever so slightly, then here with greater force. Yes, that’s right; hold it for just a moment. Yes! Yes!” she exclaimed with delight.
    Strangely, it came easily, as if Hanna had known all along—which key on the piano to touch, the exact pressure and timing, the rhythm. And always she could repeat the sounds in her head, even when she did not play. The colors—she would see. Oh, yes, such lovely colors that came with the music.
    After another week, in which her mistress continually praised Hanna, telling her what a gifted musician she was, Frau Fleischmann offered, “Let me teach you how to read the notes on the music sheets. One day I won’t be here to guide you.”
    Hanna didn’t like these words, and she could see Frau Fleischmann was well aware of her discomfort. “Why, someday, my lovely Hanna, you will leave me. You will marry, and you will have precious little babies to tend. You will play a lovely lullaby, softly, sweetly. Don’t you want to learn to read the music?”
    “Yes, Frau Fleischmann, I do.”
    But Hanna did not learn as quickly as she had hoped, and she could see the frustrations building in her mistress. She wanted more than anything to please her, to become her fingers. She wanted to make her smile.
    “Nein, nein,” Frau Fleischmann shouted one morning as they sat in the music room shortly after breakfast. Mornings were usually her best time of day, but it was now late November, the weather turned cold, and Hanna could see that the winter was especially hard on her. “What is so difficult about this?” Frau Fleischmann took in a deep, exasperated breath. “Oh, Hanna, please forgive my impatience.” Her voice trembled, as did her hands. “I don’t understand why this is so difficult for you. You are such a bright girl, quicker than any I have known.” She pointed to the note written on the music sheet propped on the piano stand, and with her other hand moved the girl’s on the keys. There was a frightening jerkiness about the movement, and now Hanna was trembling, too.
    Suddenly it came to her. She could see it—this note for the green tone, this for the golden yellow. “It’s the golden sound,” she exclaimed, realizing she had said it aloud, only after Frau Fleischmann straightened her back and stared at Hanna with disbelief, then puzzlement.
    “Golden sound?” Frau Fleischmann asked.
    Hanna didn’t want to tell her about the colors. She didn’t want her to think she was insane.
    “What do you mean, golden sound?”
    “Nothing,” Hanna