The Woman Who Heard Color by Kelly Jones Page B

what I make working for a full week.”
    “She takes off her clothes?”
    “ Ja , naked,” Freda answered, putting her hand over her mouth to suppress her giggles.
    “Do you know where it is?” Hanna asked. “The Academy of Fine Arts.”
    “On Akademiestrasse in the University District.”
    The following day, Hanna set out to find the Academy of Fine Arts. She took the tram to Leopoldstrasse near the Englischer Garten, and then walked but a short distance where she easily found the Academy on Akademiestrasse. She paced in front of the building, watching the students as they entered—first the young man with the greasy hair, a skinny young stoop-shouldered lad she remembered seeing that evening when Herr Fleischmann entertained the students and instructors. She watched for Herr von Stuck and Herr Kandinsky, but saw neither.
    The next day, after Frau Fleischmann’s eyes lowered and Hanna heard that gentle, rhythmic breathing that told her the mistress had fallen into a deep slumber from which she would not return for several hours, Hanna hurried down the stairs and out the back door. She dashed through the streets, hopped onto the tram, and then jumped off, running quickly to the Academy. She stood on the street outside, waited until she’d gained enough breath to speak, and then she climbed the steps, opened the door, and walked in. Quietly and respectfully, she moved along the hall, nodding to those she passed, trying to comport herself as if she belonged there. Finally she could see an open door and she entered and found a young man sitting at a desk.
    He looked up from the ledger on which he was making an entry.
    She was about to inquire if she might observe the students at work, but realized this request was unlikely to get the desired results. A young woman would not be invited into the studio, unless . . .
    “May I help?” he asked.
    “I’d like to inquire,” she said, forming the words first in her head, “about a position here at the Academy of Fine Arts.”
    “A position?” he asked. His brows pressed together tightly, and then pulled apart in amusement. He had very dark eyes with long lashes, and brows that seemed too perfect, as if they had been painted on with a brush. “As . . . ?” he asked, holding out his hands dramatically.
    “A human model,” she said. The words sounded strange even to Hanna’s ears.
    The amusement deepened around his eyes. “Have you had experience as a human model ?” There was a smile in his voice, almost as if he were making fun, but then his demeanor shifted and became very businesslike. “You’ve worked as an artists’ model?”
    Hanna nodded. She couldn’t quite bring herself to put the lie into words.
    He studied her for a moment, perhaps determining if she had the right proportions to be a model. This made her somewhat uncomfortable. She should leave now, immediately, she thought. But there is no shame in the body, Hanna told herself. Temple of the Holy Spirit. Why, it had been the subject of art for centuries, just as Frau Metzger had told her, just as she’d seen in the books that Frau Fleischmann had lent her, and in the museums of the city. She should not be ashamed of her body.
    “How old are you?” he asked, his perfect brows pushing together in doubt.
    “Eighteen,” she replied without hesitation. She could become quite proficient at telling lies, Hanna realized as the number slipped from her lips with such confidence.
    “Where have you worked?”
    “At a private school,” she answered, remembering a discussion at dinner the night the artists from the Academy came. Hadn’t Herr Kandinsky said that when he first came to Munich he had studied at a private school? “Anton Ažbe,” she added, remembering the name.
    He nodded as though she had supplied the correct answers. For a moment Hanna wished that he had caught her in her lies. What was she doing here? Burying herself in her own deceit?
    “You must be an angel sent to us today,” the