Ruth could hardly wait for that time to come.
The only one who wasn’t thinking about the coming holiday was Marie. That was because every day was like Christmas for her at the moment. Since she had gathered up the courage to show Heimer her design for the basket bowl, she had been given the go-ahead to paint that one and three more new designs. To suit the season, one of her suggestions was a silver goblet with a pattern of frost and snow. She also found inspiration in the tinsel wire that she had disliked so much at first; if she wound it around the glasses in a thin web rather than by the fistful, the result was enchanting. Marie had endless variations of glass and colors and ornamental detail to work with.
By now she didn’t even have to wait for the right moment to go to Heimer with one of her designs; he had fallen into the habit of coming over to Marie’s workbench at least once a day to watch her paint. “Well now, what kind of egg is my girl artist brooding on today?” he would ask. The joke soon grew old, but he expected her to laugh at it each time. If she did, then when Marie suggested some little refinement or showed him one of her new designs, he never said much about it. In this, he was like her father, whose motto had always been that silence was praise enough. Marie cared little for flowery praise—all she wanted was for Wilhelm Heimer to let her carry on with her work.
“As long as you keep up with the orders we have, I don’t mind if you try something new from time to time,” he had assured her, patting her shoulder. Eva had watched jealously and then not said a word to her for the rest of the day, which Marie found very welcome indeed.
There were words of praise for Marie all the same—from an unexpected source. Heimer’s wholesaler had liked the basket bowl so much that the very day he received it, he offered it to every customer who came in. That evening, when Heimer’s hired woman had come back to the village with an order for three hundred pieces, Wilhelm’s eyes had almost popped out of his head. Over the following week, Thomas and his brothers had to take turns sitting at the lamp for an extra hour in the evenings to make enough bowls to fulfill the order. Marie realized that what she had painted for her own amusement, on a whim, would now brighten the day for hundreds of people.
From that moment on she could not shake the thought that her artistic talent might be more than just a pleasant way to pass the time.
18
Two days before Christmas, Friedhelm Strobel could no longer bear to be trapped in the narrow confines of his shop with the shelves all the way up to the ceiling. He felt like a wild animal, torn from its natural habitat and wasting its life in captivity. What am I doing here? he asked himself with a sudden rage that startled him. What on earth am I doing in this provincial backwater?
The catalyst for this anger was the letter that the postman had brought that morning. Strobel stared at the unassuming gray envelope, seething with hatred. He could smell the scent of the perfumed writing paper through it. The words themselves might have left him cold, but that scent! Oh, how well he knew that scent. For as long as he lived, it would always bring back the same bittersweet memories. Greedily, reluctantly, he breathed in the aroma of old times. He could not banish the images conjured in his mind. He heard himself sob. Why did they have to get in touch now? After all these years?
The old unease seized hold of him again. Pacing restlessly up and down, he wondered what the arrival of this letter might mean for him. What it could mean. Was there any way back?
He gnawed at his lips until they began to bleed once more.
He had tried so hard to leave the past behind him, and for a few years, he had even succeeded. He had been so relieved to escape unscathed that leaving B., despite all its temptations, had been easy. Of course he had known right from the start that the forests of Thuringia had few suitable opportunities for a man of his caliber. At the time, however, he had accepted that. Wanting to make a clean break with everything, he had made no move to keep in touch with . . . old acquaintances.
By now he knew the letter by heart: just ten lines, no letterhead, not even a complete signature. It began with an insincere inquiry about how he was, and then went straight to the point: they had plans that would outdo everything that had gone before and they were looking for investors. Perhaps, they asked, Friedhelm Strobel would be interested in renewing those old ties that had once pleased him so well.
For years nobody had even taken the trouble to find out where he had vanished to so hastily. Once he had left B., they simply lost interest in him. Only now that they wanted something from him did they suddenly remember who he was. He gave a wry grin, mocking the memories. Wasn’t that just like them?
He had trouble recalling some of their faces. A great deal of time had passed since then, and in all that time his only ambition had been to expose his family’s bourgeois moral standards, to show them that there was far more to him than . . . He still felt sick when he recalled all the insults they had hurled at him back then.
And the truth was that in the ten years he had been working in Sonneberg as a wholesaler, he had made more money than his father had in his whole respectable lifetime. But was anybody interested? No. As far as his family was concerned, he no longer existed. Since nobody had made any inquiries about him, they didn’t know what a brilliant businessman he had become, hidden away here. But what had all this money brought him?
He had become a shopkeeper.
He had lost his freedom.
He looked around wildly at the walls that threatened to collapse and bury him. He was a prisoner among all the wooden toys, glasswork, and useless knickknacks. His clients were the prison wardens, and they made it impossible for him to escape even for a day.
A bitter smile crept across his bloody lips. They had no way of knowing that though. In their world he had a reputation as a man who always got whatever he wanted.
A desire that he had thought long dead stirred within him. In his mind’s eye he saw himself walking along the winding path, between the tall box hedges, to the great wooden door. Three knocks, pause, two knocks, pause, one final knock, and then the door to his heart’s desires was open. Strobel put a hand to his throat as though this could stop the feeling that the walls were closing in on him.
Was it still all as it had been back then? The letter said that the building work proceeded apace. It also mentioned other investors. Might these include anyone he knew?
He need not dwell on that question, he told himself sternly. Certainly he had the money; that had never been an issue! But he couldn’t simply walk away from his wholesale business and risk having his customers turn their backs on him for the competition.
Something warm was dripping onto his hand. Startled, Strobel looked down. Blood. He had bitten his lower lip so hard that it was truly bleeding.
He hurried to the bathroom and dabbed at his mouth with a towel. Then he reached for a comb. He stopped in the middle of tidying the severe part in his hair.
What were their plans, exactly?
He couldn’t imagine anything that could surpass what they had. On the other hand, they certainly had ideas and ambition, he knew that much . . .
He sobbed as he realized that he would have done anything for another visit to B. just then.
19
“I still can’t believe it!” Johanna said, practically in tears. “A bowl of apples and a lot of smarmy words!” She shook her head. “The work itself is your present this year,” she scoffed, mimicking Wilhelm Heimer. “Maybe we were supposed to give him something, from sheer gratitude?”
“But even so, we should be glad to have jobs and wages!”
Johanna shot a glance at Marie. “So now you’re singing from the same sheet as Griseldis! She’s always going on about being grateful. I don’t understand either of you!” She slammed her fist on the table. “It’s not as though Heimer is doing us any favors! He gets our work and our time, doesn’t he? And all for just a few marks!” she spat disdainfully. �
��He’s earning a pretty penny from Marie’s basket bowls. And he doesn’t even think we deserve a little something for Christmas?” Her voice was wavering again.
It was six o’clock on Christmas Eve. The church bells were ringing for the service, and the three of them should already have put their coats on and left for church. But ever since they had gotten back from work an hour ago, not one of them had stood up from the table. There was only a single candle burning since they hadn’t lit the lamps or made up a fire. Merry Christmas!
“A bowl of apples. To share among the three of us.”
“How many times are you going to say that?” Ruth asked sourly. “He’s our employer, nothing more than that. He’s not obliged to give us any presents. Christmas or no Christmas!” There was an edge to her voice that sharply contradicted her words.
“If that’s the case, then why are you so upset?” Marie asked.
Ruth spat out, “I get tired of listening to Johanna moan on and on!”
“She’s probably upset because her darling turns out to be just as much of an old skinflint as his father!” Johanna said in an uncharacteristically sharp tone. “Haven’t you chosen a lovely family to marry into?”
“When it comes to family, old Heimer isn’t the least bit mean—you should have seen all the things he bought for Eva! We . . . it’s just that we’re not family. But I did get something from Thomas, something very nice even,” Ruth said, making a face at her sister.
“And where is this present? Why don’t you show it to us?” Johanna challenged her.
Marie looked from one to the other. “Must we squabble like this? It’s Christmas after all. If Ruth doesn’t want to show us her present, then”—she raised her hands helplessly—“then that’s fine! I can understand that she might want to have something to keep for herself, just for once.”
Ashamed, Johanna looked down at the table. Marie was right. She sighed. All of this was only happening because she was so upset.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice, and reached out to take Ruth’s hand.
“Leave me alone!” Ruth snatched her hand away, and then began sobbing loudly.
“What is it? For heaven’s sake, Ruth, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Johanna looked aghast at the miserable, huddled figure beside her. Merry Christmas one and all, she thought. If only Peter would come and visit.
“I . . . it’s got nothing to do with you, and nothing to do with the Heimers,” Ruth sobbed.
Johanna and Marie looked at one another. They thought they knew what Ruth was feeling. This was the first Christmas without Father.
“We miss Father too,” Marie whispered. “I miss him so much I sometimes get chest pains.”
Ruth looked up, her eyes heavy with tears. She went over to her bag and fumbled about inside it. Then she came back to the table and put something down with a clatter.
“My bowl!” Marie called out. “How did that get here? What does that have to do with Father?”
Then she added incredulously, “Is that your Christmas present from Thomas?”
It was dead quiet for a moment.
Ruth nodded and buried her face in her hands again. “Pretty, isn’t it?” she asked, her shoulders shaking.
It took a moment for Marie and Johanna to realize that the tears running down Ruth’s cheeks were tears of laughter. And, her laughter was contagious—hysterical, out of control, liberating. They laughed until they could taste salty tears on their lips and only stopped when they were out of breath.
Ruth picked up the bowl and turned it around in the candlelight. “He whispers one endearment after another in my ear, and then he’s so thoughtless he just picks up one of a hundred pieces in the workshop! ‘I’m sure you’ll especially like this, your sister painted it after all,’ ” she said, imitating his tone as she repeated his words. “I didn’t know what to say! Not that I don’t like your painting, please don’t misunderstand me,” she said, turning to Marie.
Marie waved a hand.
“It’s just that . . . somehow I was expecting more. Something just for me. A token of his love, so to speak.” Ruth was fighting back tears again. “He couldn’t understand why I wasn’t jumping for joy! By the time we said good-bye, he even looked offended.”
“Men!” Johanna said dismissively. Why couldn’t Ruth work out for herself that this dumb cluck wasn’t the man for her? That he wasn’t in the least bit like the knight in shining armor she used to dream of?
Marie added, “Men from the Heimer family in particular!”
And because they didn’t want to cry, they laughed again until their sides hurt.
When they got home from church, Johanna marched over to the stove and built a fire. Then she put everything she could find from the pantry onto the table: bread, butter, a jar of honey, and some plum jam that Griseldis had given them. And finally, too, the apples that Wilhelm Heimer had presented with such a flourish, as though they were worth their weight in gold.
“Now don’t sit about like a pair of moaning minnies!” she said to her sisters. “We’ll get through the evening somehow.” Then she shook flour into a bowl. She cracked a couple of eggs into it, added some milk, and stirred up the batter.
“We can have pancakes with honey or plum jam,” she said as brightly as she could.
“No Christmas tree. Not even a bough.” Ruth was staring at the stool where they had put the tree every year.
“Where were we going to get a tree? Ugly Paul always gave it to us along with our winter wood.”
“We never even cut a bough on St. Barbara’s Day. And we could have done that for free,” Marie said.
“True.” Johanna sighed. They had been so busy with work that they hadn’t even thought to go out on December 4 to cut a few boughs from the apple or cherry trees for Christmas Eve. She watched as the pancake began to crisp at the edges. Once it smelled done, she flipped it over.
“A tree! St. Barbara’s boughs!” Ruth spat disdainfully. “What good would a tree do us if we’ve nothing to put on it? Look at us: no nuts, no gingerbread, no candy canes—we’re poor, poor, poor!” And she burst into tears again.
It wasn’t long before Marie joined in. Johanna looked up helplessly from the pancakes. She would have liked to pay a call on Peter, but she couldn’t leave the two of them alone in this state.
As if reading her thoughts, Marie sobbed, “Why isn’t Peter coming over? He’s always been here for Christmas.”
“I don’t know where he is. He wasn’t in church either, although that doesn’t mean anything. He’s never been much of a churchgoer,” Johanna said. “Maybe he doesn’t feel comfortable around us. As the only man among three women . . .”
“You mean because Father’s gone.” Marie shook her head. “Peter was never one to spend all his time with other men. If he were, he’d spend his evenings with the Heimer brothers and all the others at the Black Eagle.”
Johanna silently agreed. She couldn’t remember a time when Peter hadn’t been there for them.
“He’ll come.”
With a flourish, she dished up the first pancake. “So, let’s eat until we get stomachaches. And I don’t want any more talk of men this evening, except perhaps for baby Jesus.”
Ruth looked up, her eyes wet with tears.
“You’re right. We Steinmann girls won’t give up so easily.” She took a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose loudly.
The fire crackled.
They could hear singing from one of the neighbors’ houses, and the sound of a flute.
Joost’s chair was empty, as was the stool for the Christmas tree.
There was no cracking of nuts and no gingerbread crumbs on the table.
“At least it’s warm,” said Johanna, spreading plum jam onto another pancake.
20
None of the sisters were sorry when Christmas Ev
e was over.
It had begun to snow thick, feathery flakes that melted as soon as they hit the ground. Instead of mantling the landscape in a coat of virgin white, the wet snow turned the streets into a morass. After a hard night’s frost, the ground had become dangerously slippery underfoot. For Johanna and her sisters, the miserable weather was further proof that this Christmas was not like ones past.
Tottering and holding onto each other, the three sisters braved the bitter cold and walked up the steep street to Wilhelm Heimer’s house midmorning on Christmas Day. Sheets of ice had formed on the foundry square, which was empty and abandoned at that time of year. “Careful!” Johanna said, grabbing Ruth by the elbow right as she began to slip.
Marie cast a yearning glance over at the furnaces, which stood neglected in the glass foundry. “If only they would build up the fire again!” she sighed. “I think it’s dreadful when it’s abandoned like this.”
Johanna was longing for spring as well, when the square would be stacked high with wood for the master glassmakers’ fires. The stokers would be calling loudly for more wood to keep the furnaces burning at the high temperatures needed to melt glass, and Peter Maienbaum and his fellow masters would be working night and day in shifts to keep the foundry going. The masters themselves would be working at the melt, each in his own mixing room, fussing over the best possible recipe for each batch, while outside the journeymen would be stretching the viscous lumps of glass into long, thin rods with their tongs. The rods would then be snipped into lengths to make the glass stock that Peter and all the other glassblowers used for their work—and she could watch it all happen, exactly the way it had been done since the glass foundry was opened in 1597 almost three hundred years ago. Johanna was suddenly immensely comforted by the thought that they were all part of this enduring rhythm.
Peter. He had stopped by the previous evening after helping Widow Grün fix a hole in her stovepipe.
“That was a good idea Peter had with the glass animals, wasn’t it?” Johanna said, her words muffled by her scarf.
The Glassblower (The Glassblower Trilogy Book 1) Page 11
