It was long after midnight by the time Thomas got home. Even the way he opened the door told Ruth that he was drunk again. She knew she was right when he crashed into something in the hallway and began cursing loudly. She pulled the covers up over her chin and prayed that he would not wake the little one with his racket.
Wanda had fallen asleep almost as soon as she was back in her own bed, the cough vanishing instantly. Ruth had looked in on her again and again and put a damp cloth on her brow. Her forehead was still warm, but her breathing was regular again. Ruth wondered if it could be that her daughter felt sick when she was around the Heimers. Wanda probably felt how unwelcome she was.
The light went on. “Good evening, my dear!” Thomas came to the end of the bed and leaned against the bedframe. The wooden slats creaked.
Fool! Ruth shut her eyes more tightly. Why didn’t he just get undressed and go to bed? She wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink with him snoring drunkenly away, but at least she would avoid another argument. Ruth felt Thomas staring at her, puzzling over whether she was asleep or just pretending. She was sweating from every pore beneath the blankets.
He stumbled unsteadily over to the chair where he put his clothes every evening. Humming, he began to undress.
Ruth sighed with relief. It seemed there would be no more trouble tonight. But right at that moment, Wanda began to cough again.
Ruth held her breath. Stop. Please, please stop.
Thomas spun round so fast that it seemed he had only been waiting for the least sign of life from Wanda or Ruth. “There she is, yapping away again! Haven’t you done enough to annoy me tonight?” he slurred.
Ruth sat bolt upright. There was no point pretending to be asleep now.
“I’ll take care of her. Don’t worry, she’ll quiet down again in a moment, won’t you, Wanda?” She was so eager to please that her voice sounded shrill and panicky. She would take the little one and go into the kitchen.
Thomas was blocking her way.
“You, taking care.” The fight was in him now; she could see it in his eyes. “You’re too bloody stupid for that. Can’t even take care of a kid. But you can make me look like a fool in front of my father, oh yes! You can nag at me and answer back—in fact that’s the only thing you know how to do!”
“Thomas!” She hated it when her voice took on this craven, wheedling tone, but sometimes it calmed him down.
Keeping her eyes downcast, Ruth tried to get past Thomas, but he grabbed her arm and shoved her back with such force that she landed on the floor.
“Not answering back now, Ruth Steinmann, are you?” Thomas looked down at her and sniggered. “You wanted to show me up! Like a fool. The way you always do. What do you think the others had to say after you flounced out like that? They told me I was letting you lead me around by the nose. But they’re wrong about that, the lot of them!” He towered over her, his legs straddling her, a bulge in his pants showing how he had worked himself up.
For a moment Ruth was scared. It wouldn’t be the first time he had come home in this condition and . . .
But Thomas seemed satisfied with the situation as it was. “So? Where are your snappy answers now? All your fine ideas?”
Perhaps he would have been content just to hurl insults at her if Wanda had not begun coughing again at that very moment. Which reminded him that as well as a willful wife, he had a useless daughter.
“Like mother, like daughter, isn’t that what they say? Lead me around by the nose—you’ll do that too someday, won’t you, you little brat!” Slowly, threateningly, he turned toward the cot.
When Ruth realized what he was about to do, her scream tore through the night air.
11
Marie had often wished she could live inside one of her baubles. Life would be so much simpler there. No hard corners and edges to knock up against. No beginning and no ending. Instead, the light shining through and all the colors of the rainbow playing across the round walls. A paradise of glass.
She had never longed for it so much as in that moment—though her reasons were different now. These days, she wished she could spirit herself away because life outside had become so intolerable, a nightmare that she could only rarely escape.
Her weekly lessons with Peter were an exception, which is why she could hardly wait for eight o’clock.
“I know that it makes me the worst person on earth, but I can’t help it . . . I really feel put upon.”
Instead of blowing glass and talking about designs as she usually did, Marie began pouring her heart out. She felt guilty and helpless, and her feelings were written all over her face.
“Ever since Ruth and Wanda moved in with us, there’s not a quiet corner anywhere in the house. There’s always someone fussing about the place. And I had grown so used to living on my own.”
Peter put a glass of water in front of her. “And there’s still no sign of those two making peace?”
Marie waved a hand. “None at all! Thomas comes over every couple of days, but Ruth won’t even let him in the house. They have words in the doorway—never loud enough that we can hear what they’re saying—then off he stomps. He either looks as though he’s about to burst into tears or he flies into such a rage that he calls her all sorts of names. Johanna and I still have no idea why Ruth suddenly turned up at our house in the middle of the night three days ago. She won’t say a word about it.” She frowned. “He even asked me once whether Wanda is all right. I still don’t know what to make of that. And I have to stay in the Heimers’ good graces. If the old fellow throws me out, then we’re all three of us out of a job. It’s a good thing Johanna saved up a little . . .”
“That’s the last thing you need to worry about,” Peter answered. “Wilhelm Heimer knows very well that he’s not going to find a better painter or a faster worker than you. He even boasts of your skills down at the tavern.”
“Really? He’s never said a kind word to me. He always looks at me as though he can’t wait to get rid of me. As he sees it, the Steinmann sisters have been nothing but trouble to him. All the same . . .” She waved a hand. “Somehow I get along with the old fellow. And Thomas isn’t my problem.”
“So what is your problem?” Peter asked patiently.
Marie heaved a deep sigh before she answered. “If you must know, it’s Johanna.”
Peter frowned.
Should she really tell him? Or would Peter just take Johanna’s side? Marie decided at least to try.
“The trouble is that Johanna has nothing to do. Ruth’s busy with Wanda all day long, combing her hair, giving her a bath, crocheting a new dress. I think it’s all a bit much. But at least the two of them leave me alone. When Wanda’s not playing with my paints, that is,” she added. “But Johanna? She runs around the house like a caged animal. She’s so bored that she’s already tidied up my desk and sorted all my papers—though if you ask me she actually just made a mess of everything—and I can hardly sit down at the bench without her peering over my shoulder. Asking questions and wanting explanations. She’s driving me mad!” Marie threw her hands up helplessly.
“I understand what you’re saying, but how can I help?” Peter asked, looking at her in resignation. “I’ve asked Johanna at least three times to come and work for me. I could pay, of course. But she won’t hear of it.” He pointed to a stack of cardboard boxes with blue, red, and green glass gleaming inside.
“I’ll grant you that packing these animals of mine isn’t half as exciting as working in a big shop. But at least she would have something to do.” There was no mistaking the frustration in his voice.
“Oh, Peter! Here I am, telling you my tale of woe, and you have troubles enough of your own.” She gave him a nudge.
“Do you remember our conversation earlier this year? When I said that some miracle might bring Johanna back to Lauscha?” He laughed a bitter, joyless laugh. “Now she’s her
e indeed, but she’s further away from me than ever. At best, I’m her big brother. At worst, I’m a man so she can’t trust me. The way she looks at me sometimes—as though she’s worried I’ll lay a hand on her.” He shook his head sadly. “After what that swine did to her, I can understand her reservations. Is she ever going to feel like a normal woman again?”
Neither of them spoke for a while. Then Marie said quietly, “Can’t you talk to Johanna, even so? If she doesn’t have something to do soon, she’ll drive me up the wall. And who knows? Maybe once you two are working together side by side . . .” She tried to sound encouraging.
Peter laughed. “Yes, yes, and this year Christmas will come at Easter!” Then he became serious once more.
“All right then. I’ll talk to her again, though I’ll feel pretty stupid doing so. But I suppose it hardly matters if she turns me down one more time.”
Peter didn’t need to wait long for his chance. Johanna stuck her head in his doorway the very next day.
“I’ve made buttermilk—shall I bring you a glass? It’s ice-cold, good, and refreshing,” she called over the hissing of the gas flame.
Peter would rather have had a beer, but he agreed all the same. He turned off the gas and they walked out behind Peter’s house and sat down. For a few minutes they talked of this and that, then Johanna lay back in the grass. She drew up the hem of her dress as far as her knees and sighed aloud.
“Oh, the sun feels good! For the first time in my life I can sunbathe just as long as I like. Ruth says I’ll end up with skin like a farmer’s wife, but she spends half her days herself sitting on the bench in front of the house and soaking up the sun.”
Peter had to fight hard to resist the urge to reach out and wipe away the milk moustache on her upper lip. If possible, Johanna had become even more beautiful in the past year. He admired the way her hair gleamed, falling in gentle waves over her shoulders and arms in her sleeveless dress.
He was so lost in thought that he almost missed the opening that her remark gave him.
“Does that mean the two of you spend your days lazing in the sunshine?” he asked, grinning.
Johanna sat up.
“You’re quite right. I can’t go on idling my days away.”
Peter was delighted.
“It’s just that I don’t know what to do with myself.” Johanna went on. “Ruth still won’t say a word about what happened. She’s dug her heels in though, and I’m beginning to think she’ll never make peace with Thomas. And the two of them are married!”
“To be honest, I don’t really feel like talking about Ruth,” Peter said somewhat irritably. “But while we’re on the subject, she’s not the first woman to run away from her husband, and she won’t be the last.”
Johanna looked at him in consternation. “And that’s all you have to say about it? I’m trying to find some way to understand her behavior though. And I can only think of one explanation: Thomas must have hit her. And more than once. And Ruth . . .”
That was quite enough. Peter sat up too.
“Now you listen to me,” he said as forcefully as he dared, taking her hand. “You don’t have to worry yourself sick over Ruth day in, day out. Even if you don’t believe it, she’s a grown woman. She knows what she’s doing.”
“I’m not so sure about that. She cries at night when she thinks nobody can hear,” Johanna said, as tears sprung into her own eyes. “Her world must have fallen apart. She was madly in love with him.”
“I never said it was easy for her. But perhaps what she’s going through right now is easier than living with Thomas. Have you ever thought of that?”
A ladybug settled on Johanna’s hand, and she fixed her gaze upon it.
“Johanna,” Peter scolded her gently. “Let’s talk about you for a change.”
“What is there to talk about?” she asked, with a pained expression on her face. “You’re just going to make the same offer again.” She shook the bug off her hand. “I . . . please don’t be angry with me, Peter, but it wouldn’t work.”
But why not? he wanted to ask her. If you want it, it will work!
Instead he said, “You can’t sit at home all day either though. Quite apart from the fact that your savings will all be gone at some point, that’s not who you are. Sitting about doing nothing doesn’t suit you. Marie agrees with me, by the way. We’re worried about you.”
“Marie . . .” Johanna cocked her head. “Do you know that she’s really quite a good glassblower? And I don’t mean her ideas and designs, I’m talking about her craft skills. The last batch of baubles she blew in her forms is practically perfect.”
“You don’t need to tell me that. But why even mention it? First you talk about Ruth, and then about Marie—you’re just trying to change the subject.”
“Oh, tosh,” she answered cheerfully.
There was a faint smile on her lips.
“I can hardly sit down at the bench without her peering over my shoulder. Asking questions and wanting explanations.” Marie’s words came back to Peter. And all of a sudden he thought he knew.
“Johanna, are you planning something?” he asked, with a note of warning in his voice.
She drew up her legs and kneeled opposite him.
“I know what you all think: Johanna’s just sitting at home moping,” she said accusingly. “But that’s not it. In fact I’ve been thinking for quite a while about what to do next. And my plans include Marie,” she added significantly.
Peter looked at her. Could it be that he already knew what this wonderful, impossible, infuriating woman was thinking?
“Marie’s Christmas baubles—you want to sell them,” he said.
She looked at him in astonishment.
So he was right!
“And stubborn as you are, you’re not just going to give them to me so that I can show them to my wholesaler, but you want to find a wholesaler of your own.”
“You really know how to spoil a lady’s fun!” Johanna said, pretending to be angry at him.
“Does Marie know about your plans? After all, they are her baubles.”
“No, I . . . until I’m certain that what I want to do will actually work, I’d rather not tell her anything. I want to go to Sonneberg on my own and . . .”
“Oh no, Johanna Steinmann, you’ll do no such thing,” he replied gruffly. “Not until you’ve talked to Marie and Ruth at least. I can see that you want to prove to us all over again that you can look after yourself. But this isn’t just about you.”
12
That same evening Peter sat down at the table with the three sisters, as he had insisted they do, and Johanna laid out her plan.
Once the initial excitement had died down, the objections followed. Although Marie had long dreamed of the day when she would no longer have to hide the glass she blew, she didn’t have the confidence to take the next step.
“What will people say when they find out that I’ve been sitting at the lamp? What if nobody wants to buy glass blown by a woman?” she asked.
They would have to expect a certain amount of hostility of course, Johanna conceded. Many glassblowers and wholesalers would find it unforgivable that a woman had dared to try her hand at men’s work. So she would have to go in search of a forward-looking wholesaler who didn’t care whether a man or a woman had blown the baubles.
Ruth’s objections were rather more practical. “If you actually manage to find a wholesaler for Marie’s globes, when is she going to fill his orders?”
“At night of course,” Marie answered. “That’s the way I’ve always done it. Or what do you think?” she said, turning to Peter. All he did was nod heavily in agreement, whereupon she made a face at him.
“You’ll have to do it that way at first,” Johanna conceded. “But if more orders come in—and I’m counting on it that they will—then you’ll have to sto
p working for Heimer.”
Two pairs of eyes stared at her in horror while Peter sat back, watching without saying a word, just as he had from the start. Johanna shot him a glance, unsure whether she was glad that he was staying out of it or whether she would have preferred his support after all.
Ruth was the first to recover.
“I could help with the painting,” she offered. “I know that nobody can paint as well as you can,” she said to Marie with a hint of sarcasm in her voice, “but I could manage your ice crystals and winter landscapes. And I can pack the globes of course. We’ve still got a whole pile of cardboard boxes left over from before. The globes must be about the same size as the pharmacy bottles, don’t you think?”
“Slow down,” Marie said. “What Johanna is suggesting here would mean opening our own glassworks. I don’t know . . . three women, running a business. Can something like that even work?”
“Why not?” Ruth replied. “It would mean that we were working for ourselves. We wouldn’t have to answer to anybody else.”
Peter cleared his throat. “When are you thinking of going to Sonneberg?”
Johanna looked at him in surprise. “Perhaps next week? Or the week after? I haven’t really thought about it.”
“But you ought to, if your plans aren’t going to run aground. Or have you forgotten that the American, Mr. Woolworth, is coming to Sonneberg in August? He’s arriving in two weeks.”
“Woolworth? What’s he got to do with my plan? He only visits . . .”
Peter laughed. “Oh no he doesn’t! It looks like Strobel’s only getting a small slice of the pie this year. Almost every wholesaler in Sonneberg has had a letter from Woolworth announcing his arrival. They’re talking about nothing else in town right now. Everybody’s wondering what special deals they can offer the man, and they’re all hoping for nice fat order books by the time he leaves.”
It took Johanna a moment to digest the news.
The Glassblower (The Glassblower Trilogy Book 1) Page 28
