The Glassblower (The Glassblower Trilogy Book 1)

by Durst-Benning, Petra

  “How on earth did you get into this room?” he asked in perfect German. “And what do you want?”

  Ruth felt herself flush. “I would rather not answer your first question, since it would get someone into trouble.” She lifted her hands apologetically and tried to smile. “But I will gladly tell you what I want. I’ve come from Lauscha to offer you these Christmas baubles for sale.” Ruth blew a strand of hair from her face.

  The man frowned but seemed satisfied with her answer. He and Woolworth exchanged a few more remarks.

  Dear Lord, thank you!

  Woolworth asked his assistant a question, pointing at Ruth as he did so. When she heard something that sounded like Loosha, she nodded.

  He reached for more baubles, showing this one to his assistant, holding that one up in the last bit of light from the setting sun.

  Ruth didn’t dare look over at the second man again. Instead she took the opportunity to get a good look at Woolworth. No, she couldn’t agree with what the photographer had said; it was only at first glance that Woolworth looked like any other middle-aged man. What set him apart from other men was not his clothing or his haircut but the way he moved, nimble and forceful all at once. And his eyes, which never stayed focused on one thing for more than a moment but took in the whole room. Ruth had the feeling that this man never missed even the smallest detail.

  Standing there in her sweat-soaked dress, with her hair coming undone, she began to feel even more awkward. She tried to unstick the sweaty strands from her face without being too obvious about it. Her eyes had just wandered involuntarily back to Woolworth’s companion when Woolworth himself turned to her, holding a silvered glass nut in his hand. He frowned and asked something in English.

  “Mr. Woolworth would like to know why you are not represented through one of the wholesalers,” the younger man translated. “After all, it’s not standard practice for sellers to sneak into our hotel room.” An amused smile played across his lips.

  “Well, you see . . .” She bit her lip. The explanations she had so carefully prepared were gone in a puff of wind. There was nothing left for it but to tell the truth. “There are three of us. We’re sisters. Johanna, Marie, and myself. Oh, and my name’s Ruth,” she added. “Our parents are dead and we must fend for ourselves. Which is why Marie . . . she’s the youngest”—Ruth swallowed nervously—“Marie blew these globes. She’s very gifted. But it’s not, umm, standard practice for women to sit down at the lamp. That’s the workbench where the—”

  “I know what the lamp is,” Woolworth’s assistant interrupted her, smiling.

  Ruth felt herself blush again. Was he mocking her?

  “No woman has ever dared blow glass before. It’s strictly a man’s job in Lauscha, but Marie does it,” she said proudly. “None of the wholesalers want to take our wares because glass is men’s work.”

  As the assistant translated everything she had said, Ruth held her breath. What would Woolworth say? He evidently liked the baubles. But would he have the same prejudices against a woman blowing glass?

  A loud burst of laughter broke in on her doubts and fears.

  Woolworth clapped a hand on Ruth’s shoulder while speaking to her in English. She looked to the younger man for a translation.

  “Mr. Woolworth says that he likes the idea that a woman made these baubles. He likes it a great deal!” the assistant said, smiling. “And he also likes the way you took the bull by the horns. He says that’s something he would have done as a young man.”

  “Really?” Ruth’s eyes widened. “You’re not . . . pulling my leg?”

  Both men laughed.

  Ruth stood there and felt silly. While the men talked, she began to pack the baubles back into their basket. What came next?

  As the assistant approached her, Ruth noticed that his dimples deepened when he smiled.

  “Mr. Woolworth is very interested in these baubles. However, since he has other business appointments all evening, he suggests that the two of us sit down and work out the details of prices and delivery.”

  Ruth looked from one to the other and back again, then fixed her gaze on Woolworth. She took a deep breath and held out her hand toward him.

  And Ruth heard her own voice say, “A pleasure doing business with you,” as though she closed deals every day of the week.

  Woolworth answered in English. “Here’s to glass,” he said. She understood that much, at least.

  Ruth had to fight to stifle a smile. When the others back home heard about this . . .

  “May I accompany you downstairs?” The assistant took her gently by the arm and gestured to the door with his other hand.

  Ruth beamed at him. Johanna had never told her that business negotiations could be this thrilling.

  16

  When Woolworth’s assistant handed Ruth’s basket to the reception desk to look after, the hotelier’s eyes almost popped out of his head. Then they went into the dining room.

  Her head held high, Ruth sat down on the chair that he held out for her. She had never dreamed that she would get to go out to dinner with a man like him. By now, she hardly cared that she looked worn and disheveled; she simply enjoyed the curious glances that the other diners cast their way.

  “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” Ruth’s companion said as soon as they were seated. “My name is Steven Miles.” He held his hand out over the table. He had a warm, firm handshake.

  “My name’s Ruth . . . Heimer. How do you happen to speak such good German, Mr. Miles?”

  He laughed and brushed a short strand of black hair back from his forehead. “Well, you speak quite good German too. No, in all seriousness, my parents are from Germany. They emigrated to America just before I was born.”

  “So you’re American.”

  He nodded. “Born and bred. And proud to be!”

  A waiter appeared. He had a grubby dishcloth tucked into his waistband and black rims to his fingernails.

  “Would the lady and gentleman care to dine?” he asked, handing Steven the menu and giving Ruth a disdainful glance.

  “Bring us two glasses of sherry first. You do drink sherry?” he asked Ruth.

  Not knowing what sherry was, she smiled apologetically and said, “I’d rather have a glass of lemonade.”

  Steven ordered her a lemonade without hesitating even a moment.

  “That fellow was none too polite,” he muttered as the waiter left the table. “What a day. Full of surprises!” he went on. His voice had been cool and distant as he spoke to the waiter, but now it was friendly again. He gave Ruth a boyish grin. “I never really thought I would enjoy a meal in this hotel.”

  Hoping that he meant that as a compliment, Ruth smiled at him. “We’ve a saying that you should always expect pleasant surprises. The unpleasant surprises will come anyway.”

  “Nicely put and sweetly said . . .” His gaze dropped to her lips for a moment, and then he looked up again. “And while we’re speaking of surprises, the food here could be better, I’m afraid. A great deal better. If you don’t mind, I’ll choose for both of us.”

  Ruth nodded. Ever since they had entered the dining room, she had had the strangest feeling that everything she saw was magnified as if by a glass: the room with its tall, narrow windows that were badly in need of cleaning; the other guests—all five of them—at the tables along the wall.

  And Steven Miles. More than anything else, Steven Miles.

  He was of medium build, not especially big but not reedy like so many of the village boys, who never had enough to eat. He had thick hair that would probably stick out wildly in all directions if he didn’t keep it down with pomade. Like Woolworth, he had a moustache, though his was not as bushy.

  He had dark, intelligent eyes that were set ever so slightly too close together but that were lively and curious in a way that most men’s were not.


  “Your eyes remind me of a neighbor of ours,” Ruth heard herself say. She felt mortified as soon as she spoke.

  Steven Miles lowered the menu and looked at her attentively.

  “Given that I don’t know your neighbor, I can’t tell whether that’s a good or a bad thing.”

  Ruth had to laugh. “Don’t worry! Peter Maienbaum is a very good man. He’s a glassblower, and he’s in love with my sister Johanna.” As she spoke, she tried to work out just where the warm glow in her belly was coming from. Why did she feel so safe and happy with this man she had only just met?

  When the waiter brought the drinks, Steven ordered two portions of goulash with potato dumplings.

  Ruth hadn’t had a bite to eat all day, but now she wasn’t sure she’d be able to swallow a morsel.

  Steven Miles suggested that they finish up with business matters before the food arrived.

  “Since there’s no middleman in this deal, we need to draw up a contract—in German of course. It will be based on the one we use for wholesalers, but it will take into account the fact that you yourselves are the suppliers.” He put his briefcase on his lap and took out a notepad and pen.

  Ruth nodded bravely. It would all work out, wouldn’t it? What choice did she have but to trust this complete stranger?

  “Who should I put in as supplier? Marie, or all three of you? That would make it Johanna, Marie, and Ruth Heimer,” he said, his fountain pen poised above the page.

  Ruth swallowed. What now?

  “In fact my sisters’ last name is Steinmann. I’m the only one who’s a Heimer.”

  He frowned but was too polite to ask any questions.

  “Steinmann is my maiden name. I’m married,” Ruth whispered hoarsely. The palms of her hands were moist now. How could she ever have imagined she’d be able to close a deal?

  “Married? And your husband? What does he have to say about your habit of sneaking into other men’s hotel rooms?” It may have been meant as a joke, but to Ruth it sounded like an accusation.

  “My husband doesn’t know I’m here. We’re separated, and I’m living with my sisters. And my daughter. Her name’s Wanda. She’s only eight months old. I . . .”

  Dear God, what now?

  Before Ruth quite knew what was happening, tears had sprung to her eyes.

  Startled, Steven ran his fingers through his hair, which immediately sprang out in all directions. The waiter was approaching their table with two plates, but Steven waved him away.

  “Please don’t cry. We’ll . . . look after all that. Please don’t worry. I’ll take care of it all. Do please calm down.” He held out a silk handkerchief to her.

  Her hands trembled as she reached out and took it. It smelled of tobacco, and of him.

  “There, there, that’s better. I’ll grant you that negotiating a contract can often be a fraught occasion, but emotions don’t tend to start running high until we get to the terms and conditions—rather than the first line. I’ve seen grown men on the verge of tears, though, I’ll tell you that!” He grinned, trying to defuse the situation.

  Ruth wished the earth would swallow her up. There she was, sitting with Woolworth’s assistant in a hotel restaurant, and all she could do was make a fool of herself. The thought was so painful that fresh tears sprang to her eyes. When she saw the helpless look that Steven gave her, it was more than she could bear. Her voice was thick with tears as she choked out, “Please excuse me for a moment,” then pushed her chair back and ran from the room, half-blind.

  Since she wasn’t sure where else to go, she simply stood outside the dining room. She sobbed quietly, relieved that neither the greasy waiter nor any guests were coming or going just then. She dabbed away her tears with the handkerchief and then finally went back into the room and sat down across from Steven Miles, careful to keep her face neutral.

  “Please pardon my outburst,” she said, laughing bitterly. “What a silly woman, you must be thinking. And you’re quite right.”

  “Not answering back now, Ruth Steinmann, are you?” She ran her finger along the flatware that the waiter had brought while she was away.

  “It’s just that there’s been so much going on lately that I hardly know what my own life looks like.” She looked up at him, hoping he wouldn’t see the touch of panic she felt sure was in her eyes. “Everything’s topsy-turvy. Nothing’s the way it used to be or the way it ought to be.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me about it?” Steven asked quietly.

  If anybody had told Ruth before that day that she would pour out her whole life story to a complete stranger, she wouldn’t have believed it. But she did just that: she began with Joost’s death, then told him about working for old Heimer and about Griseldis and Eva and all the others, and about the pittance they had been paid that first month.

  Mostly, Steven Miles simply listened. Now and then—when Ruth stumbled in her story—he asked a question. Ruth heard herself confess her girlish dreams that she would one day meet a Polish prince. Glossing over the details of how Thomas had wooed her, she told him about the wedding itself and the celebrations. The table decorations! All those guests! The good cheer! It hurt to talk about it. As she told her tale, her lost innocence seemed to yawn beneath her feet like the mouth of a chasm that might swallow her whole at any moment. But when she looked into Steven’s face and saw his concentrated, attentive expression, she knew she would not fall. It was such a relief to be able to be put down her burden. She told him how much Thomas had changed when the son he had longed for turned out to be a daughter he despised. She even heard herself telling how he had hit her. As she talked about the bruises his blows left, her voice was as neutral as it would have been describing curtain fabric. She told Steven how Thomas had torn out her hair and wrenched her arms up behind her back so that her elbows ached for days afterward. Then at last she described the night when Thomas had raised his hand to Wanda.

  Steven reached his hand across the table to stroke her head, the way he might comfort a sorrowful child.

  Ruth had to fight an urge to grab his hand and hold it tight. She looked at him.

  “I . . . pardon me for telling you all this. I’m really not like this most of the time. Not even my sisters know that Thomas used to hit me.”

  “But why did you keep your misery to yourself?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and shaking his head, uncomprehending. “Did you want to protect your husband by keeping silent?”

  Ruth shrugged.

  “I was so horribly ashamed. You can hardly go around telling people that your own husband beats you. And anyway, it happens in a lot of families. Besides, it’s not as though Johanna and Marie only had me to think of. They have enough to be getting on with in their own lives. Johanna more than either of us, even. She used to work for one of the wholesalers until recently, but he treated her very poorly.” She blinked at him. “But that’s another story. A very sad story, in fact, and rather horrible. But not even I am so much of a blabbermouth that I’d tell you that one as well.”

  He grinned. “That’s the second time today you’ve refused to tell me someone else’s secret.”

  “It’s a matter of trust,” Ruth replied flatly. “I think you would do exactly the same thing if you were in my position. You wouldn’t abuse someone else’s trust in you.” As she spoke she realized that she could just as well have posed that as a question.

  Steven nodded without saying a word. He scanned her face, gazing at her gently.

  “What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?” Ruth asked, unsettled.

  Before he could answer, the waiter appeared and lackadaisically served them their goulash. The brown gravy dribbled down the sides of both plates, staining the threadbare tablecloth. He put a dish in the middle of the table holding six potato dumplings and a puddle of the water they had been boiled in.

  Ruth caught Stev
en’s eye over the meal. They both laughed.

  “I daresay that you have spent more pleasant evenings!” Ruth said, frowning apologetically.

  “I have to agree with you there,” Steven replied as he speared a dumpling with his fork. “Well, let’s enjoy the meal! Did you know that Thuringian potato dumplings are world famous?”

  In fact Ruth hadn’t known, but she thought it was very kind of him to mention it.

  17

  Though the food had no taste, Ruth discovered after her first bite that she was terribly hungry. She ate the first dumpling almost without noticing and was already fishing for another one when she caught Steven’s eye.

  “Finally a woman who doesn’t pick at her food like a sparrow!” he said appreciatively. “I’m afraid that back in New York eating has practically fallen out of fashion among the fair sex.” He shook his head.

  Instead of feeling flattered, Ruth stared at her plate in dismay. “I’m a real country bumpkin, aren’t I?”

  “Not in the least!” He leaned forward. “And you needn’t feel ashamed of your tears, either. To be honest I even envy you a little that you can show your feelings that way. We businessmen are expected to have the emotional range of a cold fish,” he said, grinning broadly. “I can’t remember ever having enjoyed a mealtime so much!” His eyes were as dark and hot as coals.

  Ruth felt her cheeks flush as he looked at her. He wasn’t anything like a cold fish—quite the opposite.

  “You’re only saying that to make me feel better. How am I supposed to measure up against those fine ladies in New York?”

  “Why on earth would you want to? There’s really no need, you’re a quite extraordinary woman in your own right.”

  She laughed. “You should try telling my husband that! ‘Ruth and her crazy ideas!’ ” she scoffed. Though she had been tense and miserable just a few minutes before, she suddenly felt happy again. She didn’t know why her mood was swinging so erratically. Had they not finished the contract yet because she was behaving so strangely? Or was it because of the way Steven Miles’s eyes kept catching hers?