The Glassblower (The Glassblower Trilogy Book 1)

by Durst-Benning, Petra

  Johanna nodded but said nothing.

  Ruth stood up to take Wanda upstairs to bed. When she came back, Johanna was still sitting there.

  “When I think about it, we haven’t had much luck with men, have we?” Johanna raised her eyebrows ironically.

  I have! Ruth thought, but she shrugged noncommittally.

  “That depends. Isn’t the saying that you make your own luck?”

  Johanna looked up. “I wouldn’t have expected you to agree.”

  “Why not?” Ruth answered. “Nobody forced me to marry Thomas. And he and I are the only ones to blame for the failure of our marriage. We were never right for one another, from the very start, but I saw that too late. Or rather I was too blind to see it.”

  “You say that so calmly,” Johanna said in surprise. “It’s as though you were talking about the weather, but it changed your whole life.”

  “Thomas is over and done with as far as I’m concerned, whatever it might say in the parish registry. There’s nothing for me to get worked up about. Sometimes it’s helpful just to see things plain . . . Perhaps you should try that.” To her horror, the conversation was venturing into deep waters. It wouldn’t be long before she started talking about Steven.

  “Just to see things plain . . . that’s the sort of thing that Peter might say . . .” Her sister heaved a deep sigh.

  Ruth frowned and looked over at her. “So what about you two? Is anything ever going to come of that or not?”

  Johanna looked up as though she had been expecting just this question.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Oh, it’s all so crazy.” She ran her hand through her hair. “He’s spent years telling me that we were meant for one another and that he was just waiting for me to see it.”

  “And now?” Ruth hadn’t noticed any change in Peter’s behavior toward Johanna. But she hadn’t been paying much attention either. “Does this mean you’ve realized now that you love Peter and he’s lost interest?”

  The only answer was another deep sigh. “I don’t know that I would put it that way. But more and more often these days, I find myself wishing he would take me in his arms,” Johanna admitted. “Sometimes I want to do that to him . . .” she added, blushing.

  She clearly had trouble admitting this, so Ruth bit back a mocking remark. All the same she couldn’t quite keep the sarcasm from her voice.

  “Why have you suddenly changed your tune after all these years?”

  “It’s not so sudden as all that. In the last six months I’ve begun to notice that Peter is more than just a big brother. It might sound strange, but the real reason is what happened with Strobel. After that I began to watch Peter more closely. To be honest for a while I was just waiting to catch him out in some sort of wickedness—after all, he’s a man too. But I never did, thank God.” There was admiration in her voice. “Peter stands above the world in so many ways. He’s so self-assured, and his whole demeanor is so . . . engaging! Whenever I look over at him at work these days, I keep thinking: there’s a man who can really make a woman feel safe. I can even imagine him putting his arms around me and kissing me, because I know that it would be nothing like what Strobel . . .” She turned her eyes away.

  “Why don’t you try telling him everything you’ve just told me?” Ruth asked.

  Her sister waved a hand. “I’d just feel silly. After all these years . . . And who knows what he thinks of me these days. He hasn’t tried anything for ages.” She looked up sadly. “If he still loves me, why doesn’t he do something, say something?”

  Ruth couldn’t suppress her smile any longer. “He’s a fairly clever man, if you hadn’t noticed.” If Peter had kept up his overtures toward her sister, Johanna certainly wouldn’t be talking this way now. Ruth sighed. It was so simple! All she had to do was help Johanna see what was right in front of her . . .

  “Do you still have the atlas that Peter gave you two Christmases ago?”

  Johanna nodded glumly. “It’s upstairs. Why?”

  “If you want my opinion, Peter was giving you much more than just a book there.” Ruth laughed. “That Christmas I only had eyes for my new brush set, but I can still hear what he said as though it were yesterday: You have to find out for yourself where you really belong!”

  A little smile flitted across Johanna’s face. “I’m surprised you remember.”

  “Sometimes people say things you can only understand in hindsight,” Ruth remarked thoughtfully. “You think you know what you want from life, and then in the end it turns out to be quite the opposite. Just look at me: I thought that I would find fulfillment by marrying a Heimer, and that turned out to be a great disappointment. And you thought you would find fulfillment in the world of commerce. You never even dreamed that commerce could come to Lauscha, did you now? We don’t always find happiness where we expect it. Sometimes we have to approach it the long way around . . .” She broke off. “And sometimes happiness is somewhere else entirely.”

  Johanna was looking at her skeptically. “You’re not usually one for such wise words. I just wonder what all this has to do with Peter?”

  If I carry on like this, I’ll talk myself into trouble, Ruth thought. She had turned into such a chatterbox that if she had known the name of the ocean liner that she would be boarding next week, she would probably have blurted that out to Johanna too.

  “When Peter gave you that gift, he was telling you that he was willing to wait for you,” she said hastily. “And I see no reason why that should have changed. But if you think he’s going to tell you he loves you another dozen times, then you’re probably wrong. He has his pride, after all. Whether you like it or not, it’s your turn now.”

  “Do you really think so?” Johanna asked despondently.

  Ruth nodded emphatically. “He can’t peer into your head, so you’ll have to tell him—or show him—how you feel.”

  Johanna was still gazing into empty space, her expression downcast.

  “I don’t know whether I can. I’m . . . not good at that sort of thing. You know that quite well.”

  Ruth smiled. Johanna was right there, no doubt about it. All the same, she nodded encouragingly.

  “It’s not all that hard, believe me. All you have to do is wait for the right moment and then grab your happiness with both hands and never let go.”

  32

  It was almost nine o’clock on Saturday morning.

  Peter should have been sitting at his lamp already. Wanda had picked up the card of sample eye colors from his table the week before and thrown it on the floor. He really had to make a new set since he could hardly offer his patients a pile of glass shards from which to choose their colors. But another five minutes of rest wouldn’t do him any harm, he decided, and he lay back down. He had all day, after all, and he hoped he might have some peace and quiet too.

  He could hear the clattering of pots and running water from next door—Marie was probably putting the water on for coffee. Ever since they had taken down the wall between the two workshops, he could hear most of what went on over there: Wanda crying or the sisters arguing, visitors at the door, or Marie cursing like a sailor as she worked on her sketches. If he didn’t make a conscious effort not to listen, he could hear everything. He had also heard Ruth leave early that morning—indeed, it had been more like the middle of the night. At any rate, the birds had not yet begun to sing. Instead of leaving the house quietly with Wanda, she had trotted up and down the stairs countless times, opening and closing every door in the house so that anyone might think there was an army marching through. Unless he was much mistaken, she had even opened his door and looked in. He had wondered what in the world she thought she was looking for, but just pulled the covers up over his head as far as they would go.

  He plumped up his pillow and settled his head again. Women!

  But Ruth’s noisy departure had been pretty typical o
f the entire week. He wouldn’t have been able to bear so much commotion in the house every day of the year. Even Marie had called by every half hour or so. “Should I give Ruth this bauble to take with her, or that one?” And “Do you think I should put in some of my sketches on paper as well?” Not that she had ever been happy with his answers. Every single time, she had run off to Magnus right afterward to ask his opinion too.

  And all because Woolworth’s agent was coming today. And this despite the fact that they already had the order, signed and sealed, and there were only a few details left to sort out. If even that . . . Perhaps it was just that Ruth and her American prince wanted another chance to meet. Peter had been more than somewhat surprised when Johanna had told him about all that. Ruth writing letters? On the other hand, what else did she have to do with her time?

  The door slammed loudly shut once more, and Peter remembered that Marie had planned to go up to the forest with Magnus this morning. They were going to gather snail shells to use in casting new molds. He made a face. That was another task awaiting him. In an unguarded moment, he had promised Marie that he would sound out old Strupp over a glass of beer or two and try to find out what went into his special mixture for the molds. He knew already that this was doomed to failure—Emanuel Strupp would never get so drunk that he would reveal his secret recipe. So they would just have to go on using their own lesser molds, even though they always eventually shattered.

  Snail shells! On a Christmas tree. Peter had to grin. Was that the kind of thing that Americans would like? He would have liked to know where her ideas came from.

  Then he heard the patter of feet down the stairs. Johanna, barefoot. Ever since business had taken off in the workshop, she had almost boundless energy. Although sometimes she could have done them all a favor by giving herself and everyone else a little rest. Now for example. Once she started on her chores, it would be the end of his quiet lie-in.

  The next moment he heard the smashing of broken glass and a loud cry from Johanna.

  He sighed and swung his legs out of the bed. Since it seemed like he would have no peace this morning, he decided to go and look in on Johanna. Now that the Steinmann sisters had robbed him of a quiet start to the weekend, the least they owed him was a cup of coffee.

  Peter could see from the stairs that the shards of a glass bowl lay scattered on the kitchen floor. What was odd was that Johanna wasn’t already busy sweeping them up.

  She was at the table with her back to the door, sitting bolt upright.

  He called “Good morning!” from the doorway just to be sure he didn’t startle her.

  She didn’t turn around to face him, didn’t return his greeting, didn’t explain how the accident had happened.

  Peter raised his eyebrows. Was this Johanna’s famous morning moodiness?

  “Have you looked out the window up toward the meadows yet? The last of the trees have burst into flower, and there are white blossoms wherever you look. It almost looks as though it’s been snowing.”

  He sat down across from Johanna, resolved to ignore whatever was bothering her. But one look at her face was enough to shatter that resolve. It was white as chalk. Before he could even ask her what was wrong, she held a sheet of paper out to him. Her hands were trembling.

  A letter. He recognized Ruth’s handwriting.

  “I just can’t believe it,” Johanna said in a hollow voice. “It can’t be true, can it?”

  He read it through three times, then put it aside. He was speechless.

  “She can’t really mean it. She wants to give us a shock, that’s all,” Johanna said, blinking as though there were something in her eye. “It’s a stupid joke. She’ll be back this evening. Of course she will!”

  Who was she trying to convince? Herself? Ruth wasn’t the kind of woman to play stupid tricks like that. Which was precisely what made the letter so unsettling.

  He took Johanna’s hand. “I think we’ll have to get used to the idea that Ruth’s not coming back.”

  “Why do you say that?” Johanna asked, withdrawing her hand reproachfully.

  “Because that’s how it is,” he said gruffly.

  “But she hardly knows this Steven!” she cried out in despair. “How can she follow a total stranger to the other side of the world? To an uncertain future? What if he tires of her tomorrow? And she has a child. And she’s married. It’s madness!”

  “Well, I don’t know . . . is it? What does she really have to lose? Try to put yourself in her shoes.”

  Johanna’s features hardened. “I can’t possibly know what goes on in her mind.”

  Peter ignored her remark. “What kind of future would she have in Lauscha? She didn’t want to go back to Thomas, not for all the world; she made that clear enough. Was she going to live in this house forever?”

  “Would that have been so bad? We’re here too, after all. We could have taken care of her and Wanda.”

  “Think about it. Ruth would never have settled for that. She needs something else. More . . . how can I even put this? More sparkle in her life. And a man who tells her how beautiful she is, a man whose love she can bask in.” Peter didn’t feel entirely comfortable talking about such sensitive topics. Johanna’s mood seemed to brighten a bit, however.

  “And you think this Steven’s the man? Don’t you think that he was . . . after something else?” There was still a trace of skepticism in her voice.

  “He wouldn’t have to go to such lengths for that,” Peter said decisively, pointing to the letter.

  “She never said a word, not the whole time. Did she think she couldn’t trust us?” Johanna’s upper lip was trembling now. “If only she had just told us what she and Steven were planning! After all, we won’t stand in her way.”

  “Don’t cry now. That’s not what Ruth would want.” Peter shook her arm gently.

  There were hot tears running down Johanna’s face. “I’ll miss her so much . . .” she sobbed.

  “Come here,” he said, and opened his arms. She clung to him like a fledgling seeking the warmth of the nest.

  For a while they just sat there, her head on his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around her. He could feel her heartbeat and every breath she took. The hair at the nape of her neck was a little damp and clung to her skin. He blew softly onto it, and the strands lifted in the puff of air.

  Peter felt a lump in his throat. He swallowed hard.

  Damn it all, even if she stayed as stubborn as a mule to the end of her days, he would always love her.

  Johanna broke free of his grasp a moment later. She rooted around in the pocket of her apron for a handkerchief, then blew her nose loudly. When she had put it back in her pocket, she looked at Peter, her eyes bright.

  “Ruth’s beginning a new life in America. Marie has her art . . .” She reached for his hand.

  Her fingers were still wet with tears when he took hold of them.

  “Now we just have each other,” she whispered, and her eyelids fluttered like a butterfly’s wings. “Or are you fed up with me by now?”

  Peter couldn’t even shake his head. His heart was full to bursting with love. How long he had waited to hear her say something like this! Why did joy and sorrow always come hand in hand?

  Johanna was looking at him. Expectantly, uncertainly.

  “You won’t get rid of me so easily; you know that,” he said at last, and managed to smile.

  As he spoke, he saw something blaze up in her eyes that he had looked for in vain all these years—a woman’s love.

  She curled up in his embrace.

  33

  Steven had told her that with only five hundred cabin-class passengers and eighteen hundred in steerage, the Valkyrie was one of the smaller ocean liners. But when their carriage had stopped in front of the ship during a sightseeing tour of the Hamburg docks the day before, it had looked anything but small to
Ruth. No, it was a giant—a giant of gleaming gray metal.

  This impression was only reinforced as she followed Steven up the gangway with Wanda on her arm. The people down on the quayside looked so tiny. She couldn’t even see the stern of the ship from where they were standing now, and its gleaming silver flanks seemed to stretch away forever. Ruth had read an article about the ocean liners in one of the magazines that Johanna used to bring home from Sonneberg; in the article, the ships were referred to as “floating cities.” The writer had described the elegant restaurants and ballrooms on board, and noted that a person could lose his way among the endless mirror-lined halls and staircases. When she had read it, Ruth had thought that whoever wrote the article must be vastly exaggerating.

  They shuffled forward at a snail’s pace, stopping to wait with almost every step, because the passengers ahead were held up. Steven had told her that it would be evening by the time the last passenger had been assigned a cabin. However, since the line for first class was significantly shorter than those for second and third class, he expected that they would have their cabins that morning.

  Though Wanda was rather heavy in her arms, Ruth didn’t mind the wait. On the contrary—she looked all around with boundless curiosity. Ruth drank up every detail like a sponge: the hectic activity on the quayside, the families saying farewell, the elegantly dressed gentlemen and even more elegantly dressed ladies all around them. Hats seemed to be the latest fashion, and there was hardly a woman in line who didn’t have some fantastic creation perched on her head. Ruth put her hand to her head self-consciously and adjusted her own hat, a startling item made of velvet with a thick plume of purple feathers on the side. She pulled it a little farther down over her brow. When Steven had insisted on buying matching hats for all of her outfits, his generosity had been almost too much for her. But now she was glad she looked like the other ladies who were boarding the ship.

  Steven turned to her.