The Glassblower (10 page)

They worked on, side by side, with not a trace of ill feeling between them. They were friends, and nothing had changed that.

16

The next few weeks flew by in a flurry of work. It was pitch dark when the three sisters left the house in the morning, and had been dark for hours by the time they got home in the evening. Johanna yearned to be able to hang out the laundry in the sunshine, or to be able to dust the house by daylight. But the housework lay unattended, and with good reason. In every house in Lauscha the only job to do so close to Christmas was blowing glass and preparing the wares, until they were all so tired they were fit to drop. It was no different in Heimer’s workshop.

Buyers arrived from all over the country. They may have hemmed and hawed in the fall, but now they thronged the doorways of the Sonneberg wholesalers to be well supplied for the Christmas sales. The haggling now was not over prices but over delivery times and deadlines, for every client wanted his orders delivered as soon as possible. The wholesalers passed on the deadlines to their pieceworkers, pushing them to deliver toys and wood carvings and glass as quickly as they could—all while pocketing the profits themselves.

Thomas and his brothers sat at their lamps without a break from morning till night, while the hired hands painted, silvered, labeled, and packed. In addition to the two women he normally paid to take the wares into Sonneberg, Wilhelm Heimer hired a farmer from a nearby village to take a delivery into town every day.

As Johanna sat there stringing twenty glass beads each onto lengths of string and knotting the ends, she forbade herself even to think of her Friday visits to Sonneberg during the Christmas season in years past. But threading the strings was tedious work, and as the heap of glittering trinkets grew ever higher, Johanna could no longer keep the memories at bay.

The taverns and cafés were all lit up, and the town’s narrow streets were filled with crowds. There were few foreign buyers in Sonneberg that time of year, as it was impossible for them to get their orders across the borders so soon before Christmas. But dialects from all over Germany flowed through the streets. And the air was filled with scents so intense that the memory of them started Johanna’s mouth watering. On these cold, short days, old ladies stood in front of their houses with a pot of mulled wine spiced with cinnamon, aniseed, pepper, and secret ingredients. Others sold gingerbread—much to the disapproval of the bakers of Sonneberg, who could do little to stop their competitors from breaking the guild monopoly just once a year. Still others toasted almonds or grilled the famous Thuringian sausages. And all of these treats sold quickly, since there was a hardly a visitor to town who would refuse a snack along the way. Johanna always had liked to soak up the hustle and bustle, and she always returned to Lauscha energized.

She let her hands drop onto the workbench. The gleaming silver beads swam before her eyes. Ruth and Marie had always been so pleased when she brought back a bag of almonds or an elaborate gingerbread biscuit. Father had never objected to the extra expense. He never even counted the money that Johanna handed over from the sale of the glass.

She glanced over at Wilhelm Heimer, who was upbraiding Sebastian about something. Her new employer hardly knew the meaning of the word trust, and took an inventory every evening. She would never want to steal any of his ugly products—the ones Marie designed being the only exception. “Cheap, gimcrack stuff,” she muttered under her breath.

This year there would be no gingerbread, nor any other treats. Instead they would sit staring at Father’s empty chair, and the Christmas carols would sound thin and feeble without his voice booming out the words. Johanna was beginning to understand why those who had suffered a death in the family always hated Christmas so much; the hole that their loved one left behind seemed bigger in the light of the Christmas candles.

But it wasn’t just grief over Joost’s death that made her so miserable. She was also worried sick about money. She had to plan the budget down to the last penny every month to make their wages last. So far they had not gone to bed hungry, but it had been close at the end of last month. It was true that Heimer paid them a mere pittance, but there was another problem too: everything from bread to soup cost more now that they were working outside their home. Before, Ruth had spent every Wednesday morning kneading a huge batch of dough, which she then took to the bakehouse to bake into six loaves that would last the family through the week. But now they no longer had time to bake, so they had to buy bread instead, which cost much more. Since they didn’t have time to go to the butcher to buy a bag of bones or to stand by the stove boiling them for soup, they had to rely on a can of Liebig’s Extract of Meat from the pantry.

Johanna looked down with hatred at the heap of beads in front of her. She couldn’t understand why anyone would spend good money on that sort of thing. Money, money, money—that was all she thought about these days. But neither Ruth nor Marie ever gave her a word of thanks for keeping accounts and sticking to a budget. Instead Ruth always complained that she couldn’t bear to see another meal of potatoes or bread and drippings, that she wanted a nice juicy roast or a dish of herring. As though it were her fault that they were short of money, Johanna had to explain to them again and again why it was out of the question to spend a little extra on a drawing pad or colored pencils, a hair clasp or comb. Though Johanna had to admit that her sisters had stopped making such extravagant demands recently. Maybe they finally understood that she couldn’t just snap her fingers and make these things appear. Johanna sighed again. Perhaps old Heimer would give them a couple of extra marks for Christmas. She toyed with the idea of asking Griseldis if Heimer might do this, but she dismissed the thought immediately. She didn’t want to sound too bold, especially since Griseldis was always telling her how grateful she should be to have a job at all as a woman. As a woman—sometimes Johanna wondered whether being a woman was like having some ghastly disease.

The impulse to shove all the beads off the workbench with one sweep of her hand was so strong that Johanna stood up. Confound it all, she didn’t want to spend another moment thinking about the Christmas that lay ahead.

Unlike Johanna, Ruth was always able to find some room for optimism. Thomas had hinted that he had a present for her. And so Ruth spent most of her time thinking about what it could be. She wouldn’t say no to a bead necklace, even if Johanna thought that they were tawdry old things. But she would quite like one of those perfume bottles that they had spent the last few days packing away by the hundred
s . . .
though she had no idea what she would put in it.

The very best present Thomas could give her would be to propose, but Ruth was realistic enough not to hope for too much. Even at this busy time of year Thomas begged and pleaded to meet her in the warehouse as often as possible, and when they did meet he was never short of compliments and declarations of love. He was always telling her how beautiful her body was, her hair, her skin—everything. In front of the others, however, he acted as though he had no feelings at all for her. If she tried to take his hand over the table at lunch, he pulled it back. And he’d never taken her out, not even to the Black Eagle, much less Sonneberg. Ruth didn’t budge an inch: as long as Thomas insisted on hiding the fact that they were in love, she wouldn’t let him under her skirts. He got angry about that every time they met, and she could partly understand his frustrations. She liked it too, to feel his hands on her, to hear his breath come faster. Kissing and petting was much better than the awkward silences that fell whenever they tried to have a conversation. “We’ve got all day to gab at one another,” he said dismissively if she tried to tell him what was on her mind.

Maybe it was time to take the next step? Wouldn’t Thomas be surprised if she suddenly stopped putting up a fight? Or perhaps she could think of a Christmas present she could give him instead? But how was that supposed to work, when she didn’t have a penny to call her own?

17

Two days before Christmas Eve, Wilhelm Heimer beckoned Ruth over to him. Eva watched suspiciously as Ruth followed him up to the family’s front parlor on the second floor, which they kept for special occasions.

Heimer shut the door behind them. Because the room was hardly ever used, it smelled heavily of dust. Ruth sneezed.

“I need you to do me a favor, but I’ll pay you just as if you were still at work,” Heimer said, wheezing a little from the exertion of climbing the stairs.

Ruth felt flattered and waved away his offer. “Of course I’ll help you!” Maybe it meant something that he had chosen her, in particular, to lend him a hand.

Heimer pointed to the table behind him. “These presents are for Evie and a few of the others. Now that there’s a woman in the household again I want Christmas to be really special. Like it was when my wife was still alive, God rest her soul. But I can’t let Evie wrap her own presents.” He pointed to a few sheets of wine-red paper printed with golden angels. “I didn’t skimp. It was the most expensive wrapping paper I could find.”

Ruth nodded, keeping her face neutral. Heimer certainly shouldn’t see her eyes pop out at the sight of such extravagance. She stole a glance at the table. There was a round case of some kind, a woolen garment, and a few little bottles. She looked at Heimer. “You’ve even bought name tags and gold ribbon!” She couldn’t entirely conceal her surprise. She never would have expected him to go for such luxuries.

Heimer beamed. “Only the best for Evie!” He told Ruth to put the presents on the dresser once she had wrapped them, and then he trotted back downstairs.

Evie, Evie, all day long! Ruth rolled her eyes. All the same, she couldn’t wait to see what Heimer had bought his daughter-in-law.

As soon as she was alone, she rushed over to the table. A powder compact! Decorated with red and gold roses and—Ruth fiddled with the catch until the case opened—a mirror inside the lid. Ruth gazed at her reflection and pretended she was powdering her face. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine the powder settling on her skin like silk.

The garment was a knitted jacket in hunter green. Ruth grinned. Eva would look as pale as a milkmaid wearing that. But she sighed when she saw the next gift: a piece close to six feet long of the finest Plauen lace. Ruth ran her fingers along the stiff edges of the lace, estimating enviously as she felt the quality of the handiwork. It would be enough to edge a blouse and then some—enough for one bodice at least, maybe two. A lump formed in her throat. All for Eva. It was so unfair. Ruth pushed aside the cardboard box that held the lace. When she saw that there were no more presents with Eva’s name on the tag, she was almost relieved. She picked up one of the little bottles. Aha, a liqueur for old Edeltraud. Not that she’d be able to pour herself more than two glasses. How stingy he was! Ruth put the bottle aside and picked up the next. Another liqueur, this time with Sarah’s name on the tag. So at least there was something for the hired hands. She picked up the third. This one was for Griseldis. Ruth looked up and down the table but saw no presents for Thomas and his brothers, nor for herself and her sisters. She tried not to be too disappointed. It could only mean one of two things, she thought as she wrapped the lace in the wine-red paper: either Wilhelm Heimer had some special gifts for his sons and Joost’s daughters, o
r . . .
they would get no presents at all. But surely that wouldn’t be the case, Ruth told herself as she smoothed the paper flat.

Though it was only two o’clock in the afternoon, it was so gloomy that she had to turn the light on. The dark heavy furniture made the room even dimmer. Ruth put down Edeltraud’s present. If her voice ever came to count for something in the Heimer family home, the first thing she would do would be to put this room in order. Striped wallpaper would look good in here. And new curtains. Maybe she’d even be allowed to choose some new furniture. Once she was Mrs. Heimer, she would get to work making it a room they could be proud of. After all, not many houses in the village even had a front parlor like this.

Maybe she wouldn’t even live here, though, but in the empty rooms above the warehouse instead? Just a few days before, Thomas had said in passing that the whole house belonged to his father. Perhaps he’d mentioned it for a reason?

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.