The Glassblower (20 page)

35

Marie couldn’t believe how easy it was to explain away her singed eyelashes to Ruth. And her eyebrows, which were charred almost beyond recognition. Never mind the way her right index finger and middle finger were puffy and swollen. She had thrown away the singed shawl first thing. She had stammered out something about being careless as she lit the gas lamps in the house, expecting Ruth not to believe a word. But her older sister had just looked at her a little skeptically and asked no more questions. Marie heaved a sigh of relief. For a moment there she had considered telling the truth—“I burned myself because I thought I could blow glass like a man”—but didn’t they say that pregnant women should avoid shocks? And Ruth would certainly have been shocked. She would have shouted something like, “You—blow glass? Are you mad? What the devil got into you? The whole house could have burned down! You could have been burned alive!”

A few nights later, Marie was back at the workbench, smiling. Perhaps some devil really had gotten into her. But if so, she was going to grab him by the horns!

Granted, after her first attempt had gone so wrong, she had tasted fear. The flame was dangerous—every child in Lauscha knew that. But in the end, her desire had been stronger than her fear.

This time she had taken off her shawl and put her hair up in a tight braid. She also didn’t turn the gas valve all the way, but only as far as she had seen Thomas and his brothers open it when she’d watched them these last few days. Four turns, no more. She was rewarded with a blue flame that looked a lot like what the other glassblowers used. A smile flitted across her face.

Her hand trembling, she picked up one of the rods of clear glass that Joost had used to blow pharmacy jars. It felt smooth and cold. She turned it carefully in the flame, keeping it in one position, until it began to glow in the middle. That was the moment when the glass became soft. Marie put the air hose down and pulled the two ends of the rod apart until she was holding two pieces. She put one of these aside and looked critically at the other. In pulling the rod apart, she had made a long thin shape that the glassblowers called a tail, and it looked just like the ones Thomas and his brothers made. So much for this being men’s work. She knew just what she had to do next from watching the Heimer brothers over their shoulders. She was excited as she put the shortened glass rod back into the flame until the end melted closed. She did the same with the second piece. Then she put both pieces down to cool off in a pail.

Only then did Marie allow herself to draw a deep breath.

So far, so good.

She did the same thing to another dozen rods. Now everything was ready.

“You can do it, Marie Steinmann,” she told herself in a whisper. She took one of the shortened rods from the pail and held it to the flame until the middle was heated through. Once it was glowing red, she took the rod from the flame and put the open end to her mouth. It felt cool, even though immensely high temperatures were at work on the glass just a hand span away from her lips. She blew into it.

Dear God, please let this work,
she prayed as a bubble appeared in the glass before her eyes. A large, transparent bubble.

Marie kept blowing.

A little more.

The pounding at her temples intensified.

And a little more.

That was it. She had to stop, or the bubble would burst.

There was now a perfectly round ball where the tail had been. Marie gazed at it, hardly believing what she saw. She had managed it. She was so surprised that she forgot to work the bellows for a moment.

The flame promptly went out.

The next few weeks were the most exciting in Marie’s life—largely because nobody else knew what happened every night at Joost’s old bench.

Every evening she learned more about how to work with the lamp, how to calibrate the gas pipe and the air hose, and how to blow the glass. After creating ten almost perfectly round globes, she began to experiment with shapes. One time she stretched the bubble as she blew so that the result was egg shaped; another time she blew a shape like a pear. She was always careful not to let the glass walls become too thick or too thin or poorly proportioned. However, when she tried blowing a shape like a pinecone, she found the end result far too long and thin. Though she had to laugh at her creation, which looked not the least bit like a pinecone but rather like a long thin sausage, she was unhappy at the thought that she had wasted half a rod.

Marie turned the thing around and around. If she used a little imagination, it looked rather like one of the icicles hanging from the eaves outside, but it wasn’t a pretty sight. She put it aside.

From then on, she only blew globes and eggs. She hid all of them in the wardrobe in Joost’s old bedroom, where neither Ruth nor Johanna would happen across them.

A seasoned glassblower like Thomas Heimer could blow up to ten dozen of such a simple shape in a single day, but Marie never managed more than a dozen in one night. Her flame went out more than once, and she had to work hard to coax it back to life. Once she cut herself and had to look all over the house for a bit of clean cloth to wrap around the ball of her thumb. Another time she thought she heard Ruth coming and hastily put everything away, but it was only the wind at the door.

Marie had decided to finish four dozen globes by Christmas. It was December 18 by the time they were all blown, which didn’t leave her much time for the rest of what she wanted to do.

She took the knife that she had found in Joost’s tool kit and with trembling hands began to shear off the stems of glass as close to the globes as she could. Then she took a pair of pliers and a bale of wire that she had bought in the village store over the weekend, and cut lengths as long as her hand. She wound them around what was left of the stem at the base of the globes until each one had a loop. She held up a globe at arm’s length and examined it. Not bad. These would hang nicely on a tree.

Finally the moment she longed for had come—it was time to paint the globes.

Marie eagerly took the bottle of white enamel paint out of the drawer, then rooted around until she found the black paint as well. Black and white was all they had needed for writing the words on pharmacy jars, and they would be enough for what Marie had in mind. She gave both bottles a vigorous shake and then dipped her brush into the white paint. She began to paint one of the globes with clear, decisive strokes and only stopped when the whole globe was covered with frost crystals—large and small, some simple and others elaborately curled like the ones she had seen on the windowpane.

Shivering with anticipation Marie picked up the next bauble, which was pear-shaped. She painted the bottom half almost completely white and then dabbed tiny white dots all over the top half. A wintry landscape took shape before her eyes. When she had finished with the snowflakes, she dipped her brush into the black jar and painted the outlines of houses and rooftops.

Marie sighed with pleasure as she put the finished decorations aside. Everything looked exactly as she had imagined; the contrast between light and dark, so typical for winter, went beautifully with the cloudy glass globes. She thought regretfully of how lovely the painted designs would look against a silver background. But she couldn’t just walk into Heimer’s workshop and take over his silver bottle for her own globes.

She reached for the misshapen icicle, but a moment later she stood up abruptly and went out to the hall. She fetched a small bag from her coat pocket.

Even in a well-run workshop there were always breakages and failures. A glassblower might stop paying attention for a moment and the glass would run like honey. Or it fell off the painting bench, or shattered as it was being packed. Anything with only a minor crack was taken to the wholesaler to be sold at a discount, but whatever was too badly broken went into the waste bin.

A couple of days before, Marie had asked Wilhelm Heimer whether she could take some glass home from the waste. Though he had shrugged and allowed her request, he had also peered over her shoulder as she sorted through the bin, to be quite sure that a usable piece hadn’t slipped through. “Old skinflint!” Marie muttered to herself now.

Instead of taking the shards of glass out of the bag, she broke them up with a hammer wrapped in old rags, pounding away until there was not a sharp edge left anywhere. Then, smiling, she sifted the glittering powder from the bag into the palm of her hand.

Stardust! The glitter of snow!

She poured the tiny particles back into the bag as carefully as if they were gold dust. She dipped a wide brush into the white paint and then put a layer all along the icicle she had blown. Before the paint could dry she sifted the powdered glass onto it until there was an even layer all around. Now her icicle was perfect.

After that she picked out a few globes that had only the black outlines of stars on them. She filled in the shapes with white paint and sifted the powdered glass onto these as well.

As if on cue, it had begun to snow outside—thick fluffy flakes that tumbled down through the night air. Marie gazed out the window with concern. She hoped it wouldn’t snow for days on end. If it did, the roads would be impassable and Johanna would not be able to get home. Marie bit her lip. She didn’t want to think about that. Instead she closed her eyes and tried to imagine what the Christmas tree would look like in its full glory. She wished she could afford a few more candles, but she had only had enough money for half a dozen from the store.

“A tree!” she suddenly yelped. “Marie Steinmann, just how stupid can you be?”

In her eagerness she thought she had taken care of every detail, but she hadn’t asked Ugly Paul to cut a Christmas tree for her. She would have to stop by and ask the firewood man the very next morning.

Thank heavens there were still six days until Christmas Eve.

36

Johanna had thought that Strobel’s shop would be bustling with visitors on Christmas Eve. But by ten o’clock, the shop bell hadn’t rung even once, and Johanna went to the door to check that she had actually unlocked it. They hadn’t had a single customer by noon.

At twelve o’clock sharp, Strobel turned the key in the lock.

“So, that was that,” he said. He walked over to the sales counter and produced a bottle of champagne. He opened it with a flourish, poured two glasses, and handed one to Johanna.

“Champagne at noon? Does that mean you were pleased with the Christmas orders?” she asked mockingly.

“We will each be going our own ways shortly, so let’s drink to the season!” Although their glasses barely touched, the crystalline chime hung in the air for a long time.

“And as for your second question, yes, I’m pleased. More than pleased, in fact.” Strobel raised his glass to Johanna once more.

After taking a few sips from her glass, she said, “If there will be nothing els
e . . .
then I wish you a pleasant journey an
d . . .
”

She was just about to fetch her coat—her traveling bag with the presents was ready and waiting in the hall—when the wholesaler blocked her path.

“Don’t be in such a hurry, my dear! You haven’t gotten your Christmas present yet.”

“Oh, but I have!” She smiled, confused. “Or was the extra five marks in my wage packet not a present?”

Strobel waved it away. “Money! A small token of my appreciation, nothing more. But a real present is worth more than money alone. It can be a symbol, it has a power of its own—or can give you power. It can open the way to new worlds, or destroy an old one—it all depends.”

Chuckling, he handed her a packet that unmistakably contained a book. “I see that my words mean nothing to you. But I think that my present will speak for itself once you look at it. By the way, this is the book that I promised you some time ago. You will remember our conversation about dominant women and the men who adore them.”

Johanna remembered nothing of the kind.

“Allow me to say just a few more words
. . .
”

What a lot of fuss about a book, Johanna thought ungraciously.

“I thought your present would speak for itself?”

Johanna glowered at Strobel. The slate-maker was setting off earlier than usual today. If she missed him because Strobel was being so self-importan
t . . .

He smiled in that curious way he had. “You are right; there is no need for more words. Only that my book is certain to be a revelation for you.”

Strobel was in good spirits as he locked the shop after Johanna had left. He still had more than two hours before the coach he had ordered would come to pick him up. Enough time to look back on the year that was just coming to a close. He poured himself another glass of champagne and drank to his own health. He had every cause for celebration; his business was flourishing more than ever and he could travel to B. whenever he liked, knowing that the shop was in Johanna’s capable hands.

He drank some more champagne and smiled. Yes, ever since Johanna had joined him, his life had changed very much for the better. He congratulated himself once more on his wise decision not to mix business with pleasure. Not that he found her any less enticing than before. But it was enough to toy with her a little. Which is why he had given her the memoirs of the Marquis de Sade as a Christmas present. He giggled. He could hardly wait to hear what she thought of it. But that was all the interest he had in her as a person. And a good thing too—as he knew better than anyone.

The old proverb put it so well. Best to work up an appetite at home and then sate it elsewhere. Or was it the other way around? Whichever it was, he would save up his appetites for his visits to B. He could hardly wait to see the progress on the renovation work; after all, he had put a great deal of money into it. To judge by the plans he had received in the mail a few weeks before, the dilapidated old house had been turned into a real gem of a building. Yes, the right setting would make his visits to B. even more enjoyabl
e . . .
if such a thing were even possible!

The fir tree that Marie had ordered from Ugly Paul filled the whole room with its glittering light on Christmas Eve. Marie had distributed the forty-eight globes evenly all around the tree, placed the candles between them, and then sprinkled the rest of the powdered glass over the branches like snowflakes. The result was overwhelming. The scent of the beeswax candles that hung in the air added to the magic.

“It’s simply magnificent. I’ve never seen anything so lovely in my life!” Johanna said with tears in her eyes. She went to Marie and put her arms around her.

“But I really ought to give you a good telling off!” she added. “When I think of everything that could have gone wron
g . . .
”

She turned to Peter, who was also admiring Marie’s creations. “Go on, say something!”

“I’m still speechless. You could knock me down with a feather,” Peter said, smiling. “There’s only one thing about the whole story that makes me unhappy—the fact that you didn’t come to me for help. Sitting down at the lamp like that without serving an apprenticeship! So much could have gone wrong, I must agree with Johanna there.”

“But you see, that’s precisely why I kept quiet. Because I knew that you’d find fault with my plans,” Marie answered bitterly. “I could have guessed that you’d be like all the other men. You don’t like the idea of a woman daring to work with that sacred flame of yours!”

Peter made a face. “I’ve never seen you so worked up. But you’re wrong—I
would never have stopped you from sitting down at the lamp. Why would I? Why shouldn’t women blow glass? And if you’re so dead keen to do it, I could at least have given you a lesson or two.”

Marie gritted her teeth and conceded his point. “Next time I’ll come straight to you if there’s something I’m unsure about,” she promised solemnly.

“Next time?” Peter asked.

“Next time?” Johanna echoed. “Do you really plan to blow more glass?”

Marie laughed. “I do indeed. This was just the beginning!”

They had gathered in the seldom-used parlor on the second floor to celebrate the occasion. Everybody was wearing their Sunday best, which in the Heimer family meant that they were all wearing black as though in mourning. Ruth, who was wearing an emerald-green dress that Johanna had bought her, felt like a bird of paradise that had strayed into a flock of crows. For a moment she didn’t want to go in. Nobody thought to air the room out beforehand, so it smelled old and dusty. The smell brought back memories and she felt strange. She had entered this room for the first time exactly one year ago, when Wilhelm had asked her to wrap the Christmas presents for Eva and the others. How she had envied Eva that powder compact! And how disappointed she and her sisters had been when the old man had given them nothing but a bowl of apples.

This year the presents were already wrapped, though it had been done carelessly. They lay in a row on the varnished dresser. Ruth saw at a glance that again most of the labels had Eva’s name on them. So what if they did, she thought stubbornly. She had the best present herself, and she carried it around with her all the time. She passed a loving hand over her pregnant belly.

While Thomas sat down on the sofa right away with the others to join in a game of dice, Ruth sat in an armchair. The back of the chair was hard and pressed into her back, making her sit bolt upright. Her back had been giving her trouble for a few days now. She wouldn’t manage to sit here for long but she consoled herself with the thought that the family would be going down to the kitchen to eat soon, after which she hoped to be able to go join her sisters for a little while.

While the others called out their bets at the top of their voices, Ruth rubbed her back. As she did so she looked around the room. There was no point looking for a Christmas tree here, or even a couple of green boughs—somebody would have had to take the trouble to fetch them. Ruth was dismayed to realize that the Heimer family’s lack of imagination had already rubbed off on her; thinking back, she couldn’t believe that she had ever planned to redecorate this room. Even the idea of living in this house and having the family around at the end of a long workday was dreadful. The apartment over the warehouse was not as pretty as she would have liked, not by a mile—Thomas had no use for what he called “pointless prettification”—but at least they had the place to themselves.

She watched as Sebastian made a great show of counting out a few coins on the table, which Michel swiftly pocketed. After that the game started again. Even the old man had joined in with childlike enthusiasm though Ruth couldn’t say whether the flush in his cheeks was because of the game or the mulled wine that the men were drinking in such generous quantities.

“Well, what are you brooding over now, my chicken?” Thomas asked, laying a hand on her belly and making her jump. “She’s probably still thinking about what we should call him,” he told the room at large, grinning. “But we decided long ago! He’ll be called Wilhelm, like his grandfather.” He looked across at his father, eager for approval.

“Thomas!” She didn’t like it when he put his hand on her belly in front of everybody. “You keep talking about a boy. But we don’t know that for sure.”

“What else could it be?” her husband answered uncomprehendingly, then turned back to the others. “For a while I even thought our son would be born on Christmas, but it doesn’t look like it now.”

Ruth tried to nudge him in the ribs, but she was too big and clumsy these days to do so discreetly. He could hardly tell them any more clearly that the child had been conceived before the wedding!

“When’s it due then?” Eva asked, pursing her lips.

Ruth smiled. “I don’t really know exactly, but not before the middle of February.”

“Oh, we’ll likely find there’s two of them!” Thomas laughed at his own joke and the other men joined in. “Last year a woman had twins over in Rudolstadt, I hear. And the two of them—”

“Thomas, as if it isn’t enough that you talk about having a son all the time, but now you want two at once!” Ruth interrupted, half in jest but half in earnest too. “I think I’d better go downstairs and see how Edel’s getting on with the meal.”

They had hardly finished the Christmas roast when the men resumed their game of dice. While Eva helped the old housekeeper with the dishes, Ruth fetched her coat. “I’m going down to see Johanna and Marie for a while,” she said, kissing Thomas on the cheek.

“Do you have to?” he asked disapprovingly.

“I’ll be back soon,” she promised, and hurried from the room before he could say anything more.

Eva was standing in the hallway. “Let’s get one thing straight,” she hissed at Ruth. “Once that brat of yours is born, all your shirking is over and done with! You’ll do your share of the work!”

Ruth didn’t bother to answer. Eva’s accusation was completely unfounded, for she’d never missed a day in the workshop however much she might have wanted to sometimes. Besides, Eva was so envious of Ruth’s pregnancy that she took every opportunity to snap at her. Fortunately, she rarely had the chance. Eva would never say a word in front of Thomas; if he ever heard her say something nasty to the mother of his so
n . . .
well, Ruth didn’t know what would happen.
The mother of his son
—now she was making the same mistake she so often chided Thomas for.