The Glassblower (28 page)

13

Johanna was almost more distraught than she had been after the rape. She had been able to explain the attack by telling herself that Strobel was mad, that he was not in his right mind. Although he had raped her and robbed her of her innocence, deep inside, by some miracle, she had stayed whole. But his slander had wounded her innermost self; she, Johanna Steinmann, had lost her dignity. All the values that Joost had passed on to his daughters were shattered in a stroke. It was only a question of time before the rumors reached Lauscha as well. Perhaps it had already happened? Perhaps people were already making wicked remarks behind their backs?

She retreated to her room and spent days on end there, brooding in the summer heat. While the air outside shimmered in the heat wave that had descended on the village, she didn’t want to see or speak to anyone.

Eventually an even worse suspicion dawned on her: perhaps she had been the reason Ruth left Thomas. Had he called her a thief and Ruth had come to her defense? Was that why Ruth was keeping quiet about why she had fled in the middle of the night?

Brooding and furious, she relived every humiliation of her visit to Sonneberg over and over again.

“I won’t put up with it any longer. She’s hardly shown her face down here for days. When I look in on her, she turns her face to the wall. So I stand there feeling like a fool and have to leave again,” Ruth fumed, pacing up and down the kitchen. “How long is this going to go on? This Woolworth is probably in town by now, and we still haven’t got a wholesaler for your globes.”

“How many times are you going to say that? Just put yourself in her shoes. Johanna’s not doing all this just to annoy you.” Marie was tired. She had spent the whole day working with enamel paint and still had a nasty smell in her nose. She also had a headache.

She went into the workshop and sat down at Joost’s workbench. How long had it been since she had last had an evening’s peace in here?

Ruth followed her.

“It doesn’t fix anything to have her hiding in her room while we’re down here worrying about her. But the worst of it is how she won’t even talk to us.”

“Look who’s talking. You’re silent as the grave yourself about what went wrong between you and Thomas.”

“That’s got nothing to do with anyone but me and him. But
this
—this is about all three of us! It’s our future, our life, ou
r . . .
” Ruth fell silent.

“But Johanna’s the one who’s been libeled. And it’s all Strobel’s fault. I can hardly imagine what it’s like. You stand there talking to people, and all the while they believe the most horrible things about you. And there’s not a thing you can do about it. I wouldn’t want to be going through what she’s going through, that’s all.”

“And we’re not, thank God,” Ruth said bitterly.

“You can be very unkind, do you know that?” Marie said.

“And you only ever assume the worst of me. I don’t mean that the way you think I do.” She drew up her old chair from the workbench and sat down next to Marie.

“You heard what Johanna said: her name’s mud in Sonneberg. But that doesn’t mean that we’re all tarred with the same brush now, does it?”

“I don’t know. Really, it ought not to. But the wholesalers might lump us all together when they find out that we’re Johanna’s sisters,” Marie answered. She had guessed what Ruth was driving at. It wasn’t as though she too wasn’t racking her brains about what to do next.

“Do you think so?” Ruth bit her lip. She looked as though she hadn’t been expecting that answer.

“Actually I was going to suggest that I take your globes and show them to the wholesalers. But of course, if they show me the door just the way they did with Johann
a . . .
”

Marie looked askance at her. So she wasn’t as brave as all that!

“I think we should ask Peter to show my baubles to his wholesaler.”

Ruth looked up, relief showing on her face. “As you like. After all, they’re your baubles.”

And who had just been blathering on about
our
future and
our
life, Marie grumbled silently to herself.

Marie was already asleep when somebody shook her arm roughly.

“Wake up!” Ruth whispered in her ear. “I have to talk to you.”

Marie stumbled downstairs after Ruth so as not to wake Johanna, and followed her into the kitchen.

“Are you mad? Why are you waking me up in the middle of the night? I can’t spend my days lazing about like some people, I have to go to work in the morning,” she said as Ruth put the gas lamp on. The light shone unpleasantly harsh in Marie’s eyes, so she turned the flame lower.

“I have an idea!” Ruth said, bursting with excitement. “I have a wonderful idea!” She bounced across the kitchen and knelt down in front of Marie. “Just imagine; there’s a way I can help us all. If what I have in mind works, then we won’t be dependent on anyone. We—”

“Ruth, please!” Marie chided her. “It’s the middle of the night, and I’m not in the mood for riddles. Tell me what’s buzzing about in that head of yours and then we can both go back to bed.”

All at once Ruth looked like the fun-loving girl she had once been. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glowed with delight, and she laughed mischievously.

“Once you hear what I have in mind, you won’t get a wink of sleep anyway!”

The next morning Ruth got up earlier than usual. After looking in on Wanda, she went down to the washhouse. Marie happily ceded the mirror to her and even offered to go in and take care of breakfast. When Ruth nodded to her absentmindedly, their eyes met in the mirror.

“You really think you can do this?” Marie asked, her hand on the door handle.

“It’s the only way,” Ruth replied.

“It’s not. As I said yesterday, we can always ask Pete
r . . .
”

“You’re right. Bu
t . . .
” She nodded into the mirror to cheer Marie up, who was looking worried. “Just let me give it a try. The worst that can happen is that I get turned down. In which case we’d be right where we are now. But if my plan actually work
s . . .
knock on woo
d . . .
” Hurriedly, she rapped her knuckles against the wall. “But we shouldn’t even talk about it. No need to tempt fate.”

Once Marie had left, she washed herself from head to toe and carefully combed her hair. Then she took a thick strand between her fingers and held it up to the sunlight that shone through the narrow window. Was she imagining things, or had her hair lost some of its shine? It used to look better than this. She stepped back to the mirror. And wasn’t her skin rather pale, despite all the time she’d been spending out in the fresh air? Had her eyes lost their sparkle? She put the brush down as a wave of sadness overcame her. She felt so old all of a sudden. Old and worn like a tool that had passed through many hands—this despite the fact that she had only fallen into
one
pair of hands. She gave a bitter laugh.

It took some effort to shake herself out of the joyless mood. She gave her hair another fifty strokes of the brush and made faces at herself in the mirror as she did so, trying out various expressions. She had to radiate confidence. She wasn’t looking for Mr. Woolworth’s sympathy—she wanted a contract.

No sooner had she finished putting up her hair than she was assailed by more doubts: Wasn’t this hairstyle a bit too old-fashioned? The American must be used to women who were the height of style. She gently teased out a few strands, making sure not to ruin what she had just achieved and skeptically turned her head to the left and right. Yes, that was better, but now it looked rather too playful. She wound the strands around her finger until they curled gently. Much better. Glancing coquettishly at herself in the mirror, she decided she was still very pretty. And there was no point trying to compete with high-society ladies. She would just have to make the best of what she had.

With a practiced motion, she pulled her dress on over her head without putting even a hair out of place. She would have liked to wear her wedding dress, but that would have been impossible in the August heat. So she had settled for her second-best dress: the color was nothing impressive—a dull brown—but it was a well-cut garment with plenty of fabric and especially luxuriant skirts. The brown complemented her skin nicely. As she was putting on a necklace that Marie had recently made her from glass beads and silver wire, she suddenly had an idea. She ran out to the back of the house, picked a bunch of daisies, then hurried back into the washhouse and twined some of them into her hair. She pinned a final posy onto the shoulder of her dress. At last she was happy with how she looked.

When she went back into the house, Marie was about to leave for work.

“The basket with the baubles is out in the hallway. I put the biggest pieces on top, just make sure nothing gets cracked.”

“And? Did she notice anything?”

“Johanna?” Marie shook her head. “Either she was pretending to be asleep when I went into the room to fetch the basket or she really was asleep. She didn’t make a sound at any rate.”

Ruth breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God. I wouldn’t want to explain all this to her.” She turned to go into the kitchen and drink a quick cup of coffee.

Marie caught her sleeve. “Are you sure you’ll manage? I mean, you haven’t been to Sonneberg much.”

“Why can’t you trust me just a little?” Ruth asked, upset. “I’m no less intelligent than Johanna, am I? As long as I catch the slate-maker on his cart, I can be in town in no time. And if no
t . . .
” She shrugged. “Then I’ll just have to walk; I do know the way.”

“But then the American will be out visiting the wholesalers by the time you get there,” Marie protested. “And how will you find him then? Even if you cross paths somewhere in town, it’s not as though you can just stop him on the street and introduce yourself.”

Ruth gnawed at her lip. “That’s the only thing that worries me,” she admitted. “I’ve even wondered whether I should try to find out which hotel he’s staying at.”

“And then?”

“Don’t play the fool,” Ruth said, shaking her head disapprovingly. “Then I could wait for him there.”

“That’s certainly one way to do it,” Marie conceded. “But what if he doesn’t speak German?”

“Marie!” Ruth cried. “We talked about all that at length last night. He must know German. How else would he even get by? I can’t imagine that every wholesaler in town speaks English.” She turned abruptly and went into the kitchen. “And now I don’t want to hear another word about it. The more I think of it, the more nervous I get.”

14

When Marie left, Ruth went upstairs. She lifted Wanda from her cot, hastily changed her diaper, and then took her into the next room. Carefully she put Wanda down next to Johanna in bed, whereupon her daughter looked at her wide-eyed. Ruth hoped that she wouldn’t start to cry.

“What’s all this?” Johanna said ungraciously.

“You’ll have to take care of Wanda today. I’m going out, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back. I might even be gone for the night.” As she spoke Ruth realized that she hadn’t considered that possibility until now. But it wasn’t all that unlikely, given that she might have to wait some time for Mr. Woolwort
h . . .

Johanna sat up in bed and took Wanda onto her lap.

“You’re going out? Overnight, perhaps?” There was a note of curiosity in her voice. “Are you meeting Thomas?”

Ruth gave a noncommittal shrug. Johanna could believe whatever she liked. She tried to estimate what a night in a hotel might cost, and what she would have to take with her. She felt sick at the thought that she might have to take a room somewhere. Could a woman alone even do such a thing? And it must cost a fortune! Her palms were damp with trepidation as she took a fresh nightshirt from the wardrobe; she could pack her hairbrush and a few other things down in the washhouse. Then she went back to Johanna’s bed.

“How do I look?” She did a little pirouette. When Johanna didn’t answer straightaway, she felt her self-confidence wilt. Then she saw the admiration in Johanna’s eyes.

“You look lovely. Any man who sees you will be enchanted, believe me,” her sister said at last. She sounded absolutely convinced—and convincing.

Ruth, who had been discreetly holding her breath, heaved a sigh of relief. With any luck, what Johanna had just said would hold true for American businessmen.

“She hasn’t had anything to eat yet,” she said, nodding toward her daughter. “Can I ask you to take care of her? Marie can give you a hand this evening.”

“Of course I’ll look after her. What a question,” Johanna said. She tickled Wanda’s tummy, and the baby began to giggle.

Ruth had to bite back an unkind reply. There had been precious little “of course” from Johanna these past few days. She cleared her throat.

“I don’t like to ask, bu
t . . .
could you lend me a little money?”

Johanna frowned. “Why do you need money if you’re seeing Thomas?”

“
I . . .
umm, I hav
e . . .
an idea,” Ruth stuttered. “So what do you say? Can you?”

“Help yourself. No need to get worked up.” Johanna raised her hands in an appeasing gesture. “You know where my purse is. Just take what you need.”

A smile played across Ruth’s lips. If only it could all be as easy as thi
s . . .

She suddenly felt bold and fearless. She stopped in the doorway and turned around.

“Wish me luck!” Grinning, she blew them both a kiss.

She could feel Johanna’s surprised glance following her down the stairs.

She had just reached the outskirts of Steinach when the slate-maker who always used to pick up Johanna came around the corner with his old nag and rickety cart. Seeing Ruth, he drew up alongside her and let her climb on. Instead of putting the basket full of Marie’s Christmas globes in the back of the cart with his crates of slates and pencils, she put it down between her legs. As they clip-clopped along the road, they passed several of the village women who were on their way to town to run errands. Ruth looked at their wicker carrying packs and was reminded of the ants she had seen on the forest floor when she had met Thomas there. Unlike the busy little ants, however, these women were clearly marked by hard work. They crept along the path, many of them with pain showing on their faces, their backs bent under their loads and their hands wiping away sweat or brushing away flies. Ruth knew how heavy a pack like that could be when it was filled with glass, and she wouldn’t have traded places with them for anything in the world. Suddenly, she felt terribly important sitting up there in the slate cart.

Once they reached Sonneberg, she shouldered her pack and marched off. Nobody paid any attention to her; the town was full of women like her delivering wares. The narrow streets were heaving with activity: mail coaches, carriages, people on foot—all trying to get wherever they were going faster than anyone else. More than once Ruth was roughly shoved aside and had to struggle to recover her balance. She was so worried that her fragile wares might break that she ended up walking close to the houses. Her eyes darted around the streets all the while. The air was thick with the sound of voices speaking in Saxon and Thuringian dialects, as well as foreign languages. Ruth began to feel that her fears had been justified; it would be a small miracle if she actually met the American tycoon in this crowd. The only sensible thing to do was to track him down at his hotel.

Though she was parched with thirst and desperately wanted a glass of fresh lemonade or at least some cold water, she headed straight to the photographer’s studio, where the pictures of Wanda were still waiting to be collected.

The photographer was much less polite than he had been during her first visit, and she wondered whether he too had heard the rumors that Johanna was a thief. He muttered angrily to himself as he slowly searched through a box for the envelope with her photographs. As Ruth stood there, her face expressionless, she felt her chances of getting any useful information from him dwindling. But as soon as she saw the pictures of Wanda, she couldn’t help chuckling with delight. Her daughter looked like a little princess!

Her enthusiasm had an infectious quality, and the photographer smiled as well.

“I knew that these pictures would turn out to be something special! All
très, très chic
!” he remarked, with undisguised pride in his artistic achievement. “Look at the lighting! And how clear the lines are!”

Ruth beamed at him. “They are the most beautiful photographs I have seen in my life!” she said truthfully. He didn’t need to know that they were also the only ones she had ever seen. She paid him the price they had agreed.

“It was my pleasure, Madame.”

Ruth decided to try a little flattery. Perhaps that was the way to get him to open up. “You’re a true artist. The people of Sonneberg should count themselves lucky to have a photographer like you in their midst. I should imagine you must be flooded with work, are you not?”

The man’s face fell. “You would think so, wouldn’t you?”

“Bu
t . . . 
?” Ruth raised her eyebrows and toyed with a curl of hair.

He snorted. “Dolls, glass, toys—all they think about in this town is selling!”

Ruth rejoiced inwardly. “And the foreigners? After all, that American gentleman has been in town since yesterday, and everyone’s expecting great things from his visit. I’m sure he would know the value of a fine photographer such as yourself.”

The man snorted again. “Not at all,” he said and waved a hand dismissively. “Not him. He seems to be a most parsimonious fellow.”

“Bu
t . . .
I though
t . . .
given all that we’ve heard about this Mr. Woolwort
h . . .
”

“Oh no! When he’s buying for business, money’s no object!” The man was clearly happy to tell Ruth his woes. “Which is why the wholesalers all bow and scrape before him. Just this morning, the two Americans walked past my studio, and the wholesalers were all buzzing around them like moths around a flame!” He adopted a mocking tone. “‘Step this way, sir! Do come in! No, this way first if you please!’ But they don’t give the rest of us the time of day. He’s even staying at the cheapest hotel in town, and they say that he orders the simplest meals on the menu.”

Ruth swallowed. That didn’t sound like the man she’d been expecting to meet. She also noted that Woolworth had apparently not come alone.

“I’ve never seen an American,” she confessed. “What does this Woolworth look like?”

“Oh,
chérie
,” the photographer said, taking her hand across the counter and patting it. “He looks the way middle-aged men look. An ill-fitting suit, a bit of a belly, glasses, thinning hair.”

Ruth couldn’t conceal her disappointment.

“What were you expecting?” the man asked, amused. “You know, businessmen from all over the world come to Sonneberg—after all, I ended up here as well—but I learned one thing about them long ago: whether they come from Hamburg, Rome, or New York, in the end, they’re only human like the rest of us.”

By the time Ruth left the studio, she knew that Woolworth was staying at the Sun Hotel, and she had drunk a glass of water, which assuaged her thirst.