The Glassblower (29 page)

15

Ruth spent the whole day near the hotel, keeping an eye on the entrance. But there was no sign of Woolworth at lunchtime, or all through the afternoon. Ruth’s feet ached, and the heat was making her unbearably thirsty again. She had leaned her basket up against a birch tree, but it offered little shade. As the hours passed, the shade disappeared altogether, and the heat became worse. Ruth found herself thinking of Wanda and felt like crying. The daisies in her hair had wilted and shriveled away. Ruth plucked them out, one by one, and threw them away. Her ringlets had lost their curl and hung limply, framing her face. Dark patches of sweat showed through her dress and Ruth grew more and more anxious: How would she ever make a good impression in this bedraggled state?

Passersby on the street cast curious or even suspicious glances at her, and in the end she felt so desperate that she plucked up her nerve and went into the hotel. It was so cool in the lobby that it was like plunging into cold water after the heat outside. Although she already knew that it was the cheapest hotel in town, she was struck by how sparsely furnished it was. There was only an unstaffed reception desk and a wooden bench. Ruth sat down on the bench and had hardly been there for five minutes when a door opened behind the desk and a man came toward her with a hostile look on his face.

“What do you want?”

Ruth shifted forward on the bench.

“I’m waiting for a guest,” she replied with all the poise she could muster.

The man looked her up and down.

“And are you a guest of our establishment yourself, Madame?”

“No, I—”

“You can’t wait here then,” he said, grabbing her sleeve roughly and pulling her to her feet. “We don’t want peddlers here,” he hissed in her ear.

The next moment Ruth found herself back outside in the August heat. She glared over her shoulder at the man. What a pig! It wouldn’t have inconvenienced anyone to allow her to sit on the bench a little longer.

She didn’t dare loiter about in front of the hotel any longer. That man would probably go and fetch the police if she did. Half carrying and half dragging her basket, she walked around the corner. She felt a lump forming in her throat and tears gathering in her eyes. Her shoulders drooping—both from the weight of the basket and disappointment—Ruth came to a stop.

“You silly clod!” The man’s voice rang out again and Ruth opened her eyes with a start. “How can anyone be so stupid? The bedspreads, I said! The bedspreads! Not the pillows!”

Ruth breathed out. She couldn’t see who he was yelling at this time, but at least it wasn’t her. Only then did she realize that she was standing at the back of the hotel. There were half a dozen washing lines stretched across its narrow backyard, all hung with shabby-looking pillows that had odd stains and not enough stuffing. Among them stood a chambermaid, almost hidden from view by the towering figure of the hotelier standing in front of her.

When the man left, the young woman began to take the pillows down from the lines. Ruth looked at her over the fence. She had small eyes and her mouth was set in a grim line that didn’t suit her rosy cheeks. Ruth cleared her throat.

“Your boss seems to be a harsh taskmaster.”

The maid turned her head. “So? What’s that to do with you?” she spat.

“Nothing at all,” Ruth said with disarming honesty. “It’s just that I got on the wrong side of him myself a few minutes ago.”

The girl looked at her mistrustfully but didn’t ask any questions. She continued to tug at the pillows, pulling them off the line without bothering to unclip the pegs.

Ruth told her what had happened anyway. “I was sitting there on the bench as quiet as a mouse. I only wanted to wait for someone.” Tears sprang to her eyes again at the thought of all her wasted effort. She fished a handkerchief from her purse and blew her nose.

“That’s a fine necklace you’ve got,” the chambermaid said, having obviously decided to talk to Ruth after all.

“Do you think so? My sister made it. She’s very clever at that sort of thing.” Ruth recognized the greed in the young woman’s eyes. “Here! Why don’t you try it on?” It only took her a moment to open the clasp and she held out the necklace over the fence.

“May I really?”

Ruth stretched her arm out farther. “Would I have offered otherwise? I know it will suit you nicely.” She swung the necklace from side to side.

At last the girl reached out, taking it as reverently as if she held the emperor’s crown.

“I’ve never had a piece of jewelry like this. Just a clasp for my hair. I could never buy myself anything as lovely as this with the money that old skinflint pays me!”

Ruth’s heart beat faster. “If you like, you can have the necklace, I just need you to do me a little favo
r . . .
”

A short while later, as the hotelier was on his way to the bank, Ruth went into the hotel through the service entrance. She followed her guide swiftly across the worn parquet floor and up a narrow staircase. Keys rattled and a door opened.

“This could cost me my job, so whatever you do, don’t get caught!” the chambermaid whispered as she peered over her shoulder at the stairs.

Before Ruth could thank the girl, the door shut behind her. And Ruth was standing in Frank Winfield Woolworth’s room.

The next few hours were at least as nerve-racking as the day spent in the baking sunshine. The longer Ruth waited there alone, the more scared she felt by the sheer effrontery of what she was doing.

It must have been about eight o’clock in the evening when she heard voices in the corridor. Ruth’s heart began to beat wildly. What if they thought she had broken in? That she was a burglar? Where should she be standing when the man came in? At the window? Right by the door? By the table where she had set out Marie’s baubles on a white cloth she had brought with her? As the voices drew nearer she hurried over to the table.
Dear God, please don’t let him throw me out immediately,
she prayed silently.

“Actually, I agree with you,” she heard a man’s voice saying in measured tones. “But with all the expense
s . . .
” A key fumbled in the lock.

Please, God, mak
e
. . .

The door opened. A man came in and stopped, rooted to the spot, surprised and clearly angered as well.

“What the heck are you doing in my room?”

Ruth didn’t need a translation.

“I’ve come from Lauscha,” she replied in German. “
I . . .
”

Ruth hardly ever prayed but she began again now.
Dear God, let him understand German
. She gestured helplessly and swallowed. Her throat was dry. “I’d like to show you something.” She pointed to the table and tried to smile. “Christmas globes.”

Woolworth stared at her uncomprehendingly and with a distinctly unfriendly look on his face.

She clenched her hands around the back of a chair, just in case he planned to throw her out of the room.

Then another man walked in.

Ruth glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and instantly forgot what she had been trying to say. She had never seen such a handsome man in her life!

The two men talked to one another for a moment and then went to the table.

A moment later, the famous Mr. Woolworth was holding a glass globe, one painted with an ice-crystal pattern. Though the room was quite dark, the globe picked up what light there was and seemed to sparkle and glow. He turned again to his companion, and they exchanged a few words in English. He picked up a second globe, then a third. When he next spoke, his voice was oddly hoarse.

Though Ruth couldn’t understand a word, she could tell that the man was interested. She unclenched her hands on the chair a little. Just when she had plucked up the courage to take another look at the handsome assistant, he turned to her. Their eyes met over the sparkle of Marie’s globe.

“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 se
e . . .
” 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 Mari
e . . .
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 no
t . . .
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 thi
s . . .

“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 Rut
h . . .
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 sai
d . . .
” 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’l
l . . .
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 Steven’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.