The Glassblower (33 page)

“I don’t know,” Ruth cried miserably. “And I don’t even want to think about it. All I know is that I can hardly wait to see him again when he comes to collect our wares from Sonneberg. That’s why nothing must go wrong with this order! I can’t stand the thought.”

“I’m glad we’re agreed on that much at least,” Johanna said dryly.

“If Steven weren’t coming to Sonneberg, I would go to Hamburg to be with him!”

“You in Hamburg? Don’t make me laugh! You have to pluck up your nerve just to go as far as Sonneberg.” Johanna scoffed.

“You’re horrid! You’re just like Marie; she doesn’t want me to be happy either.” For a moment it looked as though Ruth might burst into tears again, but then she shook her head. “Perhaps that’s the only way you know how to talk. Because neither of you knows what true love is like.” She shut her eyes. “True love is much stronger than us mortals. It stops us from being scared of what tomorrow may bring.”

Romantic twaddle! Ruth had obviously spent far too much time reading the
Arbor
. Johanna had no desire to continue the conversation, so she shoved her chair back and stood up. It was already late.

It was cold in the kitchen, and the house still stank of Epsom salts. She would have to go to Peter tomorrow and confess that they had no hope of filling the order without his help. Perhaps she would also have to have a good long talk with their resident artist to make her sit back down at the lamp. The last thing Johanna needed just then was to watch Ruth fluttering her eyelids and listen to her soppy talk.

Though Johanna was bone tired, she knew that she wouldn’t get to sleep easily—not after Ruth’s news.

23

At eight o’clock sharp on the morning of September 29, two draft horses pulling a wagon stopped outside the Steinmann house, snorting and shaking their manes. They belonged to a farmer from a nearby village who made a little extra money carrying cargo for the glassmakers of Lauscha. He looked around dubiously as he opened the tailboard for loading. He had never picked up anything from here before. But if he had any doubts as to whether it was the right place, they were answered the very next moment when the three sisters came out of the house, each balancing a stack of cardboard boxes in their arms. Peter and Magnus both insisted on being allowed to help load the wagon, so the farmer stood aside and watched, filling his pipe as they worked.

More and more boxes vanished into the belly of the wagon. By the time the last box had been loaded, the cargo was piled up almost six feet high. The young women watched hawkeyed as the farmer and Magnus lashed down the boxes with rope. At last everything was safely stowed.

“Done!” Johanna heaved a loud sigh. “We’ll be able to move around the house again without glass chiming at every step.”

“It looks like any old shipment of ordinary glassware, doesn’t it?” Somehow Marie still couldn’t believe that this huge mound of buff-colored boxes had actually been packed in their house.

“Very true. From the outside, there’s nothing to suggest all the glitter and sparkle inside,” Johanna replied.

Ruth, who had been staring into the dusty kitchen window, turned around.

“It’s just as well. No one needs to know what we’re transporting here. We’d just end up getting robbed on the road,” she muttered, then turned again and looked at her dim reflection. She sighed fretfully as she tugged a lock of hair back into place, tucked another behind her ear and ran her finger along her eyebrows.

Johanna and Marie exchanged knowing glances. Ruth had spent more time in front of the mirror that morning than anywhere else. Even Wanda had been left to her own devices for once, lying in her pram and grumbling away.

“You take good care of the papers, now,” Johanna told Ruth, not for the first time that day. “The lists give all the details they’ll need on how many of each design are in the delivery. The authorities in Hamburg won’t be able to draw up export papers if they don’t have the right information. Once when I was working for Strobel, we—”

“Johanna, I know all that. You take good care of Wanda for me,” Ruth said, her eyes shining like well-polished slate. “Don’t worry. I know what I have to do.”

Johanna snorted. “I’m not so sure about that,” she said, then added softly, “Just don’t go doing anything foolish when you and Steve
n . . .
”

“Johanna, please don’t start that again,” Ruth murmured. She turned abruptly and blew a kiss at her daughter, who was watching the scene with a look of skepticism on her face. “Until tonight, little Wanda! If you’re good, Mama will bring you back a present.”

She was halfway up to the wagon seat when she suddenly climbed back down.

“What’s the trouble now? Women!” the farmer grumbled. He had a whole day’s work on the farm waiting for him when he got back from Sonneberg.

Ruth hugged Marie. “You see, we really did it. The Steinmann girls will show the world what we’re made of.”

Marie hugged her back. “Have a nice time in Sonneberg.”

At last the wagon lurched into motion, its wheels creaking. Wanda began to cry. Johanna rocked the pram from side to side without taking her eyes off the wagon. Peter came to join her, and she did not protest when he put his arm around her shoulders.

Marie stood a little off to one side. The time had come. Thousands upon thousands of silvered pinecones, nuts, painted globes, and mirrored globes were setting off on their long journey to America. Everything that had been at the very center of her existence for the past few months was now gone forever, vanished from her life. She had wanted to go with the cargo as far as Sonneberg, but Ruth wouldn’t hear of it and had insisted quite vehemently on going on her own. They had almost had another row over it. But then Johanna had taken Marie aside and told her in a few carefully chosen words what was on Ruth’s mind.

“Let her meet this Steven one more time. Perhaps she’ll realize then that she’s just chasing rainbows. We can stay home with Peter and enjoy our day off,” she added. But Marie waved the offer away. If she wasn’t going to go to Sonneberg, then she just wanted some peace and quiet.

“It’s an odd feeling—to know that the whole hustle and bustle is over, just like that,” Johanna said, smiling.

Peter sighed. “That’s just like you. Instead of celebrating, you stand out here feeling gloomy,” he said, grinning reproachfully. “I think you should come over to my place. Or had you forgotten your promise that you would come and help me for a change?”

Before Johanna could say a word, he had taken hold of Wanda’s pram and was pushing it toward his house. “What is it, are you planning to put down roots?” he called over his shoulder to Johanna, without turning round.

Johanna looked at Marie.

Marie nodded encouragingly to her sister. That left her and Magnus. He looked down and dug into the hard earth with the toe of his right shoe.

Marie shivered. She had forgotten to put on a jacket that morning in all the excitement, and the first frosts had begun a few days ago. It wouldn’t be long now before the trees shed their colorful leaves. Unlike most people, Marie was looking forward to seeing the trees and branches bare. When their silhouettes showed sharp against the pale winter light, there was nothing to distract her from the fine filigree patterns the branches made.

She hugged herself tight. “What do you think—could there be a way to capture the seasons of the year on Christmas baubles?”

“All four seasons, on a ball?” Magnus was taken aback.

“A set of four globes, one for every season.” Even as she spoke the globes began to take shape in Marie’s mind. She would paint the globe for spring with yellow primroses. Summer—perhaps that could be a sun? No, because then there would be two globes painted yellow. So spring would have to be lily of the valley instead. Fall would be colorful leaves of course, in every shade of the forest. As for winter—well, that was obvious enough.

“Why didn’t I think of it before?” She was so angry she stamped her foot.

“What’s the problem?” Magnus asked. “Just paint that design for the next order.”

“If there is one! We still don’t know for sure whether anyone in America wants to buy them.”

“You talk almost as much doom and gloom as my mother. I wouldn’t have expected it of an artist like you.”

Marie blushed. To change the subject, she asked, “How is Griseldis? I would have thought she’d move heaven and earth to be here with us this morning. I mean, since you both gave up all your evenings the last few weeks to help us out.”

Magnus made a wry face. “Old Heimer has more work for her. He’s insisted that she spend today cleaning the warehouse, because there are fresh supplies arriving early Monday morning.”

“Today? On a Saturday?”

He nodded sourly. “I wish she at least got another mark in wages for all the extra work she puts in. But the old fellow just works her fingers to the bone.”

“Do you mean to say she doesn’t even get paid for the extra hours?” Marie frowned. Griseldis was always the last to leave the Heimer workshop in the evening. Ever since Edeltraud had died, hardly a day passed when Wilhelm Heimer didn’t find some extra job for her. For some reason, he never asked that of Marie, or Sarah-the-snail.

Magnus laughed bitterly. “That’s just what I mean to say. And even so, my mother feels she ought to get down on her knees and thank the old tyrant every day for letting her work for him.”

Marie felt she had to say something in Griseldis’s defense.

“Your mother is a good soul, and she’s always ready to help. She helped us too. When I think of the way she came to our aid when Father die
d . . .
Never mind these last few weeks!”

“But that was a matter of honor. Which is why my mother was so surprised when Johanna insisted on paying us for those few hours we put in. We can certainly use the money, but we would have helped you even without any pay.”

Magnus was at least as kindhearted as his mother, Marie realized. It was a touching thought.

“Without those ‘few hours’ as you call them, we would never have gotten the whole shipment finished.”

He waved her thanks away. “It’s damned cold for the end of September. We’ll have another hard winter ahead. What do you say—would you like a hot cup of tea? I could make us some, and Mother made an apple pie yesterday.”

Marie hesitated for no more than a moment. “Why not? Perhaps I’d better get used to the idea that I don’t have to work every waking moment from now on.”

They were already halfway to Griseldis’s house when Marie stopped in her tracks.

“What is it? Have you changed your mind?”

Marie bit her lip.

“Actually I’m still a bit upset that I didn’t go to Sonneberg. It would have been a good opportunity to take a stroll round town.”

“You mean stroll around town and spend some of your hard-earned money in the Sonneberg shops?” Magnus grinned.

Marie shook her head. “We haven’t been paid a penny yet. Though for what I have in mind, I would happily spend all my savings. Well, perhaps another tim
e . . .
” Her voice gave away nothing of the longing she felt.

Magnus hopped from one foot to the other. Without looking at Marie he finally asked, “If you really would like to go to Sonneberg—well then, why don’t we go? We could always walk if you don’t want to spend the money for a train ticket. And who knows? If we’re lucky, someone might stop and give us a ride some of the way.” Magnus grew more enthusiastic with every word.

Marie, however, was torn. Was Magnus the right person to help her do what she was planning?

“I don’t know. I would have to tell Johanna first. We had agreed that I would look after Wanda for half the day.”

“I’ll tell Johanna if you like. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you taking a little trip,” Magnus said. “Should I go talk to her?”

Marie took hold of his sleeve. “Hold on! There’s another thing: What if we happen to run into Ruth? She’ll end up thinking I don’t trust her to deliver the wares, and that would be very awkward.”

“Sonneberg’s not so small that you’re always bumping into people around every corner,” Magnus answered, sounding disappointed. “If you don’t want to go with me, let’s just forget it.”

“That’s not it,” Marie said hurriedly. She laughed, embarrassed. “But there’s one more thin
g . . .
Just have a look at m
e . . .
I can’t go into town like this.” She pointed at her legs.

One day she had started wearing Joost’s old pants around the house; they didn’t get in the way of the gas pipe the way her skirts always did. She soon realized that pants were fundamentally more practical than women’s clothing and that she could slip them on in seconds and then have time for more important things. Ruth and Johanna had almost screamed the house down when they saw her wearing Joost’s old rags, but Marie had nonetheless stuck to her new habit.

“Now that I think about it, I don’t have anything fit to wear,” she added.

Magnus crossed his arms. The corners of his mouth rose into a mocking grin.

“Marie Steinmann, can it be that you’ve lost your nerve?”

24

They had hardly been walking for half an hour when a wagon stopped and let them ride for a few pence. It was not even eleven o’clock when they arrived in Sonneberg. On the way there, Magnus had suggested all sorts of things they might do in town. When Marie finally mustered the courage to tell him what it was that she wanted to do, Magnus hadn’t even batted an eye.

And so they marched out of the marketplace and headed straight for a little side alley. Marie could already read the shop sign from a long way off. “Books Old and New,” it read, and underneath in smaller letters, “Books Bought and Sold, Alois Sawatzky.” Her heart pounded.

“What if he doesn’t have anything like what I’m looking for?” she whispered.

“We’ll soon find out.” Magnus put his hand on the handle and opened the door with a flourish. When the shop bell rang, Marie nearly jumped. Hesitantly, she followed Magnus inside.

It was not especially bright inside the shop, and Marie had to let her eyes adjust to the dim light. The smell—old, stale air with a sour note to it—took some getting used to as well. She had had no idea that books could smell so unpleasant.

“Is there anybody there? Mr
. . . .
Sawatzky? Hello!” Magnus called.

Marie was awestruck. Towering piles of books were stacked wherever she looked. The stacks in front of the windows were heaped so high that the daylight only came through the chinks in between.

“And there we were complaining about a few cardboard boxes in the house,” she murmured.

“Good day, Sir, Miss, how can I help you?”

Marie spotted a man standing in the half dark between several piles of books.

“We’re looking for a few books,” Magnus replied. “My companion here can tell you more.” He pointed to Marie.

Alois Sawatzky was much younger than she had imagined a bookseller would be. She would have felt rather less foolish telling her wishes to an old man.

“I’m looking for books on art.”

“On ar
t . . .
” The man ran a finger through his beard. “What, in particular, do you have in mind?”

Marie breathed out slowly. “In particular? Well, what do you have in stock?”

“My dear young lady, my stock is so extensive that bibliophiles come from as far afield as Weimar to buy from me. I’ll need you to give me one or two ideas as to what you want. Otherwise we could be here till tomorrow morning.” He coughed.

“Well, you se
e . . .
” Magnus began, about to come to her aid, but one look at Marie’s face told him that she could cope with this arrogant young man quite well on her own. She took a deep breath and raised her chin.

“I would be most interested in a treatise on modern artistic styles. Everything that is
en mod
e
, so to speak.” She fixed him with a gaze that Johanna would have been proud to see.
En mode
—if he could use fancy words, then so could she. “I would also be interested in any works you have on older traditions. The old masters and such.” She waved her hand dismissively. “And if you happen to have anything on the history of glassblowing, that would be good as well. And then, I don’t know whether any such book has ever been written, but something about drawing techniques—a drawing course, so to speak—for charcoal sketches in particular would be useful. And if there is any such thing for color drawing as well, then all the better. Apart from that, I would also be interested i
n . . .
What is it?” She stopped, frowning.

The man’s eyes had been growing wider and wider as she ran through her list.

“Could it be that your stock is not quite so extensive after all?” she asked in a gently mocking tone.

“Quite the opposite, my dear young lady.” It wouldn’t have taken much more, and he would be bowing and scraping in front of her. “I am certain that we can turn up a few treasures for you. If you would care to follow me? Allow me to lead the way.” He pointed toward the back of the shop.

Marie smiled at him. Once he had turned his back, she winked at Magnus. They made their way together through the heaps of books until the man stopped.

“So, here we are! Perhaps the gracious lady would like to look at one or another book, with no obligation to buy of course?”

He pointed behind himself. Marie’s worldly airs and graces fell away at once.

“Are these
all
books about art?”

The bookseller’s smile grew wider.

“But of course! Or do you happen to know of any subject—with the exception of love—that has been written about more extensively than art?”

When she left the shop two hours later, Marie’s cheeks were aglow. She was flushed all over as though she had a fever—and not just because she had spent all her savings. She hesitated when Magnus invited her for a beer—in part because she could hardly wait to get home and cut the string on the parcel of books and because she didn’t know whether Magnus could afford to visit a tavern. She accepted all the same.

“But only on one condition: we don’t run into Ruth!”

As they walked through Sonneberg, Magnus pointed out every shop they passed and had a tale to tell about each of them.

“Given that you’ve been running mail and messages between Lauscha and Sonneberg for only a few months, you certainly know your way around,” Marie said admiringly. “I don’t think I’d have even found my way back to the marketplace without you.”

Magnus led them to a tavern that was tucked away off the main street. “Well, at least I’m good for something.” Once they were settled at a table, he ordered two glasses of beer and two plates of bread and cheese.

Though Marie was about to protest, she realized that looking for art books had made her quite hungry. No sooner had the waitress put down the platter in front of her than Marie picked up a slice of bread and took a hearty bite.

“I keep my ears open when I’m running errands, that’s all,” Magnus said, picking up the thread of their conversation. “But God knows, it’s hardly a job to be proud of. The way you work with your hands and your imagination, the way you mix craft and art—that’s really something. Do you know that I almost envy that?”

Marie laughed. “Lots of people have ideas,” she muttered, a touch embarrassed.

“But not as good as yours! Many glassblowers don’t even do Christmas decorations. And the ones who make the
m . . .
well, you should see the plain designs they use. No extra details, maybe a layer of mirror finish on the inside, and that’s that. They’re downright boring compared to your works of art.”

“I don’t know whether to even believe you,” Marie said. Magnus’s words were music to her ears but she felt self-conscious at his outspoken admiration.

“Believe away! After all, I’m the one who carries everybody’s samples here and back again. But let’s not talk about everyone else.” He leaned across the table toward her. “Do you want to know what I really admire about you?” He didn’t wait for an answer but kept straight on. “Your single-mindedness. You’re so sure about everything you do. Whenever yo
u . . .
”

“Me, sure of myself?” Marie interrupted. “You’ve really gotten the wrong idea. I’m besieged by doubt the moment I sit down with my sketchpad or at the lamp. I’m always asking myself whether I’ll be able to blow the shape. Or whether my designs can even work in glass.” She shook her head. “I’m plagued by doubt most of the time in fact. Then I convince myself that I don’t have the skills to create what I’ve pictured in my mind’s eye. How could I? I mean, what little I do know I taught myself.” She sighed.

“Have you never considered enrolling in the glassblowers’ trade school in Lauscha?”

She gaped at him. “You mean where they teach technical drawing and modeling? But that’s for the sons of glassblowers! Not for their daughters!”

“They might take you all the same. The way I hear it, they’re not exactly oversubscribe
d . . .
”

“That’s the worst thing about it,” Marie chimed in. “Either the boys don’t want to learn anything or their fathers force them to sit down at the lamp just as soon as they’re done with ordinary school!” She shrugged. “One way or another, that school’s not for me. And as for the doubts I hav
e . . .
when it comes down to it, I don’t think there ever can be any such thing as certainty in art. Oh, I don’t kno
w . . .
” Even talking about it brought back all the helpless loneliness she had felt during the long nights at the lamp.

She had never talked about any of this, not even to Peter. In the end she was just a woman who was trying to persuade herself she could hold her own against the men in their trade. Who wanted not solely to understand the most difficult material any craftsman could work with but to master it.

“Which is why you bought all those books, isn’t it?”

Marie laughed, embarrassed. “There won’t be anything about Christmas tree decorations in any of them, but I’m bound to find something I can use. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

Magnus considered this for a moment.

“More than that,” he answered, his voice ringing with conviction. “Perhaps you should spend a certain amount of time each day with your books from now on. Be your own tutor, so to speak.”

Marie looked at him in astonishment. “That’s just what I was going to do. Can you read my mind?”

Magnus grinned. “Perhaps I’m just good at knowing what an artist might be thinking. But joking aside”—he reached for her hand—“if you want my honest opinion, given how important your art is to you, you’re not giving it nearly enough of your time.”

“How can you say such a thing?” Marie protested, pulling her hand away. “Who spent night after night sitting at the lamp blowing glass these last six weeks? That was me, wasn’t it?”

Magnus smiled. “That’s exactly what I mean.” When she frowned, he continued. “You were working to earn your living. Now you should take some time to develop your gifts as an artist. I can’t imagine that the old masters like Rembrandt and Rubens would ever have become so famous if they had to paint night and day to make money.”

“What you forget to mention is that many of the old masters reportedly starved to death,” Marie said dryly. “You’re also forgetting that neither Ruth nor Johanna has a jo
b . . .
”

Magnus nodded. “I know. You have a great deal resting on your shoulders. But all the same—whenever you have a moment free from working for Heimer, you should make some sketches, read your books, have a look at the illustrations. Oh, I envy you what’s ahead.”

Marie felt her excitement grow. Magnus was right! She could hardly wait to resume her studies, which she had neglected ever since Johanna and Ruth had moved in. All the same she cocked her head and looked at him critically.

“The way you talk, anyone might think you gave advice to self-proclaimed artists every day of the week. Why do you think you know so much about what’s right for me?”

He beamed back at her. “Didn’t you just say yourself that there are no certainties in art? But there’s one thing I do know for sure: there’s more to you than you even know yourself. You just have to bring it out.”

Tears pricked at the inside of Marie’s eyelids, and she had to swallow hard. “That’s the first time anyone’s had so much faith in me,” she whispered. “You know what everyone else in the village says about a woman blowing glass.”

“It makes sense that people need time to get used to something new,” Magnus responded. “You and your sisters are a good way ahead of our time. But I’ll tell you this: in a few years there’ll be a great many more women blowing glass. And who knows—perhaps they’ll even be allowed to enroll in the trade school.”

Marie sighed. It did her good to hear Magnus’s words. “That would be wonderful! Then at last I’d have somebody I could talk to abou
t . . .
all this.”

“What do you mean? You’ve got me,” he answered boldly.

She looked at Magnus as though seeing him for the first time: his even features; his dark brown eyes that seemed slightly lost; his dark eyebrows, just a shade too close together; his long, rather unkempt hair. Griseldis’s son wasn’t much to look at. His eyes didn’t twinkle roguishly; his lips were rather narrow and didn’t seem sensual or invite kisses.

And for all that Magnus was unusual. The way he had taken care of Johanna after he
r . . .
misfortune had proved then and there that he was trustworthy. And he was a helpful soul with a gift for knowing what others were thinkin
g . . .

Marie smiled at him. “I still think that most of your compliments are nothing but flattery, but they do me good all the same. Thank you,” she added softly. “Do you know what? My first attempts at blowing glass were hard work, but now I’m ready to spread my wings. I’d like to make the most beautiful Christmas ornaments imaginable! I want children’s eyes to light up with happiness when they see my Saint Nicholas on their trees. I want my baubles to bring a glow to even the poorest parlor. I want them to catch the light and cast it back a thousandfold; I want them to glitter like the stars on a clear night sky. Old and young, man and woman—I’d like everyone to find their own little paradise in my baubles!”