The Glassblower (The Glassblower Trilogy Book 1)

by Durst-Benning, Petra

  “Peter!” Another cry of pleasure. Marie couldn’t say anything more than that. She was leafing through a thick leather-bound book, and she was spellbound. Reluctantly she closed the cover and held it up so that the others could read the title. A Handbook of Art and Design.

  “You could hardly have picked a better present for Marie,” Johanna said, amazed. Peter’s presents were not only expensive but also had been chosen with a great deal of care. It couldn’t have been easy to find that book; she had never seen anything of the sort in the Sonneberg bookshops.

  “Your turn!” Peter gave her a gentle nudge.

  Johanna’s fingers trembled as she untied the ribbon on her gift. She was suddenly excited. Ruth’s present and Marie’s had been very personal. She couldn’t for the life of her guess what Peter had chosen for her. The shape of the package was no help at all. It was rectangular, and the thought that it might be a penholder or a notebook for the shop suddenly filled her with inexplicable dread. At last the paper fell away.

  “An atlas?” She looked up, astonished.

  “An atlas?” Ruth echoed. “What’s that?” Johanna held up the book.

  “This book has . . . well, it has the whole world between its covers. Look at this: there are maps for every continent. And then more maps for individual countries. And look, it’s even been colored by hand. What a lovely, lovely book!” Realizing it rather too late, she added a hasty “Thank you!”

  “I thought you might like an atlas. After all, it seems that Lauscha’s too small to hold you . . .”

  Johanna raised her eyebrows. Did she hear a note of mockery in his voice? She looked over at him appraisingly, but the look on his face was guileless.

  “And just in case Sonneberg turns out to be too small as well, I should go out into the big wide world?” she asked with a grin.

  “I never said that. But if you let people go off roaming, I’ve always found they come back of their own accord.” Though he spoke easily and confidently, he couldn’t disguise the note of longing in his voice.

  Johanna smiled back at him. “You didn’t even put in a bookmark to show where the Thuringian Forest is!”

  Peter lowered the book in her hands so that he could look her in the eye. “Do you want me to make it that easy for you?” he said hoarsely. “You have to find out for yourself where you really belong.”

  Johanna swallowed. Please say something inconsequential now, her eyes pleaded. She didn’t want to end up feeling guilty for having rebuffed him yet again. She wanted to enjoy herself. To be happy. This evening of all evenings.

  Peter did as she asked. He clapped his hands. “So, wasn’t I promised a bowl of good strong punch this evening? Or was that just empty chatter?”

  Relieved, Johanna stood up and put another log on the fire. She put some water on to boil then added some rum, a stick of cinnamon, and a whole cup of sugar.

  Once she sat down again, she cleared her throat. She took Marie’s hand and Peter’s, and she nodded to Ruth to join and asked that they all hold hands. They looked surprised and she felt embarrassed. “This Christmas Eve is . . . a very special day for us,” she said, stumbling over her words. When she looked up, Ruth was smiling at her in encouragement. “A great deal has happened in the last twelve months. Some wishes have come true that even a few months ago we would hardly have dared to speak aloud. And some wishes will wait and keep us company for a while longer. But all in all, it’s been a good year for us.” She swallowed. “You may think it a bit silly . . . But I’d like it if we could hold this moment in our hearts forever.”

  38

  Peter insisted on being allowed to go part of the way back with Johanna to Sonneberg after Christmas, even if it was only as far as the spot where the slate-maker would pick her up with his cart. He appeared at the door of her house, wrapped up warm in a jacket and scarf. It was still dark as they set out through the quiet streets together. The snow was frozen over so hard that shards of ice crackled beneath their feet at every step.

  Johanna wrapped her scarf more snugly about her head.

  “Do you know what one of Strobel’s clients said to me recently? ‘I get the feeling there are only two seasons here in Thuringia: winter and harsh winter.’ Ha! He certainly has a point.” Little white clouds puffed out into the air as she spoke.

  A short while later Johanna stopped and looked back at her village. Even at this early hour, the glassblowers’ flames were burning in the windows of the houses, warming the chill of the night. Little flickering lights, brighter than a torch, shining with strength and purpose.

  “Is there another village anywhere in the world where almost everyone makes a living from glassblowing?” Her eyes were shining.

  “Not that I know of. I think Lauscha is unique in that respect.”

  “Every time I see it I’m spellbound,” she admitted. “When I think that there’s a whole family working around every lamp! It’s a fine thought that they’re all working together on one commission, isn’t it?”

  Peter’s heart leapt. Did he hear a note of yearning in her voice? Maybe she would have liked to turn around right here, and was just too proud to admit it? He made an attempt.

  “Are you sure you still want to work for Strobel in the new year?” He felt her look of surprise more than he saw it.

  “Of course! Who else is going to stand in for him while he’s away? What kind of question is that?”

  He paused.

  “Don’t pretend my question is such a surprise. Damn it all, I don’t like it that you work for that . . . creep. He’s not quite right in the head. Doesn’t his present prove that, if nothing else did?” The very thought of it put him in a rage.

  Johanna had suspected nothing when she opened Strobel’s present with Marie and Ruth peering curiously over her shoulder, but they had all been deeply shocked by those horrible pictures. Strobel’s disgusting book had shattered the festive mood, and they had spent the rest of Christmas Eve trying hard to regain their good cheer.

  Johanna linked arms and made him walk on. “Don’t get so worked up. I know quite well that he’s an odd fellow. The only explanation I can think of for that book is that maybe he didn’t look at it himself beforehand. Maybe someone gave it to him as a present and he simply passed it on to me? That would be just like him. It wouldn’t be the first time that he’s given me a sample he had no use for.”

  Peter didn’t think much of Johanna’s explanation. “A sample!” he snorted. “The whole book is nothing but a parade of perversions! You don’t just happen to have a book like that!”

  Johanna sighed and quickened her pace as though she wanted to get away from him.

  He hurried to keep up.

  “Johanna, come to me! My glass animals are bringing in a tidy little sum these days; I’m not the poor beggar I used to be. It would be easy enough for me to look after you and your family. Your sisters would like it too if you were back in Lauscha . . .”

  She turned around so suddenly that he almost bumped into her.

  “So you want me to give up my job at the drop of a hat just because my employer gave me an odd Christmas present?”

  “It’s not that and you know it!” Peter protested. “I’ve wanted you to come and join me for a long time now.”

  “And that means you’ll use whatever excuse you can find to haul me back to Lauscha!” Johanna shot back. “Do you know what your problem is? You just don’t want to look beyond the borders of your cozy little world. Lauscha! If you could see a little further you might realize that people can still be friends even when they’re not treading on one another’s toes the whole time.” Giving him no chance to reply, she stomped off through the hard-packed snow.

  Johanna was fuming as she climbed up onto the slate-maker’s cart. She handed over the money for the ride, and the horse trotted off. How dare Peter always try to make decisions on her behalf? The way he b
ehaved anyone might think they were married!

  But as they rode along through the cold, her anger vanished even more quickly than it had come. He just wanted to take care of her. And that was nothing to complain about, was it? But his worries were unfounded; she knew how to deal with Strobel. Despite what she’d said to Peter, it was quite clear that he had given her the book deliberately. After all his talk on Christmas Eve! Perhaps it was his idea of a joke? If so, there was one thing he hadn’t counted on. She would be hanged if she ever even mentioned it to him. As for opening new worlds, what an idea!

  That was quite enough brooding over Peter. There was something else that needed all her concentration. She carefully shifted the bag next to her, making sure it was upright. It held six of Marie’s Christmas baubles and a bulky object wrapped carefully in woolen blankets. She wanted to show them to Strobel as soon as he got back. She was quite sure that his American client Mr. Woolworth would like these globes. And perhaps he wouldn’t be the only one? Without telling Marie, she had packed away six of the best pieces into her bag. Now Johanna wondered how best to broach the topic. Should she claim that she’d been given the globes by a glassblower who didn’t want his name mentioned? That sounded unlikely even to her. Mr. Woolworth certainly wouldn’t care whether the baubles were blown by a man or a woman. What did the Americans care about Lauscha’s traditions?

  Her hand felt for the other object. In for a penny, in for a mark, she told herself, smiling. As well as the Christmas baubles, she wanted to show Strobel the bouquet of glass roses that Ruth had received as a wedding gift.

  It had taken a good deal of persuasion, but at last Ruth had agreed to let her have them for a week. Of course Johanna could have gone to Swiss Karl and suggested that he blow another bouquet for her to show to Friedhelm Strobel. But she had decided against it. Wouldn’t Karl Flein be surprised if Johanna managed to win him a new commission?

  39

  By the time Strobel finally returned from his trip, Johanna had begun to have doubts. What if he didn’t like the baubles? Perhaps the best thing was to test the waters with the glass roses first.

  So Marie’s baubles stayed packed away, waiting for their moment, while Strobel turned the bouquet of roses around in his hands. Then he put the bouquet into cardboard boxes of different sizes, to see whether it could be easily packed for shipping. Johanna knew that this was the main drawback of the roses; she had practically sweated blood to get them from Lauscha to Sonneberg in one piece.

  Without a word, Strobel swiftly sketched a picture in his notebook. Johanna smiled to herself. When he had finished, he looked up at her. “Who did you say made the bouquet?”

  “Swiss Karl Flein.”

  “And he doesn’t know that you’ve brought the flowers here?”

  Johanna didn’t let her exasperation show. She had already told him that Flein knew nothing of the matter. She kept her voice level as she said, “This is one of a kind. But I’m quite sure that Swiss Karl would be willing to make more of them for the right price. I should imagine that some of our customers would be very pleased with a fine piece of work like this, especially the ones in the big cities.”

  He nodded silently. “You may be right . . .” Then he looked at her sharply. “There is a problem, however . . .”

  Johanna held her breath. She didn’t like Strobel’s tone. She knew him too well; it was just the tone he used when he was about to browbeat some poor glassblower into agreeing to a desperately low price for his wares. She was therefore all the more surprised when he turned away from her and said, “I’ve reconsidered. I don’t have any use for roses like this. The packaging would be far too much trouble.” He put a finger to his lips and frowned irritably. “Besides . . . now that I really look at them, I find them rather kitschy. Tasteless. Not elegant. Take them away!”

  Johanna felt as though she’d been hit with a brick. She fumbled for the bouquet, wishing she could think of a clever retort.

  “Whatever you say,” she croaked as she wrapped the bouquet back up in its blankets and put it back into the bag with Marie’s baubles. She would be hanged if she was going to let him sneer at those as well.

  Perhaps Strobel had just had a bad day. Perhaps he really didn’t like the roses.

  But . . . Johanna frowned. She could have sworn that at first he had been struggling not to let his excitement show.

  Over the next few days, she had no time to ponder Strobel’s odd behavior, for shortly after New Year’s a thick envelope with American postmarks arrived at the shop. Johanna peered over Strobel’s shoulder as he opened it and immediately recognized the thin unbleached writing paper with the green diamond letterhead. Inside the diamond was a large W— the letter was from Mr. Woolworth.

  Strobel grinned. “He writes that Lauscha glass practically sells itself and that he did a roaring trade over the Christmas season. Damn it all . . .” He frowned deeply as he read on. “He plans to come late summer this year, instead of in May. So he’s asking us to send him the documents to place his order in writing instead.” Strobel shook his head. “That’s just like him. I don’t have these documents lying around by the dozen. Don’t they know in America what a lot of work it is to get this sort of thing ready?”

  Johanna laughed. “From all you’ve said about the gentleman, I imagine that he couldn’t care less.”

  Strobel sat down at the table, grumbling, and began copying out long passages from his samples books. He wrote out the descriptions in perfect English and added his own remarks and recommendations in the margin, or highlighted certain items by outlining them in red. Johanna helped him by drawing up price lists and applicable discounts. Strobel fretted about putting the documents into the mail since they contained sensitive information that mustn’t be allowed to fall into the hands of his competitors. All the wholesalers in the cutthroat business of toys and glassware made a great secret of their prices, and most discounts and bulk orders were negotiated in person with buyers. But what else could Strobel do? Woolworth was an important customer, and his wishes couldn’t simply be ignored.

  A lively correspondence ensued between Sonneberg and Hamburg, where Woolworth’s company had an office by the great harbor, and from where Sonneberg wares were shipped all around the world. The Hamburg office gathered all the necessary documents and then sent them on to Woolworth himself.

  Johanna was astonished by how quickly the tycoon answered their letters until Strobel explained that only the sketches and photographs were actually sent by sea, and that ocean transport took only a fraction of the time it had taken even a few years ago because the new steamships had improved propellers. Anything in writing and all the numbers and prices could be sent to America by telegraph. Strobel told her about an undersea cable laid all the way across the Atlantic from Europe to America that carried electrical impulses—whatever they were.

  The whole thing sounded too far-fetched to be true, but it evidently worked, since in late January a thick brown envelope arrived at Strobel’s shop containing the order. Not a quarter of an hour later the champagne cork popped. Though Johanna was surprised to find herself a little tipsy at that early hour, she was just as pleased as Strobel. He carried the thick sheaf of paper around in his vest pocket for the rest of the day, humming to himself and cheerfully greeting people he usually wouldn’t even nod at.

  40

  The next few weeks were turbulent, in Lauscha as well as Sonneberg.

  Ruth gave birth to a healthy daughter and baptized her Wanda, Marie spent half her nights at the lamp, and Johanna felt like a fairy godmother.

  Thanks to the Woolworth order, she had a whole stack of orders for the glassblowers in Lauscha, the doll-makers in Sonneberg, and various other suppliers. After working for Strobel for more than a year, she knew every family by name, and she knew that many of them lived hand-to-mouth. It gave her a warm glow to think that she helped improve their fate a little. A few months before, s
he had still been annoyed to find that there was one name that was never on the books: Peter Maienbaum. Peter was as stubborn as a mule and insisted on taking his glass animals to a smaller wholesaler who didn’t have half the contacts that Strobel did. But she was well accustomed to his stubbornness by now.

  Johanna was utterly unprepared for the discovery that would shatter all her good cheer in an instant.

  She still had about a dozen order sheets to fill in when she came across a line in Woolworth’s order that floored her completely. Glass roses. Three dozen bouquets @ seven roses each. Crimson red. Retail 3 marks 80, she read in the neat typewritten list, to which Strobel had added in his own writing Number 345 and cost 0 marks 40.

  That was odd. Johanna frowned. Strobel hadn’t mentioned that he changed his mind and was going to add Swiss Karl’s roses to the product line. Why hadn’t Karl ever said anything to her about it? And then there was the unit cost! Forty pence for such a detailed piece of work? There must be some mistake, but whose? She shook her head as she pushed back her chair and stood up to go look for Strobel. Then she sat down again. Number 345—that isn’t Karl Flein at all!

  A moment later, she discovered that number 345 was Tobias Neuner, one of the few glassblowers who didn’t yet have a gas main and still worked with the old-style lamp. He hardly had enough money to feed his family, much less to spend on technical innovation. Fate had not been kind to his family. Tobias’s parents were bedridden and looking after them took up a good deal of his wife Sieglind’s time. They had eight children, two of whom were not quite right in the head and a burden on the family. Of the other six, only one was a boy. Tobias had a great many mouths to feed and nobody to help him do it. As far as Johanna knew he had never taken a commission that needed colored glass rods, for the simple reason that he could not afford to put down the money for expensive stock. Most of the time Tobias didn’t even work directly for a wholesaler, but rather for Wilhelm Heimer and other suppliers who had more work than they could handle. He was a very good glassblower, and there were always enough crumbs from other people’s tables to keep his family from starving, but he never had much more than that.