The Glassblower (The Glassblower Trilogy Book 1)

by Durst-Benning, Petra

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  Had he said that aloud? He bit at the knuckle of his index finger till the skin split and the blood began to flow.

  Money! He would offer Johanna money. A great deal of money! Enough to make her keep quiet and . . .

  “Is it not enough that your sins dishonor your Maker?”

  And now Strobel saw his father’s face, the fine patrician features twisted in disgust at his offspring. Next to him was the hunched figure of his cousin Clara. The old hatred boiled up in him again. Clara, that Polish whore! A poor relation who had sought refuge with his family and had been taken in. In thanks she had brought disaster down on his head. And how she had enjoyed his downfall! With her brooding, despondent manner, she could hardly have made her point more clearly if she had hung a placard around her neck with the words “Fallen Woman.” And all this after she had spent months provoking him, making eyes at him all over the house.

  “How could you bring your brutish habits into this house and dishonor your ancestors so?”

  Until that moment he had never seen his father tremble with rage.

  Strobel overturned the table and flung it to the floor. Then a chair. Another. Damn it, she had wanted it to happen! Just like Johanna.

  “I condemn you for all eternity.”

  Strobel’s stomach twisted into a hard knot.

  No, no more damnation.

  He had been young then, and easily browbeaten by his father. That was the only reason he could think of for why he had allowed himself to be chased away like a dog. Today nobody would be able to chase him away; that was certain!

  He heard a door slam shut out in the hall. When he looked out the window he could not help but admire how Johanna held her head high as she walked away. She had two large bags and a suitcase with her.

  She’s going!

  Leaving me, and my shop!

  He had to do something, he had to. It wasn’t so bad after all, a mere misdemeanor. Nothing more than that. A lapse. Insignificant.

  He ran to the door, hurled it open, and . . .

  She was gone.

  “I will see to it with everything in my power that not a door in Berlin will be open to you!”

  A smile crept back over Strobel’s face. A sardonic smile.

  His father had been wrong! Not all doors had remained closed to him. Quite the opposite.

  Disgusted, he looked at the chaos he had made in the kitchen. Then he laughed dismissively.

  A loss of self-control, no more than that. A momentary lapse, though if he wasted his time standing around here listening to the voices of the past it might still have the potential to ruin his reputation a second time.

  He could not allow that to happen.

  He bent down shakily and picked up the chairs. He shoved the table back into the middle of the room. Fetched a cloth and wiped down the sticky tabletop.

  He had to think.

  Find a solution.

  He would not be condemned again.

  Strobel’s shop stayed closed the rest of the day.

  It was five o’clock in the afternoon when he finally left the house. Carefully dressed, with not a trace of Johanna’s blood left on him, his back bowed as though under a heavy burden, he walked through the streets with a worried look on his face. He looked even more worried as he went into the Golden Ox, his hostelry of choice whenever he wanted to eat out. Instead of taking a table by the window as he usually did, he chose the table where Sonneberg’s businessmen gathered, and he ordered a schnapps. Everything about his behavior was utterly uncharacteristic: coming to the tavern in broad daylight, choosing a different table, ordering schnapps when he usually drank wine. It didn’t take long for the first of his colleagues to sit down and ask whether anything was the matter.

  At least half a dozen times, all through the afternoon and evening, he told his story, his voice trembling, his eyes downcast. He spoke of the bitter disappointment he had suffered that day. All of his Sonneberg business partners or rivals who sat down across the table from him were equally shocked and horrified—it must have been awful to find that his own assistant was stealing from him! The breach of trust was inexcusable!

  7

  Even before she warmed up the soup left over from the previous day, Griseldis Grün took the letter from its envelope one more time. The cheap paper was crumpled by much handling and did not unfold easily. Though she already knew the few lines written there by heart, her eyes took in every word as though she were reading them for the first time; Magnus was coming home. That’s what he had written. The postmark was blurred but Griseldis was fairly sure she had read the date right; the letter had been posted two weeks before. She didn’t know how long it took to get from Rostock to Lauscha, but she was expecting him home any day now. She glanced out the window.

  Before she put down the letter, she ran her hand over the tabletop to see that it was clean. The wood was as rough as her skin, but there were no splashes of soup. She put the letter down almost reverently. She had thought that the postman must have made a mistake when he had stopped in front of her house. A letter, for her? That was impossible, she had never had a letter in her life.

  Her boy was alive. And he was coming back. Griseldis didn’t know whether that was anything to look forward to.

  Unable to settle down, she stood up, picked up her sewing basket, then put it down again.

  It had been a long time since she had last seen Magnus. Shortly before Josef died, he had packed up his things and left. Though he had been only sixteen years old, Griseldis hadn’t tried to stop him, hadn’t wept or pleaded. He had not been a good son to her. Like father, like son—wasn’t that how the saying went?

  In the years since Josef died, Griseldis had finally been able to live in peace.

  And suddenly here was this letter. Why had Magnus even written to her? There was no hint of an explanation in those few brief lines. Why now, and not once in all the years before?

  It took some effort for her to remember his face; six years was a long time. There had never been anything childlike about it; it had always been a smaller copy of his father’s face—plain, and wearing a sullen expression, as though he were constantly squabbling with his Creator about why he had been born at all. Griseldis couldn’t remember a single occasion when Magnus had taken her side. Whenever Josef beat her, he had simply looked on, unmoved. Never once had he called out, “Stop, Father!” and run the risk of being beaten himself. He would only come out of hiding once his father disappeared off to the tavern, and she was busy soothing her bruises with a cold compress or a salve. Griseldis could still remember exactly how he would look at her; the contempt in his eyes hurt as much as Josef’s blows. He doesn’t know any better, she had told herself back then, he’s still a child. But even a child would have realized that Griseldis was not to blame for Josef’s brutality. It was the drink that was to blame, the schnapps that Josef tipped down his throat every evening at the Old Jug. It was like an acid, whittling away at Josef’s wits. The only thing that she had ever had to thank God for in those days was that Josef had never turned on his son.

  The memory of those wretched times made Griseldis shiver. She shut the window, though not before looking out into the warm June night one last time.

  Why was Magnus coming back to Lauscha? Why not stay where he was?

  He had never belonged here. Truth be told, none of the family ever had. Although the fact that Josef was not a glassblower shouldn’t have been a problem—nobody shunned Weber the baker or Huber the storekeeper for not being glassblowers; Lauscha needed people to take care of the day-to-day necessities after all—Josef’s nature had made him an outsider. He hadn’t had a single friend. And no wonder! He was so envious and suspicious of others that he managed to make enemies of everyone he spoke to, even the best-intentioned. Magnus had hardly been any better, and none of the glassblowers’ ch
ildren ever wanted to play with him. But how could he have been better? Griseldis wondered with a heavy heart.

  She was quite sure that Magnus had long ago followed his father’s example and become a drunkard himself.

  The solitude that gave her such peace, the lonely life that she had grown so accustomed to by now, suddenly made her shudder. There was nobody she could talk to. Not a single neighbor she could visit for a chat. For a while she had thought that she might befriend the eldest of the Steinmann sisters. But once Johanna had lost her job at Heimer’s, it had come to nothing. And even if Johanna had stayed in Lauscha, she would hardly have had much time for an old woman. She had her sisters to take care of. Griseldis’s thoughts turned to Ruth. Why hadn’t she turned up to work today? She knew all too well what Ruth’s life was like, and she didn’t envy her for it. It was cold comfort that other women were as stupid as she had once been, and chose drunkards for husbands. It made no difference whether the family was rich or poor: men who beat their wives were all the same.

  The thought that she had at least escaped that misery was such a consolation that Griseldis suddenly felt guilty. She looked down at her sewing basket. Perhaps she should sew a dress for little Wanda. Or crochet her a vest. Ruth would be pleased.

  A little more cheerful now, Griseldis got up and went to the bench with the chest beneath it to see whether there was any wool she could use. She was so absorbed in her task that she forgot Magnus’s letter for the first time in days. She had just pulled out a tangled skein of yarn and a crochet hook, shut the chest, and stood up when she glanced out the window.

  There was a shadow on the road below her house.

  Griseldis put a hand to her throat, and her heart began to pound.

  Magnus?

  No, there were two people. She squinted, trying to make out more details.

  A man and a woman. They were moving very strangely.

  Why were they so slow?

  It looked as though the man could hardly keep the woman upright, as though her legs collapsed beneath her every few yards. Or were her old eyes deceiving her? Was there some other reason the woman was dragging her feet like that? Perhaps she was just drunk.

  Griseldis’s hands clutched the hank of yarn. Should she go out and ask them whether they needed help?

  She hesitated. The woman had a scarf around her head that hid her face. Perhaps they were vagabonds, thieves traveling the roads under cover of darkness.

  Griseldis took a step back from the window. There was no doubt about it; the woman needed help and could not walk any farther. Maybe they were travelers who had been attacked on the road to Sonneberg?

  She dashed out of her house and ran toward them.

  The man looked like Magnus. Not very much, but for a moment . . . Griseldis stopped abruptly. Wasn’t that . . .

  “Johanna!” She clapped her hand to her mouth. “Magnus!” Griseldis crossed herself.

  For a terrible, long moment, time seemed to stand still. The only sound was Johanna’s whimpering.

  Griseldis stared at the young woman, utterly at a loss. Then her eyes bored into her son.

  “Magnus—for heaven’s sake—what have you done?”

  8

  Marie sat at her workbench, utterly worn out.

  She looked at the front door to check again that it was closed and locked. Shouldn’t she head back upstairs to look after Johanna? To tend the wounds all over her body, even those parts that should have been hers and hers alone? When she thought of Johanna’s bruised breasts, Marie felt a current of panic surge through her all over again. She had never seen anything like it. She would have felt better if they had called the doctor, but Johanna wouldn’t allow it. She didn’t even want Marie to fetch Ruth. Or Peter.

  “Not Peter, he mustn’t find out.” Johanna had spoken with difficulty, spitting out each word. Her lower lip was split and bloody.

  “But Peter’s our friend. He . . . he can help,” Marie had answered. Even his mere presence would have been a comfort for her, but Johanna had shaken her head vehemently. “He mustn’t find out.”

  Marie swallowed. How did Johanna imagine that was going to work? Griseldis and her son had eyes in their heads after all. Griseldis had taken Marie aside and whispered something about rape before Marie had even had a chance to see what had happened to her sister. By tomorrow morning, half the village would know. The thought of the shame it would bring on their house made Marie curl up inside.

  She strained her ears to hear what she could upstairs, but it was all quiet. No whimpers, no voice calling her name.

  Griseldis had offered to stay the night but Marie had declined. “If I can’t manage on my own, I can always fetch Ruth,” she had said, and the Widow Grün had nodded.

  Undressing Johanna on her own, she had been horrified by what she saw. Both of them wept, and Marie knew that she would never forget the sight, not for the rest of her life. After washing the wounds with a chamomile infusion and applying a salve, she had dressed Johanna in the softest nightgown she could find. All the while, the look in her sister’s eyes had been as vacant as if she were no longer of this world. Though her every touch must have stung, Johanna had lain there lifeless as a doll as Marie tended to the wounds. Nor had she uttered a word about who had done this to her or when and where it had happened. Marie had finally stopped asking.

  For a while she had sat next to Johanna’s bed, holding her hand. When Johanna finally drifted off into a restless sleep, Marie had gone downstairs. She needed a few minutes to herself or she would lose her mind.

  Who was the man who had attacked her sister so brutally? The question went round and round in her head.

  Helplessly she stared at Joost’s tools, which over the last few months she had made her own. What would Father have done in her place? Would he have fetched Peter? Or would he have respected Johanna’s wish that he must never find out?

  She was clearly terribly ashamed, and Peter was a man, which was another problem. But hadn’t Johanna always claimed that he was like a brother to her? Would she be less ashamed in front of a brother? Marie wondered. She didn’t know.

  But she knew that she couldn’t cope with the situation on her own.

  “Johanna’s been . . . what?”

  Peter made a move to rush out the door, but Marie blocked his way.

  “Stay here, damn it! She’s asleep. Besides, she doesn’t know I’m here. She . . . didn’t want you to know.”

  “What are you talking about?” He ran his hands frantically through his hair. “I have to go to her, don’t you see? She needs me now!” He was shouting.

  Marie nodded wordlessly, but she did not move out of the doorway.

  He very nearly shoved Marie aside. Dreadful images flashed through his mind. His Johanna . . . defiled? Strange hands—violent hands—laid upon that lovely, proud body that he dared not even embrace?

  He paced from stove to doorway like a caged beast. He would kill the man who had done this!

  “When did it happen? Why didn’t you come to me straightaway? Tell me: Was it Strobel, the swine?” He shook Marie roughly by the shoulders.

  “I don’t know. She hasn’t uttered ten words together since Magnus brought her to us. And I can understand that she doesn’t want to talk about it. It would be like living through it all over again.” Marie pressed a hand to her mouth.

  “She didn’t even say his name? Is she trying to defend a despoiler of women? He’ll get what’s coming to him, you can be sure of that. Johanna doesn’t need to say anything; I’ll get the truth out of him all the same!”

  “Peter! You’re scaring me, talking like that!” Marie sobbed. She clutched at her sides as though she too had been beaten.

  When he looked over at her, he saw the same helplessness in her eyes that tormented him. Marie couldn’t help that this had happened. It wasn’t fair of him to take out his an
ger on her.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. He put an arm around her shoulder and was horrified to realize that she was trembling. “The thought that something like that could happen to Johanna almost kills me.” His throat was so tight that every word he spoke hurt.

  “I feel just the same way,” Marie said, tears coursing down her cheeks. “What kind of monster does something like that?” she sobbed helplessly. She put up no resistance as Peter led her over to the kitchen corner and sat her on the bench.

  He fetched two glasses and a bottle of schnapps and sat down next to her. He pressed one of the glasses into her hand. “Drink!” he said, then gulped down the contents of his own glass. The burning sensation as it went down his throat was familiar, comforting.

  Peter’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Magnus turned up out of the blue, today of all days. Isn’t that suspicious?”

  “It wasn’t Magnus,” Marie replied. “He would hardly have brought her back to her own home. You should have seen how upset he was. He looked like he might burst into tears as well.” Marie looked at Peter, the tears stinging her eyes. “It was just so horrible seeing her like that . . . For a moment I thought she might die. It was Johanna, but so weak, so . . .” Her shoulders quaked.

  Peter didn’t know how much more he could take. Helplessly he slammed his fist down on the table.

  “I knew from the very start that something wasn’t right about Strobel! Damn it all, why did I ever allow her to go work for him?” The thought that he might have been able to prevent Johanna’s suffering almost drove him mad.

  “Do you think it was really him?”

  Peter’s face was a mask of grim determination.

  “Who else?”

  Nobody got much sleep that night, including Griseldis Grün. Fretting about Johanna, bafflement as to who could have done such an unspeakable thing, and the way that Magnus of all people had found her injured on the roadside—all this made sleep impossible. She ached in every limb as she got ready for work at six o’clock the next morning, even more exhausted than she had been the night before. She wanted to look in on Magnus quickly, but then stopped in the doorway as a wave of motherly love washed over her.