Richard Stämme.
A shiver ran down her spine. She almost stumbled as she spun around once more.
As though to prove to herself that a strange man could never really have that effect on her, this time she looked him directly in the eye. Hundreds of butterflies fluttered in her tummy. She was almost glad when the next change of partner brought her face-to-face with Uncle Peter.
Goodness gracious, what had that been about?
When she had heard earlier that evening that he would be among the guests as well, she had gone quite dizzy for a moment at the thought that she would see him again.
Ever since Johannes had introduced her to the young glassblower, she had been racking her brain for some excuse to seek him out. Every time Johanna needed someone to run an errand, she had jumped at the chance, hoping to meet Richard somewhere in the village. But she didn’t find him at the general store or the post office or the box-maker’s shop. Then she had found herself making detours so that she could pass by his cottage, always returning in her thoughts to the afternoon when she and Johannes had visited Richard there. How his deep-blue eyes had sparkled when he talked about Murano and Venetian glass! His voice had changed as though he were describing a woman he loved—it was husky and incredibly tender, passionate and determined. At that moment Wanda wanted nothing more than to hear him talking about her like that. It was bewildering, astonishing . . . What a ridiculous thought!
And now she was dancing through Johanna’s front parlor with him.
At about ten o’clock Klaus Obermann-Brauner packed up his accordion and called for a beer. The others were glad for the break in the dancing, and the table and chairs were pushed back into the middle of the room. Everyone sat down at the table, sweaty but full of good cheer, as Johanna brought in bread and butter and a tub of salt herring.
Once the fish had all been eaten, Johannes called out, “Now for the second-best bit!” He took a slice of bread and began to dip it greedily in the puddle of sour liquor that the herring had come in. When Peter asked Wanda whether she wanted to do the same, she declined, saying she was already full.
Once again she had to struggle to conceal her dismay at how modest her aunt’s housekeeping was. It didn’t make it any easier knowing that here in the village, the family was considered well-to-do. There was probably more than one family right here in the neighborhood that had nothing at all to eat tonight and that was sitting in an unheated room.
All the members of the Steinmann-Maienbaum family had even treated themselves to an extra little luxury that day: a hot bath. The men had taken turns since the crack of dawn keeping the old stove in the washhouse fed with firewood. Since Wanda was the guest, she had bathed first. Even though she otherwise firmly insisted that they mustn’t make any exceptions for her, this time she was glad of the offer—she didn’t much like the idea of climbing into the bathwater after Anna and Johannes had already had their turn. While the others were still at work, she guiltily climbed into the hot water, steaming and scented with lavender.
If her mother could see her now . . . after her first proper bath since she had arrived, wearing no makeup, dressed for the evening in her everyday clothes . . . Wanda grinned at the thought.
Johannes threw her a cheerful glance across the table. Ever since Wanda had been such a hit with all his friends on their little tour of Lauscha, he had become her greatest supporter—not that anyone outside the family would have realized it, given the way he was always teasing her.
“I have to wonder why we wait for New Year’s Eve to turn the parlor into a dance floor,” Richard said, chewing happily at a slice of bread. “A little bit of music and dancing and life seems very different all of a sudden, doesn’t it?”
The others agreed that working life didn’t leave enough time for fun and frolics. Anna was the only one who disagreed, saying, “Who would do the work if every day was a dancing day?”
Richard frowned briefly but didn’t argue. Instead he passed the bread basket over to Wanda and asked, “Well? How do you like our Thuringian New Year’s Eve?”
For a moment their fingers touched and his eyes held hers. She looked down.
My hand’s shaking, she thought as she put the basket down in the middle of the table.
“I like it very well indeed. Marie told me so much about the festivities here before I came, but being here is different . . . I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed myself so much,” she answered truthfully. The dancing, Richard’s friendly smile, the warmth in the parlor as the snow fell outside, her family, Richard’s dark eyes, so intense, so . . . Without even realizing it, she had looked back at him so now she forced herself to turn away again.