The American Lady(121)

Eva peered over at her. “You’ve got such a look on your face . . . Was it worth my freezing my backside off out there? Go on, tell me, do we have a contract?” Eva’s eyes shone as if she were a young girl again.

Wanda put her arm through hers and this time met no resistance. “Not yet, but I’ve got something much more valuable, and it’s going to change our whole future!”

The light in Eva’s eyes died away. Wanda was twinkling like a Christmas tree, however. She stopped and turned to face Eva. Wanda was shivering from head to toe—she wasn’t sure whether from the cold or excitement.

“These days it isn’t enough just to make beautiful glass. There are too many people doing exactly that. If you want to be a success, you have to do something else as well.”

“And what may that be, if you please?” Eva’s face was blue with cold and deeply skeptical.

Wanda shut her eyes and enjoyed the moment. When she spoke, the words melted like cotton candy on her tongue. “The real art is in selling stories!”





21

The first few days were the worst. The hole that had opened up in Marie’s life gaped so wide that she didn’t know how she would ever be able to close it again.

Franco was in America, and she was a prisoner in the house. It was all very simple, but even after several weeks had passed, her mind simply refused to accept the facts. So most of the time she thought of nothing at all. That was the only way she could bear it all. The silence. The loneliness. The confinement. The dagger in her heart.

Marie stood at the glass door, leaning her forehead against the glass. The door was still firmly bolted. A gentle breeze ruffled the blossoms on the almond trees, and the petals drifted down like pink snow, scattering across the garden and the paths. That was the only thing that told her that spring had come—that, and the height of the sun in the sky. The seasons flowed together in Patrizia’s garden like dabs of watercolor paint on damp paper.

Lauscha was still firmly in the grip of winter, she was sure—the thought was there before Marie had a chance to chase it away. Perhaps the villagers could occasionally hear the birds of spring and draw strength from their song, but otherwise every day would be spent just as all the days had been for months now: shoveling snow, scattering ashes on the icy paths, and waiting. And waiting.

A hot tear ran down Marie’s face and splashed on the floor.

Snow. Would she ever feel the crunch of frozen snow under her feet again?

She rubbed at her face so vigorously that it hurt. She mustn’t cry. She mustn’t startle the child. She had to hold on; it couldn’t last much longer now. She was expecting Franco back any day now. And then . . .

Then she wouldn’t stay here a minute longer!

She had made her decision. It was her lifeline, leading her to what came next: she would leave Franco and take her child with her.

No more discussion, no more asking why. There could be no answer to that. And no more feelings for Franco. Whatever she still felt for him was banished to the furthest corner of her mind, and she had forbidden herself to look there. Didn’t they say that time heals all wounds?

It no longer even mattered to her whether he knew that they were keeping her under lock and key like a criminal. Maybe he had no idea. She had read his farewell note a thousand times, weighing every word. I beg you to wait for me—he wouldn’t have written that if he knew she was to be a prisoner, would he? I will make sure that you have everything you need while I am away—then again, perhaps he did know. Patrizia told her nothing at all. Whenever Marie asked anything, she always received the same answer. “Franco is in America, and you are here.” Somehow Marie had come to accept it. Just as she had accepted that there was no chance of escape. There was no need for bars on this prison; all it needed was locked doors, locked windows, and prying eyes and ears everywhere.

“Soon it will be over, soon, soon . . .” she prayed over and over. If only Patrizia would tell her which ship Franco would be coming back on . . .

Her hand drifted down to her swollen belly. If it weren’t for the child in her womb, she would have gone mad long ago. The baby was the only reason Marie could stand the passing of time, even when the days crept by as slowly as a snail through dry grass, leaving nothing in their wake but a trail of dull slime.

“Soon it will be over, soon, soon . . .” Marie turned away from the glass door and sat down at the dainty little desk that hardly had room for a single sheet of paper.

She had begun to write in a little notebook. That helped too. Eventually, she would give her child this diary to read. At first she had found it painful to write. It had been hard to look back and remember the young girl who had begun to blow glass in the dead of night. But that was when her story really began, after all. So Marie began the diary back then.