The American Lady(33)

“Now? A poetry reading? I don’t know . . . in fact, my sister was going to . . .”

Ruth had suggested that they look through some old photographs that afternoon. She had dug out some albums the evening before, so many that Marie could hardly believe that they were all pictures from Lauscha. Johanna always hired a photographer to come to all the important family occasions, be it the twins’ birthday or the opening of the new warehouse in Sonneberg, and of course she always sent a few pictures to America. She had even insisted, once, that the photographer take a portrait of Marie sitting at her lamp. He’d grumbled quite a bit when he saw what the gas flame did to his light-exposure levels, but in the end the picture had come out all right. To Marie’s eternal embarrassment Johanna had insisted on putting it at the end of the catalog with the caption “A woman’s hands create the finest artworks in glass.” The customers seemed to like it, though—the orders had come flooding in that year.

Marie smiled. She’d been looking forward to rummaging about in the memory box. But if Pandora was kind enough to invite her . . .

She took her jacket. The photograph albums weren’t going to run away, after all.

“Let’s go and hear how it’s done!”



It was a little after one o’clock by the time Wanda finally found the front door of the overcoat factory. She was supposed to have been there at one o’clock sharp—at least that’s what her future boss, Mr. Helmstedt, had told her. But she had turned a corner one block too early, and then had to retrace her steps. When she had finally found the right area, she couldn’t quite remember where the factory was and had wandered around for a while trying to spot an address on the buildings. She was hot and thirsty by the time she recognized the huge building on the corner of the block that housed the factory. Clamping her handbag under her arm, she ran toward it.

I do hope Mr. Helmstedt won’t mind my being a little late, she thought as she ran. As she approached the building, she wondered why there were so many other women standing around the factory gates. Surely they couldn’t all have one o’clock appointments?



“On strike?” Wanda looked from one face to the next, startled. “But this is supposed to be my first day at work!”

The women standing near her laughed.

“You can forget about that!” one of them said, standing in front of the gate with her arms crossed. She was obviously the leader, and she had such a strong accent that Wanda had trouble understanding her.

“We are the League of German Socialist Women Workers, and we’re organizing this strike. And we won’t accept defeat like last time!” she shouted. She was screaming in Wanda’s face as though the defeat were all her fault.

Wanda took an involuntary step back, then several hands shoved her forward again.

It couldn’t be true!

It took her a little while to understand what the locked gate and the mob of shouting women meant: her future boss would be waiting for her in vain, as there was no way she could get inside the building.

She was so agitated that she clutched at the brown linen cloth of her simple dress. She had spent ages choosing exactly what to wear. She hadn’t wanted to look too fancy, but she also wanted to make sure she didn’t look too much like the workers—if she was to be a supervisor, they had to have some respect for her.

But now? It seemed that it had been wasted effort. Another dress that Mother could give away to the poor and needy! Off to the rag bag!

The idea suddenly seemed so funny that she had to laugh. Her laugher sounded shrill, hysterical.

The strike leader stared at her, furious. “Women like you are to blame when we workers don’t get the rights we’re fighting for. You don’t take anything seriously!” She raised a finger and jabbed Wanda hard in the chest before she had a chance to dodge.

But Wanda wasn’t even listening. There were tears running down her face, and she couldn’t stop laughing. When Harold heard about this . . . he’d think she’d made the whole thing up.

Some of the women standing around began to laugh as well. It was the laughter of despair, not merriment, but it was infectious all the same. All of them had families at home, children to feed, and they had no idea how they would put food on the table in the coming weeks. Who could blame them if they were beginning to wonder what they had done?

“Go on, laugh!” their leader yelled. “Can anyone tell me what’s so funny? We’re on strike, remember! But if you’re ready to betray the cause, go on then, enjoy life! Go see a film, why don’t you? Go spend your money on cheap trinkets. Go find a man to whisper sweet nothings in your ear!”