So Marie and Wanda continued their conversations up on the roof of the building. Nobody ever came up there except for a few scraggly pigeons, so the two women could talk without interruption.
Leaning up against the chimney, mostly with her eyes closed, Wanda listened while Marie told her about everyday life in Thuringia and the holidays they celebrated there. She told her about the carnival at the beginning of Lent and about the village dance on the first weekend of May every year. Marie’s stories made life there seem good, and the villagers of Lauscha sounded like happy folk.
Once Wanda almost fell off the ladder backward in surprise as she climbed up to the rooftop and spotted a sumptuous picnic spread out on a cloth. There were even two bottles of beer. Marie was sitting in the middle of the whole arrangement, grinning broadly. She had bought a huge loaf of rye bread at a German bakery and some blood sausage and liverwurst from a German deli, along with pickled gherkins—although to her dismay they turned out to be salt pickled, not the vinegar pickles she liked. As the two of them tucked into their rooftop feast, Marie chatted away about how the glassblowers at home loved potato dishes of all sorts with a glass of beer alongside.
Wanda listened, chewing contentedly. At first she could hardly believe that many families only had one dish to eat from and that everyone around the table helped themselves with a spoon—or even with their fingers.
Marie giggled. “I can still remember very clearly the first day when we went to old Heimer’s workshop as hired hands, your mother, Johanna, and I. Old Edeltraud, the maidservant, came out at lunchtime and put a great dish of potato salad and wurst in the middle of the table, and we were expected to eat from that like pigs at a trough. We were quite taken aback! But you can get used to anything . . . It wasn’t an easy time for any of us, our father had really spoiled us in his way. We certainly weren’t used to being ordered about the way your grandfather used to do. I’m telling you, we had to work our fingers to the bone for a few measly marks! But despite all that—there were good times too. Those brothers loved telling off-color jokes—and didn’t seem to care who was listening. It took us quite some time to get used to their coarse jokes.”
“Oh, Marie, it sounds like something from another world!” Wanda sighed. “I could listen to you talking about it for hours. But I still feel so cut off from it all. I keep asking myself what all these people have to do with me.”
As chance would have it, a few days later on their way to dance class they passed a poster announcing that a well-known gallery would be holding an exhibition of Murano glass. This was Venetian glass, not Thuringian, but it was glass all the same. So Marie suggested they go see it. She knew that Ruth was a frequent visitor to the gallery and she wanted to ask her to join them. But Wanda talked her aunt out of it; talking to her mother about glass or anything connected to Lauscha these days was like waving a red flag at a bull. Wanda wanted to go just with Marie, but Franco came too.
Marie’s detailed descriptions of Lauscha and the villagers had not prepared her for the sight of the exquisite glass pieces on display. Wanda was fascinated. Arm in arm with Marie, she walked from one showcase to the next, both of them exclaiming in delight.
“I can hardly believe that my father makes artwork like this too,” Wanda said, shaking her head. “How do they put those spirals into the glass? And look how this one shimmers! It’s iridescent! And look at the vase over here with thousands of tiny flowers melted into its sides. How in the world do they do these things? These glasses are amazing! You would hardly dare to drink water or wine from such a thing! They’re magical . . .” She was at a loss for words. “It’s such a cold material but it radiates such warmth . . . it’s poetry!”
Marie smiled. “You’re a glassmaker’s daughter for certain!” she said, and Wanda felt a warm shiver run down her spine.
Marie did her best to explain the various techniques to Wanda, but some of what she saw was new to her as well. “I must admit that these Venetian glassblowers know a few tricks that leave our techniques in the shade! I’d love to sit down at the lamp and try out one or two of these ideas, though I don’t know whether I’d manage!”
Franco had been listening to the women talk, his face impassive, but now he offered to find the two artists so that Marie could learn more about their techniques.
While he set off in search of them, Marie took Wanda aside.
“Don’t misunderstand me; I don’t want what I say now to spoil your good mood. But when it comes to your father’s workshop . . .” she cleared her throat, embarrassed. “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression.”