The American Lady(94)

She had spent a long time pondering what the baubles should look like. In Germany the traditional Christmas colors were red, gold, and green, but those felt too heavy for the palazzo. She wanted to capture some of that Italian airy lightness, the glittering blue of the sea, the white of a marble balustrade, the pale winter sunshine. While she lit the gas flame, she tried to conjure an image of the finished product: silvered glass globes painted with delicate, featherlight strokes of the brush in pastel tones.

The flame hissed its old familiar song in her ear as Marie began to blow globes, each one exactly the same size.





11

“Are you sure you want to go? He could have come here to see you anytime he chose . . .” Johanna put her hands on Wanda’s shoulders to lend her confidence. Her fingers were so cold from shoveling snow that Wanda could feel it right through her woolen dress. She could hear Magnus cursing from outside, where he had taken over the shoveling from Johanna. It had snowed a good eighteen inches during the night, and there were endless mounds of snow to be shoveled aside before anybody could get out of the house.

“He didn’t, though,” Wanda answered bluntly. “I don’t mind taking the first step. And Christmas is a good time to do it, surely?” She pointed to the linen bag where she had stowed her presents for her father, Uncle Michel, Eva, and Wilhelm, who was sick in bed. There was nothing extravagant there, just little gifts—some handkerchiefs for the men and a bottle of schnapps each, which Uncle Peter had advised her to go and buy in the village store. Eva would get a silver locket that Wanda had bought at a silversmith’s off Fifth Avenue. She was the kind of woman who was sure to like getting jewelry.

“I just don’t want you to . . .” Johanna broke off rather helplessly.

“To be disappointed?” Wanda laughed dryly as she knotted her headscarf firmly under her chin. “I know quite well that Thomas Heimer is not going to fling his arms around me and weep for joy. He probably won’t be very happy to see me. But I don’t care. I just want to meet the man whom I might, under other circumstances, have called father. Please don’t worry about me.” She was almost at the door when she turned around. “There is one thing, though . . .”

“Yes?”

Wanda felt her cheeks flush red. “How on earth should I talk to him? I mean . . . I don’t want to sound like a snob by speaking standard German, but if I try to speak the local dialect I’ll just make a fool of myself and he’ll think I’m making fun of him.”

Johanna laughed. “If that’s your biggest problem then just calm down! Thomas Heimer won’t feel you’re looking down on him if you speak standard German. We may be from Lauscha but we know our own language, thank you.”



The streets of Lauscha were busier than usual that day. People were out and about, though not because they were carrying glassware or materials to and fro. Rather someone in front of every house was shoveling a pathway to their front door; soon enough the snow was piled up like mounds of cotton candy on the narrow sidewalks and in the street. Wanda kept sinking ankle-deep into the snow. Then came the moment when the snow crept its way in over the top of Wanda’s boots and was promptly melted by her body heat. A chill trickle of icy water ran down her ankles and soaked her socks.

By the time she got to the abandoned foundry, she was so exhausted that she toyed with the idea of turning around. She was worried she might get sick again, but she took off her headscarf all the same to wipe away the sweat that had pooled at the nape of her neck. Then she bundled the scarf up and stuffed it carelessly into her bag. She looked up the hill to the upper edge of the village. What if it was even worse up there? What if nobody had even started clearing the snow away in front of the Heimer house?

These were all excuses, she decided. This was no time for second thoughts. She had been born in Lauscha, for goodness’ sake, and she wasn’t going to let a little snow scare her. She marched on, her knees trembling.



Wanda had played through the moment a hundred times in her mind. Had tried to steel herself for the wave of emotion that she expected would break over her. She was quite convinced that it would affect her deeply; after all, didn’t they say that blood was thicker than water? She had made up her mind on one thing, though: however this first meeting with her father played out, she wouldn’t lose control of herself. She had made sure to consider every conceivable outcome, even the most terrible. Her father might slam the door in her face. He might swear at her. He might let her in and then treat her with cruel indifference. Or they might just end up sitting in painful silence for lack of having anything to talk about. Wanda had even prepared for that possibility, and had a little list of topics for conversation; first the weather, then what plans they had for Christmas, what she had seen of Lauscha so far . . . Perhaps she would even be able to steer the conversation around to the glassware that the Heimer workshop made—it would certainly help break the ice if she said a few words of praise. And if she really couldn’t find anything else to talk about, she could ask after her sick grandfather.