Other glassblowers seem to be able to, Wanda found herself thinking. She said aloud, “That’s mass-production, though—handmade goods are always worth more, aren’t they?”
Heimer shrugged. “You tell that to the buyers from the big department stores in Hamburg or Berlin. Customers there just want things cheap—they don’t care what it looks like or if it’s well-made.”
“But you could . . . educate the customers’ tastes.” Wanda remembered when she had worked at Dittmer’s. None of the customers there had ever complained about the high prices, but they certainly kicked up a fuss if they thought that the quality wasn’t up to snuff!
“High-quality glass will always find a buyer. Maybe not in the department stores but in a gallery instead.” Wanda wondered whether she should mention the exhibition of Venetian glass in New York. When she had visited again on the last day of the show, there had been a “sold” sticker on almost every piece.
Heimer shook his head. “I used to think so too. But you can’t hold back time. Perhaps . . . if it had all happened differently . . . Three of us together might have been able to tackle the new fashions . . .” He weighed every word as he spoke, as though he had thought it all over a thousand times but never dared speak it aloud until now.
“Oh, so now everything’s my fault, is it? Even though I’ve spent my whole life cooking and cleaning for you men?” Eva said. “Don’t you think that I wanted something else out of life too?” She slapped the damp dishcloth down into the sink and then ran out of the room without looking back.
Wanda found she had been holding her breath. Now she let it out again. Were the two of them always like this?
Thomas Heimer stared into the hallway.
“We Heimers just don’t have any luck keeping our women happy,” he said. “We don’t have any luck. Not with anything.”
Wanda was sorry for him, but she was horribly embarrassed as well. She stood up and pushed her chair back. “Now I really do have to go.”
“Yes,” he said.
As she went down the stairs, Eva blocked her way. “You don’t want to leave without seeing your uncle and your grandfather, do you now!” She grabbed Wanda’s hand and opened the door to a dim room with a bed standing in the middle.
“There’s your Uncle Michel! He’s asleep now, but he was up half the night whimpering like a child. Just like he does every night. We can hear it all through the house.”
Wanda stared at the thin bedcovers, aghast, and could make out the human form beneath them. What a terrible way to live! She felt Eva looking at her scornfully and turned away. Before she could do or say anything, Eva had opened the next door.
“And here’s your grandfather! Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite. Actually, he’s in a good mood today. Not like usual.”
“I . . . Wait a moment, Eva. I don’t think that I . . .” Wanda struggled in vain against the hand pushing her into the room. What did this woman think she was doing, shoving her about like this?
“Eva? Who are you talking to there? I need my medicine! Eva! Come here!” It was a man’s voice, but high and reedy with age.
“Visitor for you, Wilhelm!” And Eva gave Wanda one last push into the room. “You two make yourselves comfortable! I won’t intrude.”
As Eva shut the door, she laughed as though at a particularly good joke.
Wanda stared at the closed door, furious.
“Ruth?” Wilhelm Heimer was sitting up in bed, blinking incredulously. “Have you . . . come back?”
“I’m Wanda.” She went hesitantly toward the bed.
So this was the fearsome Wilhelm Heimer. A shrunken old man, barely more than skin and bones, wrinkled and hunched.
“Wanda?” His rheumy eyes blinked quickly over and over as though this would help him see her. “I don’t know anyone called . . .” The rest was lost in a fit of coughing. “Who are you? Get away from me! Why is Eva sending a strange woman in to see me? Eva! E-e-e-va!”
“You can’t have forgotten about me, surely! I’m Ruth’s daughter!” Wanda snapped at him. “And don’t worry, I’m leaving anyway!” She turned abruptly for the door. Perhaps her grandfather no longer had all his wits about him, but he had to know that much, didn’t he? Now she was really getting fed up. Her mother had warned her in no uncertain terms but nothing could have prepared her for the truth of what a ghastly family the Heimers were. A pack of ill-mannered louts. No wonder her mother had run away from them!
As she took hold of the doorknob, she heard the old man croak, “Ruth’s daughter . . . Now that would be . . . a surprise. You’re not lying to me, are you? Not you as well? Come over here, girl!”