The Glassblower(101)

Ruth sat bolt upright. There was no point pretending to be asleep now.

“I’ll take care of her. Don’t worry, she’ll quiet down again in a moment, won’t you, Wanda?” She was so eager to please that her voice sounded shrill and panicky. She would take the little one and go into the kitchen.

Thomas was blocking her way.

“You, taking care.” The fight was in him now; she could see it in his eyes. “You’re too bloody stupid for that. Can’t even take care of a kid. But you can make me look like a fool in front of my father, oh yes! You can nag at me and answer back—in fact that’s the only thing you know how to do!”

“Thomas!” She hated it when her voice took on this craven, wheedling tone, but sometimes it calmed him down.

Keeping her eyes downcast, Ruth tried to get past Thomas, but he grabbed her arm and shoved her back with such force that she landed on the floor.

“Not answering back now, Ruth Steinmann, are you?” Thomas looked down at her and sniggered. “You wanted to show me up! Like a fool. The way you always do. What do you think the others had to say after you flounced out like that? They told me I was letting you lead me around by the nose. But they’re wrong about that, the lot of them!” He towered over her, his legs straddling her, a bulge in his pants showing how he had worked himself up.

For a moment Ruth was scared. It wouldn’t be the first time he had come home in this condition and . . .

But Thomas seemed satisfied with the situation as it was. “So? Where are your snappy answers now? All your fine ideas?”

Perhaps he would have been content just to hurl insults at her if Wanda had not begun coughing again at that very moment. Which reminded him that as well as a willful wife, he had a useless daughter.

“Like mother, like daughter, isn’t that what they say? Lead me around by the nose—you’ll do that too someday, won’t you, you little brat!” Slowly, threateningly, he turned toward the cot.

When Ruth realized what he was about to do, her scream tore through the night air.





11

Marie had often wished she could live inside one of her baubles. Life would be so much simpler there. No hard corners and edges to knock up against. No beginning and no ending. Instead, the light shining through and all the colors of the rainbow playing across the round walls. A paradise of glass.

She had never longed for it so much as in that moment—though her reasons were different now. These days, she wished she could spirit herself away because life outside had become so intolerable, a nightmare that she could only rarely escape.

Her weekly lessons with Peter were an exception, which is why she could hardly wait for eight o’clock.

“I know that it makes me the worst person on earth, but I can’t help it . . . I really feel put upon.”

Instead of blowing glass and talking about designs as she usually did, Marie began pouring her heart out. She felt guilty and helpless, and her feelings were written all over her face.

“Ever since Ruth and Wanda moved in with us, there’s not a quiet corner anywhere in the house. There’s always someone fussing about the place. And I had grown so used to living on my own.”

Peter put a glass of water in front of her. “And there’s still no sign of those two making peace?”

Marie waved a hand. “None at all! Thomas comes over every couple of days, but Ruth won’t even let him in the house. They have words in the doorway—never loud enough that we can hear what they’re saying—then off he stomps. He either looks as though he’s about to burst into tears or he flies into such a rage that he calls her all sorts of names. Johanna and I still have no idea why Ruth suddenly turned up at our house in the middle of the night three days ago. She won’t say a word about it.” She frowned. “He even asked me once whether Wanda is all right. I still don’t know what to make of that. And I have to stay in the Heimers’ good graces. If the old fellow throws me out, then we’re all three of us out of a job. It’s a good thing Johanna saved up a little . . .”

“That’s the last thing you need to worry about,” Peter answered. “Wilhelm Heimer knows very well that he’s not going to find a better painter or a faster worker than you. He even boasts of your skills down at the tavern.”

“Really? He’s never said a kind word to me. He always looks at me as though he can’t wait to get rid of me. As he sees it, the Steinmann sisters have been nothing but trouble to him. All the same . . .” She waved a hand. “Somehow I get along with the old fellow. And Thomas isn’t my problem.”