The Glassblower(14)

“Johanna!” He held out his arms toward her. “I just heard what a dreadful misfortune has befallen your household! My deepest sympathies!”

Friedhelm Strobel’s handshake was bony and always just a little too firm. The skin around his fingernails was bitten to the quick, seeping blood and even pus in places. Johanna gave him her hand unwillingly and pulled it away as soon as she could.

“I’ve come to sell the last jars that we have,” she said, pointing to the pack. She didn’t want to talk to this man about how Joost had died.

Strobel didn’t seem to take the hint though. “He was such a hard worker, and an excellent glassblower. It’s quite a tragedy that he should have died so young!”

He put a hand on Johanna’s arm, leading her to the table where he had his catalogs laid out for his customers. The polished red wood of the tabletop reflected the chandelier that hung above them. On either side of the table, comfortable armchairs were upholstered with gold and brown brocade. The furniture made the whole room look elegant and prosperous. Johanna had never been invited to sit there before, but today Strobel practically pushed her into a seat. He gazed at her intently.

“We’ll have a look at your jars later,” he said offhandedly.

Johanna had to make an effort not to roll her eyes. She really didn’t have time to listen to one of Strobel’s little speeches. She just wanted her money.

“You barely even knew my father. I hardly think you can be much affected by his death,” she said sharply.

Strobel’s gaze moved from her eyes to her cheeks, then settled on her lips.

“Did I say that I was?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Without quite meaning to, Johanna pushed her chair back a little.

Strobel leaned forward, propped up his elbows and folded his hands as if in prayer.

“I was mostly thinking about what his death must mean for you and your sisters.”

As she noted the look in his eyes, the great sigh he heaved, and the eagerness in his face, Johanna felt her hackles rise. She was ready to snap at him again, but she held back and instead said, “It’s not been an easy time for us. A great deal has changed now that he’s dead.” She held her breath. Perhaps he knew someone who had work for them.

“What would life be like if nothing ever changed? We can’t stop such changes; that’s for certain. But sometimes we can turn the screw a little and make them work for us.” Strobel nodded portentously. “Which is why, my dear Johanna Steinmann, I have an offer for you.”





7

“I would like you to come and work for me. As my . . . assistant.”

Strobel’s words echoed in her ears. Assistant—what a fancy word. Why not say shopgirl, or hired hand? She walked through the streets of Sonneberg as though in a daze, and a thousand thoughts crowded round her, keeping pace. Strobel’s offer had given her a great deal to think about.

At the edge of town, she stopped suddenly. Should she buy a bag of coffee as she usually did? Deciding that they wouldn’t starve to death for want of a few pennies, and that they all deserved a reminder of the good times, she headed for the grocer’s that she visited every Friday. She ignored the silver trays piled high with tempting pastries and the barrels of salt herring. A little while later, she left the shop with a couple of ounces of coffee. The smell of freshly ground beans was an extra treat she could enjoy for free.

As soon as she reached the outskirts of town, the road began to climb gently uphill. Johanna strode on like a sleepwalker. Her thoughts kept going round and round, always returning to the conversation in Strobel’s shop.

He had said that he admired the stubborn way she bargained with him, and he thought that she might turn out to have a good head for business—whatever that might mean.

Her first reaction was to say, “Me? Help you here? I can’t be of any use to you!” But she had paused a moment and stroked the smooth mahogany table with the palm of her hand. Then she had asked, “What kind of work would I be doing for you?” Her voice was flat, toneless. She thought she knew the answer—indeed, she could already see herself polishing the floor. Some work!

“I would make you my right-hand woman,” Strobel had replied. “As I do business with my customers, you will draw up inventory, note down their orders, and then deliver them to the suppliers. The greater part of your work would involve keeping proper records. In a business the size of mine, written records of every transaction are absolutely crucial.” What a pompous tone he had! “I’ve been thinking for some time of hiring an assistant. Perhaps the time has come to make the thought a reality.”