The Glassblower(28)

“You should be glad to be free of that cutthroat,” Peter said when there was no response from Johanna. “I can still remember the days when your father had trouble buying the glass stock he needed to fill Strobel’s orders!”

“Well, that’s just how it works; the glassblowers have to take on liabilities, but the wholesalers procure the orders. And Strobel is a mastermind at that part of the business,” Johanna answered crisply.

Peter went to the stove, opened the door, and put another log on the fire. “Whatever you say. All the same, I don’t think that you’re so out of sorts today because you miss Strobel.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “To be honest, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Father’s been dead for five weeks now, and it seems like forever. We don’t even have time to think of him. It’s dark when we leave the house every morning and dark by the time we come back home in the evening. And when we get home, the clothes aren’t laundered and there’s no hot meal, and the whole house is dusty and cold!” She looked at Peter reproachfully, as though it were his fault that she was so miserable.

“Somehow it’s not our own little home anymore. It always used to be so warm, with the smell of potatoes cooking . . . But now, we get up, we go to work, we come home, we sleep. That’s all we do. And all for a handful of marks that’s barely enough to keep body and soul together.” Her anger dissipated, though, and she leaned up against the warm oven once more.

She didn’t need to tell him that Heimer was an old miser. Peter had seen it with his own eyes; whenever Heimer paid for drinks at the Black Eagle, he never gave the barmaid so much as a single penny for a tip. And often he sat there all evening with just the one tankard of beer, as though he couldn’t afford a second one. But what could he tell Johanna? Bad as it seemed, the truth was that the Steinmann girls should be glad to have any work at all, no matter how poor the wage. He felt something clench inside him. “If it’s really too little, then tell old Heimer to take a running jump. Come and help me. The money I bring in is enough for two.”

He’d said it at last. Now he held his breath.

When Johanna didn’t answer, he added, “And I’ve got my work at the foundry as well.”

The great ovens down at the foundry square were stoked up to full heat twice a year, and Peter put in his hours there. From September through New Year’s Eve and then March until summer, he filled his own commissions in the evenings after working down at the foundry all day. He even had a certificate granting him the title of Master Glassmaker, though it meant little since he didn’t have his own booth down at the foundry or any journeymen working for him, which had once been the privilege of masters in the guild. Many years ago his family had been among the wealthiest in the village, but through the generations they had had too many sons, and Peter and his brother had inherited nothing but a small share in the foundry. Peter’s brother was dead, but even so, he knew that Johanna knew how little he had.

Johanna shook her head. “Don’t hold it against me, but I couldn’t do the work you do. I can’t even watch when you put the veins into the glass. What you do is wonderful, but it gives me the shivers!” She smiled. “I think that you really have to love your job to do it well. I would probably just get in the way.”

Perhaps she was right, Peter thought to himself. The people who needed his help were usually desperate and railing against their fate. Many of them were in pain and in a state of denial about having only one eye. It wasn’t always easy to get them to trust him. Nor was making the glass eyes an easy job. It was more than glassblowing; for him, it was an art. But as much as he loved his job, he knew it would never make him rich.

“I think we’re just not used to working outside our own home. While Father was still with us, we could do quite a lot of our housework in between other jobs, but we can’t now. The paid work isn’t the real trouble.” Johanna waved a hand dismissively. “It’s hard work of course, but we can manage it. And it’s extraordinary to see the variety of wares the Heimer lads blow at their lamps! I find quite a lot of what they make just horrible,” she laughed, “but they seem to have customers for it all.”

Peter still had no idea why she was so unhappy. “What’s the real trouble then? Is it old Heimer?”

She nodded. “I get so worked up when he creeps up behind us and peers over our shoulders. Does he really think we would spend all day lazing about if he weren’t always checking up on us?” Her eyes gleamed. “And the mess in that place! I tell you, it makes a beehive look neat and tidy. Last week we ran out of paints, this week it was glass stock. He could have sent one of his boys down to the foundry to pick up more, but oh no, the old man put all three of them to work at the packing table. Can you imagine?” She laughed, exasperated. “In the end we had nothing to paint, nothing to silver, and nothing to pack. But”—she raised an eyebrow mockingly—“Ruth was delighted! She got to spend the whole day working side by side with Thomas.” Johanna frowned. “I can’t understand why none of the lads opens his mouth when Wilhelm loses track. Anyone can see that there’s no planning or organization in that house.”