The Glassblower(3)

Like all the other glassblowers, they worked on commission for a wholesaler in the nearby town of Sonneberg. Friedhelm Strobel had customers all around the world and always told the Steinmanns that he would happily buy more of their jars and tubes. Joost was the only glassblower in the house, however, and they couldn’t make more pieces even if they wanted to. The men at the Black Eagle were always telling Joost that a hardworking son-in-law would be a great help, but he waved them away. He loved to tell them all: “My girls don’t have to marry—not for money, that’s for sure!”

Ruth sighed, put down her cup, and went back to the stove. She lifted the heavy cast-iron pan effortlessly and put breakfast on the table. “Enough is enough! I’m going to see where . . .” She fell quiet when she saw that Johanna had appeared in the doorway. She was even paler than usual, and her eyes were wide with shock, as though she had seen the devil himself in the hallway. She held one hand in front of her mouth and seemed to be stifling a scream.

“Johanna! For heaven’s sake! What’s wrong?” Marie called out.

Ruth felt a lump in her throat. Two hands, cold as ice, gripped her heart and squeezed. She knew that something dreadful had happened. She couldn’t say a word.

“It’s Father . . .” Johanna said, her brow furrowed with worry. “He’s just lying in bed up there. He’s not moving at all.”





2

Whenever Johanna recalled that morning, she always thought of the story of Sleeping Beauty. Marie sat where she was, utterly still, her mouth half open. Ruth was caught between table and bench, half standing, half sitting. And Johanna herself couldn’t step away from the doorway where she stood. It was as though all three of them had turned to stone, as though they could keep the horrible truth at bay if they didn’t move.

Marie was the first to break the spell. She ran up the stairs to Joost’s bedside. Her scream tore through the quiet house and silenced the few birds that still sang outside. Johanna and Ruth stared at one another over the frying pan on the table. Then they rushed upstairs.

The wooden treads of the staircase were pale and polished from years of use, but that morning they blurred into thin yellow stripes before Johanna’s eyes. She tasted something salty at the corner of her mouth, and only realized then that tears were streaming down her cheeks. She could do nothing to stop them—or the thoughts that crowded unbidden into her mind.

Father was dead.

Should they call the doctor from Sonneberg? No, a doctor was no use.

A priest. They needed a priest.

And they would have to wash him. Dead bodies had to be washed. And laid out.

A sob burst from Johanna’s throat, so scorching hot that it hurt.

Marie folded Joost’s hands together on his chest. Thank God his eyes were already closed when Johanna had found him. If one of them had had to shut his eyes . . . She couldn’t bear to think about it.

Joost was not even fifty years old. And he’d been in the best of health. Other than the occasional backache, he’d been fit as a fiddle.

“He looks so peaceful,” Marie whispered, smoothing out the bedclothes over him. His body looked much smaller beneath the covers than it had in life.

On tiptoe, as though not to wake him, Ruth crept across to the other side of the bed, leaned over her father, and looked at his face. There was no sign that he had felt any pain.

“Maybe he’s just asleep? More deeply than usual?” Though touching Father didn’t feel right, she tentatively placed a hand on his forehead. She was surprised to find that his skin was not ice-cold the way the stories said. Nor was it damp, or even dry. But the bones beneath the skin were unyielding as Ruth passed her fingers over his face.

Rigor mortis had already set in. Ruth began to cry. Marie was already in tears, and Johanna sobbed loudly.

“But why? I don’t understand!” The lump in her throat swelled, and it was hard to breathe. “How can Father just die in his sleep like this?” Johanna called out plaintively.



But nothing could alter the truth of it. His heart had simply stopped beating as he slept. Johanna went next door to fetch Peter Maienbaum, who was just as shocked as Joost’s daughters when he heard the news. He told them that Joost had seemed to be in fine spirits the night before and showed no sign of being the least bit sick. He’d been laughing along with everybody else at Stinnes, the local joker.

“You know what Stinnes can be like. He’s a loudmouth, but he can keep the whole tavern roaring with laughter,” Peter said distractedly.

Johanna waved this away. She had no time for jokers now.

“We’ll have to lay Father out,” Johanna said. Her voice was flat and calm, as though she were talking about setting the table.