The Glassblower(38)

By now he knew the letter by heart: just ten lines, no letterhead, not even a complete signature. It began with an insincere inquiry about how he was, and then went straight to the point: they had plans that would outdo everything that had gone before and they were looking for investors. Perhaps, they asked, Friedhelm Strobel would be interested in renewing those old ties that had once pleased him so well.

For years nobody had even taken the trouble to find out where he had vanished to so hastily. Once he had left B., they simply lost interest in him. Only now that they wanted something from him did they suddenly remember who he was. He gave a wry grin, mocking the memories. Wasn’t that just like them?

He had trouble recalling some of their faces. A great deal of time had passed since then, and in all that time his only ambition had been to expose his family’s bourgeois moral standards, to show them that there was far more to him than . . . He still felt sick when he recalled all the insults they had hurled at him back then.

And the truth was that in the ten years he had been working in Sonneberg as a wholesaler, he had made more money than his father had in his whole respectable lifetime. But was anybody interested? No. As far as his family was concerned, he no longer existed. Since nobody had made any inquiries about him, they didn’t know what a brilliant businessman he had become, hidden away here. But what had all this money brought him?

He had become a shopkeeper.

He had lost his freedom.

He looked around wildly at the walls that threatened to collapse and bury him. He was a prisoner among all the wooden toys, glasswork, and useless knickknacks. His clients were the prison wardens, and they made it impossible for him to escape even for a day.

A bitter smile crept across his bloody lips. They had no way of knowing that though. In their world he had a reputation as a man who always got whatever he wanted.

A desire that he had thought long dead stirred within him. In his mind’s eye he saw himself walking along the winding path, between the tall box hedges, to the great wooden door. Three knocks, pause, two knocks, pause, one final knock, and then the door to his heart’s desires was open. Strobel put a hand to his throat as though this could stop the feeling that the walls were closing in on him.

Was it still all as it had been back then? The letter said that the building work proceeded apace. It also mentioned other investors. Might these include anyone he knew?

He need not dwell on that question, he told himself sternly. Certainly he had the money; that had never been an issue! But he couldn’t simply walk away from his wholesale business and risk having his customers turn their backs on him for the competition.

Something warm was dripping onto his hand. Startled, Strobel looked down. Blood. He had bitten his lower lip so hard that it was truly bleeding.

He hurried to the bathroom and dabbed at his mouth with a towel. Then he reached for a comb. He stopped in the middle of tidying the severe part in his hair.

What were their plans, exactly?

He couldn’t imagine anything that could surpass what they had. On the other hand, they certainly had ideas and ambition, he knew that much . . .

He sobbed as he realized that he would have done anything for another visit to B. just then.





19

“I still can’t believe it!” Johanna said, practically in tears. “A bowl of apples and a lot of smarmy words!” She shook her head. “The work itself is your present this year,” she scoffed, mimicking Wilhelm Heimer. “Maybe we were supposed to give him something, from sheer gratitude?”

“But even so, we should be glad to have jobs and wages!”

Johanna shot a glance at Marie. “So now you’re singing from the same sheet as Griseldis! She’s always going on about being grateful. I don’t understand either of you!” She slammed her fist on the table. “It’s not as though Heimer is doing us any favors! He gets our work and our time, doesn’t he? And all for just a few marks!” she spat disdainfully. “He’s earning a pretty penny from Marie’s basket bowls. And he doesn’t even think we deserve a little something for Christmas?” Her voice was wavering again.

It was six o’clock on Christmas Eve. The church bells were ringing for the service, and the three of them should already have put their coats on and left for church. But ever since they had gotten back from work an hour ago, not one of them had stood up from the table. There was only a single candle burning since they hadn’t lit the lamps or made up a fire. Merry Christmas!

“A bowl of apples. To share among the three of us.”

“How many times are you going to say that?” Ruth asked sourly. “He’s our employer, nothing more than that. He’s not obliged to give us any presents. Christmas or no Christmas!” There was an edge to her voice that sharply contradicted her words.