The Glassblower(39)

“If that’s the case, then why are you so upset?” Marie asked.

Ruth spat out, “I get tired of listening to Johanna moan on and on!”

“She’s probably upset because her darling turns out to be just as much of an old skinflint as his father!” Johanna said in an uncharacteristically sharp tone. “Haven’t you chosen a lovely family to marry into?”

“When it comes to family, old Heimer isn’t the least bit mean—you should have seen all the things he bought for Eva! We . . . it’s just that we’re not family. But I did get something from Thomas, something very nice even,” Ruth said, making a face at her sister.

“And where is this present? Why don’t you show it to us?” Johanna challenged her.

Marie looked from one to the other. “Must we squabble like this? It’s Christmas after all. If Ruth doesn’t want to show us her present, then”—she raised her hands helplessly—“then that’s fine! I can understand that she might want to have something to keep for herself, just for once.”

Ashamed, Johanna looked down at the table. Marie was right. She sighed. All of this was only happening because she was so upset.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice, and reached out to take Ruth’s hand.

“Leave me alone!” Ruth snatched her hand away, and then began sobbing loudly.

“What is it? For heaven’s sake, Ruth, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Johanna looked aghast at the miserable, huddled figure beside her. Merry Christmas one and all, she thought. If only Peter would come and visit.

“I . . . it’s got nothing to do with you, and nothing to do with the Heimers,” Ruth sobbed.

Johanna and Marie looked at one another. They thought they knew what Ruth was feeling. This was the first Christmas without Father.

“We miss Father too,” Marie whispered. “I miss him so much I sometimes get chest pains.”

Ruth looked up, her eyes heavy with tears. She went over to her bag and fumbled about inside it. Then she came back to the table and put something down with a clatter.

“My bowl!” Marie called out. “How did that get here? What does that have to do with Father?”

Then she added incredulously, “Is that your Christmas present from Thomas?”

It was dead quiet for a moment.

Ruth nodded and buried her face in her hands again. “Pretty, isn’t it?” she asked, her shoulders shaking.

It took a moment for Marie and Johanna to realize that the tears running down Ruth’s cheeks were tears of laughter. And, her laughter was contagious—hysterical, out of control, liberating. They laughed until they could taste salty tears on their lips and only stopped when they were out of breath.

Ruth picked up the bowl and turned it around in the candlelight. “He whispers one endearment after another in my ear, and then he’s so thoughtless he just picks up one of a hundred pieces in the workshop! ‘I’m sure you’ll especially like this, your sister painted it after all,’ ” she said, imitating his tone as she repeated his words. “I didn’t know what to say! Not that I don’t like your painting, please don’t misunderstand me,” she said, turning to Marie.

Marie waved a hand.

“It’s just that . . . somehow I was expecting more. Something just for me. A token of his love, so to speak.” Ruth was fighting back tears again. “He couldn’t understand why I wasn’t jumping for joy! By the time we said good-bye, he even looked offended.”

“Men!” Johanna said dismissively. Why couldn’t Ruth work out for herself that this dumb cluck wasn’t the man for her? That he wasn’t in the least bit like the knight in shining armor she used to dream of?

Marie added, “Men from the Heimer family in particular!”

And because they didn’t want to cry, they laughed again until their sides hurt.



When they got home from church, Johanna marched over to the stove and built a fire. Then she put everything she could find from the pantry onto the table: bread, butter, a jar of honey, and some plum jam that Griseldis had given them. And finally, too, the apples that Wilhelm Heimer had presented with such a flourish, as though they were worth their weight in gold.

“Now don’t sit about like a pair of moaning minnies!” she said to her sisters. “We’ll get through the evening somehow.” Then she shook flour into a bowl. She cracked a couple of eggs into it, added some milk, and stirred up the batter.

“We can have pancakes with honey or plum jam,” she said as brightly as she could.

“No Christmas tree. Not even a bough.” Ruth was staring at the stool where they had put the tree every year.