The Glassblower(40)

“Where were we going to get a tree? Ugly Paul always gave it to us along with our winter wood.”

“We never even cut a bough on St. Barbara’s Day. And we could have done that for free,” Marie said.

“True.” Johanna sighed. They had been so busy with work that they hadn’t even thought to go out on December 4 to cut a few boughs from the apple or cherry trees for Christmas Eve. She watched as the pancake began to crisp at the edges. Once it smelled done, she flipped it over.

“A tree! St. Barbara’s boughs!” Ruth spat disdainfully. “What good would a tree do us if we’ve nothing to put on it? Look at us: no nuts, no gingerbread, no candy canes—we’re poor, poor, poor!” And she burst into tears again.

It wasn’t long before Marie joined in. Johanna looked up helplessly from the pancakes. She would have liked to pay a call on Peter, but she couldn’t leave the two of them alone in this state.

As if reading her thoughts, Marie sobbed, “Why isn’t Peter coming over? He’s always been here for Christmas.”

“I don’t know where he is. He wasn’t in church either, although that doesn’t mean anything. He’s never been much of a churchgoer,” Johanna said. “Maybe he doesn’t feel comfortable around us. As the only man among three women . . .”

“You mean because Father’s gone.” Marie shook her head. “Peter was never one to spend all his time with other men. If he were, he’d spend his evenings with the Heimer brothers and all the others at the Black Eagle.”

Johanna silently agreed. She couldn’t remember a time when Peter hadn’t been there for them.

“He’ll come.”

With a flourish, she dished up the first pancake. “So, let’s eat until we get stomachaches. And I don’t want any more talk of men this evening, except perhaps for baby Jesus.”

Ruth looked up, her eyes wet with tears.

“You’re right. We Steinmann girls won’t give up so easily.” She took a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose loudly.

The fire crackled.

They could hear singing from one of the neighbors’ houses, and the sound of a flute.

Joost’s chair was empty, as was the stool for the Christmas tree.

There was no cracking of nuts and no gingerbread crumbs on the table.

“At least it’s warm,” said Johanna, spreading plum jam onto another pancake.





20

None of the sisters were sorry when Christmas Eve was over.

It had begun to snow thick, feathery flakes that melted as soon as they hit the ground. Instead of mantling the landscape in a coat of virgin white, the wet snow turned the streets into a morass. After a hard night’s frost, the ground had become dangerously slippery underfoot. For Johanna and her sisters, the miserable weather was further proof that this Christmas was not like ones past.

Tottering and holding onto each other, the three sisters braved the bitter cold and walked up the steep street to Wilhelm Heimer’s house midmorning on Christmas Day. Sheets of ice had formed on the foundry square, which was empty and abandoned at that time of year. “Careful!” Johanna said, grabbing Ruth by the elbow right as she began to slip.

Marie cast a yearning glance over at the furnaces, which stood neglected in the glass foundry. “If only they would build up the fire again!” she sighed. “I think it’s dreadful when it’s abandoned like this.”

Johanna was longing for spring as well, when the square would be stacked high with wood for the master glassmakers’ fires. The stokers would be calling loudly for more wood to keep the furnaces burning at the high temperatures needed to melt glass, and Peter Maienbaum and his fellow masters would be working night and day in shifts to keep the foundry going. The masters themselves would be working at the melt, each in his own mixing room, fussing over the best possible recipe for each batch, while outside the journeymen would be stretching the viscous lumps of glass into long, thin rods with their tongs. The rods would then be snipped into lengths to make the glass stock that Peter and all the other glassblowers used for their work—and she could watch it all happen, exactly the way it had been done since the glass foundry was opened in 1597 almost three hundred years ago. Johanna was suddenly immensely comforted by the thought that they were all part of this enduring rhythm.

Peter. He had stopped by the previous evening after helping Widow Grün fix a hole in her stovepipe.

“That was a good idea Peter had with the glass animals, wasn’t it?” Johanna said, her words muffled by her scarf.

Children who needed a glass eye fitted often found the procedure very trying. To make the ordeal a little easier for them, Peter had started to blow toy animals out of glass for his younger patients. With a little bird or a dog or a monkey in their hands, they didn’t mind sitting still so much, and Peter could get on with his work. He had brought along three of these animals for Johanna, Ruth, and Marie. Now they stood on the windowsill, where the light showed off the colored glass wonderfully.