The Glassblower(61)

She didn’t know where to look. There was such eager anticipation on the faces all around. As though they were enjoying the spectacle.

Ruth had never felt so humiliated in her whole life. But all the same, she wanted everyone to see how well suited she and Thomas were to each other. She wanted the other women to envy the future Mrs. Heimer.

After that it all happened much too fast: Thomas swung his fist and hit Peter. Later, Ruth would still wonder how he had even managed to do such a thing in his condition. Peter hesitated for only a moment and then hit back. The women leapt aside, shrieking. The other men’s eyes gleamed, and suddenly they decided that someone had knocked over a beer, or jostled them, or simply looked at them wrong—and those became reasons enough for a brawl. Without any warning, it was in full swing.





30

“So how was your sister’s engagement? Or rather, I should ask: How was the May dance?”

Johanna had hardly taken off her jacket and Strobel was already hurling questions at her. Usually he wasn’t the least bit interested in what she did in her free time in Lauscha, so she was not ready for his interrogation.

Strobel sniggered. “Let me guess,” he said, putting his finger to his lips in an exaggerated gesture. “The music was awful, the dance itself was provincial, and everyone was horribly drunk by the end. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that the engagement was a fiasco because the groom-to-be was drunk!”

Johanna’s cheeks flushed.

“If you really must know, it was absolutely horrid! I’m sorry I even went,” she said vehemently, as though Strobel had talked her into it. She tried to ignore the look on his face, which unmistakably said I told you so. The best thing was to forget the whole weekend as quickly as possible.

“Did Mr. Woolworth come in the end?”

Strobel nodded. He had the look of a cat that’d gotten into the herring tub on the sly.

“Here’s his order. It must be dealt with today.”

Johanna reached unsuspectingly for the list, a standard form that detailed the articles a client wanted, the suppliers, prices, and delivery deadlines. She found herself holding not one sheet of paper but three, and one more had dropped to the floor.

There was no way that all this could be just one order.

She picked up the sheet that had fallen and gazed at the pages incredulously. Dolls, toys, glassware, wood carvings—this man Woolworth seemed to want everything they had to offer. She swallowed when she saw what was written on one line.

“Five hundred Parisian dolls?”

Strobel grinned in response to her astonishment.

Johanna leafed through the list, reading each item silently to herself. When she looked up again, her face showed a whole range of conflicting emotions; she was speechless at the quantities involved, baffled by some of the wares on the list, and shocked at the final cost. She had to check three times before she could accept the sum involved. Holding the sheets in her hand, she went across to the catalog table and sat down.

Strobel followed her and sat down too.

For a moment Johanna struggled to collect herself. When she looked up and said, “Why wasn’t I here? Woolworth must really be a man of great standing. Who else could be sure of selling such quantities?” She pointed quite at random at a line of the order.

“Two hundred Sonneberg dolls, the ‘babe-in-arms’ model. Heinrich Stier will weep tears of joy when we give him the order.”

“I told him from the start that he’d score a success with that style of doll,” Strobel said dismissively. “Where else in the world do dolls have that same rosy glow on their little faces? Nowhere!” he said, answering his own question.

“His visit must have lasted for hours. Did Sybille Stein manage to come by and look after you? And his assistant? Did he . . .” She flushed at the thought that it should have been her job to make coffee for the American customers.

Strobel interrupted her with that odd laugh of his. “If I were to tell you every detail of my client’s visit, which I will grant you was certainly quite remarkable, then we would be sitting here just as long as Woolworth and I sat together.” He took her hand with his bony one.

She was just about ready to let him call her “My dearest Johanna,” thinking that she would get to hear one or two anecdotes, but then Strobel said, “You never get a second chance in life!” He sighed, then clapped his hands together theatrically. “If I had not considered your presence in Sonneberg . . .”

Johanna wished fleetingly that Strobel had simply ordered her to stay, rather than letting her take the time off. Then she scolded herself for such childish thoughts. She had no choice but to sit there and hear him preach about missed opportunities and making the wrong decision. But she consoled herself with the fact that at least he had let go of her hand.