The Glassblower(7)

It was late afternoon. Usually they would be bent over their workbenches at that hour, but the funeral had taken place at two o’clock that day. Although it had been pouring rain, so many mourners had come to the churchyard that Johanna had worried that all the breads and cakes in the house would not be enough for the guests. Most of them, however, had said their good-byes at the graveside and gone back to work. Only their closest neighbors came home with the sisters to drink a cup or two of coffee and reminisce about Joost. They had hung up their wet coats in the front hall, and the hooks almost gave way beneath the weight. Soon the whole house had smelled of wet cloth and great puddles spread out on the hall floor. Widow Grün had helped Ruth in the kitchen, but the two of them could hardly keep the kettle boiling fast enough to make all the coffee. A funeral was thirsty work; everyone knew that. Once all the cakes and sandwiches had been eaten and the air in the house grew fusty, the guests said good-bye, one after another. Peter Maienbaum had been the last to leave. He stood there with his hand on the door handle, looking at the empty workshop as though he still had trouble accepting that Joost had died so unexpectedly.

“It’s so quiet in here all of a sudden.” Marie looked about as though she could hardly believe it was all over.

Johanna nodded. Nobody wanting another cup of coffee, nobody looking at her with concern in their eyes.

“It was so kind of Swiss Karl to bring that glass rose,” Marie said.

The others nodded.

Karl Flein had spent years in the Swiss Alps as a young man, so the other glassblowers called him Swiss Karl. While the others put fresh flowers onto the coffin, he had brought a rose made of glass, which he had blown himself. Johanna couldn’t help but think that a burial was no place for flowers, real or glass.

“And Wilhelm Heimer spoke from his heart,” she said.

“He did,” Ruth agreed. “I got a lump in my throat when he said that he always felt he shared a burden with Father because they both became widowers so young.”

“I was surprised that Heimer came at all. It’s not like him to let the lamp go cold.” Johanna made a face. The gas flames were always burning at the Heimer family home on the hillside, long past when all the other lights in the village were out. Some thought that Wilhelm Heimer worked too hard, while others were envious that he had so many orders to fill. He could take on the extra work because he had three sons, all of them hard workers and skilled glassblowers.

“Why did it have to rain, today of all days?” Ruth complained.

“I would have liked it even less if the sun had been shining,” Marie replied. “Imagine being buried under a clear blue sky with the sun blazing down. No, better to have the clouds weep along with the mourners.”

None of them could think of anything more to say after that. They had talked over all the details while the guests were still there: Father’s death, the burial itself, the turn that the weather had taken after weeks and weeks of sunshine, the way the priest had stumbled over his words at the graveside, so that many of the mourners thought he might have had a little too much of the communion   wine. They’d had enough talk.

Johanna stared at the piles of dishes. The fire was still burning in the oven. She could put some water on to heat, and then wash the dishes. She jumped to her feet before either of her sisters had the same idea. Marie stood at her elbow and pulled each dripping plate from the water, then piled them all up on the table. Once everything was clean, Marie and Ruth dragged the tub of dishwater out into the yard and tipped it out. Johanna began to clear the shelves of the sideboard where they kept their crockery. “High time I gave this a good clean,” she declared when the other two cast questioning glances at her. Ruth picked up her embroidery, and Marie took out the dress that she had begun sewing a couple of days before. Yet no sooner did they have their work on the table in front of them than they folded their hands in their laps and just sat there.

When they finally went upstairs, it was almost completely dark outside. None of them dared to look into the abandoned workshop.



When Ruth woke up the next morning it was still raining. She lit the gas lamp in the kitchen and went to the pantry, just like any other morning, to take out the potatoes they had boiled the night before. She was going to peel them and slice them for the pan. Then she stopped in her tracks, her hand on the china knob of the pantry door.

They hadn’t boiled the potatoes last night.

This was not a morning like any other.

Her eyes stinging, she ran from the kitchen out to the laundry shed. Her arm surged up and down as she pumped water into the basin, working the handle so hard that it clattered and jumped. The water spilled over the basin’s blue enamel rim, but Ruth didn’t notice. She only stopped when it splashed onto her feet. She let out a loud sob, standing there in the damp shed.