The Glassblower(81)

Over the next few days, she had no time to ponder Strobel’s odd behavior, for shortly after New Year’s a thick envelope with American postmarks arrived at the shop. Johanna peered over Strobel’s shoulder as he opened it and immediately recognized the thin unbleached writing paper with the green diamond letterhead. Inside the diamond was a large W— the letter was from Mr. Woolworth.

Strobel grinned. “He writes that Lauscha glass practically sells itself and that he did a roaring trade over the Christmas season. Damn it all . . .” He frowned deeply as he read on. “He plans to come late summer this year, instead of in May. So he’s asking us to send him the documents to place his order in writing instead.” Strobel shook his head. “That’s just like him. I don’t have these documents lying around by the dozen. Don’t they know in America what a lot of work it is to get this sort of thing ready?”

Johanna laughed. “From all you’ve said about the gentleman, I imagine that he couldn’t care less.”

Strobel sat down at the table, grumbling, and began copying out long passages from his samples books. He wrote out the descriptions in perfect English and added his own remarks and recommendations in the margin, or highlighted certain items by outlining them in red. Johanna helped him by drawing up price lists and applicable discounts. Strobel fretted about putting the documents into the mail since they contained sensitive information that mustn’t be allowed to fall into the hands of his competitors. All the wholesalers in the cutthroat business of toys and glassware made a great secret of their prices, and most discounts and bulk orders were negotiated in person with buyers. But what else could Strobel do? Woolworth was an important customer, and his wishes couldn’t simply be ignored.

A lively correspondence ensued between Sonneberg and Hamburg, where Woolworth’s company had an office by the great harbor, and from where Sonneberg wares were shipped all around the world. The Hamburg office gathered all the necessary documents and then sent them on to Woolworth himself.

Johanna was astonished by how quickly the tycoon answered their letters until Strobel explained that only the sketches and photographs were actually sent by sea, and that ocean transport took only a fraction of the time it had taken even a few years ago because the new steamships had improved propellers. Anything in writing and all the numbers and prices could be sent to America by telegraph. Strobel told her about an undersea cable laid all the way across the Atlantic from Europe to America that carried electrical impulses—whatever they were.

The whole thing sounded too far-fetched to be true, but it evidently worked, since in late January a thick brown envelope arrived at Strobel’s shop containing the order. Not a quarter of an hour later the champagne cork popped. Though Johanna was surprised to find herself a little tipsy at that early hour, she was just as pleased as Strobel. He carried the thick sheaf of paper around in his vest pocket for the rest of the day, humming to himself and cheerfully greeting people he usually wouldn’t even nod at.





40

The next few weeks were turbulent, in Lauscha as well as Sonneberg.

Ruth gave birth to a healthy daughter and baptized her Wanda, Marie spent half her nights at the lamp, and Johanna felt like a fairy godmother.

Thanks to the Woolworth order, she had a whole stack of orders for the glassblowers in Lauscha, the doll-makers in Sonneberg, and various other suppliers. After working for Strobel for more than a year, she knew every family by name, and she knew that many of them lived hand-to-mouth. It gave her a warm glow to think that she helped improve their fate a little. A few months before, she had still been annoyed to find that there was one name that was never on the books: Peter Maienbaum. Peter was as stubborn as a mule and insisted on taking his glass animals to a smaller wholesaler who didn’t have half the contacts that Strobel did. But she was well accustomed to his stubbornness by now.

Johanna was utterly unprepared for the discovery that would shatter all her good cheer in an instant.

She still had about a dozen order sheets to fill in when she came across a line in Woolworth’s order that floored her completely. Glass roses. Three dozen bouquets @ seven roses each. Crimson red. Retail 3 marks 80, she read in the neat typewritten list, to which Strobel had added in his own writing Number 345 and cost 0 marks 40.

That was odd. Johanna frowned. Strobel hadn’t mentioned that he changed his mind and was going to add Swiss Karl’s roses to the product line. Why hadn’t Karl ever said anything to her about it? And then there was the unit cost! Forty pence for such a detailed piece of work? There must be some mistake, but whose? She shook her head as she pushed back her chair and stood up to go look for Strobel. Then she sat down again. Number 345—that isn’t Karl Flein at all!