Was that what people meant when they talked about the way of the world? The days trundling by, one day blurring into the next, unnoticed, uneventful? Going to work, coming home, looking after the child, cooking, cleaning, sleeping. Arguing. Going to work.
“What do you want, child?” Griseldis had asked her with a sigh, when Ruth once ventured to talk about how unhappy she was. “That’s life after all. Be glad of what you have: a husband, a healthy child, and God knows you don’t have to worry about keeping the wolf from the door. You have it a lot better than many others! And believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”
Ruth had only felt worse after this little sermon. Widow Grün was right: on the surface at least, she had a good life.
Her knitting needles stopped clattering for a moment. Ruth frowned. What did they say about superficial appearances? All that glitters is not gold. Scratch the shiny surface and underneath there will be bumps and scrapes or even great gaping holes.
“Be glad of what you have!”
Ruth looked lovingly over at the cradle. Wanda had been a ray of sunshine from the moment she was born. Everybody said so. She almost never cried, she smiled cheerfully at everybody who had time for her, and she had slept through the night when she was only a few weeks old. And she was so pretty! Like her mother. Everybody said that too.
There was only one problem with Wanda. Ruth felt a lump forming in her throat.
She wasn’t a boy.
The knitting needles blurred in front of her eyes. Don’t be a crybaby, Ruth thought but she couldn’t hold back the tears. Soon her shoulders shook with tiny, powerful sobs. She didn’t even care.
When could she give way to the tears otherwise? During the day, in the workshop? Under Eva’s venomous gaze? Eva, who was just waiting for something like this to happen? While Thomas was around? He would enjoy it; that was certain. Or should she cry while she was changing Wanda’s diaper, dripping tears onto her rosy-pink skin?
Thomas had been so looking forward to the child. He’d been bragging all around the village about what a great strong lad he would be, the best of the Heimer and Steinmann lineages. Night after night he and his buddies had drunk toasts to the health of his unborn son.
And then it had happened. The baby that had given her not the least bit of trouble during the whole pregnancy had been born with the worst possible defect that a Heimer man could imagine: it was a girl. He didn’t care one bit that she was healthy, that she had beautiful smooth skin, that her fluffy hair was so soft and blonde that Ruth couldn’t help stroking it all the time. Thomas had taken one look at the child and then turned and left the nursery without a word. He hadn’t come home at all that night. Ruth had tried to convince herself that he was celebrating the birth. But deep down she knew better. When that viper Eva had visited her the next morning—under the pretext of wanting to see the child—she hadn’t even said “What a pretty thing!” but launched straightaway into a hypocritical outpouring of sympathy for her and Thomas. “Not an heir after all, then . . . and Thomas was so looking forward to having a son! And Wilhelm wanted a grandson too. If only the rest of them hadn’t teased him so down at the Black Eagle! They said that Thomas was just like your father and soon the women would be ruling the roost . . . No wonder that a man might drink one or two beers too many, after a disappointment like that! Sebastian tells me that Thomas was so drunk he couldn’t even find his way home. So he brought him over to us. Oh, I wouldn’t like to have his hangover! Wilhelm even gave him the day off work. You can imagine what that must mean.”
Yes, Ruth could well imagine it, even without Eva rolling her eyes and casting meaningful glances her way. Since then, Thomas had been knocking back the booze worse than ever. She tried not to let Eva’s needling remarks get to her, and she told herself that Eva was just jealous because she and Sebastian still couldn’t manage to conceive.
When Thomas had finally come home that night, he didn’t speak a dozen words together, never mind offer her an apology for staying out all night. She had been waiting for him to look into the cradle, or at least to ask how the child was doing, but he had done nothing of the kind.
His brothers were no better, nor was the old man. For them, Ruth’s daughter didn’t seem to exist. It hadn’t helped that Ruth had suggested the name Wanda in the hope that Wilhelm would be happy with the W. Nobody seemed to care in the least what the child would be called.
And then . . .
Thomas had hit her for the first time a week after Wanda was born. And that wasn’t all. Even now, months later, Ruth shuddered when she thought of that evening.