The Glassblower Read Free

they were. It made the situation even worse.
    Peter cleared his throat. “I’ll go and fetch some of the men. Then we can begin with th e . . . ”
    Why is it that nobody knows what to say? Johanna thought in a flash of anger as she wiped at her eyes with both hands and her sobs slowly subsided.
    Peter shook her gently by the arm. “It might be a good idea for one of you to go downstairs and put the kettle on. For when people come.”

    A little while later he returned with three men, who clutched their hats in their hands and uttered the customary words of condolence. Peter took charge and led the men upstairs. First they laid the dead body on the floor; then they took the bed apart and carried each piece down the narrow stairs, cursing under their breath. Then they reassembled the bed in the middle of the workshop, and carried the dead man down the stairs. Once he’d been laid out on the bed, the four men sighed with relief.

    When the neighborhood women heard the news, they stopped whatever work they had in hand and came to pay their respects. One brought a dish of mashed potatoes, another a pot of soup, and a third a platter of bread that she had sliced and spread with drippings and sprinkled with salt. The wooden floorboards creaked under the steady tramp of feet while the women bustled about, looking for matches to light the candles, fetching coffee for the men, casting a wary glance at the dead man every now and then.
    Widow Grün from two houses down helped Ruth wash the corpse and clothe it, while Johanna and Marie put fresh linens on the bed.
    One of the neighbors had evidently already told the priest, for they had just finished laying out the corpse when the pastor showed up at the door, followed by two altar boys swinging censers.
    Johanna felt numb as she joined the others in a circle around Joost’s bed while the pastor uttered a few prayers. This can’t be happening, she thought.

    All day long people stopped in to offer their condolences or share the sisters’ vigil for a while. None of them stayed long, for they all had work waiting for them at home. Every face showed relief that they had been spared such a tragedy. Johanna could not blame them for feeling that way. The winter before, there had been a bad outbreak of the flu in Lauscha, and Hannes the bladesmith, who had been almost ten years younger than Father, had died, along with two of the older villagers down the hill. Johanna had had the same thought at the time: Thank God it wasn’t any of us! Every time she came back from Sonneberg and spotted the desolate house with the brass sabre hanging over the door, she always thought of poor Hannes. He had not even had time to marry, poor fellow, he died so young.
    Over the course of the afternoon, Johanna began to squirm. Each hand on her shoulder, each murmured word, each clammy handshake—taken all together, they stung like a bunch of nettles. She was convinced that there was more than just sympathy in the sorrowful looks people cast at her. They were expecting something too. They were excited.
    Three young women without a man to look after them.
    Were people waiting for one of them to collapse in a flood of tears? Or for some other disaster to strike the household? Johanna scolded herself for such uncharitable thoughts. These people were only trying to help as best they could.

3
    It was past seven o’clock when the last guests left. Peter Maienbaum was the only one who offered to share the wake. Johanna hesitated for a moment but declined his offer. It was something that they had to do themselves.
    None of the sisters could even think of eating, so Ruth spread cloths over all the dishes that the neighbors had brought and put them away for later. They sat down at the kitchen table, tired to the bone.
    Johanna got up again and opened the door. “It’s so stuffy in here, you could cut the air with a knife.”
    “It’s the incense.” Marie’s eyes were red with tears.
    “Not just that. All