Authors: Petra Durst-Benning
11
“Are you sure you want to go? He could have come here to see you anytime he chos
e . . .
” Johanna put her hands on Wanda’s shoulders to lend her confidence. Her fingers were so cold from shoveling snow that Wanda could feel it right through her woolen dress. She could hear Magnus cursing from outside, where he had taken over the shoveling from Johanna. It had snowed a good eighteen inches during the night, and there were endless mounds of snow to be shoveled aside before anybody could get out of the house.
“He didn’t, though,” Wanda answered bluntly. “I don’t mind taking the first step. And Christmas is a good time to do it, surely?” She pointed to the linen bag where she had stowed her presents for her father, Uncle Michel, Eva, and Wilhelm, who was sick in bed. There was nothing extravagant there, just little gifts—some handkerchiefs for the men and a bottle of schnapps each, which Uncle Peter had advised her to go and buy in the village store. Eva would get a silver locket that Wanda had bought at a silversmith’s off Fifth Avenue. She was the kind of woman who was sure to like getting jewelry.
“I just don’t want you t
o . . .
” Johanna broke off rather helplessly.
“To be disappointed?” Wanda laughed dryly as she knotted her headscarf firmly under her chin. “I know quite well that Thomas Heimer is not going to fling his arms around me and weep for joy. He probably won’t be very happy to see me. But I don’t care. I just want to meet the man whom I might, under other circumstances, have called father. Please don’t worry about me.” She was almost at the door when she turned around. “There is one thing, thoug
h . . .
”
“Yes?”
Wanda felt her cheeks flush red. “How on earth should I talk to him? I mea
n . . .
I don’t want to sound like a snob by speaking standard German, but if I try to speak the local dialect I’ll just make a fool of myself and he’ll think I’m making fun of him.”
Johanna laughed. “If that’s your biggest problem then just calm down! Thomas Heimer won’t feel you’re looking down on him if you speak standard German. We may be from Lauscha but we know our own language, thank you.”
The streets of Lauscha were busier than usual that day. People were out and about, though not because they were carrying glassware or materials to and fro. Rather someone in front of every house was shoveling a pathway to their front door; soon enough the snow was piled up like mounds of cotton candy on the narrow sidewalks and in the street. Wanda kept sinking ankle-deep into the snow. Then came the moment when the snow crept its way in over the top of Wanda’s boots and was promptly melted by her body heat. A chill trickle of icy water ran down her ankles and soaked her socks.
By the time she got to the abandoned foundry, she was so exhausted that she toyed with the idea of turning around. She was worried she might get sick again, but she took off her headscarf all the same to wipe away the sweat that had pooled at the nape of her neck. Then she bundled the scarf up and stuffed it carelessly into her bag. She looked up the hill to the upper edge of the village. What if it was even worse up there? What if nobody had even started clearing the snow away in front of the Heimer house?
These were all excuses, she decided. This was no time for second thoughts. She had been born in Lauscha, for goodness’ sake, and she wasn’t going to let a little snow scare her. She marched on, her knees trembling.
Wanda had played through the moment a hundred times in her mind. Had tried to steel herself for the wave of emotion that she expected would break over her. She was quite convinced that it would affect her deeply; after all, didn’t they say that blood was thicker than water? She had made up her mind on one thing, though: however this first meeting with her father played out, she wouldn’t lose control of herself. She had made sure to consider every conceivable outcome, even the most terrible. Her father might slam the door in her face. He might swear at her. He might let her in and then treat her with cruel indifference. Or they might just end up sitting in painful silence for lack of having anything to talk about. Wanda had even prepared for that possibility, and had a little list of topics for conversation; first the weather, then what plans they had for Christmas, what she had seen of Lauscha so fa
r . . .
Perhaps she would even be able to steer the conversation around to the glassware that the Heimer workshop made—it would certainly help break the ice if she said a few words of praise. And if she really couldn’t find anything else to talk about, she could ask after her sick grandfather.
Sometimes, when she was feeling especially softhearted, Wanda imagined that they would both burst into tears and fall into one another’s arms.
There was only one thing she hadn’t prepared herself for: that when she set eyes on Thomas Heimer she would feel nothing. Nothing at all.
The man who opened the door to her, dressed in a work smock and a faded old pair of pants that were going baggy at the knees, was a complete stranger. He was of middling height and pale with gray stubble. His eyes flickered just once when he saw Wanda standing there, and then it was as though two doors slammed shut. His expressionless gray eyes looked out at her from under bushy eyebrows that were creeping together to meet in the middle. There were fine wrinkles in his thin face that made him look rather ill. Nothing about this sickly, aging man even remotely resembled Ruth’s description of the good-looking youth she had fallen in love with once upon a time, the broad-shouldered fellow with the wicked laugh.
Wanda had recently read a novel about the American Civil War, in which the heroine meets her father again after having believed him dead for years. The author had described the moment by saying she “felt as though she were looking at her own reflection.” Wanda waited in vain for any such feeling; try as she might, though, she detected no familiar features in Thomas Heimer’s face.
Was this even the right man, standing before her? Or was this his brother Michel? She peered unobtrusively downward. This man had both of his legs, s
o . . .
She had to fight back a nervous giggle when she realized how ridiculous the situation was.
“Why is your hair like that? Did you have lice, or what?”
Thomas Heimer jerked a hand toward Wanda’s short hair. Then he turned and shuffled back into the house, leaving the door open as if to say,
Come in or stay outside, it’s all the same to me.
In a daze, Wanda followed him along a dark hallway, up some stairs, and into the kitchen. So this was the house where she had spent the first year of her life—the thought meant nothing to her. She cleared her throat to get rid of the feeling that her vocal chords were furring over.
“Thought you were never coming. You were ill, though.” Thomas Heimer sat down on the corner bench without offering her a place. Then he reached over to the stove where a pot was clattering its lid and pushed it aside.
“Eva!” he shouted, then said to Wanda in a normal voice, “What do you want?”
Wanda blinked. The air in the room was very stuffy, and there was an odd smell. She glanced over at the window involuntarily and saw that it was blocked by great drifts of snow that made it impossible to let in any fresh air.
“What do I want? I wanted to see you. Visit you, that is,” she said in a little-girl voice. She scolded herself the next moment for using that tone—she sounded like a baby, not like a grown woman in search of her roots. Without thinking about it, she sat down opposite him.
“You seem to know all about me,” she said in response to his last comment. “Yes, I was ill for a few weeks; otherwise I would have come earlier.” Even as she spoke, she was thinking desperately about what she could say next. All of a sudden things were very different from any of the scenarios she’d imagined. She certainly wasn’t going to blurt out that she’d only recently learned he was her father. She felt no desire at all to bare her soul to this man, with his chapped lips and rough manners. What she really wanted to do was get up and leave.
She had nothing to say to him, and he had nothing to say to her.
Coming here had been a hideous mistake—nothing more than that. Yet another of her silly ideas.
Just like the thought that she might be of some use to Johanna and her family—laughable!
“I know it doesn’t matter to you whether you see me or not. There’s no reason you should want to, so let’s not bother pretending. Let’s just keep it short.” She got up. “Here are a few things I brought. Christmas presents. There’s something there for the others too.”
The presents, all neatly done up in shiny wrapping paper, looked out of place on the shabby wooden table.
Another mistake,
Wanda thought with a sinking feeling. Her fingers were gripping the edge of the table so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.
Heimer was still sitting hunched over on the bench. Though his face was expressionless, he had a nervous air about him.
He looks like a stray dog, Wanda thought. He looks like nobody’s taken care of him for so long that he’s forgotten even the simplest rules for how to behave around people.
Her father.
A stranger. A man for whom she felt nothing, except a twinge of pity.
All at once her heart was almost bursting with love for the man who had taken Thomas Heimer’s place eighteen years ago. She saw her stepfather vividly in her mind’s eye—Steven in his elegant suits, Steven sitting at the wheel of his beloved new car, Steven surrounded by his business friends and rivals. Wanda’s cheeks flushed with shame. Steven had always been there for her, had always forgiven her silly mistakes. How ungrateful she had been! Ever since she had found out when and where she was born, she had treated him like dirt, ignored his feeling
s . . .
yes, almost laughed at him for feeling hurt—as though she were asking,
What right do you have to expect me to love you?
There were loud steps on the stairs. Whoever was coming was panting and short of breath. Wanda suddenly found the thought of meeting another member of this family almost unbearable.
“I don’t want to impose any longer. You must have plenty to do in the worksho
p . . .
” She didn’t wait for Heimer to reply but turned to go. Too late. A shadowy figure appeared in the hallway and a harsh female voice spoke up.
“Wilhelm’s being quite impossible today, again! I’ve only got one pair of hands. I can’t spend all my time at his beck and call! Michel’s called for me three times already this morning as it i
s . . .
”
Eva stopped in the doorway, rooted to the spot. Her eyes darted from Thomas to Wanda and back again.
“I thought I heard something!” She folded her arms in front of her, came closer, and looked at Wanda with a beady eye. “Well look at this, it’s the American gir
l . . .
”
“Hello, Eva.” Wanda managed a thin smile despite the unfriendly stare. She wasn’t going to let this haggard old woman get the best of her. Eva was as old as her mother but seemed worlds away from the provocative temptress in Ruth’s tales. And what was she cooking in that pot?
Eva went to the stove and took the lid off. A cloud of steam shot up, accompanied by an odd smell. She took out something small and bony that Wanda could have sworn was a squirrel.
“I’ll see myself out,” Wanda gasped out as she tried not to breathe through her nose.
“Oh no you won’t!” Thomas Heimer sat up straight. “You’ll drink a cup of coffee with us now that you’re here. Otherwise people will say we never offer our guests anything! Eva, put the kettle on. And bring some bread and something to go with it.”
Now that she’d lost her chance to beat a hasty retreat, Wanda had no choice but to sit back down at the table with her father. Eva glowered as she thumped cups and plates down on the table, and Wanda tried to make conversation.
She mentioned how excited she was about all the snow. Was it going to stay like this all the way through till spring, she asked, although she knew the answer already.
Thomas Heimer asked how her journey had been and what she thought of Lauscha, then listened to Wanda’s answers without any real interest while he drank his coffee. He seemed determined for her to notice how little he cared.
“Johannes took me to meet a few glassblowers so that I could see for myself how many different wares are made in Lauscha.” She laughed, embarrassed. “To tell the truth I liked the marbles best of all. So many colors in one tiny piece of glass!”
“Old Marbles Moritz knows his work,” was all Heimer said.
“And what’s going on in your workshop?” Wanda asked. As she spoke she realized that the question really mattered to her. Perhaps if Thomas Heimer started to talk about his work, he might prove to be a little more like the man she had imagined he would be. So far the man sitting across the table had shown no signs of being the talented glassblower Marie had described with such admiration. Nor did he seem at all like the charming rogue her mother had talked about. Instead Thomas Heimer seemed fragile.
“Next to nothing, if you really want to know,” Eva said, joining in the conversation for the first time. “We’re just about keeping the wolf from the door, but not for much longer! If you and your mother think you can get your hands on anything worth having, she was wrong to send you here. Sh
e . . .
”
“Eva, shut yer mouth! That’s not why Wanda came,” Heimer snapped at her.
Aha, what was going on here? Wanda looked at Heimer, and just for a moment their eyes met.
“You’ll have heard by now that Michel’s not much use any longer,” Heimer said, nodding vaguely toward the hallway. “He has to lie down most of the time. Has what they call phantom pain. And Father hasn’t left his bed for weeks now. Back in summer he still insisted on spending an hour or two in the workshop every day.”
Was she expected to reply? Wanda decided the best thing to do was lend an open ear. She had just drunk the last sip of coffee when Eva snatched her cup away from her.
“Don’t you pretend you miss having Wilhelm there while you work,” she spat over her shoulder from where she stood at the sink. “We haven’t had any decent orders for three months—
that’s
the trouble!”