While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) (12 page)

On the following Saturday, Lilo returned to the Black Forest. Frieda was tired, so Josephine and Isabelle accompanied their friend to the train station.

“Your turn to visit me next,” said Lilo, giving both of them a farewell hug.

Josephine watched the train rumble out of the station in a cloud of stinking fumes. Her turn next—if only that were true. She wondered if she would ever see her friend again.

“And then there were two,” she said to Isabelle, sighing deeply, as they left the station.

“Don’t start crying or I will, too!” Isabelle crooked her elbow around Josephine’s and they headed down the busy street arm in arm.

When they were nearly home, Josephine stopped abruptly and said, “Enough moping. I’ve got an idea.”

Isabelle immediately pricked up her ears. “What is it?”

Josephine closed her eyes for a moment and reveled in the images—both enticing and frightening—in her mind:
long streets, broad boulevards, the forests of Grunewald . . .
How many hours in the smithy, how many nights in her bed had she dreamed of it. She was ready to make those images a reality. She took a deep breath and exclaimed, “Let’s cycle through the city!”

“On bicycles?” Isabelle’s eyes widened, at once horrified and fascinated. “But that’s . . . Oh, you’ll really get us in trouble. How could we possibly do it?” She sounded breathless and thrilled.

Jo smiled. She could always count on Isabelle to be part of an adventure.

“We’ll have to take some precautions, of course, but . . . we’ll go tomorrow morning, while the world is still asleep!”

The next morning, it was raining, and the air smelled of wet cobblestones. Jo ran down the street in the dawn light, her father’s old flat cap pulled low over her eyes, her shoulders hunched forward. On the one hand, the weather was ideal for what she had in mind, as Berlin’s residents would certainly not leave their houses unnecessarily on a rainy Sunday morning. On the other hand, the streets would be covered in a slick coating of wet grime and horse manure, which would turn their outing into a slippery one.

Isabelle was already waiting at her gate for Josephine. The two bicycles were leaning against the wall beside her. When they caught sight of each other, they broke into laughter—like Jo, Isabelle was wearing her father’s pants, jacket, and cap. One red lock of hair peeped out from beneath the cap, and Isabelle hurriedly tucked it out of sight.

“I’ve brought something else,” said Jo, as she produced a small piece of coal from her jacket pocket. Before Isabelle could say anything, Josephine drew a thin moustache on her friend’s face, then a black line on her own top lip.

“Now we look like a real pair of fellows, eh?” she said with a grin and threw the piece of coal in the gutter.

“You’re absolutely mad, do you know that? Where are we riding to, by the way?” Isabelle asked, laughing quietly as she pushed the bicycles in the direction of Schlesischer Busch. As they’d hoped, the streets were completely deserted.

“I thought we’d ride out toward Friedrichshain. No one will be out at this hour,” said Jo, getting onto the bicycle. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She hated to think what would happen if they were caught . . .

“You want to ride through the park in Friedrichshain? Through the fields and trees? That sounds boring.” Isabelle shook her head. “I want to ride down the same grand boulevard our emperor uses. Let’s ride over to Unter den Linden. You and me, on bicycles, through the Brandenburg Gate. If we’re going to risk our necks, we might as well make it worthwhile.”

Although Jo held the handlebars tightly and concentrated on riding straight, the Rover’s narrow, solid-rubber tires did not grip the slick cobblestones well. After a few minutes, she was so tense that she could hardly breathe. Isabelle, riding next to her, kept her eyes on the road ahead. Both were thinking the same thing:
What if the front wheel slips and I have an accident?
And so soon after Clara broke her leg? Moritz Herrenhus would bite our heads off!

As they cycled past the Deaconess Hospital, Josephine’s thoughts turned to Clara, who was no doubt still sleeping peacefully behind one of the many windows up there—
if the bulky plaster cast around her leg allows her to get any rest, that is
. Poor Clara. Josephine hoped that neither she nor Isabelle would soon be joining their friend in there.

They turned left onto a street that began to climb steeply but was also drier. Jo’s legs shook with the exertion, and she had her mouth open to get more air into her lungs. Isabelle, riding on Josephine’s left, seemed to be faring no better. Her face was almost scarlet with the effort, but, like Jo, she was gritting her teeth and pedaling on.

After a few more minutes, the burning sensation in Josephine’s legs faded. Her muscles grew accustomed to the unfamiliar work, and they found their rhythm. Jo found herself riding more quickly. The gray tenements flew past like storm clouds, and the air brushed their cheeks like a cool veil, a delicious sensation. Inside Josephine, choirs of angels were positively singing. She was close to taking one hand off the handlebars to pinch herself. Was this all a beautiful dream? Could it possibly be real? She was not riding through the Black Forest; she was riding through her own sleeping city. A sigh that was more a sob escaped her throat. And then she laughed. She laughed loud and pure and long, something she did only rarely.
My God, how wonderful this is . . .

Soon, they saw the Fischerbrücke ahead of them, and beside the wide bridge a few boats bobbed in the water. A flock of seagulls flew up, squawking at the wheeled newcomers. As they drew alongside an inn, with a sign over the entrance that read “Berliner Kindl Brewery,” the door opened and a young man wearing a filthy apron hurled a bucket of water onto the street directly in front of Josephine. Instinctively, she jerked her handlebars to the left, just in time to avoid a collision with the man. Her sudden maneuver almost caused her to run into Isabelle, however, and her friend let out a curse.

“Got a bit of a shock, did we? Keep your legs up round here, y’ fancy snobs!” the guy shouted after them.

To Josephine’s horror, Isabelle stopped and turned around. “Are you blind? Fancy snobs, my foot. You wouldn’t know a girl from a hole in the ground!”

The man from the inn lowered his bucket, his face suddenly transformed into a dumbfounded question mark. “Well, I’ll be! Yous ain’t laddies; you’re ladies!”

“And damn fine ones, too!” Isabelle called, quickly remounting and pedaling off. Jo, who had stopped a little way ahead, did the same. Encouraged by Isabelle’s cockiness, she called back, “Have a nice day!” as she rode away.

They were giggling so much they could hardly ride straight. “Think we’ll end up in the newspaper, like Irene and her friend Jule when they rode through the Tiergarten?” Isabelle asked.

“Probably best if we don’t, OK? So what now? Do we cycle across the Spree, or follow the left bank?”

“Let’s stay left,” Isabelle said.

As they looked at each other, each saw the sparkle in the other’s eyes.

They had just reached the broad boulevard of Unter den Linden when Josephine felt the first warm rays from the rising sun on her back. A pleasant warmth spread through her body. As she rode along beneath the canopy of linden boughs, she was overcome with happiness. When they crossed the broad expanse of Pariser Platz and cycled beneath the Brandenburg Gate, the sunlight lit the way ahead in gold.

They arrived home a good two hours later, and just in time, because the streets were starting to fill with the first pedestrians and churchgoers. Josephine held both bicycles while Isabelle ran to the yard to check that the coast was clear. Then they quietly stowed the bicycles back in the shed.

The two girls shared a conspiratorial look. It had been a success! The breeze had mussed their hair despite their caps, their cheeks practically glowed, and their eyes shone like polished precious stones.

“That was the best thing I’ve ever done in my life,” said Isabelle, and she pressed a kiss to Josephine’s cheek.

Jo, not used to such displays of affection, swallowed and blushed.

They decided right then that they’d do it again as soon as they possibly could, and, with a final embrace, they parted ways.

Chapter Ten

Autumn passed with the usual workaday tedium. Clara was finally able to leave the hospital. After the forced rest and weeks in a cast, her right leg was thinner than her left, but the break had healed completely. At home, a pleasant surprise awaited her. “Father and I have been thinking about you a great deal in the last few weeks. You know we only want the best for you,” said her mother. “And we’ve decided that a year at the home-economics school is enough for you to manage your future husband’s household efficiently. But until that time comes, you will help your father in the pharmacy, just as you have always wanted. Your father will get the extra help he needs, and I can keep an eye on you.”

Clara gazed wide-eyed at her mother. This was the last thing she had expected. It had taken a broken leg to create a miracle.

Isabelle, too, was very busy. Through circuitous connections, Moritz Herrenhus had managed to secure an invitation to the Imperial Court. The evening was entitled “A Rose Ball for Chivalrous Young Men and Blossoming Beauties,” and he planned to attend with his family. Even for a factory owner of good standing like Moritz Herrenhus, such an invitation was unusual, and his excitement was correspondingly great.

“You will meet the very best young men there and have all sorts of entertainment,” Isabelle’s mother exulted to her daughter.

“And if you don’t find a suitable marriage candidate at this ball, you’ll be sorry. I’ve had just about enough of your airs and graces,” her father threatened, tarnishing Isabelle’s enthusiasm in an instant. In the evenings before the ball, she had to spend hours with an aging countess who reeked of mothballs and who was supposed to instruct her and her mother in the most important rules of etiquette for a visit to the Imperial Court. She also had to choose a suitable gift. But the most important challenge of all was finding the perfect ball gown. Isabelle knew that, in this matter, all resistance was futile, so she simply conceded defeat and let herself be primped for the occasion. While an eager dressmaker meticulously took her measurements, she dreamed of the green, tree-lined boulevards that she and Jo had cycled along.

The Rose Ball ended like every other ball: Isabelle danced and flirted and successfully fended off her potential suitors. And her father’s mood did not improve in the slightest.

In Schmied-the-Smith’s workshop, there was less work than in previous years. There were a number of reasons for this: Some of his customers had deserted to the competition. The drivers of the post coach and the local cabs weren’t exactly sensitive souls, but Schmied-the-Smith’s surly attitude had become too much even for them. And several private individuals had either sold their horses or taken them to the butcher. Why go to all the trouble of taking care of a horse if one could get from Point A to Point B more cheaply and comfortably by tram or cab? And then there were all the cyclists . . .

“Oskar Reutter has taken up riding one of them boneshakers, too! That’s why he sold that pretty team of his. With customers like him, I might as well close up shop tomorrow,” the smith grumbled, when he saw the emporium owner cycle past the smithy one day. He glared at the businessman as he pedaled slowly by.

Jo waved to her former traveling companion. “I think it’s good that a man like Oskar Reutter has found a passion for cycling,” she said, knowing full well that she was only provoking her father by talking that way. “If you ask me, we could use more cyclists on the road. They liven up the streets, don’t you think?”

She saw his hand coming and grabbed hold of his wrist before the blow landed.

“Don’t you ever hit me again,” she said, quietly but firmly. She was quaking on the inside, but she forced herself to look her father in the eye. “Felix is dead! And it doesn’t matter how horribly you treat me, you can’t change that. I will never, ever forgive myself for not staying home with him. I made a mistake. But his death was God’s will, not mine! If you want to spend the rest of your days blaming me, I can’t do anything about it. But if I’m supposed to go on working for you, I ask that you at least treat me decently.”

Her father had listened to her outburst in silence.

“Decently! Give me the hammer,” he growled and turned away.

“You’d think you’d have learned something about humility, given the things you’ve done. Instead, you talk back to your father with an arrogance that would make God blush. But I’ll tell you this, God’s punishment will come,” said Josephine’s mother that evening, as she scrubbed an iron pot with a coarse brush. She was shaking with anger as she glared at her daughter.

Josephine returned her mother’s look, unmoved.

“I will take God’s punishment when it’s due. But I will no longer accept Father striking me for nothing—for nothing!—or humiliating me in front of customers. If it happens again, then you can look for another dullard to work herself to death for you for free. I’ll walk out on the spot!” Without another word, Josephine left the kitchen.

As 1890 came to a close and the New Year began, Clara started working in the pharmacy. When the weather began to warm up in the spring, Josephine asked Clara whether she would like to go out riding with Isabelle on one of their early morning outings. But Clara shook her head. She had more important things to do. Like thinking about the best combination of scents for soap, for example. She didn’t understand her friends’ ongoing obsession with such lunacy as cycling.

The summer of 1891 was a carefree, happy time. Josephine and Isabelle met at the gate to the Herrenhus villa in the early morning as often as they could. Now, when they saw each other in men’s clothes in the pallid predawn light, they no longer giggled or teased each other. Their fathers’ fusty old pants and jackets gave them the freedom to ride through the city incognito. They eventually began hiding the clothes where they would always be handy, behind a pile of junk in the same shed as the bicycles. If Isabelle had been to a social event the night before and was too tired to go out riding so early in the morning, she always left the gate ajar so that Josephine could get into the shed alone.

Jo had become so attached to Moritz Herrenhus’s Rover that she now almost considered the bicycle to be her own. Her sense of ownership was only reinforced by the fact that Herrenhus was too busy to ride the bicycle himself.

In the early days, she had only cared about the act of cycling itself. Now, though, she often found herself crouched beside the Rover for a few minutes, trying to work out the mechanics behind the machine. The drive mechanism struck her as an engineering marvel, and she was captivated by the ingenious steering mechanism that started at the handlebars and ended down below at the head of the forks. Who had invented such a thing?

When she asked Isabelle whether the factory that made the Rover had supplied them with some sort of description along with the bicycle, Isabelle told her, “It actually came with quite a thick booklet, with descriptions of all the parts and a lot more. The text is all in English, though. And Father keeps it in his office with all his other paperwork, so I can’t get my hands on it, if that’s your question.”

Josephine frowned. “Do you have any idea where else I could find a book or some sort of brochure about bicycles?”

“If there’s anything about cycling in print, you’re most likely to find it at the big bookstore on Alexanderplatz.”

Josephine had not so much as opened a book since her time in the Black Forest, and she had never been inside a bookstore in her life. But she was now determined to visit the one on Alexanderplatz as soon as she could get there. Cycling was a wonderful thing. But there was more to it than just riding, and that had begun to interest her just as much.

“It’s so ugly here. Everything’s just different shades of gray,” said Isabelle as they rode through the Stralau district one morning. It was July, and the day promised to be hot. It had not rained for almost two weeks, and the ground and air were parched and dusty. “Not a bit of green anywhere. And there aren’t any shops, or even a workshop. And there’s all these grim-looking characters loitering about. If you ask me, it’s spooky.”

“Those people aren’t loitering about. They
live
here. And they have to work very hard to get by,” said Josephine, with unaccustomed passion. She had a tremendous respect for working-class people. She pointed with her chin toward the multistory tenements where factory workers lived in cramped quarters. With dour faces and hunched shoulders, they were making their way to the factories, casting the girls on their boneshakers hostile glances as they passed.

“Whatever,” Isabelle replied. She was pedaling hard, and it was clear she wanted to get out of this bleak neighborhood as quickly as she could. “What if we have a breakdown here? They look so unfriendly they’d probably stone us.”

“First, the bicycles are so well made that we haven’t
had
any breakdowns yet. And if a screw were to come loose, you wouldn’t need to worry. I’ve brought tools along. I can take care of any minor repairs myself,” said Jo with confidence, although she desperately hoped that her father would not notice the missing tools—and that they would be the right ones in an emergency.

“Since you’re part of the working class, I’m not surprised you like these places,” said Isabelle, who was evidently in a quarrelsome mood. “But don’t expect me to get my hands dirty. I’d much rather cycle past the fancy houses in the elegant parts of town. The streets are much cleaner and in better condition. We wouldn’t have to worry about ripped-out cobblestones or the ruts left by the heavy wagons. Then I could show you where the rich people live.”

I couldn’t care less about that,
thought Josephine, but she said instead, in a conciliatory tone, “Let’s take a detour through the zoo.”

Isabelle’s expression brightened instantly. While most of the city still slumbered, the wildlife behind the walls of Berlin’s famous zoo was already wide awake. The shrill cries of birds, trumpeting of elephants, and animal noises that Josephine could not ascribe to any particular beast pierced the morning air. The place smelled of hay and adventure.

“Let’s see if there’s a hole in the fence somewhere. If there is, we can sneak inside and pay the elephants a visit.”

Josephine sighed. It was not the first time Isabelle had come up with an idea for a daring escapade. Sometimes, riding wasn’t enough for her. For Jo, though, such skylarking was pointless. She would much rather use the little time they had for cycling.

“It’s amazing how free it makes you feel, isn’t it? It’s like you don’t have a care in the world,” Isabelle said as they approached the zoo, and there was a kind of awe in her voice.

Jo nodded. She knew exactly how her friend felt as the world flew past.

They did, in fact, find a hole in the fence of the Zoological Garden. Isabelle, who was a little shorter than Josephine, slipped through first and did a little joyful dance on the other side. When Josephine tried to follow her, she caught herself on a broken wire and ended up with a bloody arm and elbow. She waved it off as little more than a scratch, but they decided to postpone their visit to the elephants.