While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) (14 page)

“I don’t know . . . What if we were to run into a bunch of drunken nighthawks? Or cross paths with one of the gentlemen my parents have introduced me to? Or have a breakdown in the middle of the night?”

“Oh, come on, you’re not normally such a fraidycat. I think a nighttime cycle out to Wannsee lake could be great fun,” said Jo, challenging her friend. “Or have you been deceiving me all this time?”

Isabelle snorted. “I know full well that you’re just talking like that to bait me. But you’re right. Life is too tedious to let even one adventure slip away. Let’s go out tonight!” She held out her hand to Josephine, who grinned and shook on the deal. But as Jo tried to take back her hand, Isabelle held it tightly. Her eyes flashed roguishly, and she said, “But just so one thing’s clear. If we’re going out to Wannsee lake in the dark of night, then we’re going to take a swim there, too!”

Isabelle claimed that any respectable dinner or dance would be long over by one in the morning, so that would be a good time to take off. Because Josephine had no alarm clock, and because she was afraid she’d fall asleep, she didn’t so much as close her eyes that evening. When the church clock struck midnight, she was sitting in her room, fully dressed, waiting for the next hour to pass. Her escape route was the same as always—she would simply creep quietly downstairs as if she had to visit the bathroom, then disappear out the back door. Still, when she finally set off, her heart was beating harder than usual.

The night was bright and clear, the moon high in the sky as Jo waited impatiently at the entrance to the Herrenhus villa. To Jo’s relief, Isabelle appeared a moment later, pushing the two bicycles in her direction. She seemed in high spirits and not nearly as timid as Jo felt herself. Instead of a chatty greeting, they simply exchanged a quick look. They were about to leave the yard when Josephine stopped. “Do you smell that? It smells like your mother’s perfume. Are you sure no one followed you?”

Isabelle laughed softly. “You idiot. You’re smelling the white moonflowers that grow around the pavilion in the garden. They only give off their sweet perfume at night.”

“Ah,” said Jo meekly. Then she held Isabelle’s arm tightly. “Are you sure you know how to get there?”

Her friend nodded. “We ride past the Tiergarten, then, like it or not, we have to go through Charlottenburg. From there, it’s not far to Wannsee lake. Now come on, before
I
chicken out, too!”

The streetlights in Luisenstadt had all been extinguished hours before, giving the city a spooky feeling. It was all incredibly captivating. Josephine felt as though they were cycling along unknown roads. Her initial anxiety dissolved with the first push of her foot on the pedal, and her senses grew sharper than ever. She loved the sensation of the air flowing past like someone stroking her naked arms. The silhouettes of the houses, standing out in a clear, deep black against the lighter sky, looked as if they had been drawn with a sharp quill. The scent of moonflowers filled the air.

As they approached the center of Berlin, they crossed paths with pedestrians and carriages—more than either of them had anticipated. But the night owls were too busy with their own affairs to pay much attention to who they would assume were two young men on bicycles. Josephine soon realized that riding at night was infinitely better than doing so in the early morning.

“See up there on the left, halfway up the hill? That’s the Reichsgarten restaurant. Father has taken Mother and me there to eat a few times,” said Isabelle when they had crossed from Charlottenburg into Pichelsberg. “I’d say we’re about ten minutes from Wannsee lake.”

“That’s good. My legs are starting to get heavy,” Jo replied. She took one hand off the handlebars to wipe the sweat from her brow.

“Same. We’re out of practice,” Isabelle puffed.

At the shore of the lake, Isabelle dropped her bicycle in the grass and pulled off her scratchy, sweat-soaked woolen clothes. Dressed only in her bodice and underwear, she tiptoed into the water.

“I can hardly wait to cool off. What’s keeping you?” she called back to Jo over her shoulder.

But instead of following Isabelle into the water, Jo remained motionless on the shore. In a voice heavy with feeling, she said, “How the lake shimmers in the moonlight! I’ve never seen anything so lovely . . .”

“Now don’t go getting all emotional,” Isabelle said as she dipped her hands in the water and sprayed water in Josephine’s direction.

Jo squealed in shock, but a moment later she returned the favor. Carefree and laughing, they splashed in the water like two children.

A little while later, they sank back exhausted in the damp grass. Night insects buzzed around them, frogs could be heard croaking in the high reeds, and a water bird cried shrilly in the distance.

Isabelle ran her hand through the bristly grass. “I feel like I’ve washed up on a lonely island in the middle of the ocean. Or in some exotic jungle. Where all my worries have fallen to the wayside. If only we could lie here forever.”

“You and your
worries
!” said Jo teasingly. She swept her hands wide, taking in the lake and all the space around them. “This moment—it belongs to us and us alone. I don’t think there are many young women who are able to enjoy something like this.”

Isabelle propped herself up on one elbow to look at Jo. “Beautiful moments . . . They’re as fleeting as a whiff of perfume. But what if that isn’t enough for me? What if I want more from life? The thought of being bored to death from dawn till dusk as Baroness von Salzfeld is unbearable. Sometimes, when I think of Clara and her enthusiasm for making pills, I envy her. I’d like to have a job, too. I want to do something useful.”

Jo nodded. She understood exactly how her friend felt. “Clara tells me that women are going to start being admitted to various faculties at the university in the next few years. She wants to find out if she can study pharmacology.” It was strange. Of all people, it was Clara—to whom no one had ever really given much credit—who was making one dream after another come true.

“Women at the university?” Isabelle snorted. “She might have to wait a long time. Just think what you went through when you were looking for someone to take you on as an apprentice. Do you really think the professors at the university are about to let women just waltz into their hallowed halls?”

“Oh, blast it, why is life so unfair!” Jo pounded her fist on the ground beside her. “Why can’t we just do—or not do—whatever we like, whether that’s going to university or becoming a mechanic? Or riding a bicycle whenever we feel like it?”

Isabelle grinned. “I’d much rather marry for love, or not at all. And I want—”

“To choose for myself whether I wear a skirt or a pair of pants,” said Jo, finishing her friend’s thought with one of her own.

They burst out laughing.

Jo sighed longingly. “Will such possibilities ever be open to women?”

For a moment the only sound was the chirping of the crickets. Finally, Isabelle answered, “Perhaps . . . when the new century arrives.”

“Do you think it will only take nine years?” Jo could not suppress the skepticism in her voice. “The wind that’s blowing so hot in our faces will have to shift a great deal to blow away all the dusty, old views about us.”

“There may just be such a wind one day,” Isabelle said boldly.

“It would have to be a turn-of-the-century wind,” said Jo drily and got to her feet. It was time for them to be heading back home.

They were already sitting on their bicycles when Josephine paused and looked thoughtfully at her friend.

“A turn-of-the-century wind—I like that!”

Josephine experienced their nighttime cycling expeditions in a kind of rapture. When she rode through the silent streets silvered by moonlight—especially when she went out without Isabelle—Jo felt herself ennobled, courageous, even majestic. Again and again, she gave thanks to God that Moritz Herrenhus never locked the gate to his property at night. Jo pursued her passion like a drinker who can never quench his thirst for alcohol. In the fall, she went cycling practically every night, forgetting the long, hard workday she endured in her father’s workshop. Forgetting that she was actually tired, that her back ached and her arms were sore. Forgetting that her head still buzzed from the blows of her father’s hammer, that her eyes still burned from the forge’s fumes. Some evenings, she did not even have enough time to eat. But as soon as she was riding through the city’s leafy, sparsely lit boulevards, she forgot the growling of her hungry stomach, and goose bumps prickled the skin on her back. The knowledge that the winter cold would soon bring these rides to an end sent Jo into a panic—she had to take advantage of every conceivable opportunity.

Come October, the birds began to wing their way south. All along the Spree, the fog lay like a feather blanket over the streets, and the cold east wind tore ruthlessly at the trees until they dropped their mantle of leaves in exhaustion. The fall, which had descended upon the countryside weeks earlier, now engulfed the city as well.

Jo’s eyes watered and she had to blink to be able to see anything at all. Despite her single-minded concentration, the bicycle’s front wheel slipped constantly on the cobblestones, which were slick from the rain and fallen leaves. It took all her effort to avoid a fall.

“You’re not thinking about going out tonight, are you?” Isabelle had asked, horrified at the very idea, when they had run into each other on the street earlier that evening. Isabelle had been on her way home from school, and Jo had been shoveling coal from the street through a hatch that opened into the basement of their building.

“I certainly am,” Jo had grumbled back. She needed something to look forward to, especially since she had suffered another rebuff that very morning, this time by a metalware factory where she had gone to inquire about an apprenticeship. She had been to more than two dozen places now.

Isabelle had shaken her head and stated flatly that as far as she was concerned the riding season was well and truly over.

We’ll see,
Jo had thought, but she kept her opinion to herself.

As she rode through the grim and threatening streets that night, she wondered if her friend had not perhaps been right. The wind grew stronger at every corner, and jagged chestnut leaves whirled through the air, slapping her in the face and making her flinch.

I’ll just go a little farther down Landsberger Allee, then I’ll turn back,
Jo thought. Her warm, comfortable bed was suddenly very tempting.

A moment later, she heard a low crack high in the canopy of branches of the trees lining the street, and a branch crashed onto the street right in front of her.

When she came to, she felt a burning pain in her right shoulder that grew so intense it took her breath away. Where was she? What had happened? She blinked.

“She’s opened her eyes! There, officer, see for yourself!”

“What luck, the girl’s come to.”

“I told you she was alive, didn’t I?”

“Hey, you, girl!”

Jo groaned in pain as someone shook her roughly by the arm.

“Wake up! Hey!”

She blinked again and found herself looking into the faces of a handful of strangers.

“Where . . . what . . .” She ran her tongue over her lips and tasted something metallic. Blood. A cold shudder ran through her. She tried to look down at her body. Her pants, her coat, everything was soaking wet and dirty.

“You’ve had a fall. Looks as if you cycled over this branch here, and the fork on your bicycle broke,” said a man in uniform. “You’re lucky you didn’t break your neck! The people who live here found you and called for me.”

A policeman. Jo closed her eyes in despair. She saw in an instant the impossible position she had put herself in. She was lying on a rain-soaked street in the middle of the night, wearing men’s clothes, far from home, and her shoulder was probably broken. But one thing was far worse: the fork on the bicycle was broken, too.

She had destroyed Moritz Herrenhus’s Rover.

Chapter Twelve

Berlin, November 1891

Barnim Road Women’s Prison

Jo pulled the smelly blanket farther over her head. How was she ever supposed to repay the debt for the damage to the bicycle? Or would Herrenhus demand the money from her parents? What a terrifying notion! But only one of many.

“Do something with your life!” Frieda had always told her. Her aging friend had put so much stock in her . . .

Jo’s empty gaze focused on the heavy iron bars set over the window. She had bitterly disappointed every person who had ever meant anything to her. And instead of doing something with her life, here she was, behind bars.

Moritz Herrenhus glanced nervously at his gold pocket watch. Five past one. They had agreed to meet at one. What did this delay mean? Gottlieb Neumann was known for being punctual. The owner of Elektronische Werke Berlin, or EWB as it was commonly known, a major company in the field of electrical equipment, had a reputation for precision. By arriving late, was Neumann trying to tell him that
he
, Neumann, was the one who set the tenor of their dealings, regardless of the currently poor state of his business? Or had the man reconsidered and decided not to show up at all? Had he found another solution to the acute problem afflicting him? But what solution could there be? As far as Moritz Herrenhus knew, no bank was willing to extend the important industrialist any more loans—his existing obligations were already excessive. True, the spirit of entrepreneurship was everywhere. But when Neumann had snapped up yet another of his competitors without first securing the necessary financing, a buzz spread through the Berlin business establishment. While some called it farsightedness and others called it sheer madness, they all agreed that electrical engineering would be the preeminent industry in the years ahead.

Moritz Herrenhus had settled on the foyer of Berlin’s Central Hotel as their meeting point, but he wondered why he hadn’t chosen a restaurant instead. Then he could have eaten a little something while he waited. He loathed waiting. It was trying enough that he should have to have this conversation at all. And who did he have to thank for this displeasure? At the thought of his daughter, Isabelle, a soft growl escaped his throat.

They had been on the lookout for a husband for her for more than a year. He had paid exorbitant hairdressing bills and bought dozens of evening gowns, along with jewelry, shoes, accessories, and courtesy gifts. “Go the whole hog or don’t go at all” was his motto. He didn’t want to regret making too little effort someday. Isabelle’s own efforts, however, left a lot to be desired. She had preferred to go gallivanting around town with her criminal friend, Josephine, rather than take the business of getting married seriously. How could that girl have dared to take his bicycle as if it were her own! Well, at least she had received her just desserts. He could have settled the matter privately with Schmied-the-Smith—he had had to pay for the damage to the bicycle of course—but with Josephine Schmied behind bars, she would no longer be able to distract Isabelle from what really mattered. That thought, at least, gave Herrenhus a measure of satisfaction.

If Isabelle had been ugly or lacking in charm, he could have accepted the fact that there was still no sign of a marriage proposal on the horizon. But even with her unruly red hair, Isabelle was always one of the prettiest young women present at any social event they attended. She was consistently the center of attention of a cluster of young gentlemen, always earned admiring looks and compliments, and received invitations to even more parties. Isabelle laughed and flirted with the young men and rarely sat out a dance. His wife, at one time the grande dame of the Berlin ballet, enjoyed herself immensely at such parties. If it were up to the two of them, Isabelle could go on playing her games for years. But he was fed up with it. He wanted results.

It wasn’t that he felt any pressing need to see his daughter actually tie the knot or to bounce a grandchild on his knee—heaven forbid. Or even that he wanted to find someone to provide for his only child. He had more money than he knew what to do with. As a young man, he had not even dared to dream that it might be possible to put together the kind of fortune he’d amassed simply by making aprons and long underwear. But money was one thing—and social status quite another. More than anything, he wanted to hear Herrenhus mentioned in the same breath as the names Krupp, Rothschild, and Neumann. And because money was not the means to that end, his only option was to make the best possible match for his daughter.

Moritz Herrenhus’s eyes flicked to the large grandfather clock beside the reception desk. Half past one. He was losing patience. With forced calm, Herrenhus asked one of the hotel pages to bring him a cup of coffee. His relief was great when he finally saw Gottlieb Neumann hurrying toward the entrance shortly before two.

“There was a fire on Friedrichstrasse. No carriages could get through. I had to cover the last stretch on foot,” said Neumann instead of a greeting. Despite being almost an hour late, he offered no apology—it was unbelievable! Three attendants immediately appeared to relieve the magnate of his top hat and coat. Herrenhus couldn’t help but note that only
one
of the attendants had made such an effort for him. Airily, he said, “Alas, there are some things we cannot control, but others we can.” He waited for his counterpart to take his seat before adding, “As I understand it, your EWB has run into some . . . pecuniary difficulties with the takeover of Mayer’s Engineering?” He stirred his coffee pleasantly as he spoke.

The corners of Gottlieb Neumann’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “I see you’re not a man to beat around the bush,” he replied gruffly. “Then neither will I! It boils down to this: I need money, and you have it. And it appears that you’re prepared to invest it in EWB. The question is whether
I
want to . . . pay your price.”

Moritz Herrenhus offered a slight smile as he said, “Who’s talking about a
price
here? I’d much sooner talk about a gain for you and your family!” He took a sip of lukewarm coffee before continuing, “I’ve heard that your son completed his economic studies summa cum laude. I’m sure you can hardly wait for him to come to work for you and carry on the family tradition. And then start a family of his own to carry your name on to the next generation . . .”

The industrial magnate frowned, then said in a scornful tone, “So that’s the way the wind is blowing, eh? I might have guessed. Your daughter and my son.”

Moritz Herrenhus raised his eyebrows. “Why not? Whoever ends up with Isabelle should consider himself a lucky man.”

“Just as you would consider yourself lucky, finally being able to ascend into certain circles as a result of our children’s union?” The taunting tone in Neumann’s voice was unmistakable, but Moritz Herrenhus was not bothered by it.

“And if that were so?” He gestured casually with one hand.

“But . . .” Confronted by Moritz Herrenhus’s frankness, Gottlieb Neumann’s carefully controlled facade began to crumble. “Adrian is a clever young man—astute, perceptive. At the merest hint that I was trying to influence him in this matter, he would be onto me!”

“Then why not play your hand openly? Tell Adrian how things really are. Anyone can overspeculate, and I’m sure your astute son will understand that.” Moritz Herrenhus grinned. “For my part, I would be more than willing to put whatever sum you like at your disposal as an interest-free loan for the next five years—on one condition: your son and my daughter become engaged within the next twelve months, and they be married within two years.” He leaned across the table, his eyes shining with both arrogance and audacity. “The only question now is, how much influence can you exert on your son? Or is your influence on him just as negligible as on your current financial situation?”

The Christmas party of the Berlin Factory-Owners Union, better known as the BFU, a consortium of businesspeople in the manufacturing industries, took up the entire seventh floor of the Berlin Hotel.

A large raffle had been set up directly behind the entrance, opposite the cloakroom. The prizes had been donated by the guests themselves, and the proceeds from the ticket sales were to go to a charitable cause. Two long tables creaked ominously under the weight of the various items stacked on top of them: silver-plated cutlery in elegant boxes lay beside piles of lily-white sheets, saucepans beside top hats, mother-of-pearl buttons beside thimbles. Someone had pinned numerous aprons and dark skirts on the wall behind the tables. The attractive ticket sellers were already surrounded by guests.
Do all these men and women really want to win a Herrenhus apron?
Isabelle wondered as she waited with her parents for the cloakroom attendants to take their coats.

She was in good spirits as she wandered through the festively decorated room arm in arm with her father. The place smelled of fir trees, roast turkey, and baked apples. The gala dinner had been set up in the main hall, and an adjoining hall had been reserved for dancing and music. At the moment, all there was to hear from inside was a few off-key notes from violins—the musicians were tuning their instruments. Several trays with wine and French champagne had been set up in alcoves on either side of the main hall, and Isabelle accepted a glass of bubbly from the first one she passed. She intended to milk every drop of enjoyment from the evening. As for her father’s plans . . . She simply smiled. She had managed to fend off his potential suitors so far.

“Tonight is a very special evening, my dears!” Raising his glass, Moritz Herrenhus made a private toast to Isabelle and her mother, then set his glass down. “Let’s see where they’ve put us.”

They had just taken their places at one of the long tables when an older gentleman in a tailcoat approached them, stiff-legged and wearing a dour expression. Isabelle narrowed her eyes. Wasn’t that the father of her classmate Irene? She had seen the man several times at school, and she knew that Gottlieb Neumann was one of the institute’s patrons. Isabelle’s fine mood fell at the thought that her fellow pupil, with her arrogant, affected behavior, was also there.

“My dear Gottlieb! How nice to see you here.” Her father practically leaped from his chair and shook the newcomer’s hand enthusiastically.

Isabelle started.
Gottlieb?
Since when was her father on such intimate terms with the magnate?

Only then did she see that the older gentleman had a younger man in tow. He was tall and slim without being gawky, and she guessed he was in his early or midtwenties. He had deep-blue eyes and golden hair, like a hero from an old legend. Isabelle could not remember ever seeing such hair on a man. Because the young man—in contrast to most of those present—wore no beard, Isabelle was able to observe, inconspicuously, his attractive, full lips, although on second glance they seemed slightly pinched. He looked irritated, as if peeved at something beyond his control. Isabelle grinned inwardly. She knew that mood only too well. That wasn’t Irene’s brother, though . . . or was it?
If he is, then the dear Lord distributed the looks in the family in a most unjust way,
she thought, smiling. The young man was certainly handsome.

“Adrian has just returned from his studies in Munich. He only came home to Berlin on a few rare occasions during that time, and the city is practically foreign to him now. He has not yet had a chance to refresh his old friendships. If your daughter would do Adrian the honor of being his companion for the evening, I would be very grateful,” said Gottlieb Neumann, a smile frozen on his face. “Perhaps a hot chocolate to kick off the evening?” He glanced with displeasure at Isabelle’s champagne glass, then nodded toward the café down a corridor from the main hall.

“The honor would be all Isabelle’s, wouldn’t it, my dear?” Moritz Herrenhus said.

Somewhat distracted, it took a moment for Isabelle to realize that the men were talking about her.