While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) (18 page)

Clara did not overlook the coquettish glance that Isabelle cast Gerhard. She immediately felt a pang of jealousy. She was well aware of the effect Gerhard had on the female gender, starting with her own mother and the elderly receptionist in his practice. They were over the moon about the young doctor. And now Isabelle, to boot.

“Allow me to introduce Dr. Gerhard Gropius. My fiancé!” The pride in her voice was unmistakable. She was beaming as she turned to her beloved and reached out possessively to take his arm. But Gerhard took a step backward just at that moment, and Clara’s hand caught only emptiness.

“Did I hear that right? This is a
women’s
club?” Gerhard looked from one woman to the other in what looked like confusion.

Isabelle smiled broadly. “My dear Dr. Gropius, that is exactly what it is. Irene Neumann and I have managed to do what no one thought we could—we have founded a club where women can enjoy the sport of cycling unmolested.” She nodded to Irene, who stood a few steps away, welcoming new arrivals.

“If only Josephine could be here . . . She would be overjoyed to be part of this day,” Clara sighed as a small group of athletically dressed men pedaled past. A moment later, two women cycled up behind the men, laughing and chattering as they went. Clara and Isabelle exchanged a surreptitious glance. And for a moment, the old bond of friendship that had united them that summer returned.

“What you’ve managed here is truly marvelous,” said Clara quietly, wishing that she had contributed in some small way to the venture.

“But . . . riding bicycles is positively harmful for women! From a sports-medicine perspective, there is nothing worse than sitting on one of these machines. How many broken bones have I seen at the hospital that could be attributed directly to a bicycle? Furthermore, this kind of sport puts the internal organs at risk, leads to numerous ailments of the heart, and causes spinal deformation and hunching of the back within a very short time. Quite aside from the . . . sexual effects. Clara!” Gerhard snapped, with such intensity that she jumped. “What were you thinking, dragging me here? I hope that you yourself have not taken part in such an unfeminine diversion?” His voice, normally so soft, had become strident, almost shrill.

“No! Yes . . . I . . .” Clara looked hopelessly from her fiancé to Isabelle. She had never seen Gerhard so upset.

“Please compose yourself, Mr. Gropius,” said Isabelle with a half-amused, half-agonized smile. “I am not unaware of the reservations of some doctors when it comes to riding bicycles, but I can assure you that there is nothing to them. Since I began cycling, I feel better than I ever—”

“What you
feel
and what modern medical research says are two very different things!” Gerhard Gropius broke in harshly. He looked with disgust at a woman who was cycling past just then. “Your statement reveals no more than the depth of your ignorance about the consequences of what you are doing, and increases the culpability of your parents and your own fiancé if they do not put a stop to it. Where is your family? Do your parents know what you are doing?”

“Gerhard,” said Clara, with a note of warning. “Moritz Herrenhus gave Isabelle her bicycle himself. I see nothing objectionable in Isabelle and her friends cycling around the track here. It’s a hobby, an enjoyable pastime, nothing more. I . . .” but when she saw his expression, she thought better of continuing.

“A fine pastime indeed!” Gerhard spat. “One that violates every female moral. One in which sexual stimulation is paramount! Unless I am mistaken, one
sits
on the saddle of a bicycle? I don’t even care to imagine what . . .
feelings
are thus quickened. Disgusting is all I can say.” He took Clara roughly by the arm. “I will not allow you to watch such goings-on. Some have been corrupted merely by looking on. We’re leaving!”

Clara was tired when she got home. To the annoyance of her mother, who wanted to hear all about her day, she went straight to her room. She sat at her desk and took out notepaper and ink. She did not write letters to Josephine often because she was usually too tired after work, but she had thought of her friend many times that day.

Dear Josephine,
she wrote, then lowered her quill again. What a long, dramatic day it had been. Where to begin? And where to stop?

After their hurried departure from Isabelle’s party, she had trotted after Gerhard like a whipped puppy, confused and anxious. She wanted to talk it all through with him in peace and quiet, but she had not been able to find a good way to start. Still stone-faced, Gerhard had taken her to an elegant café on the banks of the Spree, where his mood soon improved. They had eaten ice cream and talked about what it must be like to live in Italy. Gerhard had raised the topic of their honeymoon.

“What would you say to a trip to the land of
la dolce vita
?” he had asked Clara. And although she was having trouble keeping a cool head in the hot June sunshine, she reminded him of the burden of debt he had taken on when he took over the practice.

“Perhaps we should postpone our honeymoon by a few years?” she suggested.

“As long as we don’t postpone our wedding!” Gerhard had replied, laughing, then added that her parents would most likely be more than happy to help their only daughter a little, financially speaking, in such a matter.

Clara was not so certain about that. The mere idea of knowing that she was in another country would send her mother into a fit of anxiety.

She sighed. Her mother would soon have no more to say over her actions. Thank God.

Could she tell that to Josephine in a letter? She resolutely dipped her quill into the ink bottle, only to set it aside again a moment later. Nonsense! She could not write to Jo about finally being free of her mother, or being free of anything.

And she was no longer sure what to write about Isabelle’s cycling club. Wouldn’t that just increase Jo’s longing for freedom? Or just make her more aware of what she was missing behind bars? Wouldn’t she just be deeply hurting her friend with such news? That was the last thing she wanted to do.

Besides . . . Clara chewed pensively on the end of her quill. There was no way she could report on Gerhard’s behavior at the opening celebration. Jo would not understand that his outburst had sprung from his concern for her welfare. In retrospect, Clara wondered how she could ever have even considered taking him there! If she were honest, she had wanted to show off a little with her friendship with Isabelle. Well, that had certainly misfired.

Perhaps she should simply focus on the things that really mattered . . .

Ever since Gerhard asked me to marry him, I’ve been the happiest woman in the world! Our wedding will take place in the fall, and after that we’ll move into the small apartment above the practice. Gerhard has already checked with Mr. Jablonsky, the owner, to ensure that it will be all right. Once the practice is flourishing and Gerhard has paid off all the debts, he has promised me a bigger house.

Dearest Josephine, though my happiness is now within reach, I can scarcely believe that I will soon be the mistress of my own household. Then I will finally be able to do what I like, and how I like, without Mother constantly interfering or Father always knowing better . . .

Josephine lowered the letter. Clara and her doctor. It was so impossibly strange that her friend was going to get married that she hardly felt anything at all. Hadn’t Clara wanted to study pharmacology? That would probably no longer be possible once she was a married woman. Or perhaps she no longer wanted to study now that she would soon be a doctor’s wife. So many questions and no answers. And there had been a time when she thought she knew Clara inside out.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” said Martha as she made her bed.

Jo, whose bed was already freshly straightened, sighed. “I wish I had.” She held up the letter. “It’s from my best friend. She tells me that she’s getting married. It makes me feel strange, like I hardly know her anymore. Sometimes I lie here and try to imagine Clara and Frieda’s voices, and I can’t do it. It feels like the people I used to know are fading away, and it frightens me! It’s like all I have left in my ears is the monotonous beating of my father’s hammer. But I’m forgetting the faces of everyone I knew.”

Josephine looked out thoughtfully through the barred window. What did the summer feel like out there? Was it as wild and reckless as the one before, when she and Isabelle had turned night to day?

Josephine closed her eyes and desperately called up the way she had felt while riding her bicycle. Along tree-lined boulevards, the scent of elderberries in her nose, the sun bright, and small insects peppering her face. She achieved this kind of mental escapism more effectively some days than others. Today was one of her better days, and in her mind’s eye, in addition to the boulevards, Josephine conjured up Frieda’s garden with its sprawling walnut tree.

She had received another letter from Frieda the week before. She had written that the elderberry bush that grew against the house was full of aphids, and that a pair of storks had built their nest on the church tower two streets away. The young birds were already trying out their wings for the first time, taking short test flights. Frieda loved to watch them through a pair of old field glasses. It was, she wrote, a picture-book summer.

Summer in Frieda’s garden . . . Jo sighed wistfully. Summer there meant buttermilk, cooled in a bucket of water. And freshly plucked raspberries in small bowls. The yellow roses would be blooming on the grave of Frieda’s old cat. Had Frieda planted anything at the spot where the bird that had flown against her window was buried?

As she usually did, her friend had included a few newspaper clips with her letter. These included articles about events in the wider world and things that she thought might interest Josephine. One half-page article was about an American woman named Mary French Sheldon, who had set off the year before on an expedition to East Africa. Her aim was mainly to research the living conditions of women and children there.
As if anyone would take any notice!
Jo thought as she read. African women probably led lives that were as hard as those of their German or English or French counterparts. Another clipping was about an American cycler, Fanny Bullock Workman, who was traveling the world on a bicycle with her husband. According to the article, Mrs. Workman was planning to map the routes she had followed and publish a guidebook for future bicycle travelers. What was Frieda trying to suggest with these articles? That she, too, might one day be capable of such heroic acts? Josephine wasn’t sure.

The loud clang of a bell dragged her back to the present. It was time for her to head off to work. Her heart felt instantly lighter. While Adele and the others grumbled on their way to the laundry or kitchen, Josephine made her way happily out to the workshop.

Gerd Melchior was already at his workbench, peering into the inner workings of a sewing machine. Without looking up, he said, “This is the second time it’s broken in three weeks. Probably the women in the laundry being careless again.”

Josephine looked over the caretaker’s shoulder. She had developed a keen interest in finding out what caused a machine to malfunction. Often, it took her only a few moments, for she had discovered that it was always the same parts that caused the problem: a worn cog, a misaligned axle, a broken connector. Sometimes a machine did not run smoothly simply because it had not been lubricated well enough. If the problem was not immediately recognizable, she could sink her teeth into the challenge for hours.
Like a terrier into someone’s calf,
she thought and smiled. But that was not necessary with the sewing machine. Josephine pointed confidently to a spot inside the Singer.

“The teeth are worn down on the little cog up there, top left. The women in the laundry can’t help that. The cog has to be filed to get the teeth to mesh properly,” she said.

Melchior nodded. Then he pushed his chair back with a loud squeak. He narrowed his eyes at Josephine as if weighing her up and said, “Think you’re up to it?”

Josephine smiled from ear to ear. She went to a rack where a dozen files stood and selected one of the finest. Then she went to work.

Of all the tasks the caretaker assigned to her, she loved the metalwork the most. All of the shaping and grinding, turning and drilling called for a good eye, a steady hand, and dexterity. Melchior had made it clear more than once that Jo possessed all of those qualities. She had come to learn which hammer or file was right for a particular job, and the correct way to hold it. She had developed a feel for how tightly she could tighten something in a vice without damaging it. The block plane felt as comfortable in her hand as a file. And she had recently begun working with Melchior’s latest acquisition, a lathe! He seemed to trust her more than she trusted herself and gave her a free hand. Melchior explained techniques, guided her hand, praised and criticized her work. Sometimes, he even deliberately let her make mistakes. Like the time she was supposed to file a triangular piece of sheet steel that Melchior needed to replace part of another tool. After a few minutes, she realized that the coarse file she’d chosen was completely unsuitable for the job. Melchior had simply laughed. “There’s a right file for every job. This here’s the one you need,” he said, handing her a different tool. Josephine absorbed his guidance, making his knowledge her own. Every word, every lesson, was permanently engraved in her memory. The hours she spent at the caretaker’s side did more than make everyday life at Barnim Road Women’s Prison bearable. They gave it meaning.