While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) (22 page)

“We have to be able to offer the people something. Bread and circuses, as the ancient Romans used to say, right?
I
could offer our spectators something . . .” Fadi’s almond-brown eyes scanned the others with determination. She was so accustomed to getting her way that she refuted the possibility of any objections at the very start.

Long peeved at the actress’s vain posturing, Isabelle said in a mocking tone, “And how do you propose that would work? Should we dress up as Romeo and Juliet and perform a play on bicycles?”

“More attractive clothes would certainly not be unwarranted,” Fadi replied. “These new bloomers are a catastrophe. And a sure way to put off admirers!” She screwed up her pretty face in disgust.

Isabelle abruptly stood up, her chest rising and falling as she vented her pent-up frustration. “I have had it up to here with these eternal discussions! What are we all doing here? We drink coffee and talk about sparkling wine and French champagne as if we were organizing a ball! We fret about clothes and the press! But there’s one thing we never talk about—cycling!—when that’s the only thing that really matters.”

“Exactly,” came a strange but also familiar voice behind her.

All heads turned to the door.

“Josephine?”

For a brief moment, Isabelle felt as if she’d been struck by lightning. Josephine looked so different. So grown up, far older than her years. The last two years—or was it three?—must have been very hard for her. A life behind bars, while she, Isabelle, had danced from one ball to the next. And had barely given a thought to her old friend . . .

Isabelle felt a surge of guilt wash over her. She went to the door, unsure that her shaking legs would carry her.

“You’re back?” she asked, so quietly that only Jo heard her.

Josephine nodded. “I’ve been back for a week. Clara told me about your club. I came as soon as I could.”

The smell of cheap curd soap and old wool stung Isabelle’s nose as she embraced Josephine stiffly. Then she turned back to the gathering.

“I’d like to introduce my old friend Josephine!” she said, her voice artificially cheerful. She cleared her throat to get rid of the lump that had formed there. “Jo was already riding a bicycle when most of us didn’t even know how to spell the word . . .” She laughed, and it sounded even more contrived.

Instead of the bright reaction she had expected, she found herself looking into a sea of skeptical faces; some looked downright hostile.

“
That
is a friend of yours?” Irene asked, raising her eyebrows. “And here I was thinking one of your factory workers had wandered in by mistake.”

“Irene!” Isabelle rebuked her angrily.

But Josephine smiled. “You’re absolutely right, madam. At the moment, it’s true, I really am working in a factory.” She shrugged indifferently, as if to say,
Think what you like!
Isabelle could only admire Josephine’s self-confidence. “But I’ll soon have a job as a mechanic. Technical work is my specialty. And I would very much like to be a member of your club.”

“That won’t be any problem. We’re happy to welcome any new member,” Isabelle said quickly. Supporting her old friend was the very least she could do.

“No problem, dearest Isabelle?” said Irene icily. “We are most certainly
not
happy to welcome any new member. Our statutes specify that we only accept members from the upper echelons of society. We also require that each member have her own bicycle. Your . . .
friend
doesn’t look as if she would fulfill either of those requirements.”

“I’m surprised at you, Isabelle, since you helped write our bylaws in the first place,” said Melissa. “We can’t just accept anyone who happens to wander in!”

“I agree,” said Chloé. “We’re ‘a club for ladies only,’ are we not? Today it’s this . . . person, and tomorrow my cook will come waltzing in here, wanting to join.”

A chorus of shrill laughter rang out all around, and Isabelle could see from Josephine’s expression that her self-confidence was beginning to waver.

“Now settle down, all of you,” said Luise Karrer. “This young woman is Isabelle’s guest, and we ought to treat her as such with all due courtesy. We can discuss this at a later date, although I must say I find all your airs completely over the top. Shouldn’t we at least listen to why this young woman—whom we so far only know by her first name—wants to become a member here?”

“As if anyone cares,” snorted Irene, and she began leafing through a cycling magazine.

Isabelle cast Luise a look of gratitude. Then she asked Josephine to take a seat at the table. She hoped that Jo would not say the wrong thing.

“My name is Josephine Schmied. Riding bicycles is my greatest passion. Unfortunately, I have not been able to do it for the last three years because I was doing my apprenticeship to become a mechanic.”

An apprenticeship to become a mechanic?
Isabelle raised her eyebrows. A nice way to describe her time behind bars.

“But several years ago, I even rode an old-style bicycle in the Black Forest. I can only say those are dangerous contraptions.”

A few of the women nodded in agreement, and here and there an unfriendly expression turned to one of interest.

“You’re from the Black Forest? Isn’t that a terribly primitive region?” asked Fadi.

Josephine laughed. “Not at all. The people down there are very open to advancements of all kinds, technological or otherwise. My friend Lilo, for example, works as a nurse in an exclusive sanatorium that uses the most modern treatment methods to help cure people suffering from lung disease.”

Isabelle was astonished. She had not thought that Josephine would be able to handle herself so skillfully. Not a word about the Barnim Road Women’s Prison. Instead, vague insinuations about her origins—did she come from the Black Forest or not? And an apprenticeship as a mechanic. Was there any truth in that?

“Josephine is quite well-traveled and has seen and experienced a great deal.” Isabelle could not stop herself from commenting.

“An apprenticeship as a mechanic? How could a young woman ever manage something like that?” Luise asked.

“It’s thanks to my passion for bicycles, madam,” Jo replied with a smile. “I wanted to do more than just ride one. I wanted to know what every cog and bearing was responsible for, how the diameter of the front wheel related to the distance traveled, how to adjust a pedal to optimize its performance . . .”

Luise nodded appreciatively. “Most of us lack that sort of knowledge, I’m sad to say. I’m certainly able to ride quickly, but a breakdown is a real predicament!”

“I’d be happy to show you a few of the most useful tricks, if you like, madam.”

“I don’t know . . .” Luise looked around uncertainly. “It would certainly be interesting, especially because the men here make such a fuss about explaining anything technical.”

Isabelle noted Irene’s grim expression with satisfaction. It was clear that she was unhappy that Josephine was making up so much ground so fast.

Suddenly, Isabelle realized that Josephine’s presence in the club could shift its focus in a very promising direction. Josephine would be another member for whom the main attraction was the cycling. She wouldn’t spend hours yapping about the merits of sparkling wine versus French champagne, and she would ally herself with Isabelle rather than Irene or Fadi. Her mere presence would be enough to tick Irene off. She had to think hard and fast about how to circumvent the stupid club statutes for Josephine.

Isabelle took Josephine’s hand and said, “You don’t have to speak so formally to Luise. We’re all on casual terms here. It’s something we picked up from the men. It’s so much easier to speak informally in sport, don’t you think?”

Josephine smiled and nodded.

“That’s it!” Irene looked up from her magazine. “Let’s get one thing straight. As far as that woman is concerned, I am still Miss Neumann. She can call me madam till the cows come home. And the only way she will ever be a member of this club is over my dead body.”

Chapter Twenty

The following Saturday, Josephine received her first wages. Once the cost of lodging, bedding, and kitchen use had been taken out, she was paid fifteen marks for a week and a half of sore wrists, sore feet, and crushing boredom.

Josephine didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She would never be able to realize her dream on such a paltry wage. She decided to intensify her search for a new job in the week ahead. If necessary, she would even sacrifice her regular visit to Frieda’s grave.

With the money in her pocket, she set off on the long trek back to Luisenstadt. When she passed by Reutter’s Emporium, she toyed with the idea of going inside and inquiring about a job with Oskar Reutter directly. Perhaps his product range had expanded and now included more technical equipment? Perhaps he could use his own mechanic? But what if he said no because he already had a good man on the job? Or because he didn’t want anything to do with her now? Being rejected by the genial old gentleman would be more than Josephine could bear. She hurried past the emporium, her eyes fixed stubbornly straight ahead.

When she got to her parents’ smithy, she went directly into the kitchen, where her mother was cutting yeast cake to have with the midday coffee. Jo felt a momentary pang at the familiar sight of the dry cake, which scratched the back of your palate and could only be washed down with large mouthfuls of coffee. She took a deep breath, then put five one-mark coins on the table.

“As promised, I will pay off my debts. But don’t worry; I won’t be coming here with five marks every Saturday. I just wanted to show you that I’m true to my word. I’ll come back when I have put together fifty marks.”

Her mother looked at the money and nodded, evidently surprised.

Josephine cleared her throat. She could afford neither vanity nor the luxury of being overly sensitive, so she took a deep breath and said, “There’s something else . . . Would it be all right if I took a few of my old clothes? I’m sure you have no use for them.”

“Your old clothes? But . . .”

Josephine waited for her mother to come up with some nonsensical reply intended only to wound her. But her mother paused, then gestured toward the stairs. “Go and get what you need. Everything’s right where it always was. But hurry! If your father catches you taking anything from his house . . .” She let the sentence trail off unfinished.

Not ten minutes later, Josephine walked out of her parents’ house, a heavy cloth bag slung over her shoulder and her heart lighter than it had been on her way there. The underwear, dresses, skirts, and blouses she had taken from her old cupboard were not exactly the latest fashion, but at least they would give her something half decent to change into.

She spent the rest of the day at the large table in the common kitchen, ironing her crumpled clothes with a borrowed iron. Then she carefully selected a dark-blue skirt and a pretty yellow blouse for the following day. She hoped that no one would mistake her for a barmaid in that outfit. Satisfied with her handiwork, she treated herself to an evening stroll and dreamed of the next day.

Isabelle looked at the clock for the umpteenth time. Twenty minutes until the start. She had just used the ladies’ room, but she felt like she had to go again. Her excitement had reached fever pitch now that the race was about to begin, though she did everything she could not to let it show. She nervously swept aside a curl that had worked its way loose from her tightly pinned-up hair.

It was a cool Sunday in April, and she felt chilled by the light breeze sweeping across the racetrack. She knew that she would warm up plenty over the course of the ten-lap race. Still, she eyed with some envy the warm jackets that most of the arriving guests were wearing. Almost everyone was rushing to get to the best places around the track. Only a few drifted toward the stands where sparkling wine
and
French champagne were being served.

Isabelle was deeply absorbed in her own thoughts as she pushed her bicycle across the competitors’ area. She had trained hard, and she felt healthy and strong. But would it be enough to win? She went through the starting lineup in her head yet again.

Luise Karrer was the strongest of her rivals. She was a fast starter and just as quick around the track. And she was consistently fair. Disruptive tactics, like deliberately riding into another cyclist’s path, were not a concern with Luise.

But Chloé was a different matter altogether. She would not hesitate to make unsporting use of her elbows to clear a path to the front.

Then there was Irene—

“Child, don’t you think you should drink something?”

Isabelle was startled when her mother appeared, holding a glass of apple juice. The acidic smell of it was enough to turn Isabelle’s stomach. “No, thank you,” she said.

“Leave her alone. Let her concentrate,” said her father, pushing his wife away. Then he planted himself in front of her and continued, “Remember to pedal hard at the start. You shouldn’t spend the race trying to catch up like last time.”

Isabelle gritted her teeth. She hated the way her father preached at her before every race!

“And make sure your future sister-in-law doesn’t pass you on the inside on the first curve. She took you completely by surprise last fall . . .” Moritz Herrenhus frowned. “I don’t want to see Irene Neumann at the top of the podium. This time, I want you up there.”

“Then perhaps you should ride in my place?” Isabelle replied peevishly, but all she got for it was a jab in the ribs from her mother.

She felt some relief when she saw Adrian making his way over to them. As a racer himself, he knew how those long minutes leading up to the start felt. Unlike her father, he would not do his best to get on her nerves. She glanced back at the clock. Still fifteen minutes to go . . . The wait seemed forever!

After a kiss on the cheek and a few words of encouragement, Adrian said, “I saw your old friend standing in line out front. You know, the one who was here just the other day. Have you accepted her as a member yet?”

“Old friend? New member? Who do you mean?” Moritz Herrenhus said.

Isabelle rolled her eyes. This discussion was the last thing she needed just then. On the other hand, it was unavoidable if Josephine were to start spending time there. As much as she dreaded the confrontation with her father, she was equally determined to put it behind her. Josephine might otherwise find herself in a very uncomfortable situation . . . and not only Josephine. So why not here and now? Even if it went terribly, she could always escape to the starting line a few minutes early.

“Josephine came to visit me here at the club last week. She’s back in the city after all these years, and she has expressed interest in becoming a member,” she said in as neutral a tone as possible.

“Josephine?” her parents replied simultaneously.

“Josephine Schmied? The daughter of Schmied-the-Smith?” Moritz Herrenhus clarified, his brow furrowed.

“But that’s the young woman who—” her mother began.

“Adrian is very much in favor of the idea of accepting a few workers into the club, aren’t you, sweetheart?” Isabelle broke in. She batted her eyelids coquettishly at her fiancé, a gesture he noted with a slight frown.

“But Josephine was the one with Father’s—” her mother began again.

“Oh, Mother, we don’t need to bore Adrian with our old family history, do we?” said Isabelle, cutting her off a second time. She smiled to take the edge off her rudeness. “Josephine would like to become a member of the First Berlin Cycling Club for Women, and that’s all there is to it. You know how much she used to love cycling.” She raised her eyebrows significantly, then quickly continued before anyone could say a word. “Unfortunately, Adrian’s sister is balking at letting her join. Irene is polishing up her social superiority like an expensive pair of shoes. Adrian sees the matter very differently, don’t you, dear?” But again, without waiting for an answer, she carried on, “And you, dear Papa, do, too, I’m sure! Don’t you consider your workers to be human beings? When I was younger, you encouraged me to have fun with the girls in the neighborhood, remember? You even joined us sometimes.”

It was a rare thing to see confusion and uncertainty on Moritz Herrenhus’s face, but Isabelle grinned inwardly at the sight of it. “I’m sure you remember—when you so willingly let Josephine borrow your bicycle,” she added in a voice thick with significance. Then she touched Adrian lightly on the arm. “Dear, would you be so kind as to push my bicycle to the starting line? I’ll be along in a minute.”

When Adrian had left, Isabelle whispered harshly to her parents, “Not a word about Josephine’s past! If my fiancé finds out that there are people with a criminal background living in our neighborhood and that I’m still in touch with them, I doubt he’ll care to be seen with me.”

She took a moment to savor the shock on her parents’ faces, then trotted away triumphantly. She had no need to fear that they might spread any scandalous gossip—that much was clear.

“Did you see that? A bare calf . . .” A middle-aged woman was pointing an accusing finger toward the track, where the racers who were about to compete in the main event were gathering.

“And you can even see that one’s knee!” said a second woman, who was somewhat younger than the first. Both women laughed hysterically. Their cheeks were red and their eyes shone with anticipation as they stood on tiptoes and craned their necks to get the best possible view of the spectacle.

Factory workers like me, no doubt,
Josephine thought. At least, that’s what she assumed from their frilly skirts’ cheap material, their chapped hands, and their pale skin that obviously only rarely saw the light of day.

The crowd that had assembled along the fence for the main race was a motley lot composed of factory workers like the two women, as well as middle- and upper-class types—lawyers, doctors, professors, clerks, and businesspeople—in correspondingly fancy outfits. A few tradesmen were there with their wives, who were turned out in their Sunday best and not looking especially at ease, and a few simple maids and young men as well. Society’s elite had gathered in a separate, roofed spectator area that had been reserved for them.

Josephine would never have believed that so many people would want to see a women’s cycling race. When she had arrived at the club an hour before the official starting time, the two women selling tickets had already started dismantling their stand.

“It’s closed. We’re full,” one of them had said tersely. But when Jo had mentioned Isabelle’s name—

Josephine jumped when she heard a hiss beside her.

“The underskirt! Look at her underskirt! Lily-white and so finely starched it looks like it belongs to a wedding dress. Oh, I’d love one like that . . .” The woman sighed deeply.

“A lady plans to ride a bicycle in that?” said the other, in an envious tone.

“I wouldn’t exactly call them
ladies
. I’ve got a few other words in mind for harpies like that,” said a man who had just pushed his way forward through the crowd. He had a scruffy beard and wore the kind of cap favored by errand boys. He dug one elbow roughly into Josephine’s side to get her to make room for him. But Jo stood her ground—
don’t try that on me, you bastard,
her stance implied. He shot an unfriendly glance her way, then passed two liverwurst rolls back through the crowd to the two women. The spicy smell reminded Josephine that she hadn’t had a bite to eat since her meager breakfast. She had had to choose between lunch and the price of entry since her slim budget would not allow both. She clenched her teeth and ignored the growling of her stomach.

The older of the two women bit into her roll so clumsily that part of the liverwurst immediately fell out the side. Swearing, she bent down to pick it up, but the man said, “Leave it! Soon as the first of them lands in the mud, I’ll go and buy you another.”

“If a second one takes a header, do I get another roll, too?” asked the younger woman, and all three laughed hysterically.

Josephine turned away in disgust. These people were just here for the spectacle! The well-being of the cyclists meant as little to them as the race itself. What they wanted to see was naked skin and hair-raising accidents.