While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) (29 page)

“And you
do
whatever you like. No need to remind me about that,” Adrian remarked in a sarcastic tone, and both of them laughed.

Without discussing either their direction or their destination, they rode off.

Their route led them across the city. Adrian, who rode ahead, kept the pace fast and steady, but not too fast. He looked back a few times to assure himself that Josephine was still with him. “Everything OK?”

Jo nodded as she breathed deeply in and out. She had to work quite hard to keep up with Adrian, but she never told him that. Her calves burned and, at first, she tried desperately to think of something interesting to talk about. Adrian would think she was dull as dishwater if she just pedaled along in silence. But she soon realized that talking was not necessary, and she relaxed.

At Humboldt Harbor, Adrian turned north, and they rode alongside the ship canal for a while. The water that morning gleamed as blue as the sky; the shoreline was lined with benches and well maintained. A few times, they had to duck below low-hanging willow branches, but otherwise the riding was easy.

Adrian pointed off to the right. “My family lives back there,” he said.

Josephine looked across the canal at the uncrowded rows of white villas behind wrought-iron fences, sprawling estates with garden houses, tea pavilions, and multistory mansions. This was where the wealthiest families in Berlin lived, Isabelle had explained as they rode through the area one morning years ago.

“But I live in a small apartment in the city,” said Adrian. “It’s very central, just behind the post office, in a building that belongs to my family.”

Why is he telling me all this?
Josephine wondered.

At North Harbor, they stopped. “Hungry? They serve solid breakfasts here,” said Adrian, pointing to a rustic-looking inn that appeared to be doing brisk business even at this early hour.

Jo had been so intent on her sewing the night before that she had never gotten around to eating anything. She nodded.

“Would you get a load o’ that one!” said one of the harbor workers, pointing at Jo. “See which one o’ them wears the pants . . .”

Adrian grinned.

Jo walked into the inn, her head held high. She ignored the looks and lewd comments from the harbor workers. Once they had settled in at a cozy table by the window, Adrian went to the counter. He returned a couple of minutes later with two tin mugs of steaming, milky coffee and a large plate of open sandwiches, including minced pork with onion rings, smoked sprats with onion pieces, and herring rolls with cucumber. Josephine didn’t know where to start.

They had cycled together in silence, and they ate together in silence, as well. But it was no embarrassed hush that settled over them, the kind that occurs between strangers who have run out of things to talk about. It was a pleasant, even sensual, silence. Jo could not remember a meal ever tasting as delicious.

“Sparkling wine and French champagne are all well and good, but the simple life has its merits,” said Adrian suddenly. His gaze drifted longingly out the window. “The people here—what they do, how they live—for me, that’s authentic.” He offered Josephine the last half roll.

She declined it with a smile. “One more bite and I won’t be able to get back on the bicycle.” Then she went on, “You know, loading and unloading boats all day isn’t really special. But you—no doubt your father has put you in an extremely powerful position, hasn’t he?” She had seen a number of articles in the newspaper about the family’s company and knew that it produced all kinds of technical devices. Just a few days earlier, Josephine had come upon a picture of Adrian’s father, Gottlieb Neumann. Although the article was about yet another groundbreaking invention the company could claim as its own, the old gentleman in the photograph had looked very stern.

Adrian snorted. “If only that were the case! If you think I’m one of those engineers notching up one technical coup after the other, then I hate to disappoint you. I sit in an office all day long, and my job is to check horribly long rows of numbers that others have put together, checking that no gremlins have crept in! I rarely turn up anything at all. Any semicompetent bookkeeper could do my job, but Father insists that someone from the family do it. And that someone, unfortunately, is me. I sometimes wonder why I studied economics in Munich at all!”

“Economics,” Josephine repeated. What exactly would that include?

Adrian nodded. “If only Father could see that I could put my education to much better use. I would start by tackling the production conditions—we’re far from exhausting the opportunities there. And if you ask me, that’s true of the entire industry.”

“You mean looking for opportunities to exploit the workers even more than they already are being exploited?” said Josephine sarcastically. She felt a surge of disappointment rising inside her. She hadn’t thought he was in the same breed as Herrenhus.
But why wouldn’t he be?
jeered a venomous voice inside her. She barely knew the man, so why did she think only good of him?

Adrian looked at her in confusion. “Who said anything about exploiting the workers? Although it’s urgent that something be done about that. Working hours need to be reduced to a maximum of twelve hours a day. And workers need to get two breaks, during which they’re allowed to leave the factory to get some fresh air. It’s preposterous that there are still factory owners who literally lock their workers inside!”

Josephine nodded, pleasantly surprised. Moritz Herrenhus was just such an owner. He kept his seamstresses slaving away behind locked doors and windows, since he was constantly worried that one of them might steal a bit of his fabric.

“I’ve been badgering my father for weeks to do something about organizing health insurance for our workers. But to no avail. It is simply unacceptable that a family has to go hungry just because one of the parents has gotten sick and can’t work.” Adrian banged his fist on the table. The subject seemed very close to his heart.

“But . . .” began Jo, uncertainly, “if a man can’t work, he can’t earn anything. How many times did I hear my father complain about terrible pain in his back? And still he shod five, six horses a day. If he hadn’t we’d have had no money coming in at all.”

“That may be the case for an independent tradesman. He alone is responsible for his own well-being. But a factory owner bears the responsibility for all of his workers, even if most businessmen have been reluctant to acknowledge that,” Adrian replied. “If everyone paid into a health insurance scheme—workers
and
factory owners—meaning if everyone behaved with mutual solidarity, it would be easy to ensure proper care in case of sickness or an accident.”

“What does that have to do with the production conditions you mentioned earlier?” Jo shook her head, a little confused. What a strange conversation! But even stranger was how much she was enjoying it.

“Health insurance is just one brick in a big wall,” said Adrian. “My main objective would be to make production more efficient and therefore cheaper, but not at the expense of the workers. I would do it with better machines, more fluid processes, better purchase prices based on higher volumes . . .”

Jo took a sip of her coffee, which had gone cold by then. “That might well mean advantages for the factory owners, but what do the simple workers get out of it?”

Adrian grinned. “A great deal, in fact. Think about it: up until now, so many useful inventions have remained the privilege of a wealthy minority. Sewing machines, washing machines, the bicycle. And for the simple reason that someone proclaims such things to be luxury goods.”

Jo laughed. “Like the salesman in the bicycle shop! He emphasized how luxurious and exclusive his bicycles were in every other sentence!”

“But bicycles and many other things could be produced far more economically if only the will to do so were there.” Adrian leaned across the table. “Have you ever heard of the so-called invisible hand?”

Jo had not. Nor could she remember ever talking to anybody who was so passionate about anything. The fire that burned in Adrian’s eyes as he spoke—she would have given anything to have them burn like that for her . . .

“The famous Scottish economist, Adam Smith, was the first to talk about the invisible hand. In his brilliant book,
The Wealth of Nations
, he describes how, when a businessman improves his productivity—even though he does so out of pure self-interest—he does a great service to society at the same time.” Adrian nodded as if to underline the accuracy of the statement.

“Because he produces his goods more cheaply and more people can afford them?” Jo was not certain that she had understood, but Adrian’s renewed nodding confirmed that she was on the right track.

“Exactly. When self-interest and the common good meet, the market can be said to be steered by an invisible hand. Imagine the logical conclusion for the masses: machines for cooking, baking, cleaning, and washing wouldn’t any longer be considered luxury goods. They would ease the burden on factory workers, maids, and housewives. Instead of spending Saturdays washing clothes or cleaning the house, people would be able to use their limited leisure time for enjoyable pastimes. Cycling, for example! Because bicycles do not have to remain a luxury product forever. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

Jo swallowed apprehensively. How clever Adrian was and how well-read . . . but she could certainly sympathize with the things he was talking about.

“When I had to work all day punching holes in shoe soles, I almost died of boredom. I would have given a great deal to be able to escape the misery for an hour or two!”

“The things you’ve experienced,” said Adrian, and she heard in his voice the same admiration that she had just felt for him.

“It’s nothing special,” she murmured. What would Adrian say when he found out that she had spent three years in prison?

“Oh, yes it is! You have experienced firsthand what thousands upon thousands of workers have to endure every single day. For me, their lot is purely theoretical. Of course, I know I can’t change everyone’s life. Not everyone can live in a villa. But perhaps I can do something to make their lives more bearable,” he said. “It
must
be possible to produce bicycles more cheaply. A bicycle for under a hundred marks—that would be the goal! And if we can’t do it in Germany, then perhaps a factory in England or America can.”

“So why don’t you find out?” Josephine asked. As she uttered the words, she had the strange feeling she sounded exactly like Frieda.

It was Saturday afternoon. Exhausted but satisfied with her second week of work as her own boss, Josephine was about to close up the workshop when she saw Oskar Reutter coming around the corner with a handcart that held something large and square. A new commission? Jo sighed. She had been looking forward to her first official visit to the cycling club . . . and to seeing one person there in particular. But work came first.

Reutter greeted her cheerfully, then heaved a heavy iron chest onto Jo’s workbench. She realized at a glance that not only were the bands broken, but the hinges as well. “I can weld the bands at the forge. But I won’t be able to use the old rivets again. I’ll have to make new ones to reconnect the bands to the chest. It could be expensive . . .”

“The chest is an heirloom, and I’m very fond of it. Money is no object,” he said as he lifted a second item from the cart. It was a plain but elegant Gustav Becker wall clock, with the pendulum no longer attached.

“Our new maid is terribly scattered. She banged the clock with her back while she was cleaning. Her back was unharmed, but the clock suffered,” Reutter explained with a smirk.

“It looks as if I’ll have to fashion a new mount for the pendulum out of brass.”

Oskar Reutter smiled. “It’s worth it! I love new things, but I have a soft spot for the old ones.”

“You’re not alone,” said Josephine with a laugh, as she gestured toward all the objects lined up on her floor waiting to be repaired.

She tried to sneak a look at the gold-plated watch from Frieda’s jewelry box, which she wore as a pendant on a leather band around her neck. Oskar Reutter noticed and said, “That’s a lovely piece, and it will become a rare one soon. People are asking about watches that you can wear on an armband these days. Pocket watches and pendant watches are too
old-fashioned
.” He said the last word with a hint of sarcasm. “But you know what? Even I couldn’t resist the new fad.” He pushed up the sleeve of his jacket and showed Jo a gold watch on a brown leather band.

“How practical! That would be perfect for cycling,” said Jo. “I’d better leave Frieda’s watch here, or I’ll end up catching the cord on the handlebars.”

“Cycling . . .” said Oskar Reutter slowly. “Sometimes I can’t tell anymore whether it’s a blessing or a curse.”

“Would you like to come into the house for a minute? I’ve got some fresh lemonade,” said Josephine. The club could wait. If Oskar Reutter wanted to chat, she’d be glad for his company. He was not only an important customer but also a neighbor and friend—and there were far worse topics than cycling!