While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) (3 page)

Josephine’s wrists burned and splinters drove into her flesh as she tore out the boards with her bare hands.

Dear God, watch over my brother. He is just a child. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Dear God, take what you want from me, but watch over my brother.

She had prayed to God as she had never prayed in her life. But God was not there on that Sunday. The fire extinguished her prayers, as surely as it did Felix’s life.

“Felix! Where are you?” Her voice sounded muffled, as if she were trying to speak through a heavy cloth rag. She squinted into the scorching sea of fire, and a stabbing pain throbbed in her ears as she groped her way forward into the inferno.

She was too late. Her brother had already perished in the flames.

Chapter Three

Breakfast was a scant affair that took place under the eyes of two surly guards in a cold, gloomy hall. The narrow windows were positioned in the upper third of the walls, and little light found its way through them.
It’s like eating in a basement,
thought Jo, as she sat down at one of the outer tables. Could it be that the rooms that made up the juvenile section of the prison were actually underground? When she’d been brought in, she had paid no attention to things like stairways, but now, after a single night, she felt as if she’d been buried alive inside a tomb. She wanted more than anything to stand up and leave.

She felt Adele’s venomous glare on her as she chewed on a dry roll and sipped at the weak tea. The leader of the gang was whispering with the girls sitting around her and pointed repeatedly in Josephine’s direction. Once, twice, their eyes met. Jo knew she had better be on guard.

“So? Why are you here?”

Reluctantly, Josephine turned to the redhead who had sat beside her. She didn’t even know the girl’s name, didn’t know whether she was really pregnant or she just had a strange figure. And she didn’t want to know.

“Theft,” Josephine replied.

“Is that all . . . ?” asked the red-haired girl, evidently disappointed. “I was tricked!” she added, then launched into a drawn-out story in which three friends, an old couple, and money hidden under a mattress all played a role. The fact that the old couple lay dead in their narrow bed by the end of the story didn’t seem to trouble the girl much. She repeated several times that she had had nothing to do with it.

As if Josephine cared! She chewed in silence, wishing she were able to close her ears as easily as she could close her eyes.

“And I got tricked the same way with this.” The girl thumped her stomach with her right hand. “He said he’d be careful and that we’d both have fun. Fun my foot! But I suppose one good thing did come of it. If I wasn’t knocked up, they’d have stuck me in the prison in Moabit. They only brought me here because the women’s prison has a birthing ward.” The redhead reached out her hand. “My name’s Martha, by the way.”

Josephine had no choice but to take the extended hand. It was moist, and a few breadcrumbs clung to it.

“Jo.”

“At least your name isn’t too long!” Martha laughed. “It sounds more like a man’s name. But from what I know about you, it fits. It sounds really . . . tough.”

For the first time since this nightmare had begun, a gentle smile appeared on Josephine’s face. “Someone else once told me the same thing.”

Martha, who obviously claimed Jo’s smile as a personal success, beamed. “A girlfriend? Do you have one?”

Jo bit a chunk of the roll but said nothing. Did she have friends? God, yes, very good friends—the best anyone could imagine! She had been friends with Clara since she could walk and had known Isabelle since they were both small. But she and Isabelle had only really become close about a year and a half ago. And then there was Lilo down in the Black Forest.

“They won’t want anything to do with me anymore,” Jo said. “Not after I got caught stealing from Isabelle’s father.” Jo felt nauseous at the memory of his actions on the night in question. Instead of talking to her, he had immediately filed a complaint with the police.

“Oh,” said Martha, but she did not look as taken aback as she sounded. “Friends!” She gestured dismissively. “They probably tricked you somehow and you didn’t even notice. That’s the second thing we have in common. The first is that we both got here yesterday.”

Josephine looked at Martha with annoyance. What nonsense was she spouting? They had nothing—not a single thing!—in common.

Martha grasped Josephine’s right hand and squeezed it. “I can be your friend, if you’d like.”

Josephine jerked her hand free. “Just because I helped you out of a jam yesterday doesn’t mean you have to stick to me like a burr! Let’s get one thing straight: in the future, you look out for yourself. I do
not
feel like—”

A shrill bell sounded, cutting Josephine off.

Karlheinz Krotzmann had just passed through the gatehouse of the Barnim Road Women’s Prison when he felt the old familiar rumbling in his stomach. His face contorted in pain as he surveyed the prison, which consisted of a U-shaped building housing several hundred inmates. The facility had been built a few years earlier by some notable architects, following a decision by the Royal Ministry of Justice. The left wing contained the apartments of the prison officers and the kitchens. The prison had its own boiler building and power plant that supplied the complex with power and light. Behind the main building were an orchard and a vegetable garden that were tended by the inmates. The architects had even added a prison chapel on the top floor.

Karlheinz Krotzmann sniffed. He would have bet that hardly anybody here had ever set foot in that house of the Lord. His discomfort increased with every step. Although the building was no more than twenty years old, everything looked dilapidated. The footpath that led to the main building was uneven and potholed; the walls were stained or covered in moss. The windows were grimy, the bars rusted . . .

These people are like animals! They destroy everything, without the slightest hesitation about the damage they’re doing,
Krotzmann thought. He was glad that the start of his classes did not coincide with the release of the inmates into the yard. The idea of breathing the same air as murderers and thieves any more than he had to made him uneasy.

He had almost reached the main block when he saw the caretaker coming around the corner pulling a handcart stacked with tools. The man lived in a small apartment on the premises and was busy with repairs from dawn till dusk.
What a life!
thought Krotzmann with a shudder, and he gave the caretaker a sympathetic nod. After a brief greeting, the man said, “I need a new helper. One of the younger ones for a change, I reckon. Maybe they’re not as degenerate as the adults. Can you send me someone at the end of your class?”

Krotzmann nodded. He was responsible for assigning the young convicts to the laundry, the cleaning crews, and the kitchen.

“Didn’t you have a skinny old woman helping you fix the chicken run fence last week? What happened to her?”

The caretaker snorted. “She tried to crack my skull with a hammer. I saw it coming at the last second. I managed to duck but just barely avoided it. They’ve thrown the old girl in solitary. Pity. I thought there was more good in her than that.”

Thought there was more good in her!
The man was an irredeemable fool if he believed that. The churning in Krotzmann’s belly grew stronger. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, then pushed open the heavy iron door of the main block. Its painful creak was the starting signal for the three hours of agony he endured every day in the newly built juvenile wing.

The juvenile wing was a waste of money, just like the chapel. It made no difference whether the younger whores and thieves were shut away separately for a few years or whether they were thrown in with the adult offenders from the start.
Maybe they’re not as degenerate . . .
Ha! The mere thought of that Adele with her ice-cold eyes was enough to make him nauseous. To beat your own—drunken!—father to death from behind . . . One could only imagine what that took.

What a disgrace,
thought Krotzmann, not for the first time, and felt his bile rise. An abysmal disgrace, that
he
of all people should be condemned by the Education Authority to teach behind the barred facade of the Barnim Road Women’s Prison. Of course, the head of the authority had put it differently: “An attempt to lead wayward young members of society back onto the right path. An educational challenge requiring rigor and benevolence in equal measure.” It was said that he, Karlheinz Krotzmann, could be entrusted with such a task. He was left with no other choice but to comply, in the hope that one or two years in the women’s prison would help him achieve his ambition of higher office someday. For more than a year now, he had taken the trams halfway across the city, day after day, to this den of iniquity. And each day, his loathing of his pupils grew. It was revolting to even call them that . . .

Not that he hadn’t started out with the best intentions! Because there were no lesson plans for this kind of “school,” he had created his own. The lesson plans, which mainly focused on building his pupils’ discipline and endurance rather than their intellect, consisted of multiplication tables, reading, writing, and memorization.

But he quickly became convinced that his cleverly conceived lesson plans were wasted on such ignorant, undisciplined rabble. A workhouse, in his opinion, would have been far more suitable for these lazy sluts than mental arithmetic or the poems of Goethe.

Krotzmann took a final deep breath, then pulled open the door of the so-called classroom, which was no more than just another gloomy, poorly ventilated room.

“Good morning, Mr. Krotzmann,” thirty young women droned.

At least the morning greeting had been successful. But how they slumped in their chairs! One could identify their miserable characters simply by looking at their postures. There was no need to even look into their wicked eyes.

He spotted the two new arrivals instantly. A red-haired, scared-looking harlot. Either she’d been pushed around by the others, or she was a cunning little tramp. Beside her sat another young woman—

Krotzmann started. What was a girl like that doing here? She was tall and slender, with an even complexion and well-cared-for, curly hair. Unlike the others, she sat upright and radiated a natural elegance. Such a creature was clearly not a product of the gutter. Had things degenerated to the point that girls from decent households were no longer able to tell good from evil? What could her crime have been? Had she swindled some good-natured sucker? Robbed a poor mother? Perhaps killed someone? She was as good-looking as the actresses on the posters of the Berlin Schauspielhaus, which only served to stoke the fires of Krotzmann’s malevolence.

He cracked his wooden cane impatiently against the lectern at the front of the room. He squinted as he looked out over his pupils.

“The sight of you all slouching there makes me sick! How many times do I have to explain the proper posture? Feet must be flat, with the entire sole flush with the floor! Thighs must rest straight and level on the surface of the seat! It’s disgusting to you see sprawled out that way!” He took his cane and whacked a pupil in the first row across the back, causing a sharp clapping noise.

“And you! Keep your head up! The chin should never touch the chest!” Another swish of the cane, this time at the back of the first girl’s neighbor. Neither of the girls so much as flinched. They could take it; he had to give them that.
But why do they prefer a stroke of the cane to following my instructions?
he wondered as he made his way to the back rows.

“Hurry up—feet parallel and flat on the floor! Thighs straight on the seat. Upper bodies may be inclined slightly forward, but woe betide anyone who leans against the edge of the table! And your shoulders! How many times do I have to repeat myself? Shoulders must be aligned with the edge of the table. The right shoulder no higher or lower than the left.” He looked on grimly as the young women struggled to adopt his decreed posture. The slim newcomer seemed to be having particular difficulties. Looking closer, Krotzmann realized she had quite a broad, strong back. This evidence of physical strength angered him, although he could not have explained why. Instantly, he was standing beside her.

“You!” He brought his cane down on the table in front of her with a thwack. “Name!”

“Josephine Schmied,” came the reply, soft but firm.

Josephine.
He knew it. This was no Martha or Karla. What was she doing here? He glared at her.

“The deportment of your arms is unacceptable! This is a classroom, not some train station or wherever else you feel like loitering.” His stick came down hard on her hand. His right eye twitched nervously when he saw the blood welling up from her knuckles. Bright-red blood. He withdrew the cane and felt a kind of pleasant relief. Two or three girls laughed, and he recognized Adele’s voice among them. He cast a warning glare around the room, then turned back to the newcomer. “Your left forearm should rest entirely on top of the desk, and your right with the hand and wrist.”

“I had an accident. My shoulder is injured. Unfortunately, I am not able to sit any other way,” the young woman said and swept a lock of hair from her forehead.

Why would she not look at him? Did she imagine she was better than he was? Was she trying to flirt with him? The tension rose in him once again. “Do you believe for a minute I would accept such a ridiculous excuse?”

His cane came slashing down on her other hand. Once. Twice. The newcomer shook in a way that did not come entirely from the pain she must have felt, but from something else, something deeper. For a moment, he feared the young woman would leap from her chair and defend herself from his blows. But the moment passed and nothing happened. He exhaled. He looked down at her, his superiority established.