While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) (32 page)

Now, though, looking at herself in the mirror, she was pleased. No doubt the other members of the club would dress up today as well.

Josephine moistened her hair with a little water, then kneaded it with both hands until curls began to form. She pinched her cheeks to give them a little blush, then looked herself over one last time with a critical eye. With her shoulder-length curls that she always wore loose, she was certainly no ballroom belle, but her hair suited her face and added something a little daring to her look, and she liked that.

After giving the cat some milk in a bowl, she tucked in her skirt, swung onto her bicycle, and rode off.

Today was a special day. The men and women in the club wanted to ring in the new season with a big party. After the reduced opening times of the winter, the club was going to open daily again starting in March. That mattered little to Josephine, who still preferred to ride on the street, where she had, in the meantime, built up her stamina greatly. The longest stretch that she and Adrian had ridden had taken four hours. Summer, autumn, winter—no one could tell her when to ride! For Josephine, there was no such thing as bad weather, and she enjoyed experiencing the changing seasons from the saddle of her bicycle. Only in recent weeks, when the streets were buried under snow, had she taken a break from cycling. But she had continued to see Adrian. He had come to see her in the workshop several times under various pretexts. Once there was something that needed to be repaired on his bicycle. Another time it was his watchband that had torn.

Adrian . . . Josephine’s heart beat faster, and it had nothing to do with the gentle grade she was cycling up just then.

Once she had found out that Adrian and Isabelle’s engagement was not genuine, she no longer felt any guilt about taking something that belonged to someone else. Their rides together had become an important part of her life, perhaps the most important. She looked forward to them with a practically feverish excitement. And when she saw him on those early mornings—when a broad smile swept across his serious face at the sight of her—she sensed that he, too, harbored feelings for her, even though he had never openly expressed anything of the sort. But what had never been could still come to pass.

In recent weeks, since the previous autumn, in fact, she had had the growing sense that something was brewing inside Adrian. That he was struggling inwardly, searching for a way out of the mire. Maybe even searching for a solution that would leave the way to her open? Josephine prayed to God daily that her suspicions were not false, and that Adrian would soon open his heart to her. But she doubted anything like that would happen that evening.

She was past the hill now, and the streets of Berlin were flat again. Josephine pedaled harder. Perhaps Adrian would ask her to dance? That would surely be acceptable between members of the same club, wouldn’t it?

Even from outside, she heard the angry shouts and voices raised in indignation, and when she pushed open the door to the clubroom, the noise grew louder still.

“It’s a scandal!”

“It’s outrageous is what it is. It’s slander, a smear campaign!”

“Ten pages! Can you believe it?”

“Oh, no. Listen to this . . .”

Instead of lifting their glasses of sparkling wine in toasts as planned, the women and several of the men were gathered around newspapers spread across a table, reading passages aloud to one another.

“Listen: ‘Anemia and Neurasthenia: The Latest Trend in Diseases Among Women, Resulting from the Unsavory Practice of Riding Bicycles!’ Written by a Dr. Köppke,” read Melissa. “He’s got an imagination.”

Luise Karrer tapped on the paper in front of her. “This one claims that the sport makes you infertile. ‘The considerable jolts experienced while cycling damage the female reproductive organs.’ I wonder where my four children came from, then.”

“The stork brought them. Didn’t you know that?” said one of the younger men sitting around the table. Unlike the women, they appeared to find the whole thing more amusing than annoying.

“What’s going on?” Jo asked as she sat down next to Isabelle and gestured toward the table, which was set for dinner but also covered in newspapers. She glanced discreetly around the room. Adrian was sitting with Chloé’s husband at a table in the rear. He saw her, and they exchanged a nod, then Isabelle claimed all of Josephine’s attention when she exclaimed loudly, “Well, I never! This article was penned by a certain Dr. Gerhard Gropius!”

“That’s Clara’s husband,” said Josephine, who snatched the newspaper out of Isabelle’s hand and began reading.

Women and Cycling: A Medical Perspective

Society, it would seem, is content to sit back and watch the immoral goings-on of increasing numbers of viragoes on two wheels and thus complacently accept the spread of this most unwomanly of affectations. It is high time that we, as men of medicine, speak out against this state of affairs.

“Most unwomanly of affectations . . .” Josephine said aloud as she looked up from the newspaper. “I find it sad that there are still men in this world who denigrate our sport like this. But that’s no reason to get so upset.”

“Then read on,” said Luise, who was sitting on the opposite side of the table.

The fear of pitching headlong over the handlebars results in such a frenzy of adrenaline that she imperils not only her own health but also that of her unborn children! Who would be surprised to find that such a neglectful attitude to one’s health might well diminish a woman’s procreative ability? Forgotten is the very reason for which God created women: to bear children. Most certainly not to ride a bicycle . . .

“What kind of rubbish is this?” Josephine asked.

Luise laughed. “And you haven’t read the other articles yet. That’s one of the more harmless ones.”

“But what . . . How is it that . . .” Jo spread her hands to indicate all of the newspaper pages.

“The newspaper is calling it a special supplement,” Luise said. “Ten extra pages in the middle of the newspaper, full of essays from doctors and professors from all over the empire. The good doctors must have been corresponding with each other for months to put together this libelous campaign.”

“I know what they’re after with all this,” said Gertrude. “They want to cut off our freedom! They want us to sit at home and wait on our husbands instead of riding through the city.” She tapped on an article in front of her. “Listen to this one: ‘It is undisputed that women, too, feel a certain need for exercise. It would, however, be far preferable for them to treadle honorably at the spinning wheel or sewing machine than to pedal ignobly at a bicycle.’ ”

“A spinning wheel? Does he think we live in the Middle Ages?” Chloé said heatedly, impatiently waving away the waitress who had come up behind her. She and most of the others had lost their appetite.

“Unbelievable!” Josephine shook her head. “What do
you
have to say about it?” she asked, turning to Isabelle, who was sitting beside her with a faint smile on her lips. “What, do you think this is funny?”

Isabelle’s smile did not falter. “No, no, I find it just as terrible as you do. But . . .” She pulled Jo toward her and whispered in her ear. “Today is a wonderful day. I just received some very, very good news.” Her look was as meaningful as it was mysterious.

“You two will have more to whisper about in a minute,” said Fadi Nandou. “The worst article of all is at the end. It’s from a doctor in Braunschweig. He writes: ‘Based on countless examinations, observations, and scientific inquiries, as well as my own great knowledge of human nature, it is beyond a doubt that many women exploit the riding of bicycles for masturbatory purposes.’ ”

Shocked and indignant gasps sounded on all sides.

Jo started. “Masturbatory”—what did that even mean? She took the pages from Fadi and read on.

Have you never asked yourself why so many women spend every free minute aboard a bicycle? While cycling, certain motions on the saddle pommel lead to sexual excitations, stimulations that females of a certain demeanor seem to require in the same way they need air to breathe. In this regard, it is but poor consolation that such “women” are of a species already corrupted long before they took up the “sport” of cycling.

Josephine felt her face flush. No one could believe that she . . . while she was riding . . . or that any other woman . . . How degrading. And how impertinent!

“Enough is enough!” said Luise, and she banged the table so hard with her fist that the wine glasses clinked. “We will not allow ourselves to be vilified in this disgraceful way. Paper and pen, please. We will write a rebuttal, one with teeth!”

The manager who ran the clubhouse stepped up to the table just then and cleared his throat. “Nothin’s goin’ to be written nowhere now! The soup’s finished, and it will be served this minute.”

No one paid much attention to the delicious food. The talk at the table revolved around the extraordinary articles in the paper. The fact that a Berlin newspaper would even publish such a thing left the women perplexed. They had all believed that times had changed. That
they
had changed them . . .

While Jo joined in the conversation, Isabelle continued to sit in silence, her blissful smirk fixed in place. What had gotten into Jo’s friend?

Dessert was just being served when she noticed Adrian stand up. At the door, he signaled to Jo discreetly to follow him outside.

With shaking hands, Jo set her napkin on the table, murmured an apology, and disappeared.

Outside, Adrian suggested they go for a walk. Josephine was happy to do so; a little fresh air would be most welcome after all the excitement in the club.

In the glow of the gas lamps, the street lay silent and peaceful. As they walked down toward Halensee Lake, Josephine inhaled the faint smell of spring that hung full of promise in the air. As far as she was concerned, they could walk like that to the end of the world. She would have liked nothing more than to take Adrian by the arm. But she could not. Instead they walked so close beside each other that their arms touched repeatedly, as if by accident.

“I’m going away. To America. I’ll be leaving before Easter,” said Adrian. At first Josephine did not understand what he had said.

“You’re doing what?” she asked with a laugh.

“In Boston, that’s a city in the state of Massachusetts, there’s a manufacturer named Albert Augustus Pope. He makes bicycles by the thousand. All of the German makers are talking about him. Most of them despise him, because he makes most of the parts for his bicycles by machine. But there are also some who admire him, because no one else in the world makes or sells as many bicycles as cheaply as he does. Thirty thousand a year, they say.”

“What does that have to do with you?” She could not fake even a trace of enthusiasm or interest in her voice. She knew what was coming.

Adrian stopped beneath a gas lamp. As airily as if he were talking about an excursion out to Wannsee lake, he said, “I’m going to take a look at the factory. And if I like the bicycles and they’re really as inexpensive as they say, I would like to import them to Germany. A bicycle for a hundred marks—remember?” He smiled mischievously.

The last thing Josephine could do just then was smile. “But America is at the other end of the world! And crossing the Atlantic is dangerous. You’ll be gone for half an eternity . . .” There was so much more she wanted to say.
Don’t leave me. Spring is just around the corner, then summer, and who’s going to go riding with me? There are people who make bicycles in Germany, too!
But what right did she have to talk to him like that?

As if he could read her mind, Adrian said, “The German producers are too inflexible. They insist on handmade bicycles. I can’t do business with them. I
have
to go to America. I’ve already booked my passage . . . as I said, I’ll be leaving before Easter.”

“But . . .” Jo protested helplessly, “What do Isabelle and your family have to say about it?”

Adrian sniffed. “I told Isabelle this afternoon. She’s over the moon. She hopes this will mean the whole topic of the wedding is off the table once and for all. And my father . . . I’m going to leave a letter for him that explains everything.”

“A letter. Isn’t that a bit cowardly?” Josephine frowned. “Why don’t you simply tell him your plans?”

“You don’t know my father,” said Adrian bitterly. “He’ll sweep aside every word I say like dust. He’d never let me go. I fit too well into his plans.” He took her hands in his, looked deep into her eyes, and said, “This is the only way, believe me! If I manage to build up the import business, I’ll be free of all constraints. Free for you . . .”

His last words were like a warm breath on her face.
“Free for you . . .”

They walked on in silence. Halensee Lake came into view. Hand in hand, without a word, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, they strolled to one of the benches by the lake. Adrian spread out his woolen scarf on the bench, and when they had sat down, he said, “I love you, Josephine.”

“And I love you, too,” she said.

It was a simple admission of what both had known for a long time.

“It’s
you
I want to marry, not Isabelle!” Adrian went on, his voice heavy with emotion. “But I can only do that when I can provide for you as a man ought to. The moment my father finds out that I’m not willing to marry Isabelle, he’ll throw me out of the company. I’ll be left without a penny. I’d have nothing to offer you. Nothing. The only reason I’m going to America is for you . . . When I come back in the fall, I want to have something to show for myself.”

Josephine frowned.
I love you.
She had been waiting for months to hear these words from him. And yet . . .

“I can provide for myself. You could help me in the workshop, we could expand it together—you would certainly not be penniless,” she said proudly. “Why don’t you just admit that you want to run away from all of the problems you have with your father? Why don’t you admit that an adventure is more important to you than making a fresh start here, with your family?”