While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) (6 page)

In fact, the wagon drivers in the Black Forest seemed no different than the men who brought their horses to her father’s forge, Josephine realized. Encouraged by this, she walked straight over to one of the younger drivers. She knew her way around such men, and despite some difficulties understanding their dialect, she quickly settled on an equitable price with the man.

With every mile they traveled, the Black Forest terrain grew hillier, the road rockier and more winding. Rarely could she see beyond the next curve, and steep slopes thickly forested with conifers loomed on all sides. The forests looked dark and downright somber. Was this gloom the reason this region was called the Black Forest? Once, they passed a mill, its enormous water wheel turned by a rushing stream. A few barefoot children were standing at the edge of the stream, poking the water with sticks as if they were looking for something. A short distance farther on, a resinous smoke suddenly filled the air. The two horses snorted and swung their heads from side to side with such force that they flung white spittle onto their sides. Fire! Josephine felt her stomach begin to knot and the old, familiar fear start to rise. She quickly pressed the sleeve of her jacket over her nose to escape the odor.

“A charcoal kiln,” said her driver as he pointed to an enormous wooden dome covered in earth. “They make charcoal here for the glassblowers who work nearby. Goldsmiths and silversmiths use the charcoal, too, and several armorers get their supplies here.” There was pride in the man’s voice.

Soon, the forests thinned, and the road, still climbing, wound through more open country. Relieved to have escaped from the smell of the smoldering charcoal pile and the grim forests, Josephine closed her eyes.

“Wake up. We’re here.” The wagon driver stood beside her. He shook her roughly by the arm, then walked forward to tend to the horses.

For a moment, Josephine had no idea where she was. It had grown dark and streetlamps were burning. At the sight of the half-timbered houses, she remembered. Schömberg. The town in the Black Forest. The sanatorium. She had arrived.

While the driver set about retrieving her suitcase from the back of his wagon, Josephine looked at the large building in front of her. The words “Stag Guesthouse” stood out in large letters on a wooden sign attached directly beneath a gabled roof. Underneath hung a second sign made of metal that looked considerably younger than the first. “Schömberg Mountain-Air Sanatorium,” Josephine read. So this was the sanatorium where she was to be cured of her cough. The place certainly looked inviting.

Josephine looked up the main street. The town was considerably larger than she had imagined. Numerous streets led off to the left and right, and Josephine spotted a church tower and several rooftops that obviously belonged to other large buildings. Could those be other sanatoria?

“Have a good rest, miss!” The driver tipped his hat then jumped back up to his seat.

Josephine watched the wagon roll away, then she picked up her case and walked up to her new quarters.

“This is your room!” The receptionist at the Schömberg Mountain-Air Sanatorium enthusiastically unlocked one of the doors in a row of ten or so rooms. “Mr. Roth, our caretaker—he’s the one we received your registration from—said you would be quite satisfied with one of the smaller rooms.”

Josephine stepped inside, her heart pounding. A smaller room? This was at least as big as her room at home! And much nicer and cozier, too. Beside a bed with pink-and-white checked linens was a table with a tablecloth of the same material and a chair; a large wardrobe and a washbasin occupied one wall. Everything was clean, tidy, and attractive.

“My own washbasin. I’ve never had such a luxury in my life,” she said, her voice husky as she stroked her fingers almost reverently over the porcelain.

“A novelty for which we can only thank Hugo Römpler, the founder of the sanatorium. It is his belief that many diseases are, in fact, exacerbated by a lack of physical hygiene,” the receptionist said, a note of pride in her voice. “Before this place was remodeled as a sanatorium, it was the Stag Guesthouse. The guests back then certainly did not have the luxury of a private washbasin, but Mr. Römpler saw the potential that the old Stag had to offer. He left the dining room and guest salon as they were.” The woman pointed toward a door. “You’ll find our library in there. We encourage our guests to choose whatever reading matter they might enjoy, because a cheerful spirit will hasten the healing process. The weather is still warm enough that you can even take a book and spend the day with it in our beautiful garden, if you like. Mr. Römpler brought in a gardener especially from Baden-Baden who transformed the old vegetable garden into a veritable oasis of calm, with benches for sitting and a pavilion. We even have a small lily pond! Isn’t that marvelous? Look, Mr. Römpler had the garden lit in the evenings.” The receptionist was clearly enjoying her presentation and pushed aside a checked curtain to show Josephine the view from the window.

“It really is quite lovely,” said Josephine. For the first time in her life, she felt something like a joyful anticipation stir in her. A library. Reading books in the garden. And such a beautiful room . . .

She pointed to a long room directly below her window. “And what is that?”

“Our new extension. It houses the bath section. We have six tubs for hip baths, but we will only know tomorrow if they will be part of your convalescence here, after your medical examination.” The receptionist frowned and looked at Josephine, then at the watch hanging on a chain around her neck, and she said, “My goodness, it’s already so late! They’ll be serving dinner in half an hour. But you still have time to freshen up a little before you come down for dinner.”

“For dinner?” Josephine said with a squeaky voice. The pleasant feeling that had begun to spread inside her disappeared and gave way to a new and nervous rumbling in the region of her stomach that had nothing to do with hunger. The thought of meeting strangers with whom she was supposed to make conversation made her anxious.

“I’m not sure . . . I don’t want to rush things . . . and I’m really not hungry.”

“Don’t worry. Everyone here is very nice and approachable.” The receptionist laughed. “We are blessed with a particularly likeable group of guests at the moment. Although it’s true that they’re all older than you, our guests’ afflictions and hope for recuperation are normally more than sufficient as a basis for conversation.” She already had her hand on the doorknob when she stopped and turned to Josephine one last time.

“Oh, one thing I almost forgot . . . Here in the sanatorium, we use a special form of address. We don’t go by Professor Suchandsuch or Director Soandso, let alone Countess of Whoknowswhere. Each of us thinks up a nice plain name for themselves, and otherwise we just use a friendly Sir or Madam. Though in your case, because you’re still so terribly young, we’ll go with Miss.” A short pause followed. When Josephine said nothing, the receptionist spoke again. “What do they call you at home?”

With some trepidation, Josephine told the woman her name.
But that was on her registration form already, wasn’t it?

“And do you have any special nickname?”

“No. Well, my friend Clara sometimes calls me Josie.”

“Josie.” The receptionist let the name roll over her lips as if she were tasting wine. “Josie.” She shook her head, then said firmly. “It doesn’t suit you. It’s much too sweet. We’ll call you Jo.”

“Jo?” Josephine let out a confused laugh. “But . . . isn’t that a man’s name?”

The woman flicked her hand dismissively. “Who cares? It’s short and snappy and that can’t hurt. My name’s Roswitha, by the way.” And even though she had already shaken hands with Josephine at the reception desk, she repeated the gesture now. “My dear Jo, welcome to Schömberg!”

Josephine could hear the clinking of cutlery and glasses from the hallway. The low buzz of voices was occasionally interrupted by laughter. Then she heard a hard, dry cough. Instantly, she felt a scratching in her own throat. She swallowed, a trick she had to subdue the urge to cough.

The aroma wafting from the dining room smelled delicious, like vegetable soup but also something sweet. Pancakes, perhaps? She was hungrier than she’d thought . . .

Summoning all her courage, Josephine entered the dining room. It was a square, wood-paneled room, its windows hung with the same pink-and-white checked curtains as those in her room. Most of the ten or twelve tables were already occupied. What now? Where was she supposed to—

Before she even had a chance to feel self-conscious, Roswitha was at her side.

“Ladies, gentlemen, allow me to introduce our new guest—Jo, from Berlin! She just arrived this evening.”

Josephine gave the room a little curtsy and smiled timidly. Several guests raised their glasses in greeting, while others nodded pleasantly to her. One of the women didn’t look up at all but went on writing incessantly in a small notebook.

“Your table is over here. You’re sitting with Annabelle and Giuseppa.”

A moment later, Josephine found herself sitting between two complete strangers, one of whom was the writer. A young girl with an apron set a bowl of soup on the table in front of her.

“Bon appétit! Nourishing meals are as important to recovery as the good air and medical attention,” said the younger of the two women. “I’m Annabelle, and I’ve already been here for three weeks. You could say I’m an old hand by now!” A tired laugh brightened her haggard face for a moment. “If there’s anything you want to know, just ask. Which room have they put you in?”

Before she knew it, Josephine had finished off the soup and was deep in conversation about the sanatorium, the Black Forest region, and Schömberg. Annabelle spoke with a strong Bavarian accent, so Josephine did not understand every word immediately. But it didn’t matter. Only when she was back in her room did it occur to her that no one had talked about their diseases.

Chapter Five

“Given your age and height, you could certainly stand to be a few pounds heavier and generally stronger, but it seems you don’t have tuberculosis,” said Dr. Homburger, one of the sanatorium doctors, after he had spent more than an hour auscultating, palpating, and interrogating Josephine. She had had to cough, hold her breath, and breathe again on command. She had had to run up and down the corridor until she was completely out of breath. Then the doctor had set his stethoscope on her chest and listened intently, his face set in a frown.

No one had ever examined her so thoroughly. Josephine was both impressed and intimidated.

“It’s not whooping cough,” said the doctor, making a note in Jo’s file. “I could hear a light rattle but no threatening lung sounds. That gives me hope that your lungs have not been damaged. And you’re not spitting blood. When did you say the coughing started?” Sharpened quill at the ready, he peered at Josephine.

“In the spring,” she replied, looking back at the doctor, whose fine beard quivered slightly with every word. Dr. Homburger was extremely tall and thin with pale, almost transparent skin. He looked like the kind of person who spent most of his time in darkened rooms. Josephine thought he looked like he might have some kind of lung disease himself.

“That’s a very long time. And the originating cause was a fire to which you were exposed. Did I understand that correctly?” He leafed through some documents and Josephine wondered where they had come from and whether they related to her.

She nodded. Before she knew it, she was shaken by a new coughing fit.

Dr. Homburger took his stethoscope and placed it against her back. “Strange,” he murmured to himself once the coughing had subsided. He signaled to Josephine to follow him to a small, round table by the window. As he poured her a glass of water, he said, “We specialize here in the treatment of tuberculosis. I don’t know what you know about the disease—what some people call
consumption
 . . .”

Josephine shrugged. “In some quarters of Berlin, where people live very close together, an epidemic breaks out from time to time. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. When that happens, the residents of the city’s other neighborhoods are told to avoid going into the area. And if they
must
go there, they’re told they should do so with a cloth over their faces and not shake hands with anyone who looks as if he might have consumption.”

The doctor nodded. “In the past, tuberculosis was seen as a disease of artists or romantic souls, an image that still appeals to some of our guests.” He laughed heartily. “But the fact of the matter is that consumption is mainly a curse of the poor these days. Until a few years ago, it was considered incurable. However, scientists now believe that recovery is possible, especially in places that are immune to the disease, meaning places where no case of consumption has ever been recorded. Schömberg, with its pure mountain air, was practically predestined to become a sanatorium village.”

Josephine frowned. An immune place—how sterile that sounded. It seemed at odds with the lush greenery she could see outside the window.

“Tuberculosis continues to be highly contagious. The fact that you are
not
suffering from it means that the danger of infection represents an immediate and unnecessary risk for you, especially in light of your weakened condition. It would probably be for the best if I were to send you straight back home again . . .”

“Please don’t!” Josephine looked at the doctor in horror. She had only just gotten used to the idea of spending some time in this strange and beautiful region. “How am I supposed to get well again if you send me away? No one can help me in Berlin. I’ve put all my hopes in this sanatorium. Please, I beg you!” When the doctor did not immediately reply, she went on, “I want to finally feel well again, to be free of the load crushing my chest so hard that I can barely breathe. I used to be strong, and I want to be strong again, but I don’t have the slightest idea how to make that happen.” She slumped in her seat, a picture of misery.

The doctor flicked through his paperwork again. When he looked up, he told her, “I see that your expenses have already been paid in advance for several weeks. Given that that is the case, perhaps we should do what we can.”

Josephine nodded eagerly.

Dr. Homburger leaned back with a sigh. “All right then. We’ll make an exception. But only if you stick to the most important rule of all.”

Josephine nodded again. “What is it?”

“You must exercise the greatest of caution among our other patients. Tuberculosis is transferred by airborne droplets, meaning the liquid human beings spray into the air every time they sneeze or cough. So no hugging. Keep your distance at all times. Outside your room, you should keep a handkerchief over your nose and mouth at all times, and if someone should accidentally cough near you, turn and move away immediately.”

Josephine nodded again; she was starting to feel like a nodding fool. If that was all there was to it . . .

“No resting on the balcony, and hip baths are out of the question. In both cases, our patients lie side by side,” the doctor continued in a businesslike tone. “For your kind of cough, fresh air and light exercise are the best kinds of medicine. Take lots of walks! Around the village at first, and then, as you get your strength back, go out into the woods. With plenty of rest, a nourishing diet, and the Black Forest climate, we’ll take care of your cough in no time. I will write out a plan for you, and I expect you to follow it to the letter. Have I made myself clear?”

Josephine cleared her throat. “I should take walks. To be honest . . . I’ve never just taken a walk. Not for exercise. Can you please tell me how that works?”

In the following weeks, Josephine came to know something that she had never experienced before: leisure. And she came to know something else as well: herself.

The first time she set off for a walk, after a hearty breakfast, she felt rather strange. Walking around in the middle of the day, just like that! Doing nothing while everyone else was busy. She had retreated to her room after only half an hour. But on her next outing, her guilt lessened. There was so much to discover. Schömberg was a pretty place situated in a wild, natural landscape. It didn’t matter that Josephine was a city child. She instinctively recognized the special character of the place and fell in love with it. She had no trouble walking—if her coughing became too harsh on a steep part of a track, she simply stopped and waited for it to pass. Apart from her cough, she was reasonably fit, which Josephine put down to her work in the smithy. As the days passed, she went out on longer and longer walks. Occasionally, she ran into one of the villagers or a woodsman cutting wood. If she happened to see one of the sanatorium guests, Josephine took another path. She did not want to stop and chat—not about God and the world, and certainly not about death.

As ordered by Dr. Homburger, she took long breaks between outings. She went to the library and read for hours—a new pastime for the girl who had practically never picked up a book at home. She was particularly taken by a novel by Gottfried Keller titled
Green Henry
. She felt she had found in young Henry a true kindred spirit. In the book, the young man is sent by his mother for an extended stay in the country, where events transpire that change the course of his life. During the more exciting passages, Josephine let the book sink into her lap and wondered whether she might follow a similar path.
Nonsense,
she would think, smiling. But now she finally understood the pleasure Frieda took in reading.

The reading also gave her a way to avoid getting pulled in to too many conversations. Dealing with the sick—and often incurable—guests was a burden for Josephine. She knew just how brutal and unkind death could be, and she wanted to keep her distance from it. So for the first time in her life, Josephine spent a great deal of time by herself, and she discovered in the process that she got along quite well on her own.

It was December 31, 1889. The last decade of the century would begin in a few hours. All across the empire, people were taking time to reflect or look ahead. The newspapers were brimming with prognoses about a rosy future or bleak days ahead, depending on the mood of the writer and the position of the newspaper.

In the Schömberg sanatorium, too, a small New Year’s Eve party was planned for that evening. While some of the guests decorated the dining room with paper roses and colorful streamers and the cook mixed a fruit punch, Josephine put on a coat, scarf, and cap and went out walking. A final stroll in the old year. But was she ready to look back on the past year? Perhaps up at the lookout in the forest. She always felt so lighthearted up there, and her thoughts practically flew up into the skies above.

Although it was only two thirty in the afternoon, the chill of dusk was already beginning to creep through the village. It had not yet snowed, but a thin layer of frost had settled over the whole region like icing. The snowless winter was a constant topic of conversation among the patients and employees of the sanatorium. According to Roswitha, there had been nothing like it in more than forty years.

Candles were burning in the windows of many houses, and Josephine wondered whether this was some special New Year’s custom specific to the Black Forest. The smoke that spiraled from the chimneys and dissipated in the winter air smelled of pine needles.

Josephine stopped and gazed at one particularly stately house. No doubt a family was gathered peacefully inside . . . A gentle longing tugged at her. How was
her
family doing? Had Clara made the same pretty paper angels she had made the year before? And who was helping Frieda carry in the wood for her fire now that Josephine wasn’t there to do it for her?

Hitching up her skirts, Josephine marched on toward the forest. She still had to stop occasionally on the steep slopes until her coughing subsided. Despite all her outings and the good Black Forest food and all the peace and quiet she enjoyed in Schömberg, her cough had not noticeably improved. Dr. Homburger now frowned in vague annoyance whenever he saw her, as if it were her fault that she had not yet recovered. But no one was more annoyed about it than Josephine herself.

She had just reached the first trees when she heard a crunching sound somewhere to her left. This was quickly followed by a swish and a grating crashing noise. Then a large shadow shot past so close that Josephine felt a rush of air as it passed.

A second later, the speeding shadow tumbled to the ground a few yards away.

Josephine gazed at the scene in shock: a young woman, her skirt disheveled, her face twisted in pain, lay bare-legged beside some kind of contraption made of wheels and metal rods.

“What in the world is that?”

But all she got in reply was a moan.

“Are you hurt? Can I help?” Josephine ran down to the young woman, who looked to be about Josephine’s age, and tentatively reached out her hand. She had hair the color of wheat, which, now that she had lost her wool cap, fell in a tangle over her stunned face.

“It’s all right,” the girl groaned as she slowly pulled herself together and clambered to her feet. “It’s not the first time I’ve fallen off. I just hope nothing’s happened to the velocipede.”

“The . . . what?”

“The velocipede. It belongs to Mr. Braun.”

Josephine nodded, grateful for a piece of information that she could begin to understand.

“Mr. Braun is a businessman who comes here a few times a year. He doesn’t just own the bicycle, he also owns the yellow house with the wrought-iron balcony, the last house on the street. You must have walked right past it. My father looks after the place when Mr. Braun’s not here. I took the opportunity to borrow his velo,” the girl explained as she pulled the strange machine up by one of its metal rods and scrutinized it thoroughly.

The thing that the girl had first called a velocipede and then a bicycle consisted of a curved, tubular-steel bar to which a seat was attached. It had two wheels, with the front wheel somewhat larger than the one at the back. Both wheels were considerably narrower than the wheels of a coach. They looked more like the wheels on the handcart of the milkman who plied his wares in Josephine’s neighborhood back in Berlin. It looked very strange . . .