It was rare for Frieda to visit one of her neighbors. Now and then one has to make an exception, thought Frieda, as she wrapped her “going-out” shawl around her shoulders on the evening of the first day of August 1889.
She made her way along the street, noticing the men and women in every yard as they battled through the last of their daily chores with worn-out faces and bent backs. She thanked her lucky stars again for her own beneficent fate. For fate had seen to it that, after the death of her husband, Robert, a toolmaker, she was finally able to live as she wanted. She could sleep late in the morning, then sit comfortably with her cat and the daily newspaper on the bench in front of her house. Or she could spend a whole day in bed with the books she indulged in from time to time. Other days, she spent hours learning the flute—music had always fascinated her—and she loved to paint and draw, too . . .
She wasted no worry on money. Thanks to the formidable sum her grumpy husband had stashed in the bank without her knowledge, she led a carefree life. The house and the large garden were hers, debt free. Of course, her neighbors were suspicious of her way of life. At first, they had all believed that she would sell the place or rent out the workshop. Or that she would marry the bachelor who had previously helped out in the workshop, and that he would continue to manage the business the way it had always been. But with the passing of time, they had grown accustomed to Frieda’s eccentricities, and a few even discreetly dropped by for a glass of wine and good conversation from time to time. Schmied-the-Smith and his wife, however, were not among them, which left Frieda with no choice but to go and visit them.
“Josephine’s coughing is growing worse. She probably breathed in too much smoke when she tried to rescue Felix. If you don’t do something soon, you’ll be carrying a second child to her grave,” she said as she sat across the table from the smith and his wife. Josephine had been washing the dishes when Frieda arrived, and they had sent her out of the kitchen.
“Have you joined the ranks of doctors now? What do you care about Josephine’s cough?” asked Schmied.
“Dr. Fritsche has no explanation for her coughing,” said Elsbeth. “She’s probably just doing it for show.”
Frieda sighed. She had not imagined that the Schmieds’ bitterness could be so deeply embedded. She turned to Elsbeth.
“Dr. Fritsche must have given you some sort of directive?”
“We’re supposed to send her up to the North Sea or the Baltic. The clean sea air is said to be good for ailing lungs,” Elsbeth Schmied said, rolling her eyes to show what she thought of the doctor’s advice.
“Clean sea air! I slave away at the forge all day long and you don’t see me in need of any sea air,” said her husband derisively. “You want us to reward the little tramp with a long summer holiday while Felix is down with the worms?”
Frieda suddenly felt that she would not last another minute in that gloomy kitchen. She took a deep breath.
“I’d like to make a suggestion,” she said, looking forcefully at the smith and his wife. “I have relatives down in the Black Forest, in a village called Schömberg, to be exact. My nephew works as the caretaker in a sanatorium there. It’s a special hospital for people with lung diseases. They say the climate there is excellent. It could be just the thing for Josephine’s cough. Joachim—that’s my nephew—could arrange something for your daughter. A few weeks there, a small room, medical attention . . .”
“A sanatorium at the edge of the empire? Wonderful!” said the smith sarcastically. “And who’ll help me in the workshop? Who’ll pay for it? I’m not spending a cent on such an extravagance.”
“Do you think I expect you to?” Frieda replied coldly. “If it helps the girl recover her health, I’m happy to pay whatever it costs. If you agree, Josephine could travel down there in mid-October. My nephew tells me that a room will be free then. And Oskar Reutter from the emporium on the corner will be going to Stuttgart on business at that time; he would be an ideal traveling companion for Josephine.”
“Looks like you’ve put a lot of thought into this. But why wait? You might as well take the worthless thing with you right now. Then at least I won’t have to look at her anymore. I can always find another helper.”
None of the adults knew that Josephine was eavesdropping behind the door and heard every word with a stony face and a broken heart.
The evening before she left, Josephine took the small, cheap suitcase Gundel had borrowed from her employer and stuffed her underwear, socks, and three dresses inside. Her hand already on the doorknob, she cast one last look around the room. Sadly, there was nothing that she wanted to take along. No book, no worn-out but beloved toy, not a single memento. She just wanted to be gone, gone from her father’s hatred and her mother’s coldness. Gone from the house, gone from the walls that seemed to accuse her day in and day out, gone from that gloomy place where even the air despised her.
When she went to the pharmacy to say good-bye to Clara, she was told by her friend’s mother that Clara was busy.
The train departed very early in the morning and the journey proved uneventful. The steaming locomotive stopped only once, just before Nuremberg, on an open stretch of track. No one knew why. “Just a technical failure, I’m sure,” said her traveling companion, Oskar Reutter, as he shared the food he’d brought for the journey with her. “The train is the greatest invention of our century. The railway network has been growing steadily, and soon, trains will be able to travel to the farthest corners of our empire. Distances that once seemed insurmountable are turning into nothing more than lines on a map. It is truly a blessing!”
Josephine could only agree as she—a girl who had never before left the Luisenstadt district—sat watching the many different landscapes pass by from the comfort of the train compartment. An unfamiliar sense of elation—of freedom and distance, of inspiration and boundlessness—came over her. She already felt as if she could breathe more easily.
Beyond Nuremberg, Oskar Reutter pointed out a large building to her. “Mr. Joseph Obermaier’s telegraphic equipment factory. They’re building the future there,” he said enthusiastically. “We live in exciting times!”
They went their separate ways in Stuttgart once the emporium owner had ensured that Josephine was settled in the right train for the next leg of her journey.
Two hours later, Josephine arrived in Pforzheim. Mr. Reutter had explained to her that the railway had not penetrated beyond that point into the Black Forest region but that there were always people with wagons offering their services outside Pforzheim station. She would have to bargain hard, of course, but one of them would certainly be willing to drive her the final stretch to Schömberg.
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 w
ho 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 b
een 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.
While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) Page 5
