Chapter Six
In lieu of a greeting, her mother had stayed at the sink and said, “Let’s get one thing straight. As of this minute, your life of indolence is over. Now that you’re no longer in school, you’ll help your father in the smithy. After all that’s happened, this is the least we can expect from you.”
Josephine set her suitcase on the floor and looked at her mother in dismay. “But I thought you would find a job for me, just as you did for Margaret and Gundel.” She wanted to earn money. Her own money.
“A position for the little miss?” her mother snorted. “Maybe in some fine household where you can lie in a warm bed until seven every morning and finish work at seven every day—is that what you were thinking? Haven’t you had enough of being idle?” Without another word, her mother picked up a basket of laundry and disappeared into the backyard.
What a welcome, thought Josephine as she unpacked her case. Her mother had not asked her a single question about the trip or about her health. Angry and disappointed, Jo took the Black Forest ham that Joachim Roth had given her to bring to Frieda, and she left the house.
She rang the bell at the Berg family’s house first. The door flew open a few seconds later.
“Josie! Finally! I’ve been waiting for you all morning,” Clara cried. “Oh, I missed you so much! Berlin was so miserably dull without you.” They fell into each other’s arms before Josephine even made it inside.
“You look wonderful, really revived. Your skin is downright glowing. And your hair, too. Watch out, or I’ll get jealous! The sanatorium seems to have done you a great deal of good.” Clara stroked Josephine’s cheek and hair in admiration. “Dear Josie . . .”
A pleasant feeling surfaced in Josephine at that moment. It was good to be home after all. “Let’s go visit Frieda, then I won’t have to tell everything twice,” she said and hooked Clara’s arm in hers.
“What is Schömberg like?”
“How did you fare down there?”
“Did you make any friends? With Lieselotte? How wonderful!”
“How did they cure your cough?”
Frieda and Clara peppered her with a thousand questions, and Josephine happily answered all of them as they sat in Frieda’s kitchen and tried the ham Josephine had brought back.
Old Frieda was particularly impressed that Lieselotte and Josephine had been riding a man’s bicycle.
“I would have been up for an adventure like that myself, in my younger years,” she said. “These days, I have to content myself with other hobbies.” She gestured toward a pile of colorful cards on the table.
Reading cards . . . Josephine smiled at Frieda’s new passion. How long would this one last? Then, brazenly, she said, “How do you know you’re too old to ride a bicycle if you’ve never tried? You could buy a bicycle, then—”
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Frieda broke in, laughing. “Riding a bicycle is your dream, not mine.”
Josephine looked at her aging friend. “How did you know that? It really is my greatest dream to one day have a bicycle of my own.”
“What a crazy notion . . . but that’s what I like about you, my child. Dreams are as important as the air we breathe, I always say. When I was younger, there was no room for dreams. So I grant myself a few smaller ones now.” She fell silent for a moment. “But you’re still young, and the world is yours. And do you know what’s even better than dreaming?” Frieda’s eyes sparkled mischievously.
Josephine looked at her curiously.
“Making your dreams come true. That, of course, takes some doing . . .”
“But that’s just what I was planning to do,” said Josephine. “I wanted to put aside every penny I could earn as a maid and save until I had enough for my own bicycle. But my mother’s just announced that I have to work in the smithy, and I won’t get a penny for it, that much is certain.”
“Maid! Smithy boy!” Frieda sighed. “I tried so hard to convince your mother to send you to a secondary school for girls, so you could keep studying.”
A secondary school for girls? That wouldn’t help much, Josephine thought, but she said nothing.
“I think you’d be better off dropping this whole bicycle-riding business,” said Clara, who had followed the conversation in silence up to that point. “It’s really very dangerous. We constantly have gentlemen coming into the pharmacy asking for ointment and bandages because they’ve fallen off their boneshakers and opened up their knees or their noses. The Beiersdorf company must be rich off the money we make selling their bandages.”
“You make it sound like Berlin’s streets are teeming with bicycles. I haven’t seen a single one,” said Josephine.
“It’s becoming more and more popular,” Clara replied. “My mother thinks riding bicycles is terribly chic. Would you believe that she actually wants my father to buy one for us?”
“Well? Is he going to?” asked Josephine, sensing an opportunity. Riding bicycles in Berlin was suddenly chic?
“My father? Never! For one thing, he says a bicycle is horribly expensive. Second, you have to drive a long way to even be able to buy one. And third, he doesn’t have time for such a hobby. Besides, hobbies are only for rich people with time on their hands, like Moritz Herrenhus, who owns the clothing factory. He has a bicycle.”
“Moritz Herrenhus? The father of Isabelle, the girl with the red hair?” Josephine’s eyes widened.
Clara nodded. “That’s the one. Strange, I haven’t thought about Isabelle for ages . . . I don’t even know whether she still lives at home. They may have shipped her off to some genteel boarding school by now, perhaps even overseas?”
Isabelle Herrenhus was a year older than they were. Many years earlier, when they were all little and Moritz Herrenhus’s factory was still new, she was always out with the other children in the street. They had played hide-and-seek, hopscotch, and tag. Often, they had teased pale, red-haired Isabelle. “Witch girl!” they cried at her. And, “Show us your broom!” And they had laughed whenever they succeeded in making the girl cry. Eventually, a high white wall appeared around the family’s villa. And Isabelle disappeared. No one missed her much, and the children’s games simply went on without her.
“After church this morning I saw Moritz Herrenhus riding in Schlesischer Busch. He cycles the way other rich men play hockey or tennis. The way they show off with their boneshakers, it’s positively embarrassing,” said Clara.
Boneshaker. It was the second time Clara had used the word. Josephine would have to mention it in her next letter to Lilo!
She sighed yearningly.
“Oh, you can’t imagine the feeling of freedom it gives you! The speed . . . It’s like you’re flying. And it’s not that dangerous. I simply must find a way to ride one again.”
“Are you mad? Don’t you know what the papers are saying about women who ride bicycles? They’re all talking about how they’re corrupting the morals of the female sex.”
“Lilo told me about that, but I didn’t want to believe it . . .” said Josephine.
“One needn’t put too much store in everything they write in the newspapers,” said Frieda. “The young women in question, if you ask me, were not particularly smart when they decided to ride through the Tiergarten. If they had ventured out into the open countryside, they could have had their fun and no one would have taken any notice.”
Clara frowned, but Josephine nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! Lilo was always careful to ensure that the coast was clear.”
Frieda laughed. “I’m liking that girl more and more. I hope they’re able to visit this year. I’ve invited her and her father so many times, but nothing has ever come of it.”
“Isabelle’s father . . .” said Josephine slowly. “Do you think he’d let me have a look at his bicycle?”
“Josie, you can’t just walk up to his villa and knock on the door, not for something like that,” Clara said, appalled at the thought.
“And why not?” Josephine said, lifting her
chin.
“Because . . . because . . .” Clara looked to Frieda, but Frieda said, “It’s worth a try. Why don’t you two just go by and see if Isabelle is home? She might be happy to see you again after all these years.”
“We’ll do it!” said Josephine, then cleared her throat. “And there’s one more thing . . . From now on, could you call me Jo?”
Chapter Seven
Josephine paused as she was about to ring the bell. Wasn’t it a bit rude to show up at Isabelle’s house after all these years? And with such an unusual request?
“Let’s just go,” said Clara and plucked at Josephine’s sleeve.
But Josephine was already ringing the bell, and a moment later came the melodic sound of bells from inside.
The heavy, carved door opened, and an attractive young woman stood before them, wearing a daffodil-yellow dress with matching gloves and hat. Could that possibly be Isabelle?
“Oh, I thought . . .” the young woman began, then hesitated. “Who are you?”
“We . . . uh . . . My name’s Josephine and this is Clara,” said Jo, her voice suddenly husky. “Do you remember us? From before? We played together when we were kids . . .”
Isabelle narrowed her eyes and looked at Josephine. “Of course I do! Weren’t you part of the mob that was always teasing me about my red hair?”
“Actually . . . I don’t remember that,” Jo stammered. “Your hair is gorgeous!” she added, and she meant it. She had never seen such elaborately styled hair before. With her glittering combs and artfully set curls, she was a match for any bride . . . and a thought occurred to Josephine. “You . . . are so beautiful. You’re not getting married, are you?”
Isabelle laughed in confusion. “Nonsense! What makes you think that?” She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her silken dress and then said, “But I do have a date. When the bell rang, I thought you were my gentleman caller.” She didn’t sound particularly happy.
“A date?” asked Clara, who had stayed in the background until then. “I’d love to have one of those, but my mother thinks I’m still too young. And besides, no one’s ever been interested in me.” She frowned. “We didn’t want to disturb you. Come on, Jo.”
“No, please, stay!” said Isabelle quickly. “The gentleman who’s supposed to pick me up is exceptionally wealthy and not bad looking. But honestly, he’s as dull as dishwater. My father thinks the world of him, but I would much rather spend the afternoon with you.” Her eyes flashed adventurously, and she clapped her hands. “So, why are you here?”
“This way. We have to go to the shed at the far end of the grounds,” said Isabelle, striding across the white-gravel yard without the slightest consideration for her yellow shoes. She seemed to find nothing strange in Josephine’s request.
“But . . . what if the young man wants to collect you and you’re not there? You’ll get in trouble,” said Clara warily.
Josephine gave her a dark look. The last thing she wanted was for Isabelle to change her mind.
But Isabelle just laughed. “I’ll tell my parents the truth, plain and simple. Namely that two old friends paid me a visit and I was so caught up in our lively conversation that I lost track of the time. So, here we are. This is where my father keeps his latest toy.” She turned the handle on the shed door, and it swung open with a high-pitched shriek. In the center of the room, lit by sunlight coming through the windows, stood her father’s bicycle, shimmering silver and smelling of rubber and lubricating oil.
Her eyes wide and shining, Josephine stepped toward it. She ran her hands reverently over the handlebars, the tubes that connected the two wheels, and the saddle, as if she wanted to absorb through her fingers its every curve and angle and memorize them forever.
“It’s beautiful. Much sleeker and lighter than Lilo’s bicycle.” Josephine crouched and inspected the vehicle. “On Lilo’s velocipede, the front wheel is bigger than the back wheel. And it didn’t have a chain like this; it had pedals up front. How does this bicycle work, I wonder . . . ?”
“And just who is this Lilo? Does she also live on our street? I can’t remember her at all,” said Isabelle. “But I know someone else who’s interested in bicycles. One of my schoolmates, Irene, rides one. Her last little outing wasn’t very well received, to be sure—” Isabelle broke off as a heavy shadow darkened the doorway.
“Can someone please explain to me what is going on here?”
“Father . . .”
“Isabelle! Haven’t I told you that my bicycle is off-limits? What are you doing here? Graf von Kyrill is waiting for you in front of the house with his four-in-hand carriage,” he snapped.
But before Isabelle—who had turned chalk white—could reply, Josephine said, “Pardon me, but it is not Isabelle’s fault. I had begged her to show me your bicycle for so long that in the end she simply had no choice. It is beautiful . . . Thank you for allowing me to look at it.” She reached out her hand to Moritz Herrenhus and was amazed to see him actually accept her gesture. He eyed her soberly.
“I know you! You’re Schmied-the-Smith’s daughter, aren’t you?”
Josephine nodded without taking her eyes off his.
“That’s a good one! The smith’s daughter is interested in my bicycle!” he said and laughed, instantly mollified. It seemed that Graf von Kyrill was forgotten, at least for the moment.
Josephine and Clara exchanged a look.
“What do you mean?” asked Isabelle.
Her father made a sweeping gesture with his hand, taking in the entire storage shed around them.
“Do you see any hay or straw in here? Or stable boys? Any expensive tack or dubbin or horse balsam? No. And why don’t you see these things? Because they aren’t needed for a bicycle. A bicycle is considerably easier to look after than a horse, and for that reason also cheaper in the long run. I’m telling you, in a few years we won’t be seeing any horses on the streets anymore, and in their place will be bicycles. Getting around on horseback will be a thing of the past. Bicycles are the future. Your father will soon be able to close his smithy . . .”
“The bicycle replacing the horse? Never,” Josephine blurted. “They’re much too expensive. Only rich people like you can afford them.”
“For now. But that will change, take my word for it. Once the demand is there, the supply will increase. And the bicycle makers will adjust their prices downward. Besides, it’s not as though everyone can afford a horse, either.” He crossed his arms and said, “But how is it that a young woman like you has such a deep interest in a novelty like this?”
Josephine shrugged. “I . . . In the Black Forest, where I went to convalesce recently, there was also a bicycle. The pedals were on the front wheel and it looked much different from this one. I was very taken by it. And when I discovered that you were also the proud owner of such a marvel, I simply had to see it.” She ran her hand reverently over the handlebars once more.
Isabelle’s father nodded benevolently. “You have rightly recognized that this is, in fact, a particularly advanced model.” He dropped into a crouch, just as Josephine had done earlier, and gestured toward it.
“This bicycle is what they call a Rover, the latest and best bicycle available on the market. It’s driven by the rear wheel. The pedals are connected to the rear wheel by the chain, as you can see here. This allows riders to choose the gear ratio that suits them best, which you never used to be able to do.”
“Gear ratio . . . What does that mean, exactly?”
Moritz Herrenhus smiled. “Until now, bicycles have had a very large front wheel to which the pedals were attached directly. The size of the front wheel determined the distance traveled for each turn of the pedals. With the Rover, the size of the drive wheel no longer makes any difference, which is why the front and rear wheels are the same size. Instead, the two cogs—here at the pedals and here at the rear wheel—determine how far each rotation of the pedals propels you forward. Depending on their size, a rider can increase or decrease the distance pe
r revolution. We can thank the Englishman Harry Lawson for this invention. With the support of his friend, an industrialist by the name of J. K. Starley, he created the first so-called ‘safety bicycle.’ This one is called the Rover Safety because it is far safer than any high-wheel bicycles, which are highly prone to accidents.”
Moritz Herrenhus pulled off his jacket. Then he put his cuff links aside, rolled up his sleeves, and said, “I’ll give you a little demonstration, if you like.” He pushed the bicycle out of the shed and rode several laps around the yard.
Josephine watched, enraptured. This bicycle was so fast, so nimble! The crunching of the rubber tires on the gravel sounded like the most beautiful music. Her toes began to tingle, and a restlessness spread through her entire body. She would have given anything to be able to ride a lap on the bicycle herself.
With a final turn, Isabelle’s father pulled up in front of the trio of girls. His fine vest was stretched tight across his back, his sleeves were crumpled, and his calf’s-leather shoes were covered in dust, but he didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. With a gesture more appropriate to a young man than to a reputable businessman, he swept a lock of hair out of his face and said, “Pretty impressive, eh?”
Isabelle pressed her lips together and held her tongue.
“Your Rover is so maneuverable,” said Josephine. Rover Safety. The name tasted sweeter in her mouth than caramel. “You’re an excellent cycler,” she added, when she saw Mr. Herrenhus’s expectant face.
“You rode a bicycle? You must be mad,” Clara whispered to Josephine. Then, aloud and with a trace of reproach, she said, “I think it looks awfully dangerous.”
Moritz Herrenhus dismounted stiffly just as the honey-colored sun was disappearing behind the white walls surrounding the yard. All of a sudden, the air felt cooler.
“Dangerous? Well, it depends. Cycling—once you’ve mastered it—is actually quite harmless. It only becomes dangerous on a busy street. Just yesterday, I was nearly run down by a carriage, and I was as far to the right as I could possibly be. The driver seemed to find fun in forcing me off the road. The carriage drivers are at loggerheads with the cyclers, that’s a fact. They claim that their horses shy at the sight of us. Admittedly, some cyclers ride down the middle of the street, and some endanger themselves and others with daredevil stunts. Just the other day, I encountered a young man in the Tiergarten who wanted to make a race of it. When I didn’t go for it, he decided to show me that he could let go of the handlebars as he rode and promptly took a header. But you can’t throw all wheelmen into one pot just because of people like that.”
While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) Page 8
