Josephine looked at Isabelle in disbelief. “How can you think of yourself at a time like this? We need to fetch a doctor, immediately.”
Lilo shook her head. “A doctor couldn’t help her. Clara has to get to hospital. A break like this needs to be splinted. She might even need an operation,” she said, at which Clara wailed even louder.
“Not so loud,” she hissed, glancing up at the house with a fearful expression. “I’ll get help, I promise! But the bicycles have to go back in the shed first. Then we’ll carry Clara out to the sidewalk and say she broke her leg out there.”
“It was the skirt!” Josephine looked firmly at Isabelle and Lilo. “If it hadn’t got caught in the spokes, Clara wouldn’t have fallen.”
“If only we’d given her my bicycle, then Clara wouldn’t have fallen so idiotically and we could keep on riding,” Isabelle grumbled.
Jo glowered at her friend.
They had just visited Clara, whose leg really was broken, in the Deaconess Hospital. A day had passed since the accident. Lilo had taken Clara some fruit from Frieda’s garden, and Isabelle brought her newspapers and candy that they all shared. But after a few minutes a stern-looking nurse had bustled in and driven the girls out, informing them that the patient needed rest. They had eventually found themselves sitting together in the backyard at the Herrenhus villa, tired and listless from the August heat.
“Maybe she hit a hole and her skirt only got caught in the spokes when she actually fell,” said Lilo, poking the white gravel with a stick.
“There aren’t any holes. Look around,” said Isabelle sharply.
Lilo nodded despondently. “I wish I hadn’t shown her I could ride with no hands . . .”
“She didn’t have to try to copy you. She knows full well that she isn’t the best cycler,” Isabelle replied.
It wasn’t the first time they had been through this.
Moritz Herrenhus had seen right through their fabricated story—that Clara had broken her leg falling on the sidewalk—and called them silly, careless ninnies. Then he’d stated loudly that, in his opinion, women were far better suited to sitting at a sewing machine than atop a bicycle. He’d gone on to ban them from riding either of the bicycles until further notice.
Josephine looked longingly toward the shed where the bicycles stood. She doubted that Isabelle’s father would ever allow them to ride again.
“If Clara’s skirt really caused her to crash, then it’s all the more reason to ride in pants,” said Lilo, looking defiantly at the others. “Why won’t you give it a try?”
“Because it’s a downright horrible thought! And completely unfeminine, to boot.” Isabelle shuddered. “I’d never put on anything so uncomfortable or so tight.” She placed her hands protectively on her skirt with its yellow-white flowers, as if she thought someone might try to rip it from her body.
“When I think of the greasy pants my father wears, ugh! I honestly can’t imagine putting on anything like that,” Josephine added. “Besides, it hardly matters since we’re not allowed to cycle now.”
“Who cares?” Lilo rolled her eyes. “You think you’re all so progressive here in the city. But what would you say if I told you that in France, it’s actually the fashion for women cyclers to wear a kind of divided skirt when they ride?” Josephine and Isabelle looked intrigued, so Lilo went on. “Last spring, a group of women stayed in our sanatorium as guests. One of them had brought a bicycle along with her. When she rode it through Schömberg, the people just stood there and gaped!” Lilo giggled. “And she was wearing just such a divided skirt. After a few days, I worked up my courage and asked her about her unusual outfit. She said that where she came from in Paris it wasn’t unusual at all. You could even buy them in the shops, ready-made. She called it a costume rationnel.”
“A sensible outfit,” Isabelle said, translating, and she chewed her bottom lip. She abruptly stood up and started gathering the material of her skirt together in the middle. “If one were to pleat the material here and, let’s say, sew it up with a few stitches below the knee, would that turn it into a costume rationnel?”
Lilo shrugged. “That’s about what it looked like.”
Holding the material of her skirt in the middle with her right hand, Isabelle lifted her right leg as if climbing onto a bicycle. “That’s definitely much easier!”
“Altering a skirt to make it as comfortable as pants for riding but so it still looks like a skirt . . . It’s not a bad idea,” Josephine murmured to herself. She looked up. “My skirt is old, and I won’t be able to wear it much longer anyway. If you like, we could try it out on mine, just as a test. Isabelle, we just need a needle and thread . . .”
Josephine sat there in her underskirt as the other two quarreled about how high the inner seam should go.
“Just above the ankle, no more than that. Any higher would be indecent,” Isabelle said.
“No point stopping halfway,” said Lilo, and Josephine agreed. With more or less even stitches, they sewed the cloth up the middle to just above the knee, creating two “legs.”
“How can you go around in a rag like this! There’s as much here that needs to be patched as stitched. If only Clara were here,” Isabelle muttered as she sewed. Like Lilo and Josephine, she was not exactly a talented seamstress.
Time to try it on. Accompanied by the laughter of the others, Josephine pulled on her newly divided skirt.
“Well . . . from a distance, it still looks like a skirt,” said Isabelle. “How does it feel?”
“Quite good,” said Jo. “But I can’t judge whether it’s really any more practical than a normal skirt without getting on a bicycle.”
“You know that my father prohibited us from doing that,” said Isabelle, but after some hesitation she went into the shed to get her father’s Rover. She warned Jo to stay out of sight behind the shed, then she let her take the handlebars.
“So?” asked Isabelle and Lilo simultaneously when Josephine was firmly mounted on the seat.
“Getting on is easy enough . . .”
“But?”
Josephine pointed at the back wheel. “Look. The material can still catch in the spokes back here.”
“The Frenchwoman’s looked different, too,” said Lilo, her head tipped to one side and a critical expression on her face. “The material was sort of gathered around the hem at the bottom of each leg, like with linen underwear, you know? Like some kind of . . . knickerbockers.”
“You want us to cycle in underwear now?” Isabelle asked, her eyes wide.
Josephine could hardly suppress a grin. “Who knows? Maybe they’ll be all the rage one day, and your father will be making them in his factory.” She looked down at herself. As misshapen as her skirt looked, she could still get away with wearing it in the smithy. So she took a deep breath and said, “It doesn’t matter now anyway. Let’s really turn these into knickerbockers!”
This time, she wielded the needle herself, careful not to make the “legs” of the skirt too tight. When she was finished, she pulled the garment back on and turned around to show her friends how it fit. “How do I look?”
“I don’t know,” said Lilo. “The costume rationnel was more elegant, somehow.”
“Plain ridiculous is how it looks!” Isabelle cried. “Jo, absolutely not. You’re never going to—”
“Aren’t I?” Jo said, laughing, then swung herself onto the Rover again. She looked down critically at her legs. Instead of coming dangerously close to the spokes, her skirt now hugged her legs but without restricting them. Her ankles and a small section of her lower legs were visible, but her knees were covered. What more could she want?
“How does it feel?” Lilo asked.
Jo looked at her and smiled. “What was it you said? A completely different riding experience!” And she rode off around the yard without giving a second thought to her skirt.
On the following Saturday, Lilo returned to the Black Forest. Frieda was tired, so Josephine and Isabelle accompanied t
heir friend to the train station.
“Your turn to visit me next,” said Lilo, giving both of them a farewell hug.
Josephine watched the train rumble out of the station in a cloud of stinking fumes. Her turn next—if only that were true. She wondered if she would ever see her friend again.
“And then there were two,” she said to Isabelle, sighing deeply, as they left the station.
“Don’t start crying or I will, too!” Isabelle crooked her elbow around Josephine’s and they headed down the busy street arm in arm.
When they were nearly home, Josephine stopped abruptly and said, “Enough moping. I’ve got an idea.”
Isabelle immediately pricked up her ears. “What is it?”
Josephine closed her eyes for a moment and reveled in the images—both enticing and frightening—in her mind: long streets, broad boulevards, the forests of Grunewald . . . How many hours in the smithy, how many nights in her bed had she dreamed of it. She was ready to make those images a reality. She took a deep breath and exclaimed, “Let’s cycle through the city!”
“On bicycles?” Isabelle’s eyes widened, at once horrified and fascinated. “But that’s . . . Oh, you’ll really get us in trouble. How could we possibly do it?” She sounded breathless and thrilled.
Jo smiled. She could always count on Isabelle to be part of an adventure.
“We’ll have to take some precautions, of course, but . . . we’ll go tomorrow morning, while the world is still asleep!”
The next morning, it was raining, and the air smelled of wet cobblestones. Jo ran down the street in the dawn light, her father’s old flat cap pulled low over her eyes, her shoulders hunched forward. On the one hand, the weather was ideal for what she had in mind, as Berlin’s residents would certainly not leave their houses unnecessarily on a rainy Sunday morning. On the other hand, the streets would be covered in a slick coating of wet grime and horse manure, which would turn their outing into a slippery one.
Isabelle was already waiting at her gate for Josephine. The two bicycles were leaning against the wall beside her. When they caught sight of each other, they broke into laughter—like Jo, Isabelle was wearing her father’s pants, jacket, and cap. One red lock of hair peeped out from beneath the cap, and Isabelle hurriedly tucked it out of sight.
“I’ve brought something else,” said Jo, as she produced a small piece of coal from her jacket pocket. Before Isabelle could say anything, Josephine drew a thin moustache on her friend’s face, then a black line on her own top lip.
“Now we look like a real pair of fellows, eh?” she said with a grin and threw the piece of coal in the gutter.
“You’re absolutely mad, do you know that? Where are we riding to, by the way?” Isabelle asked, laughing quietly as she pushed the bicycles in the direction of Schlesischer Busch. As they’d hoped, the streets were completely deserted.
“I thought we’d ride out toward Friedrichshain. No one will be out at this hour,” said Jo, getting onto the bicycle. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She hated to think what would happen if they were caught . . .
“You want to ride through the park in Friedrichshain? Through the fields and trees? That sounds boring.” Isabelle shook her head. “I want to ride down the same grand boulevard our emperor uses. Let’s ride over to Unter den Linden. You and me, on bicycles, through the Brandenburg Gate. If we’re going to risk our necks, we might as well make it worthwhile.”
Although Jo held the handlebars tightly and concentrated on riding straight, the Rover’s narrow, solid-rubber tires did not grip the slick cobblestones well. After a few minutes, she was so tense that she could hardly breathe. Isabelle, riding next to her, kept her eyes on the road ahead. Both were thinking the same thing: What if the front wheel slips and I have an accident? And so soon after Clara broke her leg? Moritz Herrenhus would bite our heads off!
As they cycled past the Deaconess Hospital, Josephine’s thoughts turned to Clara, who was no doubt still sleeping peacefully behind one of the many windows up there—if the bulky plaster cast around her leg allows her to get any rest, that is. Poor Clara. Josephine hoped that neither she nor Isabelle would soon be joining their friend in there.
They turned left onto a street that began to climb steeply but was also drier. Jo’s legs shook with the exertion, and she had her mouth open to get more air into her lungs. Isabelle, riding on Josephine’s left, seemed to be faring no better. Her face was almost scarlet with the effort, but, like Jo, she was gritting her teeth and pedaling on.
After a few more minutes, the burning sensation in Josephine’s legs faded. Her muscles grew accustomed to the unfamiliar work, and they found their rhythm. Jo found herself riding more quickly. The gray tenements flew past like storm clouds, and the air brushed their cheeks like a cool veil, a delicious sensation. Inside Josephine, choirs of angels were positively singing. She was close to taking one hand off the handlebars to pinch herself. Was this all a beautiful dream? Could it possibly be real? She was not riding through the Black Forest; she was riding through her own sleeping city. A sigh that was more a sob escaped her throat. And then she laughed. She laughed loud and pure and long, something she did only rarely. My God, how wonderful this is . . .
Soon, they saw the Fischerbrücke ahead of them, and beside the wide bridge a few boats bobbed in the water. A flock of seagulls flew up, squawking at the wheeled newcomers. As they drew alongside an inn, with a sign over the entrance that read “Berliner Kindl Brewery,” the door opened and a young man wearing a filthy apron hurled a bucket of water onto the street directly in front of Josephine. Instinctively, she jerked her handlebars to the left, just in time to avoid a collision with the man. Her sudden maneuver almost caused her to run into Isabelle, however, and her friend let out a curse.
“Got a bit of a shock, did we? Keep your legs up round here, y’ fancy snobs!” the guy shouted after them.
To Josephine’s horror, Isabelle stopped and turned around. “Are you blind? Fancy snobs, my foot. You wouldn’t know a girl from a hole in the ground!”
The man from the inn lowered his bucket, his face suddenly transformed into a dumbfounded question mark. “Well, I’ll be! Yous ain’t laddies; you’re ladies!”
“And damn fine ones, too!” Isabelle called, quickly remounting and pedaling off. Jo, who had stopped a little way ahead, did the same. Encouraged by Isabelle’s cockiness, she called back, “Have a nice day!” as she rode away.
They were giggling so much they could hardly ride straight. “Think we’ll end up in the newspaper, like Irene and her friend Jule when they rode through the Tiergarten?” Isabelle asked.
“Probably best if we don’t, OK? So what now? Do we cycle across the Spree, or follow the left bank?”
“Let’s stay left,” Isabelle said.
As they looked at each other, each saw the sparkle in the other’s eyes.
They had just reached the broad boulevard of Unter den Linden when Josephine felt the first warm rays from the rising sun on her back. A pleasant warmth spread through her body. As she rode along beneath the canopy of linden boughs, she was overcome with happiness. When they crossed the broad expanse of Pariser Platz and cycled beneath the Brandenburg Gate, the sunlight lit the way ahead in gold.
They arrived home a good two hours later, and just in time, because the streets were starting to fill with the first pedestrians and churchgoers. Josephine held both bicycles while Isabelle ran to the yard to check that the coast was clear. Then they quietly stowed the bicycles back in the shed.
The two girls shared a conspiratorial look. It had been a success! The breeze had mussed their hair despite their caps, their cheeks practically glowed, and their eyes shone like polished precious stones.
“That was the best thing I’ve ever done in my life,” said Isabelle, and she pressed a kiss to Josephine’s cheek.
Jo, not used to such displays of affection, swallowed and blushed.
They decided right then that they’d do it again as soon as the
y possibly could, and, with a final embrace, they parted ways.
Chapter Ten
Autumn passed with the usual workaday tedium. Clara was finally able to leave the hospital. After the forced rest and weeks in a cast, her right leg was thinner than her left, but the break had healed completely. At home, a pleasant surprise awaited her. “Father and I have been thinking about you a great deal in the last few weeks. You know we only want the best for you,” said her mother. “And we’ve decided that a year at the home-economics school is enough for you to manage your future husband’s household efficiently. But until that time comes, you will help your father in the pharmacy, just as you have always wanted. Your father will get the extra help he needs, and I can keep an eye on you.”
Clara gazed wide-eyed at her mother. This was the last thing she had expected. It had taken a broken leg to create a miracle.
Isabelle, too, was very busy. Through circuitous connections, Moritz Herrenhus had managed to secure an invitation to the Imperial Court. The evening was entitled “A Rose Ball for Chivalrous Young Men and Blossoming Beauties,” and he planned to attend with his family. Even for a factory owner of good standing like Moritz Herrenhus, such an invitation was unusual, and his excitement was correspondingly great.
“You will meet the very best young men there and have all sorts of entertainment,” Isabelle’s mother exulted to her daughter.
“And if you don’t find a suitable marriage candidate at this ball, you’ll be sorry. I’ve had just about enough of your airs and graces,” her father threatened, tarnishing Isabelle’s enthusiasm in an instant. In the evenings before the ball, she had to spend hours with an aging countess who reeked of mothballs and who was supposed to instruct her and her mother in the most important rules of etiquette for a visit to the Imperial Court. She also had to choose a suitable gift. But the most important challenge of all was finding the perfect ball gown. Isabelle knew that, in this matter, all resistance was futile, so she simply conceded defeat and let herself be primped for the occasion. While an eager dressmaker meticulously took her measurements, she dreamed of the green, tree-lined boulevards that she and Jo had cycled along.
While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) Page 11
