“How’d you get interested in mechanical things?” Melchior asked her one day.
She had been on the verge of saying from riding bicycles, but instead she merely mumbled something about her father’s workshop.
In all her time in prison, she had not told a soul about her cycling. Oh, she’d been tempted often enough. To wax on at length about the long rides she’d done, in an attempt to experience them vicariously a second time . . . but she always had stopped herself, afraid that she would lose control, start crying, and be unable to stop. But not a day passed that she did not think about riding a bicycle again. At night, in particular, as she lay in bed amid the snoring and whimpering of the other young women, she fled the stifling, cramped dormitory in her mind and recalled each of her routes, trying to picture every curve, every bump in the road, every building. The bicycle was her anchor, her window to freedom.
And yet, despite all the hours she had spent on Moritz Herrenhus’s bicycle, it had somehow remained a stranger to her.
With a mixture of melancholy and anger, Josephine remembered how hard she had tried to understand the bicycle’s technical refinements. What did the bearings inside the headset look like? And what did the little rings inside the hub of the rear wheel do? What if one of them went missing? Isabelle had not shown the slightest interest in the way they worked, and they had never been able to get their hands on the manual. Now, Jo tried to remember the individual parts of a bicycle and apply her newfound knowledge to those memories.
She had once asked Melchior if he owned a bicycle, hoping that they could have examined it together . . . but Melchior had replied, “Do I look like Croesus?”
Although Josephine was quite certain that Melchior would have understood her passion for cycling, she still said nothing to him about it.
“You do a fine job, for a woman,” said the caretaker when she was done refinishing the teeth of the little cog. “When you get out of here, you could go to work in Ludwig Loewe’s sewing-machine factory. They could use someone as skilled as you, I’m sure of it. Especially now that the economy’s on the upswing. The public wants to buy, buy, buy! And the factories are hell bent on producing more, more, more. When I think of my youth . . . Hard times, they were. Not many of us had work, and them that did worked for a pittance.” The caretaker made a dismissive motion with his hand. “You young people today, you’ve got all the chances in the world. But what do you do? You throw them to the wind and end up in this ugly place.”
Jo laughed. “Sometimes you sound just like my old neighbor, Frieda. Frieda thinks the world is full of opportunities, and it’s just up to us to grab them by the scruff of the neck.” She grew thoughtful. “I’d like to believe it, but it’s not that easy. I wore my feet off trying to find an apprenticeship as a mechanic. I walked from factory to factory, from workshop to forge, and all I got for it was looks of incomprehension and ridicule. ‘A woman who wants to learn a technical trade? How did you get that bee in your bonnet!’ ” She shook her head sadly. How ironic that I had to go to prison to learn what I never could as a free woman, she thought.
Melchior sighed. “I’m sure there’s a lot of bosses cut from old cloth. But the times are changing, girl, believe me.”
“Frieda always said that, too.” Josephine heaved a sad sigh. Of all the people from her old life, she missed her warmhearted neighbor the most.
“Sounds to me like your Frieda’s a clever woman. And she’s a widow, you said? Maybe I should go pay her a visit,” said Melchior with a grin. He laid his arm across Jo’s shoulders in a comradely gesture. “Well, maybe I’d better wait until you’re out of here. Then I can check in on you, as well. I don’t want to see you head off down the wrong path, not a second time!” He did his best to adopt an earnest tone.
“That won’t happen,” said Jo, and she meant it. She took a dust rag and wiped it over the newly repaired sewing machine. “I’ve messed up so much in my life, enough to last me to the end of the world. Being able to work with you and learn how to fix things means everything to me.” She turned to the caretaker with a look of both affection and gratitude. “If I have to run from pillar to post to find the right job, I’ll do it. I don’t care if it takes a lifetime. That’s my plan, and nothing, not a thing in this world, will stop me.”
But she did not tell Melchior about the other plans she was hatching.
Chapter Seventeen
Berlin, March 1895
Three years, three months. One thousand one hundred and eighty-six days. And as many nights. An eternity. Three springs, three summers, three autumns, four winters. Springtime was always the worst, when a slight, warm breeze blew in through the bars. When the delicate green of new leaves appeared as if by magic on the branches of the linden trees. When the sky looked as if someone had scrubbed it clean. When the scent of blooming flowers made the air sweeter than three cubes of sugar in a cup of tea . . . that was when Josephine wanted to get out of the prison so much that she felt like howling. Winters were not much better, with the poorly heated rooms, the reek of mold and unwashed bodies. She hungered for her warm room and the feather blanket on her bed, for the hot pea soup her mother had always cooked on Saturdays.
Martha had left much earlier, as had many others. New ones had come and gone. Josephine had formed no close friendships with anyone, which meant that she at least avoided the pain of saying good-bye whenever another of the young women was released. A prison was not a place to look for common ground.
Josephine still shared common ground with Lilo, with whom she exchanged occasional letters. And with Clara, when she recalled the days they had spent together as children.
Clara was a doctor’s wife now. Her old friend had only been in sporadic touch since getting married. Josephine’s stomach tightened when she thought of Clara. What would their reunion be like? And Isabelle . . . Jo hardly dared to think about her. She had not heard anything from her for three years. It seemed that all the bridges that had bound them to each other had collapsed long ago.
People come and go. Was that the great truth behind everything? Josephine was despondent as she straightened the thin blanket on her bed for the last time. Who would cry herself to sleep there that evening?
Her eyes swept through the dormitory one last time. Pale March sunshine fell through the barred window. The room was gloomy and seemed somehow depleted. Nightmares, fear, and loneliness had spoiled the air long before Josephine arrived. Even after three years, she still found it hard to breathe in there. But why don’t I feel happy to be putting this wretched place behind me? Jo asked herself silently. She actually felt a pang of jealousy that someone else would be taking her place.
She and the caretaker had said their good-byes the previous evening. But there was one consolation: Melchior had promised to visit her at Frieda’s house no later than that summer. “I’ll want to see what’s become of my apprentice!” he’d said and stroked her shoulder clumsily.
Gerd Melchior was her savior. Without him, she would have gone mad, and it was only thanks to him that she was leaving prison with her spirit and soul intact.
Physically, three and a half years of bad food, poor hygiene, and a lack of fresh air had taken their toll. The dress that Jo had been wearing when she arrived and which was returned to her that morning in the prison’s administration building hung on her body like a sack. Her skin was pale and scaly, her hair dull. She looked like a haggard woman of thirty. Like someone leaving prison. Like someone that life had dealt a bad hand. Or someone who had dealt her own life a bad hand? Is that what people would think when they saw her?
I’ll spoil you like a sparrow that’s fallen from its nest too soon, Frieda had written in one of her letters.
Josephine smiled at the recollection as she went to the door. Tonight she would sleep in a decent bed with a decent blanket over her.
On her way to the main entrance, she spotted the shadow of a woman waving at her from the other end of the yard. Adele. She had been moved across to the adult w
ing a year earlier, and they had only ever seen each other in the yard or in the dining hall since then. In there for life . . . The word alone was enough to frighten Josephine. Perhaps it frightened Adele, too, since her wave seemed surprising and sad. Josephine gave a tentative wave back.
In the office, she had to sign a few papers. Then she was given enough money to cover a single tram journey plus a tiny bit extra, along with a note with the address of a place to contact as she began her search for work, a company in Feuerland that made shoes. Josephine vaguely recalled walking past it when she’d been looking for an apprenticeship. The proprietor took on former female prisoners as workers, the guard explained as she handed Josephine the note. And that was not all. There was even a dormitory above the factory where the women who worked below could rent a bed.
“A fine and charitable gentleman!” said the woman. “He does what he can so depraved women like you can find their way back to a life of decency.”
Josephine took the note, tied her shawl around her shoulders, and left without another word.
Forget the shoes. She didn’t need a contact address. Frieda was waiting for her.
As Josephine stood waiting for the tram with the March sun upon her face, she thought of Frieda’s most recent letter, which was neatly folded in her shoulder bag along with her other possessions.
I have masterful plans for you, Frieda had written. Masterful—she had even underlined the word. A strange word to use, thought Josephine, not for the first time, as she climbed aboard the tram. She had been wondering what Frieda had in store for her ever since she received the letter three weeks before. Why the secrecy? Had she managed to find a place willing to take her on as an apprentice mechanic? The idea should have pleased Josephine, but once again, the elation she thought she should feel did not come. The fact was she already had her apprenticeship behind her, and she had been taught by the best master craftsman for miles around. And Frieda knew that. Did her plans have something to do with riding a bicycle? Had she found a way for Jo to cycle, legally and in daylight? Jo’s heart skipped a beat at the thought, but she did not get her hopes up too high. In all the letters she had penned to Frieda, she had not written a single word about cycling. It would have hurt too much to do so. How could the old woman possibly know that her desire to ride a bicycle was stronger than ever?
Jo had pleaded for a few more hints in her last letter. But she had received no answer. Frieda probably wanted to tell her about her masterful plans in person so she could see Josephine’s face light up. Jo felt an excited rumble in her stomach. To distract herself, she looked out the window at the passing city, which was bathed in the most beautiful sunlight. Everything looked so different . . .
New buildings had sprung up everywhere, and the city seemed to have grown beneath the surface as well. Entire streets had been opened up like a gutted fish. Sand lay in huge piles by the side of the road, and enormous pipes were being lowered into the ground by countless workers. She saw only a few bicycles amid the chaos. And where were they supposed to go anyway, with all those sewage works under way? Though there were few bicycles, many people were out and about on foot, coming and going from the numerous department stores, fashion boutiques, hardware shops, and other stores besides. Josephine was amazed at how much Berlin had changed in the past three years. To all appearances it was not a change for the worse, which was a comforting thought. Would that be true of her own life as well? Jo finally felt a tiny seed of anticipation sprout inside her. Berlin awaited her. A whole new life awaited her.
The garden gate stood ajar, the shutters open. At first glance, Frieda’s house looked unchanged.
“Frieda? Are you out in the garden?” Instead of knocking, Josephine walked around the outside of the house, her heart pounding. In this glorious weather, her old friend was probably out tending to the first tender lamb’s lettuce leaves. Frieda always made a great celebration of that. Along with the salad that she dressed with white-wine vinegar and oil, she always put out a few quail eggs and ham, which she consumed with wine that shimmered in her glass.
Jo’s stomach rumbled again, this time with hunger, even though it was not yet midday. Her first meal in freedom . . . It didn’t have to be quail eggs. A roll would do just fine.
But the garden was empty and untouched. The vegetable garden was covered with fir tree twigs, and there were no bright green lamb’s lettuce leaves to be seen.
“Frieda?” Jo crossed the few steps to the door, but no one stirred in the house when she knocked. She waited for a moment, a frown crossing her face, then approached one of the windows. The parlor inside was dark. Frieda was probably out shopping. After all, she was expecting Josephine that day. No doubt Frieda wanted to delight her with a special meal, even though it wasn’t necessary . . . In any case, her old friend wouldn’t be away long.
Jo deposited her bag in the small shed where Frieda stored her garden tools, then she went back out to the street.
Reutter’s Emporium, the ropemaker’s shop, and the pharmacy were all as she remembered them. With timid steps, she walked slowly down the street. Deep down, she felt the need to call out—to scream—“I’m back!” at the top of her lungs. But at the same time, she would have liked nothing more than to make herself invisible. What would her old neighbors think when they saw her? Would they turn away from the girl who’d been in prison? She was relieved that no one was walking toward her along the narrow pavement.
From a distance, Jo heard the monotonous clang of her father’s hammer, and a lump instantly formed in her throat. She stopped outside the building. The large gate that opened into the barn and smithy stood wide open. A skinny kid was doing his best to calm a horse down while her father held a horseshoe in the fire. Another horse tied by the barn door lifted its tail and sedately dumped a pile of manure onto the floor of the barn. The lump in Jo’s throat hardened at the old familiar smell.
It was not sentimentality that had led her there. Not even homesickness, she told herself, as she watched her parents’ house from a safe distance. It was that she could not get around having a certain discussion with her parents. If her father had paid for the damage she had done to Herrenhus’s bicycle, she wanted to pay him back. Of course, that would not happen instantly. But she’d arrange to repay him in monthly installments as soon as she found work. She didn’t want to owe her parents a single penny. That was all she wanted to tell him. After that, she would leave.
The door to the house opened and a young girl came out with a basket of laundry under her arm. Josephine’s mother followed a few steps behind. She looked exactly as she had three years earlier. The two of them began to hang the laundry in the yard. The young girl said something and Jo’s mother laughed. It sounded foreign and painful in Josephine’s ear. She never knew that her mother could laugh so melodically.
She would wait in Frieda’s garden, sit on the bench, enjoy the sunshine. She could always visit her parents in the next few days.
Jo had just turned away when her mother glanced in her direction. Then she bustled toward the barn as if to make sure her husband had not seen his daughter. She said something to the young girl, who went into the house.
“What do you want here? If you think you’re coming back to stay, think again. You’re not welcome here.”
No warm greeting. No embrace. A cold, sharp pain tore a hole in Josephine’s soul.
Her mouth was dry as she said, “I only wanted to find out how you are.”
“We’re doing just fine. As you can see.” Her mother swept her hand in an arc, as if to include the smithy and the house. “The ropemaker’s niece helps me in the house, and her brother helps your father in the workshop. Their parents both died of influenza the winter before last. The ropemaker took them in, and we’ve found work for them to do. So another family’s children are helping us run the house, though we raised three of our own . . .” The accusation in her chilly voice rang loud and clear.
Josephine took a deep breath. “I wanted to talk about t
he damage to the bicycle—”
“Your father paid that off long ago!” her mother snapped. “We won’t have anyone speak ill of us. Your being in prison was bad enough. That was plenty of gossip for everyone. It took three months’ earnings to pay off your debt. Not that you’d care.”
“If you say it’s so, then it must be true.” Jo straightened her shoulders and looked the woman she called her mother in the eye. “I will repay the money. You have my word.”
“As if your word means anything.”
Josephine was already walking away when her mother called after her. “It would be for the best if you didn’t show your face around here again. We’re getting along quite well without you. The sight of you would only upset your father unnecessarily.”
With a heavy heart, Josephine walked away, her mother’s gaze boring wrathfully into her back.
She was still some distance away when she recognized Clara in Frieda’s garden. Her friend was holding a watering can and gently sprinkling water onto a container of seedlings. Her chestnut hair shone brightly in the spring light.
“Clara!”
“Josephine!”
While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) Page 19
