Jo raised both hands in a placating gesture, then listened to a litany of additional rules and prohibitions.
Josephine was scheduled to work the late shift, from midday to ten in the evening. She had planned to pay a visit to the cycling club for women as soon as possible, but now she would have to wait until Saturday, which was half an eternity away! At least she would be earning money, she told herself by way of consolation.
The clerk handed her over to a supervisor, who led her to a table covered with a long row of punch machines. Her job was to take precut leather soles from a box and punch small holes all the way around the edges. It was crucial to maintain an even distance between the holes, as this was the seam to which the upper portion of the shoe would later be sewn.
The work was dull and arduous. The punching machine was a cumbersome device that did not operate smoothly. When Josephine asked the supervisor whether she could lubricate it with a little oil, she was told no. The oil might stain the leather. The only solution was to use more force.
Although Jo was used to hard work, her wrists began to hurt after the first hour, and boredom set in. Again and again, her eyes blurred and she lost focus.
The factory was basically clean and well-lit, and it wasn’t particularly loud, but there was a sharp, almost biting smell in the air that came from a huge pile of skins that lay up front. Several women were busy dipping the skins into some dark, foul-smelling liquid and then hanging them on long iron bars to dry. Other women then took the dry leather down and cut it into different sizes with small, curved knives. Wooden blocks in various shapes and sizes served as templates. Even that step could easily be accomplished with punching machines, thought Jo, but it didn’t look like the Strähle Shoe Sole Factory was that advanced.
Josephine guessed there were at least a hundred women working there. At her bench alone there were ten other women performing the same task. She would have loved to strike up a conversation with them. The most pressing question concerned her wages. The clerk had not mentioned a word about that.
“What are you doing staring into space? Concentrate on your work!” came a sharp voice behind her. “Can’t you see that the spacing between your holes is uneven?”
Jo murmured an apology and turned her gaze down to her work.
The supervisor had only just left when Jo’s neighbor, a young woman who appeared to be the same age as Jo, whispered, “If that happens again, they’ll dock the damage from your wages, and those are already miserable enough. So watch out!”
“How much do we actually get paid, then?” Jo had not even finished her sentence when the supervisor reappeared at her side.
“Talking is strictly forbidden! It distracts from the work. You’re new here, so I’ll turn my head this time. But starting tomorrow, it will cost you five pfennigs every time I catch you talking. Have I made myself clear?” The woman waited for Jo’s nod, then looked sternly at all the other women and stalked away.
Jo glanced grumpily at her departing figure before placing a new sole beneath the punch. One thing was clear: she would not stay there any longer than absolutely necessary! She would keep her eye out for a new job starting first thing tomorrow.
Chapter Nineteen
Instead of sleeping late the next morning, Jo was awoken by the chattering of her cotenants getting ready for the early shift. After a sparse breakfast of tea and a dry roll—everything in the kitchen compartments really was fair game for the pilferers—she went into the washroom. The water she drew into a dented, galvanized bucket with a piston pump was so icy that it hurt Jo’s back and wrists, which were already sore from the hard bed and the long hours on the punching machine. But to Jo, cleanliness mattered. She had never once missed her daily wash in prison. On the third day, the piece of soap she had bought for ten pfennigs disappeared. Everybody denied stealing it, of course. She had no money to buy new soap because her first wages would only be paid the Saturday after next. Purchasing a new dress would also have to wait, so she sewed up the only dress she had, taking it in so that it fit her again. Recalling Clara’s words, she asked a woman in the kitchen for some vinegar and used it to rinse her hair after she had washed it. The vinegar returned at least a little of the original shine, and one of the women offered to trim her split ends. Jo felt a great deal better about herself after that.
In her clean dress, with her hair freshly cut and washed, Josephine set out every morning to look for a better job. She had to be back in the Strähle factory by half past eleven if she wanted to eat something before starting work at twelve. Luckily, she did not have to walk far. The factories were lined up one right beside the other in Feuerland. Factories had shot up everywhere since she last rode through the area and now filled every gap. Sometimes, she hardly recognized the old streets. The air was still infused with soot, and carriages piled high with every imaginable product occupied the wide streets. New rails were being placed along the streets as well. Is Feuerland going to get its own station? Jo wondered. But she did not have much time to spare for such thoughts, and the answer did not particularly interest her.
She got the same answer everywhere she went. No. There was no job for her as a mechanic. The factories were geared toward skilled men who carried out all the necessary repairs and maintenance. The looks of mistrust, rejection, and condescension she got from gatekeepers, overseers, and factory owners themselves were all too familiar. But Josephine was far from giving up hope. Let those men hang on to their old prejudices. All she needed was one person willing to take a chance on her. Just one willing to cross that line and employ a woman as a mechanic. Someone like Gerd Melchior. It might take knocking on hundreds of factory doors, but she would eventually find the kind of employer she was looking for.
After a long Saturday afternoon stroll through the city and a visit to Frieda’s grave, Jo finally found herself at the entrance to the First Berlin Cycling Club. A smaller sign indicated that the clubrooms also housed the women’s bicycle club. She was in the right place. Jo stepped through the entrance, her heart pounding. The first thing she saw was the broad oval of the racetrack. Three young men were riding laps despite the light drizzle. Jo watched them with envy. Hunched over the handlebars, their legs tucked in close to the frame, they flew past so quickly that she could hardly believe her eyes. She would never have believed that a bicycle could move so quickly. The bicycles themselves looked lighter and sleeker than the ones Josephine remembered. And they were so quiet! Apart from a soft hum there was no noise at all as the young men rode by. She discovered the reason when she studied the surface of the track, which was as smooth as a finely planed piece of wood.
Every time the cyclists flashed past, her own longing to ride increased. The wind in her face. The feeling of being able to fly like a bird. The freedom of taking her feet off the ground and not falling over. She was nearly desperate to experience it all again for herself. It wouldn’t have taken much for her to pull one of the young men off his bicycle and swing into the saddle herself.
She stood and watched them for a good half an hour before finally dragging herself away from the strip that separated the racetrack from the spectator area. Her hair was curling in the moist air, and her cheeks were red from the cold. She followed the sign that pointed the way to the clubrooms. If anyone asked her what she was doing here, she had decided that she would mention Isabelle’s name. But no one even took any notice of her when she stepped inside.
In the clubroom, she found a kind of bar decorated with trophies and posters all pertaining to the sport of cycling. It was warm and smelled of freshly brewed coffee and hot soup. A young woman was running madly back and forth behind the counter, seemingly attempting to do ten things at once. A dozen men sat at several tables, talking excitedly, drinking beer, and leafing through cycling magazines. This was meant to be a clubroom? To Josephine, it looked more like a restaurant or tavern! A large poster on the wall caught her eye. It was an advertisement for sports clothing that featured “Anwander’s Sports Salon” and �
��First-Class Specialist for Cycling Outfits and Equipment” in large letters. Beneath that came a list of the products the sports store carried: “English sweaters, distinctive French caps, finest Bavarian loden sports jackets, stockings in silk and wool, bicycle clips, specialist outfits for tourists and serious wheelmen.” She was amazed to discover how many different kinds of clothing now existed for cyclists. Apparently it was no longer enough to have a pair of pants, a jacket, and a decent pair of shoes. Judging by the elegant appearance of the men at the tables, shops like Anwander’s Sports Salon did a brisk trade.
One of the men looked up then and asked her in a rather cool voice, “Have you lost your way, young lady?” Several pairs of eyes turned and looked at her.
“I’m looking for the Cycling Club for Women,” Jo murmured.
“Their ladyships are in the back room. And that, as the name suggests, is in the back.” The man jabbed his thumb toward the door. Jo heard laughter behind her as she hurried out to the corridor.
The first door on her right displayed a small, brass plaque that read “Changing Room 1.” Right next door was “Changing Room 2.” Then came a “Storeroom,” “Washroom 1,” and “Washroom 2.” Jo looked around in confusion. Where was the women’s clubroom?
“Girl, are you planning to put down roots? Ever since Edith got sick, nothing around here works. I’ve been waiting for my beer for half an hour and I’m nearly dying of thirst!” snapped a young man who had just emerged from one of the washrooms. He was tall, blond, and extremely good-looking; it seemed as though he was used to people jumping to attention when he gave an order. He was dressed in the smartest, sleekest cycling clothes Josephine had ever seen.
She nonetheless lifted her chin and said, “I’m sorry to hear you are thirsty, but I don’t know any Edith and I am not a bargirl. I’m looking for the women’s cycling club.” As she spoke, she was puzzling over when and where she had seen this man before. Then it came to her: he’d been riding around the racetrack that Moritz Herrenhus had once invited her to. It felt like an eternity ago! If she recognized him again now, then he had obviously made quite an impression on her then . . .
His expression changed instantly, becoming more open, almost friendly. “You want to join the women’s club?” Under his appraising eye, Jo suddenly felt terribly ill at ease in her old dress and her unadorned hair. She had thought that clothes wouldn’t matter as much in a cycling club. It was all about the sport, wasn’t it? But the sight of the well-dressed men in the bar had already disabused her of that notion. This seemed to be a place where the upper classes congregated.
“Do you have anything against that?” she nearly hissed, her eyes flashing. She was not about to be intimidated by a jerk like this! Even if her knees were quivering.
The man grinned and raised his hands defensively. “Not at all. On the contrary, I find it outstanding that young women of your . . . station are finding their way into the sport, too.” He smiled and pointed to a door at the end of the corridor. “The women’s clubroom is back there.”
Jo stalked away without replying. “Young women of your . . . station”—what was that supposed to mean? Josephine wondered as she turned the handle to the door of the women’s clubroom.
“So are we serving sparkling wine and French champagne on Saturday, or just one or the other?” Chloé, the wife of one of the racing cyclists, looked inquiringly at those assembled around the table. She had a cup of coffee and an untouched piece of cake in front of her.
“We could serve the sparkling wine before the race and the champagne afterward,” replied Melissa, the daughter of a pharmaceutical entrepreneur. Like Chloé, she was relatively new to the club and the upcoming race was the first major event she was helping to organize.
“Sparkling wine, French champagne, that’s all well and good! But shouldn’t we be moving on to the things that really matter?” asked Irene. She pushed her empty coffee cup away as if to say, Enough gossiping! “For example, our press coverage. God knows it would help if the reporters who cover the event aren’t as scathing as the last time. How can we get some positive, sympathetic press?” She looked intently around the table at the twenty women of various ages who were assembled there.
All she got in reply was a helpless silence.
Isabelle had nothing to suggest, either. One journalist had described them as “hellcats on wheels” after the fall races, while another had called it an “embarrassing spectacle” and compared the meet to a circus show. Her father had been furious. Any more reports like that and he would ban her outright from taking part in any more such frivolous affairs. A future Neumann should not make herself an object of ridicule. “What about Irene?” Isabelle had shot back, but he had simply ignored her. As usual! She sullenly stirred sugar into her cup of coffee.
Isabelle’s mood had been at a low ebb for weeks. The club that she had founded with such enthusiasm was getting on her nerves. New cliques had begun to form, each trying to hijack the club for its own ends. Isabelle sometimes felt as though she and Irene were the only true cyclists there.
In addition to her disappointment with the club, there was a more general dissatisfaction with her life. Where was the vaunted freedom that she had thought awaited her after her “engagement” to Adrian?
The first months had been pleasant enough. Her parents had left her in peace for a while once she and Adrian had announced publicly that they were a couple, and she had been able to do whatever she liked—including setting up her cycling club.
But things had changed. After almost three years of being engaged and two postponements of her wedding day—once she had really been sick, and the second time, Adrian’s father had had to resolve a crisis involving striking workers—her father was putting enormous pressure on her. He wanted the bond to the magnate’s family sealed once and for all.
Adrian, too, was feeling increasingly uneasy about their arrangement. He wanted to follow his own path, free of the constant presence of his fiancée. They often found themselves debating how they could explain a final split to their parents, but they had not yet settled on a mutually acceptable approach. Like Isabelle, Adrian feared the wrath of their fathers.
“And then we have to decide whether we’re going to do match races on top of the main race. We all know the spectators love head-to-head racing. But aren’t we overloading the program if we do that?” It was once again Irene who lobbed the question into the room.
Luise Karrer, one of the oldest—and most dedicated—cyclists, answered. “Considering the importance of sympathetic press coverage, I think it would make sense to offer the audience something spectacular like the match races. Besides, I’m looking forward to trouncing Isabelle.”
Isabelle and a few others laughed. Her sporting rivalry with Luise was well-known.
“I’d love to thrash you as well. But at the end of the show, all the newspapers will write is that we crazy she-devils battled it out in completely unfeminine duels,” said Isabelle with a sigh. “Perhaps we’d better just get used to the idea that we’ll never be able to please everyone.” A casual dismissive gesture accompanied her words, earning murmurs of agreement from one side and sneers from the other.
“We have to fight for the rights of women or we’ll always be subservient to men!” said Gertrude, a thin teacher with a dyspeptic look on her face, garnering even more peevish looks in reply.
“But I don’t feel subservient at all,” said a smoky voice. “Perhaps we ought to use the race day to showcase our sport in the best possible light?” Fadi Nandou, a beautiful Persian woman, was a member of the Berlin Theater and one of the leading lights of her profession. Her admirers followed her as far as the entrance to the cycling club, and large floral arrangements were always being left at the bar for the beautiful actress. No one was sure how she had found her way to the club, as Fadi was only rarely seen on a bicycle, but Isabelle assumed that the actress boasted often outside the club of her involvement in the sport. That, too, counted as a motive for ridi
ng a bicycle.
“We have to be able to offer the people something. Bread and circuses, as the ancient Romans used to say, right? I could offer our spectators something . . .” Fadi’s almond-brown eyes scanned the others with determination. She was so accustomed to getting her way that she refuted the possibility of any objections at the very start.
Long peeved at the actress’s vain posturing, Isabelle said in a mocking tone, “And how do you propose that would work? Should we dress up as Romeo and Juliet and perform a play on bicycles?”
“More attractive clothes would certainly not be unwarranted,” Fadi replied. “These new bloomers are a catastrophe. And a sure way to put off admirers!” She screwed up her pretty face in disgust.
Isabelle abruptly stood up, her chest rising and falling as she vented her pent-up frustration. “I have had it up to here with these eternal discussions! What are we all doing here? We drink coffee and talk about sparkling wine and French champagne as if we were organizing a ball! We fret about clothes and the press! But there’s one thing we never talk about—cycling!—when that’s the only thing that really matters.”
“Exactly,” came a strange but also familiar voice behind her.
All heads turned to the door.
“Josephine?”
For a brief moment, Isabelle felt as if she’d been struck by lightning. Josephine looked so different. So grown up, far older than her years. The last two years—or was it three?—must have been very hard for her. A life behind bars, while she, Isabelle, had danced from one ball to the next. And had barely given a thought to her old friend . . .
Isabelle felt a surge of guilt wash over her. She went to the door, unsure that her shaking legs would carry her.
“You’re back?” she asked, so quietly that only Jo heard her.
Josephine nodded. “I’ve been back for a week. Clara told me about your club. I came as soon as I could.”
While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) Page 21
