While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1)

by Petra Durst-Benning

  “Oh, Isabelle, you wouldn’t believe how much I’ve been wanting to.” Jo sighed longingly. “I’d love to go out and just buy myself a bicycle. I’ve got the money now. But I’ve got so many more important things to take care of.”

  More important things. Uh-huh. Isabelle picked up a hammer and was surprised at how weighty it was. Like everything in Jo’s life seemed to be. Her own house, a repair shop. Customers of her own, money of her own. A dream of a lifetime. Compared to that, it was hardly any surprise that the cycling club and their friendship mattered beans. She dropped the hammer again, carelessly. If that was the case, she could have spared herself the trouble of championing her old friend. Although—if she were honest—Josephine’s acceptance into the club had had less to do with her intercession and a lot more to do with Adrian’s. He’d gone to a lot of trouble, in numerous separate discussions, to convince Irene and the others that it could only benefit the club’s reputation if they accepted “common people,” too. And to convince them that they wouldn’t be able keep them out forever, the times being what they were. Soon, even servants, cooks, and chambermaids would be able to afford a bicycle. No one really believed him, but everyone liked Adrian and they knew that he had once thrown all his weight behind the founding of the club. As a result, little by little, he had been able to erode the resistance to Jo’s membership.

  Isabelle screwed up her nose, feeling disgruntled. Adrian, the good man. The one who wanted to better the world! The one with a heart for the weak, the lame, and the sick. A man who’d love to put every worker in a palace and crown him king. He only lacked heart where she was concerned—otherwise, he would have long ago found a way to get them both out of this miserable engagement mess they were in.

  Isabelle took a deep breath. Enough gloom and doom! Everything would work out somehow. She only had to look at Josephine to know that it was possible. Just then, Jo was explaining at great length which tools she needed for a particular job. Isabelle knew she would never want to spend her own days doing such tedious work. But if that was what Jo wanted, then . . .

  Nor did Clara seem especially interested. There! She was stifling a yawn behind her hand! Isabelle grinned as their eyes met conspiratorially.

  A moment later—just as Jo was pulling yet another file out of her toolbox—Clara clapped her hands like a child. “I’m dying to see your house. Can we go in? Your own little nest. Oh, Josephine, who would ever have thought?” She had already hooked Jo’s arm in hers, and together they stepped through the doorway and into the house.

  Isabelle trotted behind with a smirk. But her smile vanished the instant she entered the house.

  “I don’t believe it. It looks just like it used to!” she said, horrified.

  Jo nodded proudly. “I’d like to keep Frieda’s memory fresh, so I haven’t changed anything. All I’ve done is hung up her paintings. Do you like them?”

  “They’re very colorful,” said Clara, politely.

  Isabelle ran the tips of her fingers over the worn—in places downright fraying—material of the old sofa. “If I were you, I’d sell off all this old stuff. You’ve probably got fleas in there!” She took a quick step away from the sofa. The notion didn’t seem all that far-fetched.

  “Oh, Isabelle, now you’re exaggerating,” Jo replied, laughing. “I think everything’s lovely the way it is, and, fortunately, there’s no one telling me what do about these things. Isn’t that wonderful?” She looked at her two friends, seeking their blessing. “For the first time in my life, I can do whatever I want. I am truly independent.”

  “But . . . it isn’t in a woman’s nature to be independent,” Clara replied with a frown. “A woman needs a strong man at her side. I’m glad that Gerhard takes so many decisions off my shoulders. I wouldn’t know up from down if I were on my own. I imagine it’s like that for you and your Adrian, isn’t it?”

  It took Isabelle a moment to realize that Clara had spoken to her.

  “No, not at all,” she replied curtly. As if she’d ever let Adrian tell her what to do! Where did Clara get such an absurd notion? It was enough to have her father laying down the law; the last thing she needed was a fiancé doing the same.

  “Isabelle and Adrian are only engaged, after all. Not married, not yet,” said Josephine with such a strange undertone that Isabelle flared up.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? That it doesn’t count? An engagement is still a promise to marry.” And that was a promise her father wanted to see honored. A wedding this year—there wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t bring it up. She had run out of ways to string him along. They had already used illnesses, business crises in Adrian’s father’s firms, and Adrian’s taking an extended overseas trip.

  “All right, all right!” Jo raised her hands defensively, then pointed toward the stove. “How about we cook something nice? I’ve got vegetables and a good piece of meat. A bracing soup, that’s what I’m in the mood for.”

  “Cooking soup?” Isabelle stared at her friend in surprise. A chilled bottle of sparkling wine, a few elegant snacks, or at least an inaugural cake—that was the least she had been expecting!

  But Clara had already grabbed a knife and begun peeling carrots. “Who would have ever thought the three of us would be cooking together one day? This will be fun!”

  Isabelle still stood indecisively in the center of the room. Fun? That’s the last thing it would be!

  “You’re welcome to sit and watch,” said Josephine, nodding toward the kitchen bench. “Although I’m sure your Adrian would be happy if you could put together a decent meal.”

  Isabelle was about to snap back, “He is not my Adrian.” Instead, she said, “I don’t get involved with such menial tasks. We have staff for that.” She gave the cat, which had just made itself comfortable in the middle of the corner bench, a shove. Instead of making room, the beast hissed at her. Isabelle sat on a chair.

  “As soon as the practice is running better and we’ve paid off our debts, I’m supposed to be getting a maid myself,” Clara said. “Gerhard doesn’t like to see me having to work so much. A lady should dignify a house and fulfill social obligations. And she should have a good dose of rest every day. Gerhard says that anything else goes against what nature intended. And that is truer than ever in my condition.” Clara sighed and stroked the gentle curve of her belly, then dropped the carrots into the boiling broth.

  Strange that Clara hasn’t said a word about being pregnant before now, thought Isabelle. A baby on the way for the first time . . . Wasn’t that a special moment in a woman’s life? Jo immediately embraced Clara, and Isabelle felt as if she should do the same, but Clara did not seem particularly happy about her condition.

  “Your first child . . . Congratulations! You must be beside yourself with joy?”

  Clara shrugged. “Gerhard would have preferred that I be available to help him in the practice a little longer.”

  Josephine laughed. “Then he should have been more careful. As a doctor, he must know how babies are made better than most people.”

  Isabelle and Clara joined in her laughter, but Clara’s somber expression did not fade. She took the herbs that Jo had picked from the garden and chopped them finely with a practiced hand. “I like to work! Even when I was helping out in the pharmacy, hard work never bothered me. And once the baby has arrived and I’ve recovered from the birth, I’ll go right back to it. Regardless of what Gerhard says,” she added defiantly.

  Jo nodded. “The more work, the better!”

  How nice to see you agree about that, Isabelle thought. Because Josephine seemed immune to her needling today, she decided to start in on Clara instead. “Your doctor seems to have quite a detailed idea of what goes against a woman’s nature. Is he still so adamantly against seeing women on bicycles?”

  To Isabelle’s satisfaction, Clara visibly flinched. “We haven’t talked about it for a very long time,” she replied slowly. “You must know how many victims of bicycle accidents come to see us. The
y arrive with broken bones, broken wrists, scrapes. And women get injured more often. They seem to be particularly clumsy.”

  “Does that surprise you?” Josephine answered. “Women simply don’t get enough practice! The more practice you get, the less risk there is that you’ll have an accident.”

  “Women get too little practice? I know at least one young lady to whom that unfortunately does not apply: Adrian’s darling sister, Irene,” said Isabelle, her voice laced with sarcasm. “She spends every free minute training. The men are complaining that she uses the track too often for herself.”

  “Why is that? Why don’t the men and women simply use the track together?”

  “And why does Irene train so much at all?” Clara asked.

  “Why, why?” Isabelle mimicked her friends. “Irene wants to beat me in the next race, whatever it takes, I suspect,” she said to Clara.

  But it was Jo who replied, “I hope you’re not going to let her. Just wait until I’ve got my own bicycle, then we’ll train together. Irene won’t stand a chance!”

  “Training, phooey!” said Clara dismissively. Her eyes flashed mischievously when she said, “I’ve got a much better idea. I don’t know this Irene at all, but from everything you’ve said about her, she seems to be a rather unpleasant person.”

  For the first time that day, Isabelle and Josephine were in agreement about something. They nodded.

  “Perhaps a little abrasion would do Adrian’s sister good?” She looked at them with such innocence . . .

  “Clara!” Isabelle and Jo said simultaneously.

  “Explain yourself . . .” Jo added.

  Clara laughed. “Itching powder, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “Itching powder?”

  “Yes. From powdered rosehip kernels. My father uses the powder in an ointment for treating rheumatic complaints. It itches terribly, for hours. A pinch of the stuff sprinkled on the saddle could really put one off riding a bicycle.”

  “Itching powder . . .” Isabelle and Josephine looked at each other, then all three young women broke into ringing laughter. For a brief moment, they were once again the three carefree young girls who had practiced riding bicycles in the Herrenhus yard.

  A short while later they all sat down to eat. The soup tasted outstanding, Isabelle had to admit. How had they managed that? She was about to help herself to more when there was a knock at the door.

  “Who could that be?” Josephine stood up and went to the door.

  “You?”

  “I hope I’ve not come at an inconvenient time, but . . . may I come in?”

  Adrian! Isabelle put the ladle down. What on earth was he doing here?

  “We’re eating, but there’s enough for you, too.” Jo held the door open, inviting him in.

  Isabelle gave her fiancé a cool greeting, then said, “Hadn’t we agreed on six?”

  Adrian, who had sat down next to Clara on the bench, nodded apologetically. “I’m early, I know. Your mother wanted me to wait at the house, but when she told me where you were, I thought I . . . I thought . . .”

  “It’s all right,” said Jo, interrupting his stammering and passing him a bowl of soup.

  “It’s already after five?!” Clara cried, glancing at Frieda’s old wall clock. “Oh God, Gerhard must have been waiting for me for ages! I said I’d only be gone a little while.” She stood up abruptly. “He doesn’t like it if I just disappear.”

  “You’re only two houses away. If he missed you so much, he could easily come by,” said Josephine with a laugh.

  Once Clara had left—or fled—Isabelle pushed her own chair back with exaggerated irritation. Adrian was just lifting his spoon to his mouth when she looked down at him and said, “Let me make one thing crystal clear. I am not like Clara, and I will never let any man push me around like that. Nor check my every move. So if you’re considering sniffing around after me in the future, think again. I’m going home now—alone—and I’m going to pretty myself up. You, my dear Adrian, will pick me up at six o’clock on the dot for the Berlin Ballet premiere, as agreed.” She gave Josephine a taut nod, then she, too, left.

  Adrian seemed to have lost his appetite after that. Besides, he was far more interested in seeing Jo’s workshop, and Jo, of course, was delighted to show it to him.

  “You’ve set it up perfectly,” he said once she had shown him everything. “And I’ve already learned from experience that you know your way around a bicycle.”

  Josephine grinned. “And? Has the new fork proved its worth?”

  Adrian nodded. “Even so, I’m planning to buy a second bicycle. A touring machine for long road trips. The bicycle I have now is designed specifically for speed on a track.” Without a thought for the fine fabric of his pants, he sat down on one of the old workshop stools.

  “You’re really an avid cyclist, aren’t you?” said Jo, pulling up the second stool and sitting down beside him. She glanced discreetly at the rusty workshop clock. Half past five. Adrian would have to leave soon . . .

  “Avid is almost an understatement—I’m a cycling addict! I’m in the saddle every free minute. It’s like an insatiable hunger,” said Adrian and gave her a skewed smile.

  “Believe it or not, I know exactly what you mean. An unquenchable craving . . . I can’t think of a better way to put it. Once you’ve felt that sense of freedom, there’s no turning back.” Jo and Adrian smiled, understanding each other completely.

  “So how is it that you don’t own your own bicycle and refuse to borrow one?”

  “Personal reasons,” said Jo quickly. “But thanks to Frieda, my greatest dream will now come true sooner than I thought. I can finally buy myself a bicycle,” she said, sweeping a few unruly strands of hair from her forehead. If only she’d made more of an effort with her hair! But she had not counted on anyone other than her girlfriends coming by.

  “Although I have no idea where to go. Until just recently, I had far more pressing problems than figuring out which bicycle maker made which machines, or thinking about price or quality.” She held her breath. Perhaps Adrian would offer to help her?

  But to her great disappointment, all he said was, “The bicycle market has certainly become hard to navigate. Although there are more and more manufacturers entering the market all the time, the range of bicycles hasn’t grown much. A good bicycle is still extremely expensive—too expensive, if you ask me—a consequence of all the manual work that goes into building them. I’m still convinced that bicycles could be produced more cheaply if anyone wanted to do it. But producers and customers alike would still prefer to think of a bicycle as a luxury.” His eyes sparkled with entrepreneurial zeal. He looked as if he had a lot more to say on the subject, but then he waved his hand dismissively. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to bore you. You probably think I can’t talk about anything else. But that’s really not true.” He looked bashfully at the floor. “I have another idea, too . . .”

  “What is it?” Jo asked eagerly.

  But Adrian stood up. “I should go. Isabelle doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” he said with a tinge of regret. His hand already on the door handle, he turned back. “I wish you all the luck in the world, Josephine Schmied.”

  “Thank you,” said Jo, her voice hoarse, as she struggled with a sudden surge of anguish. She did not know where it came from. She simply knew that she could have spent a long time sitting there in the workshop with Adrian.

  He was almost at the garden gate when he abruptly stopped. Then quickly, as if not to give himself the time to reconsider, he turned and said, “What do you think? Could we go and look for bicycles together? Me for my touring machine and you for a woman’s bicycle?”

  Jo’s distress vanished. With a surge of joy, she replied, “What about at the end of the week?”

  “The entire street is talking about it.” Sophie Berg shook her head. “She comes back after all these years, just like that, and turns everything topsy-turvy!” She discreetly wiped one finger over Clara’s sideboa
rd, as if checking for dust.

  Clara, who had just set the table for lunch, decided to ignore her mother’s gesture. She had dusted just that morning, and thoroughly.

  “First of all, Josephine is not turning anything topsy-turvy. All she’s done is open a repair shop. Secondly, the people aren’t just talking; they’re making use of Josephine’s services in droves. When I went down to the pharmacy yesterday, I saw three people going into her shop. And it’s only the fourth day.”

  “Also,” said her husband, who was just coming through the door, “I just saw your friend out in front of her workshop with Oskar Reutter. They seemed to be shaking on some sort of deal.”

  Clara hurried into the kitchen for the lunch terrine. It was Friday, so they were having roast potatoes with herring. Tomorrow would be a vegetable stew, and on Monday sweet pancakes. Gerhard liked to adhere to a set routine.

  “We’ve needed a repair shop in the neighborhood for a long time,” Clara said, picking up the thread of the conversation. “It just shows that Josephine has good instincts.” She filled Gerhard’s plate as she spoke. Everything had to be done quickly during his short midday break. A piece of potato fell onto the clean tablecloth with the second spoonful.

  Gerhard raised his eyebrows with disapproval, and her mother did the same.

  “Oskar Reutter? Let’s hope he knows what he’s doing. A handshake with someone like her isn’t worth a thing,” said Sophie Berg, stroking smooth an imaginary wrinkle in Clara’s white tablecloth.

  Clara folded her arms and looked crossly at her mother. “Why are you being so spiteful? And why don’t you call her by name? Her name is Josephine. You’ve known her since she could walk. She used to be my best friend, and she still is.”

  “Best friend? That’s hardly the case! Clara, my dear, you are simply too kind for your own good. I really must take better care that other people don’t go on exploiting you,” said Gerhard, in a fond but chiding tone. “You spent weeks looking after Frieda Koslowski’s house. You looked after the garden and took care of the cat. And what thanks has Josephine ever shown you? Did she offer you so much as a mark last Sunday for all your work?”