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

by Petra Durst-Benning

  Clara frowned at her husband. “As if I’d accept money for that! I was happy to do it.”

  “That’s fine, Clara. It reflects well on you. But am I supposed to accept that you neglect your own familial obligations in the meantime? Last Sunday, I sat here on my own for hours while you amused yourself with your friends.” He waved one hand vaguely toward Frieda’s house.

  “I already explained to you that I simply lost track of the time. I’m sorry—” Clara began, but her mother cut her off sharply.

  “Must you always contradict your husband? You certainly did not learn such unseemly behavior from me, my child. Gerhard works hard day after day. It is your job to entertain him with pleasant conversation at the table, not deliver stubborn speeches all the time. For my part, may I say, I never had much time for Josephine Schmied,” she said, her lips pressed together thinly.

  Gerhard smiled warmly at his mother-in-law, then reached out and squeezed her right hand. “You needn’t take every word your daughter says so earnestly. Most women in Clara’s condition don’t think clearly. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard her speak the purest nonsense in the practice.” Then his tone grew cool, his eyes colder. “As far as that Josephine Schmied is concerned, she is not a good person for you to spend time with; that much is now clear to me. It is utterly unnatural for a woman to occupy herself with technical matters. At this rate, the fairer sex will end up challenging the men for work!” He snorted disdainfully. “For an unmarried woman to open a workshop by herself, well, it is an absurdity. As soon as time allows, I will pay a visit to the trade guild and bring this dissolute state of affairs to their attention. I am fairly sure that the activities of this . . . person . . . will soon come to an end after that.” He smiled at Clara and her mother, then returned to his lunch.

  Clara felt a jolt in her stomach. It was not from the unborn child.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Adrian directed the carriage driver to Feuerland. He asked the driver to stop not far from the shoe sole factory where Josephine had worked until recently.

  “They sell bicycles here?” Jo asked in surprise. Surely she would have noticed if that were the case. There were no signs, not the slightest indication of what went on in the old warehouse in front of them. She felt doubtful as she followed Adrian inside. A moment later, she stopped in her tracks.

  “I don’t believe it . . .” She looked around in amazement. Dozens of bicycles were lined up in neat rows, all awaiting new owners.

  “This ought to be enough of a selection, don’t you think?” Adrian asked with a smile. “There’s a salesman back there. Let’s start with your bicycle. My touring cycle can wait.”

  “For the young lady, I would recommend the women’s bicycle from Opel. Please, take a look. The Opel comes fitted with Michelin tires. It’s very exclusive, very luxurious.” The salesman—a fat, bald man who looked like he’d never climbed onto a bicycle in his life—looked at Adrian expectantly.

  “But I find forty-two pounds rather heavy,” Adrian replied. “There must be lighter women’s bicycles on the market by now.”

  Josephine stood beside him without a word. How good this place smelled! Like rubber tires and machine oil. Like saddle leather, freedom, and a wonderful life.

  The salesman gestured dismissively. “For a pleasant Sunday outing, it makes no difference whether a bicycle weighs forty pounds or seventy pounds. The young lady will no doubt feel perfectly secure on such a well-made machine.” He stepped over to a different bicycle. “Here we have another pretty woman’s bicycle—this one has a particularly attractive blue frame. It’s most feminine! At two hundred and thirty marks, it is more of a midrange bicycle. A beautiful machine for a most enjoyable outing.” The man underscored his words with a fluid gesture.

  Outings! Jo rolled her eyes inwardly. The man had no other concept of how a woman might cycle.

  “Speaking of which, we also have very pretty cycling outfits in the rear of the store. Perhaps the young lady might like to take a look around back there while the gentleman and I discuss the technical merits of the bicycles?” It was the first time that the man had addressed Josephine directly since they had entered the store a good half hour earlier. His smile was one he might give a well-behaved child.

  “Irene always buys her cycling outfits here. They’re very fashionable,” Adrian said offhandedly.

  “Right now, I am not the least bit interested in clothes,” Josephine said with chagrin. It was really very kind of Adrian to come with her and give her advice, but she wanted to go into the technical merits of the bicycles herself! “And I would very much appreciate it if you would deign to show me a modern bicycle. Machines like these have been around for years!” Ignoring the horrified look on the salesman’s face, Jo started walking down the long aisle lined with bicycles up on stands. German, English, even American manufacturers were represented, and all were similar to Moritz Herrenhus’s Rover. These bicycles were undoubtedly all very good, but there had to be something new. The engineers and technicians who designed and built bicycles certainly couldn’t have been asleep for the last four years.

  In the middle of the aisle, Josephine finally found what she was looking for. The sleek machine was painted deep black, and the saddle was made of black leather. When she picked it up, it felt almost feather light. “Full Roadster, England,” she read on the label affixed to the handlebars. Unless she was mistaken, one of the men in the bicycle club rode exactly this machine. She had admired it at length on her first visit to the club. A pleasant feeling came over her. She cleared her throat.

  “The Full Roadster here . . . does it only come with these foam-rubber tires? Or could I get it with the more elastic pneumatic tires?” Moritz Herrenhus had told her that pneumatic tires were a revolutionary advance in bicycle technology.

  The salesman, busy with Adrian a few bicycles farther down, stopped short. Almost unwillingly, he gestured for Adrian to follow him to where Josephine stood. When he reached her, he said, “An English import, that one. From Liverpool, to be exact. The Full Roadster is a safety bicycle of the first order. The manufacturer claims that this particular machine offers the best performance for the price. The riding characteristics . . .” The salesman rattled off his knowledge skillfully, but he turned to talk directly to Adrian, who listened with interest.

  Jo felt as if she would explode with anger. She took a single sharp step toward the salesman, who retreated in surprise. “In case you misunderstood, I’m the one considering buying this bicycle. You should therefore take me equally seriously as a customer,” she said. The salesman took another step back, nearly knocking over a bicycle as he did so.

  Jo continued, “Or I can walk out of here and go somewhere else. Bicycle shops in Berlin are like fleas on a dog, after all!” Taking satisfaction in the flabbergasted look on the salesman’s face, she added, pointing at the English bicycle, “And now I would like to take this one out for a test ride.”

  “But . . . that is the best bicycle we have. It is not intended for women,” the salesman replied in dismay. “And it’s expensive, too. Very expensive . . .”

  Jo merely shrugged. “I don’t care.”

  “You’d better do what the young lady says,” Adrian said, smiling. “I think she knows more about bicycles than most gentlemen.”

  The test ride was a true delight. Josephine could have screamed for joy as she rode down Feuerland’s main street. How many times had she dreamed of just this moment? And now it was finally here.

  When she came back, Adrian was waiting excitedly for her.

  “So?”

  Jo was grinning from ear to ear.

  She counted out two hundred and seventy marks with shaking hands and handed them to the salesman, who maintained an unfriendly distance to the last. He was not used to women being involved in such transactions . . . and then putting so much money on the table at the end.

  “When do we go for our first ride?” Adrian asked as soon as they were back outsi
de. Unlike Josephine, he had not been able to find a bicycle that caught his fancy. “We could meet at the club tomorrow. I train every day in the late afternoon.” He waved over the carriage, which had been waiting in the shade, and was about to instruct the driver to load the bicycle on board when Josephine stopped him. She laid one hand on his right arm. But she immediately pulled her hand away as if she had received an electric shock. With great effort, she forced herself to say, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but . . . I would like to take my first ride by myself. Right now. I still have to find out whether I will even enjoy riding on a track.”

  “I understand.” Adrian held the bicycle out to her, though he looked a little perplexed.

  Before Jo could reconsider, she threw her arms around him. “Thank you. If you hadn’t shown me this place, I would not now be the proud owner of this marvel!”

  He returned her embrace, which they held a beat longer than necessary. Jo felt dizzy.

  “But the second ride is mine, all right? I’m more than happy to ride through the streets,” said Adrian, when they had separated. It sounded like he was asking her to dance.

  Jo bit her bottom lip.

  “What about Isabelle?” she asked slowly. She had not mentioned to her friend that Adrian would be accompanying her when she bought her bicycle. Had he told his fiancée about it?

  “Isabelle.” For a moment, Adrian seemed confused, as if he wasn’t sure if he knew anyone by that name. “She doesn’t like to ride through the streets,” he said. “She likes to be out on the track where everyone can admire her.”

  It occurred to Jo that his remarks about his fiancée didn’t sound particularly kind. But the rapid beating of her heart was muddling her thoughts. Should she or shouldn’t she? It was just a bicycle ride, nothing more. She pulled herself together and said, “I don’t have any time to ride during the day. I work until late every evening at the repair shop,” she said, not without a certain pride. She had never believed it possible that the people of Luisenstadt would make such regular use of her workshop. And the best part was that everyone had been happy with her work so far. But no one had brought in a bicycle yet . . .

  “So when were you thinking of cycling?” Adrian asked with a frown.

  “While the world is still asleep,” Jo replied and smiled defiantly at him. “If the good gentleman can get himself out of bed, we could go out tomorrow morning. Five o’clock at the Schlesischer train station!” Without waiting for an answer, she took her new bicycle, swung onto the black leather saddle, and pedaled away.

  When Josephine left the house the next morning, she was met by a refreshing coolness in the air. The fading lilac bush in Frieda’s garden exuded the last of its perfume, while the elderberry bush beside it was waiting for June to open its own flowers. A few early birds were chattering excitedly, and the clattering of hooves could be heard a few streets away—probably the milkman with his old horse.

  With a light heart, Josephine fetched the Roadster from the workshop and set off. As she rode through the still-dormant streets, she recalled her early-morning excursions with Isabelle. But the farther she rode, the less she thought of the past and the more anxious she felt.

  Would Adrian be waiting for her at the Schlesischer station? She didn’t even know where he lived. Perhaps the journey would be too great for him? Or he was a late sleeper? As the scion of a wealthy family, he was at leisure to decide for himself when he got up in the morning.

  Did she even want him to be there waiting for her? Adrian was Isabelle’s fiancé . . . Was she on the verge of doing something that went against her principles? She never again wanted to touch anything that belonged to someone else. Wouldn’t it therefore be smarter to cycle by herself? It was not too late to change her route . . .

  Josephine pedaled harder.

  She saw him from a distance—and felt a surge of irritation at the way her heart leaped at the sight of him. He looked very handsome, with his gleaming blond hair and athletic body. She wondered whether he did any kinds of sports other than cycling. What did she really know about Isabelle’s fiancé . . .

  Isabelle’s fiancé . . . and don’t forget it! she heard in her head.

  As she approached, Adrian let out an appreciative whistle, raised his eyebrows, and said, “I’m not surprised you didn’t want to look at the cycling outfits yesterday.” He looked her up and down admiringly, his eyes silvery in the morning light.

  “Is there a problem?” Josephine asked with a hint of prickliness, as she pulled to a stop. Suddenly, what he thought of her seemed to matter. But when she had combed through Frieda’s clothes the night before in search of something suitable for riding, she had focused only on what would be practical.

  On her way back from Feuerland, she had decided that she never wanted to ride in a skirt again. With every turn of the wheels, she had been afraid that the material would get tangled in the spokes. She could not understand how the other women in the cycling club could still expose themselves to that risk.

  But she had not managed to find anything useful in Frieda’s wardrobe. Frieda’s old skirts were even more old-fashioned and voluminous than her own. But then, in the back corner of the wardrobe of Frieda’s deceased husband, she had found a treasure: a pair of leather pants as pliable and soft as gloves. She had only ever seen anything like them in the Black Forest. Perhaps they had been a gift from Frieda’s nephew at some point? Elated, Jo had worn her find into the parlor and taken up the pants laboriously, by hand, until they came down to her ankles and fitted as if tailor-made. She had then pulled on a snug-fitting dark-blue wool jacket that emphasized her slim physique. The blue set off her hair perfectly—which was once again a silky, shining blond, and which she had tied back into a simple ponytail. Josephine had felt very satisfied with her appearance when she looked in the mirror. But under Adrian’s gaze, her self-confidence began to crack.

  “I think your outfit is very chic, if a little . . . daring,” Adrian replied with a grin. “Luise Karrer from the club also wears pants when she rides on the track. But I very much doubt that she would wear them out on Berlin’s streets. And she would never look as pretty as you if she did.”

  Josephine smiled radiantly. “Let’s be honest—this is the only way to ride seriously,” she said as soberly as she could. “I used to wear pants when I cycled years ago, but back then I hid my face beneath a man’s cap that I pulled down over my face. And sometimes . . .” She laughed, embarrassed at the recollection, “Sometimes I even drew on a mustache with coal to make people on the street think I really was a man.”

  “Men wear pants and women wear skirts. That’s just the way it is,” said Adrian in a tone that suggested that, as far as he was concerned, the topic was closed.

  “Most people might see it that way,” Josephine replied. “But I wear whatever I like. If that bothers you . . .” As attractive as she found Adrian, it was better that he know that about her from the start.

  “And you do whatever you like. No need to remind me about that,” Adrian remarked in a sarcastic tone, and both of them laughed.

  Without discussing either their direction or their destination, they rode off.

  Their route led them across the city. Adrian, who rode ahead, kept the pace fast and steady, but not too fast. He looked back a few times to assure himself that Josephine was still with him. “Everything OK?”

  Jo nodded as she breathed deeply in and out. She had to work quite hard to keep up with Adrian, but she never told him that. Her calves burned and, at first, she tried desperately to think of something interesting to talk about. Adrian would think she was dull as dishwater if she just pedaled along in silence. But she soon realized that talking was not necessary, and she relaxed.

  At Humboldt Harbor, Adrian turned north, and they rode alongside the ship canal for a while. The water that morning gleamed as blue as the sky; the shoreline was lined with benches and well maintained. A few times, they had to duck below low-hanging willow branches, but otherwise the rid
ing was easy.

  Adrian pointed off to the right. “My family lives back there,” he said.

  Josephine looked across the canal at the uncrowded rows of white villas behind wrought-iron fences, sprawling estates with garden houses, tea pavilions, and multistory mansions. This was where the wealthiest families in Berlin lived, Isabelle had explained as they rode through the area one morning years ago.

  “But I live in a small apartment in the city,” said Adrian. “It’s very central, just behind the post office, in a building that belongs to my family.”

  Why is he telling me all this? Josephine wondered.

  At North Harbor, they stopped. “Hungry? They serve solid breakfasts here,” said Adrian, pointing to a rustic-looking inn that appeared to be doing brisk business even at this early hour.

  Jo had been so intent on her sewing the night before that she had never gotten around to eating anything. She nodded.

  “Would you get a load o’ that one!” said one of the harbor workers, pointing at Jo. “See which one o’ them wears the pants . . .”

  Adrian grinned.

  Jo walked into the inn, her head held high. She ignored the looks and lewd comments from the harbor workers. Once they had settled in at a cozy table by the window, Adrian went to the counter. He returned a couple of minutes later with two tin mugs of steaming, milky coffee and a large plate of open sandwiches, including minced pork with onion rings, smoked sprats with onion pieces, and herring rolls with cucumber. Josephine didn’t know where to start.

  They had cycled together in silence, and they ate together in silence, as well. But it was no embarrassed hush that settled over them, the kind that occurs between strangers who have run out of things to talk about. It was a pleasant, even sensual, silence. Jo could not remember a meal ever tasting as delicious.