“Sparkling wine and French champagne are all well and good, but the simple life has its merits,” said Adrian suddenly. His gaze drifted longingly out the window. “The people here—what they do, how they live—for me, that’s authentic.” He offered Josephine the last half roll.
She declined it with a smile. “One more bite and I won’t be able to get back on the bicycle.” Then she went on, “You know, loading and unloading boats all day isn’t really special. But you—no doubt your father has put you in an extremely powerful position, hasn’t he?” She had seen a number of articles in the newspaper about the family’s company and knew that it produced all kinds of technical devices. Just a few days earlier, Josephine had come upon a picture of Adrian’s father, Gottlieb Neumann. Although the article was about yet another groundbreaking invention the company could claim as its own, the old gentleman in the photograph had looked very stern.
Adrian snorted. “If only that were the case! If you think I’m one of those engineers notching up one technical coup after the other, then I hate to disappoint you. I sit in an office all day long, and my job is to check horribly long rows of numbers that others have put together, checking that no gremlins have crept in! I rarely turn up anything at all. Any semicompetent bookkeeper could do my job, but Father insists that someone from the family do it. And that someone, unfortunately, is me. I sometimes wonder why I studied economics in Munich at all!”
“Economics,” Josephine repeated. What exactly would that include?
Adrian nodded. “If only Father could see that I could put my education to much better use. I would start by tackling the production conditions—we’re far from exhausting the opportunities there. And if you ask me, that’s true of the entire industry.”
“You mean looking for opportunities to exploit the workers even more than they already are being exploited?” said Josephine sarcastically. She felt a surge of disappointment rising inside her. She hadn’t thought he was in the same breed as Herrenhus. But why wouldn’t he be? jeered a venomous voice inside her. She barely knew the man, so why did she think only good of him?
Adrian looked at her in confusion. “Who said anything about exploiting the workers? Although it’s urgent that something be done about that. Working hours need to be reduced to a maximum of twelve hours a day. And workers need to get two breaks, during which they’re allowed to leave the factory to get some fresh air. It’s preposterous that there are still factory owners who literally lock their workers inside!”
Josephine nodded, pleasantly surprised. Moritz Herrenhus was just such an owner. He kept his seamstresses slaving away behind locked doors and windows, since he was constantly worried that one of them might steal a bit of his fabric.
“I’ve been badgering my father for weeks to do something about organizing health insurance for our workers. But to no avail. It is simply unacceptable that a family has to go hungry just because one of the parents has gotten sick and can’t work.” Adrian banged his fist on the table. The subject seemed very close to his heart.
“But . . .” began Jo, uncertainly, “if a man can’t work, he can’t earn anything. How many times did I hear my father complain about terrible pain in his back? And still he shod five, six horses a day. If he hadn’t we’d have had no money coming in at all.”
“That may be the case for an independent tradesman. He alone is responsible for his own well-being. But a factory owner bears the responsibility for all of his workers, even if most businessmen have been reluctant to acknowledge that,” Adrian replied. “If everyone paid into a health insurance scheme—workers and factory owners—meaning if everyone behaved with mutual solidarity, it would be easy to ensure proper care in case of sickness or an accident.”
“What does that have to do with the production conditions you mentioned earlier?” Jo shook her head, a little confused. What a strange conversation! But even stranger was how much she was enjoying it.
“Health insurance is just one brick in a big wall,” said Adrian. “My main objective would be to make production more efficient and therefore cheaper, but not at the expense of the workers. I would do it with better machines, more fluid processes, better purchase prices based on higher volumes . . .”
Jo took a sip of her coffee, which had gone cold by then. “That might well mean advantages for the factory owners, but what do the simple workers get out of it?”
Adrian grinned. “A great deal, in fact. Think about it: up until now, so many useful inventions have remained the privilege of a wealthy minority. Sewing machines, washing machines, the bicycle. And for the simple reason that someone proclaims such things to be luxury goods.”
Jo laughed. “Like the salesman in the bicycle shop! He emphasized how luxurious and exclusive his bicycles were in every other sentence!”
“But bicycles and many other things could be produced far more economically if only the will to do so were there.” Adrian leaned across the table. “Have you ever heard of the so-called invisible hand?”
Jo had not. Nor could she remember ever talking to anybody who was so passionate about anything. The fire that burned in Adrian’s eyes as he spoke—she would have given anything to have them burn like that for her . . .
“The famous Scottish economist, Adam Smith, was the first to talk about the invisible hand. In his brilliant book, The Wealth of Nations, he describes how, when a businessman improves his productivity—even though he does so out of pure self-interest—he does a great service to society at the same time.” Adrian nodded as if to underline the accuracy of the statement.
“Because he produces his goods more cheaply and more people can afford them?” Jo was not certain that she had understood, but Adrian’s renewed nodding confirmed that she was on the right track.
“Exactly. When self-interest and the common good meet, the market can be said to be steered by an invisible hand. Imagine the logical conclusion for the masses: machines for cooking, baking, cleaning, and washing wouldn’t any longer be considered luxury goods. They would ease the burden on factory workers, maids, and housewives. Instead of spending Saturdays washing clothes or cleaning the house, people would be able to use their limited leisure time for enjoyable pastimes. Cycling, for example! Because bicycles do not have to remain a luxury product forever. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
Jo swallowed apprehensively. How clever Adrian was and how well-read . . . but she could certainly sympathize with the things he was talking about.
“When I had to work all day punching holes in shoe soles, I almost died of boredom. I would have given a great deal to be able to escape the misery for an hour or two!”
“The things you’ve experienced,” said Adrian, and she heard in his voice the same admiration that she had just felt for him.
“It’s nothing special,” she murmured. What would Adrian say when he found out that she had spent three years in prison?
“Oh, yes it is! You have experienced firsthand what thousands upon thousands of workers have to endure every single day. For me, their lot is purely theoretical. Of course, I know I can’t change everyone’s life. Not everyone can live in a villa. But perhaps I can do something to make their lives more bearable,” he said. “It must be possible to produce bicycles more cheaply. A bicycle for under a hundred marks—that would be the goal! And if we can’t do it in Germany, then perhaps a factory in England or America can.”
“So why don’t you find out?” Josephine asked. As she uttered the words, she had the strange feeling she sounded exactly like Frieda.
It was Saturday afternoon. Exhausted but satisfied with her second week of work as her own boss, Josephine was about to close up the workshop when she saw Oskar Reutter coming around the corner with a handcart that held something large and square. A new commission? Jo sighed. She had been looking forward to her first official visit to the cycling club . . . and to seeing one person there in particular. But work came first.
Reutter greeted her cheerfully, then heaved a heavy iron chest on
to Jo’s workbench. She realized at a glance that not only were the bands broken, but the hinges as well. “I can weld the bands at the forge. But I won’t be able to use the old rivets again. I’ll have to make new ones to reconnect the bands to the chest. It could be expensive . . .”
“The chest is an heirloom, and I’m very fond of it. Money is no object,” he said as he lifted a second item from the cart. It was a plain but elegant Gustav Becker wall clock, with the pendulum no longer attached.
“Our new maid is terribly scattered. She banged the clock with her back while she was cleaning. Her back was unharmed, but the clock suffered,” Reutter explained with a smirk.
“It looks as if I’ll have to fashion a new mount for the pendulum out of brass.”
Oskar Reutter smiled. “It’s worth it! I love new things, but I have a soft spot for the old ones.”
“You’re not alone,” said Josephine with a laugh, as she gestured toward all the objects lined up on her floor waiting to be repaired.
She tried to sneak a look at the gold-plated watch from Frieda’s jewelry box, which she wore as a pendant on a leather band around her neck. Oskar Reutter noticed and said, “That’s a lovely piece, and it will become a rare one soon. People are asking about watches that you can wear on an armband these days. Pocket watches and pendant watches are too old-fashioned.” He said the last word with a hint of sarcasm. “But you know what? Even I couldn’t resist the new fad.” He pushed up the sleeve of his jacket and showed Jo a gold watch on a brown leather band.
“How practical! That would be perfect for cycling,” said Jo. “I’d better leave Frieda’s watch here, or I’ll end up catching the cord on the handlebars.”
“Cycling . . .” said Oskar Reutter slowly. “Sometimes I can’t tell anymore whether it’s a blessing or a curse.”
“Would you like to come into the house for a minute? I’ve got some fresh lemonade,” said Josephine. The club could wait. If Oskar Reutter wanted to chat, she’d be glad for his company. He was not only an important customer but also a neighbor and friend—and there were far worse topics than cycling!
As soon as they were settled at Frieda’s old kitchen table, Reutter took up his thread again. “We live in exciting times. Everything is changing. Nobody wants the old stuff anymore. The horse dealer behind Lausitzer Platz paid me a visit yesterday. He’s closed his shop and is moving out to the country to manage his sister’s farm. But because more and more horse-and-carriage companies are giving up their trade, he had a hard time getting rid of his horses. And that’s just the beginning!” The old man paused for breath, then went on, “All of society is in upheaval. Sometimes, our world feels like a carnival carousel, turning faster and faster. And bicycles are partly responsible for that.”
“But cycling is something only few can enjoy, so how can it possibly be changing society?”
“Ah, I daresay your impression of things is false. There are considerably more cyclers out and about than there were a few years ago. Perhaps not in our neighborhood, but it’s a different story just a few streets away.” Oskar Reutter sipped his lemonade. “I know this because they’re coming to my store in droves asking for sporting caps instead of elegant hats, and jackets with a lot of pockets instead of fine tailcoats. They’re leaving my cigars behind, too—bad for the health, a young man told me just yesterday. My cigars? Bad for the health?” Oskar Reutter looked so indignant that Josephine had to make an effort to suppress a smile.
“Just a year or two ago, young couples used to come to me to buy a piano. Or a handsome cherrywood wall clock. I often had to consent to payment in installments, but I was always happy to do that. But today? The young groom would rather put his money toward a bicycle. The furnishings get sacrificed, of course, but it appears that’s something he and the lady of the house are willing to accept.”
Josephine’s brow creased. “But bicycles are still so expensive.”
Oskar Reutter shrugged. “You don’t need to tell me that! But it makes no difference. People find anything to do with bicycles fascinating. More fascinating than the Lord above, I might add. Pastor Hohenheim told me that he loses several pews of his congregation whenever there’s an important cycle race in the city.”
“They actually choose a race over church?”
Reutter grinned, seeming to downright enjoy Josephine’s look of disbelief. “The bookshop owner told me he’s suffered a serious drop in sales because people would rather go to the cycle track and watch the riders than pick up a book.”
Josephine was speechless. Did Adrian know all this? It sounded as if his vision of the future had already become a reality.
Jo pulled her Roadster out of the workshop and was about to swing onto the saddle when she saw Clara walking down the street on the arm of tall man. She had not seen Clara since her friends’ visit, despite living only a few houses away. I will finally get to meet the good doctor, thought Jo. He was very good-looking, and she could see why Clara had fallen head over heels in love with him. But her delight at seeing her friend did not last long.
“Josephine!” Clara shrieked. It was not a greeting. She was pointing at Josephine’s legs. “You’re wearing pants?” Clara’s voice grew even shriller and she seemed to be clinging to her husband’s arm.
“I’m on my way to the cycling club, and a skirt is just plain dangerous. What are you looking so horrified about? Don’t you remember how we sewed a skirt into pants to ride the bicycles years ago? Oh, of course you don’t remember. You were lying in the hospital with a broken leg. At least you got to know each other there . . .” She looked at Clara’s husband with an expectant smile. “It’s a pleasure to finally get to meet you,” she said and held out her hand to the doctor.
Gerhard Gropius looked at her with the kind of disgust usually reserved for vermin. Then he turned to Clara.
“Some women don’t have even the vaguest sense of decorum. It’s a disgrace! I very much hope that you know to keep your distance.” And with that, he pulled Clara onward by the arm.
Josephine lowered her hand. What was that all about?
When she finally arrived at the track, it was already five in the afternoon. She leaned her bicycle against the wall and kept a lookout for Adrian, her heart pounding. She wanted so much to tell him about her talk with Oskar Reutter. But not much was happening at the club that afternoon. A few sweaty young men were just leaving the track, which was immediately commandeered by a small group of women, and two older men in street clothes were just leaving. It was the Pentecost weekend, and many Berliners were taking advantage of the glorious weather to go out to the country, Oskar Reutter had told her. Another new fad!
Had Adrian left the city, too? Perhaps with Isabelle?
Jo entered the women’s clubroom, feeling rather glum. She was even more disappointed not to have the opportunity to thank the other members for accepting her into the club—there was no one there. Jo left the clubroom and pushed her bicycle out onto the track. That’s what she was really there for, after all.
Her first lap was exciting. The surface was dangerously fast, the tight curves not something she was used to, but after a few minutes, Jo found her rhythm. Soon, all thoughts of the strange encounter with Clara and her husband, of Adrian, Isabelle, and the rest of the world scattered to the wind. Although she did not feel as if she was working especially hard, her heart was hammering in her chest. She tried breathing more deeply, the way she did when she rode up a long incline. But instead of slowing down, her heart soon felt like it was pounding in her throat. She felt slightly dizzy and reluctantly rolled to a stop. Leaning against the fence, she watched the women who had gone out on the track ahead of her. They were still pedaling at high speed and apparently without effort. They were even chatting with one another! Did she really have so little stamina? But she had been able to keep up with Adrian all the way to North Harbor.
“Worn out already?” One of the riders pulled up beside her and smiled. It was Luise Karrer. She extended a gloved hand t
o Jo. “Welcome to the club. I was thinking you weren’t ever going to show up again.”
“You’ve all got so much stamina. How do you do that?” Jo asked once she had officially introduced herself.
“Train often, train long,” Luise replied. “Track riding goes by different rules than riding on the street. Or rather, weaknesses come to light faster, because you’re always comparing yourself directly to others.”
Josephine nodded. She had never considered that before.
“It can’t have anything to do with your bicycle,” Luise said, running an admiring hand over the shiny black frame of the Roadster. “And your outfit is certainly athletic enough.”
Josephine laughed bitterly. “You should have heard the comments from my neighbors when they saw me leaving my house in pants.”
“The petit bourgeois mindset! I think you look très à la mode,” said a second rider, who had just joined them. She herself wore an elegant pair of culottes, tailored to fit quite snugly. “My name is Chloé. I’m Freddy Stich’s wife,” she said in a French accent. She looked expectantly at Jo.
But when Jo simply introduced herself in return, Luise said, “Freddy Stich is one of our most famous racers, if not the most famous.”
Jo looked sheepish. “Excuse me. I really know nothing about these things. And nothing about the right way to train, either, apparently. Here I am, sweating and puffing, but you both look positively relaxed after your long stint just now.”
“A lady never sweats,” Chloé replied, raising her eyebrows.
They all laughed. Once they had stowed their bicycles, they went into the clubhouse together like old friends. Josephine kept a lookout for Adrian—but in vain.
“Your friend Isabelle is a very good cyclist. And very well trained as well. I’m sure she can give you a few tips for training on the track,” said Luise, when all three were seated with a cup of coffee.
“Tips!” Chloé dismissed the notion. “One will tell you lots of sleep. The next says it’s all about eating plenty of meat and potatoes. Yet another will tell you that you have to swear off alcohol completely. Then there are those like my Freddy, who does all sorts of gymnastics to stretch his muscles before he gets on his bicycle. And before big races, he even uses a laxative to cleanse his body on the inside.” She rolled her eyes to show what she thought of such training methods. “I say you have to find out for yourself what’s right for you. A glass of champagne in the evening—or even in the morning!—has never done me any harm.”
While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) Page 28
