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

by Petra Durst-Benning

  Josephine swallowed. “It all sounds so complicated! I thought there’d be one man for everything . . .”

  “Once upon a time that was probably true. You took whatever was broken to a metalworker or a carpenter. He took his hammer, file, or anvil to it and fixed it for you. But things have gotten more specialized since then . . .” He indicated to her to follow him into his office. Once inside, he sat down at a small table on which stood a plate with several slices of bread and liverwurst. He offered the second chair to Josephine.

  “My wife made this for me, because I have to do the books later. Help yourself. If I remember right, you quite liked the sandwiches I had on the train on the way to Stuttgart.”

  Josephine, whose stomach had started growling the moment she saw the bread, did not need to be asked twice. The liverwurst was spread thickly on the bread, not the way it was at home, with the merest scrape. After the first bite, she said, “You have one of the new bicycles, don’t you? Are you happy with it?”

  When Oskar Reutter had finished singing the praises of his bicycle, Josephine said, “And do you happen to know if there are people who repair bicycles?”

  Oskar Reutter laughed. “Can you read minds? Two weeks ago I had an accident and the front fork broke. My beautiful boneshaker has been lying in the stable ever since. The metalworker I went to refused to weld the fork back together because he was afraid it wouldn’t be stable enough. And it will be quite some time before the manufacturer can send a replacement.” He opened a bottle of beer with a loud pop and held it out toward Josephine. “Would you like some?”

  Josephine shook her head. Her mind was spinning so fast that she had to make an effort to keep her thoughts organized. So there was nobody who specialized in repairing bicycles . . .

  “May I ask you something else?” she asked as she took another slice of bread.

  “Of course.”

  “How does one become a mechanic? Or an electrician?”

  “A very good question. There are special professional apprenticeships these days. They take at least two years but more often three or four years to complete. Usually it’s the big factories who train such specialists to meet their own requirements, but there are also small workshops where master tradesmen train young men as apprentices.”

  “Young men? So you’ve never heard of a . . . girl becoming an apprentice?”

  “Ah, so that’s what you’re getting at! I’m a bit slow on the uptake this evening,” Oskar Reutter replied, laughing. “So you plan to abandon your father and finally do something for yourself?” When he saw the shocked look on her face, he threw his hands up defensively. “Don’t worry, this stays between us. Do you really think I’d run to Schmied-the-Smith first thing tomorrow morning and tell him about our little conversation?”

  Josephine gave a sigh of relief and leaned back in her chair. Would it be all right to take another slice of bread? she wondered.

  “Your idea isn’t a bad one, my girl. And I dare say you’d do a good job of it. Quite frankly, though, I don’t think any girl is likely to find her way into such a profession. But the moment I hear of anyone in the mechanical trades who is prepared to take on a young woman as an apprentice, I’ll let you know. And when you’re ready, I’ll be your first customer.”

  “I must be jinxed. I’ll have knocked on every door in Feuerland soon, and I have nothing to show for it,” said Josephine to Frieda two weeks later. They were sitting at the old kitchen table in Frieda’s garden, protected from the midsummer sun by the heavy foliage of the walnut tree. The table was covered with tubes of paint, brushes, old cloths, and a container of turpentine. In front of Frieda, there was an easel with a blank canvas. Painting was her latest passion.

  “I’ve tried at least ten different factories, from an iron foundry to a huge engineering works. Every one turned me away.”

  “Feuerland?” Frieda mumbled, holding a paintbrush between her teeth and looking quizzically at her palette.

  “That’s the industrial area behind the Spandau Ship Canal. I know it from our cycling trips,” said Josephine impatiently. “You should have seen the reactions I got when I asked about apprenticeships! ‘Women have no technical understanding whatsoever. It’s simply not in their blood,’ one man declared. ‘Women aren’t intelligent enough for such work,’ said the next, and he looked at me like I was mad. Another one explained that women have no ‘spatial awareness,’ which makes a technical profession impossible for them. Yet another said that all they needed was for ‘harpies’ like us to take over the workbenches.” She threw her hands up in despair. “They think we’re all fools. Not one—not one!—was willing to take a chance on me. The fact that I’ve been slaving away in my father’s workshop for years counted for nothing.” Jo slumped in her chair like a bellows drained of all its air. After what Oskar Reutter had told her, she had known that her search for an apprenticeship would not be easy. But she had not thought that it would be impossible.

  Frieda dabbed some yellow paint on her canvas and scrutinized the effect for a moment before putting the brush aside.

  “Good things take time! So now you’ve been to ten factories, fine. You may have to visit twenty or thirty to find a master prepared to take you on as a toolmaker.”

  “Mechanic,” said Josephine. “That’s the person who puts machines together or takes them apart and fixes them. A toolmaker makes tools.”

  Her old friend waved off the distinction. “Makes no difference. The important thing is that you don’t give up too soon!” She pointed to the extension built onto her house, which used to house her husband’s workshop. “You can have a look in there. Perhaps you’ll find a tool or two you can practice with.”

  Josephine smiled affectionately at Frieda. “That’s very kind of you. But I don’t just want to tinker about. I want to really learn something. I—” She broke off and sighed. “It makes no sense. Women are just second-class human beings, whether we want to learn something useful or join a cycling club.”

  Frieda looked up abruptly from her palette. “Cycling club? So has Herrenhus allowed you and Isabelle to start cycling again?”

  “No. That’s why I went out to Schönefeld last week. There’s a cycling association out there with its own training track, and they even hold small race meetings. At least, that’s what it said on the poster I saw at Görlitzer station. I thought that if became a member, I might have another way to cycle.” She paused and frowned. “Frieda, it was horrible! There were lots of handsome, athletic men cycling around on terribly expensive bicycles, laughing and joking, drinking beer, and having the time of their lives.”

  “What’s so horrible about that? That sounds very pleasant.”

  “I know! But the problem is that they don’t accept women in their club!”

  Frieda laughed. “What did you expect? That they’d welcome you with open arms? Offer you their bicycles and cheer you on? Men prefer to be with other men, whether it’s in the workshop or in a bicycle club.”

  “You know what I’d love to do?” Without waiting for Frieda to answer, she continued, “I’d love to start my own women’s cycling club! Find some empty hall or bare patch of land where we women can cycle without being attacked for it. And without someone like Moritz Herrenhus telling us yes or no.”

  “Then do it,” said Frieda.

  “Father’s rekindled his interest in cycling,” said Isabelle as she took a sip of lemonade. “He goes out for a ride almost every morning. I wish he’d invite me to go with him!” she added. “I wonder why he even bothered giving me a women’s bicycle if I’m only allowed to ride it around in the yard. Sometimes I think he didn’t buy it for me at all, but really he just wanted to use such a flashy gift and the outing to the cycling track as a way to show off to his business friends.”

  It was the start of August, Isabelle’s summer vacation had just begun, and the young women were sitting in the Herrenhus garden in the light of the setting sun, enjoying a glass of lemonade. Clara had wanted to join them, b
ut she had not appeared yet. She was probably still at the pharmacy. Again. Isabelle’s parents had gone out and, for once, had not insisted that Isabelle accompany them, leaving the girls in peace.

  Josephine nibbled at her bottom lip. The thought of father and daughter taking a congenial bicycle ride through the city did not please her at all. She would have much rather gone out cycling with her friend herself. But after the incident with her father a month earlier, Isabelle said she no longer trusted herself to secretly “borrow” the bicycles. Josephine had begun to feel that she was slowly going mad without the cyclist’s wind in her face.

  “If we could only go away in the summer the way my school friends do! But no, Father is ‘indispensable’ at the factory right now. He’s instructed Mother to organize as many picnics and coffee get-togethers as she can over the next few weeks—and to invite all the eligible men in the city! Yesterday we had a visit from a Baron von Salzfeld. Most of the time he sat there as silent as pillar of salt. I get a headache just thinking about our conversation. Besides, he had bad breath,” said Isabelle, continuing her tirade. “If we could go cycling now and then, I’d at least have a little distraction from the agony. I swear, suffocation couldn’t be any worse than this!”

  “I’ve had an idea for how we can cycle without getting harassed,” Josephine suddenly said. “Let’s set up a cycling club just for women!”

  She told Isabelle about her visit to the cycling club in Schönefeld, and when she was finished Isabelle said, “A cycling club for women . . . that’s not a bad idea. I can’t believe we’re the only young women cycling in secret. There must be lots of us. We wouldn’t lack for members, that’s for sure.”

  Josephine’s eyes shone as Isabelle went on, “We’d finally be able to cycle in peace. But what about the cost? We’d have to rent an empty hall somewhere. Or better yet, buy one. Rent, maintenance—it would take loads of money. My father certainly gives me a generous allowance, but that would never come close to covering the costs. And I don’t imagine other young women are much better off. No, perhaps it’s not such a good idea after all.”

  A despondent silence settled over them, the only sound the hum of hundreds of wasps in the wild grapevines covering the wall of the house. After a while, Josephine could no longer stand the oppressive silence.

  “I’ve got another idea to add a little spice to the school holidays. What would you say to getting the bicycles out after midnight? Your father will be sound asleep and would never miss his Rover.”

  “You want to ride at midnight, in the pitch darkness?” Isabelle looked at her with incomprehension.

  “Summer nights aren’t as dark as in winter. We’ve got a full moon at the moment and the skies are clear.” Jo swept a lock of hair from her forehead. “Think about the advantages: if Berlin is asleep, we can ride for much longer than we ever could in the morning. We could finally explore the Spree out to the east! Or visit the southern part of the city.”

  “I don’t know . . . What if we were to run into a bunch of drunken nighthawks? Or cross paths with one of the gentlemen my parents have introduced me to? Or have a breakdown in the middle of the night?”

  “Oh, come on, you’re not normally such a fraidycat. I think a nighttime cycle out to Wannsee lake could be great fun,” said Jo, challenging her friend. “Or have you been deceiving me all this time?”

  Isabelle snorted. “I know full well that you’re just talking like that to bait me. But you’re right. Life is too tedious to let even one adventure slip away. Let’s go out tonight!” She held out her hand to Josephine, who grinned and shook on the deal. But as Jo tried to take back her hand, Isabelle held it tightly. Her eyes flashed roguishly, and she said, “But just so one thing’s clear. If we’re going out to Wannsee lake in the dark of night, then we’re going to take a swim there, too!”

  Isabelle claimed that any respectable dinner or dance would be long over by one in the morning, so that would be a good time to take off. Because Josephine had no alarm clock, and because she was afraid she’d fall asleep, she didn’t so much as close her eyes that evening. When the church clock struck midnight, she was sitting in her room, fully dressed, waiting for the next hour to pass. Her escape route was the same as always—she would simply creep quietly downstairs as if she had to visit the bathroom, then disappear out the back door. Still, when she finally set off, her heart was beating harder than usual.

  The night was bright and clear, the moon high in the sky as Jo waited impatiently at the entrance to the Herrenhus villa. To Jo’s relief, Isabelle appeared a moment later, pushing the two bicycles in her direction. She seemed in high spirits and not nearly as timid as Jo felt herself. Instead of a chatty greeting, they simply exchanged a quick look. They were about to leave the yard when Josephine stopped. “Do you smell that? It smells like your mother’s perfume. Are you sure no one followed you?”

  Isabelle laughed softly. “You idiot. You’re smelling the white moonflowers that grow around the pavilion in the garden. They only give off their sweet perfume at night.”

  “Ah,” said Jo meekly. Then she held Isabelle’s arm tightly. “Are you sure you know how to get there?”

  Her friend nodded. “We ride past the Tiergarten, then, like it or not, we have to go through Charlottenburg. From there, it’s not far to Wannsee lake. Now come on, before I chicken out, too!”

  The streetlights in Luisenstadt had all been extinguished hours before, giving the city a spooky feeling. It was all incredibly captivating. Josephine felt as though they were cycling along unknown roads. Her initial anxiety dissolved with the first push of her foot on the pedal, and her senses grew sharper than ever. She loved the sensation of the air flowing past like someone stroking her naked arms. The silhouettes of the houses, standing out in a clear, deep black against the lighter sky, looked as if they had been drawn with a sharp quill. The scent of moonflowers filled the air.

  As they approached the center of Berlin, they crossed paths with pedestrians and carriages—more than either of them had anticipated. But the night owls were too busy with their own affairs to pay much attention to who they would assume were two young men on bicycles. Josephine soon realized that riding at night was infinitely better than doing so in the early morning.

  “See up there on the left, halfway up the hill? That’s the Reichsgarten restaurant. Father has taken Mother and me there to eat a few times,” said Isabelle when they had crossed from Charlottenburg into Pichelsberg. “I’d say we’re about ten minutes from Wannsee lake.”

  “That’s good. My legs are starting to get heavy,” Jo replied. She took one hand off the handlebars to wipe the sweat from her brow.

  “Same. We’re out of practice,” Isabelle puffed.

  At the shore of the lake, Isabelle dropped her bicycle in the grass and pulled off her scratchy, sweat-soaked woolen clothes. Dressed only in her bodice and underwear, she tiptoed into the water.

  “I can hardly wait to cool off. What’s keeping you?” she called back to Jo over her shoulder.

  But instead of following Isabelle into the water, Jo remained motionless on the shore. In a voice heavy with feeling, she said, “How the lake shimmers in the moonlight! I’ve never seen anything so lovely . . .”

  “Now don’t go getting all emotional,” Isabelle said as she dipped her hands in the water and sprayed water in Josephine’s direction.

  Jo squealed in shock, but a moment later she returned the favor. Carefree and laughing, they splashed in the water like two children.

  A little while later, they sank back exhausted in the damp grass. Night insects buzzed around them, frogs could be heard croaking in the high reeds, and a water bird cried shrilly in the distance.

  Isabelle ran her hand through the bristly grass. “I feel like I’ve washed up on a lonely island in the middle of the ocean. Or in some exotic jungle. Where all my worries have fallen to the wayside. If only we could lie here forever.”

  “You and your worries!” said Jo teasingly. She swept her
hands wide, taking in the lake and all the space around them. “This moment—it belongs to us and us alone. I don’t think there are many young women who are able to enjoy something like this.”

  Isabelle propped herself up on one elbow to look at Jo. “Beautiful moments . . . They’re as fleeting as a whiff of perfume. But what if that isn’t enough for me? What if I want more from life? The thought of being bored to death from dawn till dusk as Baroness von Salzfeld is unbearable. Sometimes, when I think of Clara and her enthusiasm for making pills, I envy her. I’d like to have a job, too. I want to do something useful.”

  Jo nodded. She understood exactly how her friend felt. “Clara tells me that women are going to start being admitted to various faculties at the university in the next few years. She wants to find out if she can study pharmacology.” It was strange. Of all people, it was Clara—to whom no one had ever really given much credit—who was making one dream after another come true.

  “Women at the university?” Isabelle snorted. “She might have to wait a long time. Just think what you went through when you were looking for someone to take you on as an apprentice. Do you really think the professors at the university are about to let women just waltz into their hallowed halls?”

  “Oh, blast it, why is life so unfair!” Jo pounded her fist on the ground beside her. “Why can’t we just do—or not do—whatever we like, whether that’s going to university or becoming a mechanic? Or riding a bicycle whenever we feel like it?”

  Isabelle grinned. “I’d much rather marry for love, or not at all. And I want—”

  “To choose for myself whether I wear a skirt or a pair of pants,” said Jo, finishing her friend’s thought with one of her own.

  They burst out laughing.

  Jo sighed longingly. “Will such possibilities ever be open to women?”

  For a moment the only sound was the chirping of the crickets. Finally, Isabelle answered, “Perhaps . . . when the new century arrives.”