If you only knew, thought Josephine. When Adrian’s telegram had arrived two days earlier, she could have hugged everyone in Berlin!
All well. Assignment completed successfully. Looking forward to getting home and to the future. Adrian.
“You’re right,” Jo said in a soft voice. “I’m sure everything will be fine. I certainly want it to be.”
They had just finished eating when there was a knock at the door.
It was the postman with another telegram.
“From Adrian? For you? Why doesn’t he write to the club? And why a telegram? Why not a postcard?” Isabelle was aflutter with questions.
“I don’t know,” Jo murmured, embarrassed. “Maybe because I’m always at home and can receive it . . .” She would have liked to put the telegram aside and wait until Isabelle had left to read it. But there was no way to do that. With shaking hands, Josephine tore open the envelope.
Before she knew what happened, Isabelle had snatched the envelope out of her hands.
“Let’s see what Mr. Ride-Across-America has to report!” A moment later, she let the thin sheet of paper drop, her face white as chalk.
“Oh God . . .”
The news spread like wildfire among the club members: a robbery on a lonely back road. A bullet wound. One knee badly injured. And he’d been on his way home! It was a stroke of luck that a family of farmers who’d lost their way found him late that same night. They had loaded him onto their cart and pulled him all the way to a hospital in Chicago, where his wounded knee had finally been seen by a doctor. There was no way that he would be able to travel again for a while.
A knee injury. Exasperating, certainly, but he was lucky nothing worse had happened. That, at least, was the prevailing opinion in the club. Outwardly, Josephine agreed, but that was only one among many feelings swirling inside her just then. How bad was the knee injury? Why didn’t Adrian just get them to bandage it and take the next train to New York? Was he in too much pain? And if he was, what were the doctors doing about it? When would he be fit to travel again?
She wanted to write to him but didn’t even know what hospital he was in. Long, newsy letters would have helped him pass the time and lifted his spirits. But as it was, she had no choice but to send good thoughts his way and hope that, somehow, they arrived.
She missed him terribly. With every day he was gone, her desire to see him grew stronger. She had so much to tell him. Even just telling him about her training regime would take hours.
Every morning at five o’clock, she set off for a two-hour ride through the waking city in the dull light of the gas lanterns. She used every incline she could find to train for climbing Danish hills, and she practiced high-speed cycling on the wide, flat boulevards. Unfortunately, she would have to wait until spring for it to be light enough to ride out into the country again.
After that first training session, she freshened up at home and ate a bracing breakfast. Susanne had emphasized how important it was to eat a healthy diet. Then she went into her workshop and worked there until at least six in the evening. She had more than enough work to keep her busy: many cyclists who only went out riding in the warmer months took their bicycles to her for routine maintenance and cleaning. She enjoyed the work, but it was also hard and tiring. Instead of falling into a lazy heap after work—which she often felt like doing—her next training session would call. Some days went better than others. According to Susanne, regular endurance training was vital. Six hundred miles by bicycle was no trivial undertaking. You needed to be in outstanding condition just to finish. And that condition only came from a thousand and one hours on a bicycle.
On Saturdays and Sundays, the club members who planned to go to Denmark took longer rides together. Jo used the group rides to discreetly observe the physical condition of the others. When it came to sheer hours spent on the bicycle, Isabelle and Luise had a clear advantage: neither worked, so they could ride for as long as they liked. Irene, however, had been working in her father’s company since Adrian had left. Josephine had found her much more likeable since then. And no matter how hard they trained—whether it was raining buckets or so gusty that an icy east wind nearly blew them off the road—Irene almost never complained.
Josephine would have told Adrian all these things and more if she had had an address to write to. But instead she had to make do with putting a candle in the window on Christmas Eve. She leaned the postcard that he had sent her against the candle. On the front, in large, curved letters, were the words “Merry Christmas” with a sprig of mistletoe underneath, decorated with silver glitter. The card was beautiful, but Josephine cared more about the words on the back. “All will be well, even if it takes a little longer.” Not exactly a grand declaration of his love, but Adrian knew that various club members came and went from Josephine’s house, and the card could end up in a stranger’s hands at any time. All will be well, even if it takes a little longer—for Josephine, those words sounded more beautiful than any Christmas bells.
In February, Isabelle came down with a terrible cold after getting caught in a snowstorm. Exhausted and fed up, she was restricted to her room with no chance to see Leon.
After a week of reading magazines and consuming broth, she felt overcome by her desire to see him. Still pale and weak, she pulled on a warm jacket, ordered a cab, and went to the club. When Leon saw her, he rode over to the side of the track and jumped off his bicycle.
How sweet his lips were! Isabelle could have stayed in his embrace forever. But she had something important to tell him.
They walked into the clubhouse hand in hand, where Isabelle announced to the rest of the assembled team, “I’ve had it with the grind. I’m out. The stupid race can go to hell!”
Of course, Josephine, Luise, and even Irene tried to change her mind, and many others gave her good advice for how to make the training palatable again. But Isabelle simply shook her head to all of it. She didn’t give a damn what the others thought of her. She was fed up.
But what she had not counted on was Leon’s reaction. The man who otherwise took everything he encountered with enviable nonchalance, the man who had proved unflappable until that point, took her firmly by the arm and dragged her out of the building.
“How can you throw away our great adventure, just like that? You and me, six hundred miles together, on the road . . . Doesn’t that mean anything to you? I thought you loved me!”
“My decision has nothing to do with our love. I’m just exhausted by the eternal drills! I feel sick just thinking about getting on a bicycle. Sweetheart, please, you have to understand.”
Leon shook his head. “I understand nothing. Especially that you think of training as a drill. Don’t you have a friend who’s a pharmacist’s daughter? Why don’t you get a few things from her that will make the riding easier? That’s what Veit and I do. And all the others who ride long distances.”
“Do you mean coca or kola? Doping stuff?” Isabelle frowned. “Irene says it’s dangerous garbage.”
“Irene!” Leon made a dismissive gesture. “What does she know? Did I ride seven hundred and fifty miles from Paris to Brest and back, or did she? Who do you believe? Your boring clubmate or me, one of Europe’s most experienced and successful long-distance cyclists?” He led her to one of the benches set up beside the track and sat her down.
“Have you ever heard of Otto Ekarius?”
Isabelle shook her head. At least Leon no longer appeared as upset as he had two minutes earlier.
“Ekarius works as a doctor in Alsace. God knows what made him start investigating the effects of exotic plants like kola and coca. Maybe his soldiers needed a little pepping up,” he laughed. “In any case, Ekarius created several preparations from the kola nut and coca leaves, and many good pharmacies sell them. A sip of juice, a few small pills, and you’ll feel better than you’ve felt for a long time. You’re capable of doing things that you would never have believed you could do. Fatigue all but disappears, and you practically have
to force yourself to stop! Take it from me: it’s not some witches’ brew. It’s a gift from heaven. Here, try it now.” He held out a hand to her.
Isabelle stared uncertainly at the white tablets in his palm. Was that the solution she was looking for?
“But what’s the point? What use is it to me if I take those? There’s no way we’ll have anything like that in Denmark, and then what?”
“We’ll see,” replied Leon in an easy tone. “Besides, now is now and later is later. Go ahead. Try it. You’re not normally such a chicken!” He laughed mockingly. “Or have I been wrong about you?”
Isabelle took five of the tablets and tossed them all into her mouth. They tasted slightly bitter and were hard to swallow.
“What now?”
Leon grinned. “Now we ride. What else?”
Chapter Thirty
May 1, 1897, was a very special day. At least for the five young women gathered at the train station who were about to embark on the adventure of their lives: Josephine, Isabelle, Irene, Luise, and Lilo, who had arrived in Berlin at the start of March to train with the others.
Unlike her father, Lilo had never held it against Josephine that she had inherited Frieda’s house. She had instead congratulated her friend on her good fortune. Lilo’s life had changed a great deal over the last few years. Shortly after starting her apprenticeship to become a nurse in the newly built luxury sanatorium in Schömberg, she had fallen in love with the sanatorium’s owner. They married a short time later, and Lilo became a well-to-do wife with enough time to pursue her own interests, which, of course, included cycling. She had taken part in a six-day race in Paris a couple of years before, and a year later, when women’s racing was banned in Germany, she participated in the first official world championships for women in Austria. Her husband cheerfully funded Lilo’s passion for cycling, going so far as to dedicate an entire wall of the sanatorium’s dining hall to her sporting successes. The collection of newspaper articles, entry forms, trophies, and cycling memorabilia had grown year after year. So it was no surprise that Josephine had asked Lilo to take part in the Denmark race.
When Susanne Lindberg heard who the fifth German rider would be, she was thrilled. Lilo Ofterschwang was known throughout Europe as a highly experienced and consistently fair sportswoman.
Family, friends, husbands, and clubmates had all come to send off the women. There were even a few reporters, though that was mainly because Leon Feininger and Veit Merz were riding as well.
The only person missing was Adrian Neumann. It seemed that new complications with his knee injury had prolonged his stay in America.
“Watch out, that’s valuable freight you’ve got there!” Isabelle shouted at one of the porters assigned to load the bicycles onto the train.
She threw her arms companionably around Josephine’s and Lilo’s shoulders.
“We’re off! Finally! Isn’t it fantastic?”
Lilo nodded. “Now we’ll find out if all our training’s been worth it.”
“And you nearly missed it,” said Josephine, giving Isabelle a friendly shove. “Lucky that Leon was able to persuade you to keep going.”
“Actually, we should thank Dr. Ekarius for his help in getting Isabelle to stick with it,” said Leon with a grin.
The others looked confused, unfamiliar with the name of the doctor.
Lilo held up a leather satchel. “Just in case anyone gets hungry on the trip . . . I had a delicatessen make us a few nice morsels.”
“I hope it’s healthy. Otherwise Susanne won’t be pleased,” said Josephine with a smirk.
Lilo shrugged. “Duck foie gras and a glass of sparkling wine. Can you think of any better sports food?”
Laughter rang out all around her.
Clara stood a little apart, rolling the baby carriage back and forth as she listened to the excited banter.
Josephine, Isabelle, and Lilo—the cloverleaf. They got on so well together. She had once been one of them—part of a four-leaf clover. A feeling of fury and sadness crept over her—not for the first time—and she felt a keen sense of loss.
Why was Gerhard so preoccupied with women riding bicycles? Couldn’t he find something else to spend his energies on? There were so many social ills: the high mortality rate among children in the workers’ districts, for example. Or the catastrophic conditions in some of Berlin’s hospitals, where overworked doctors and too few staff members barely kept things from descending into chaos. Why didn’t Gerhard throw himself into the fray against such deplorable—but real—problems, instead of his never-ending witch hunt against women cyclists? Clara couldn’t listen to his droning sermons anymore. He had absolutely forbidden her from having any sort of contact with Josephine and Isabelle. He called them the “businessman’s tramp” and the “workshop slattern.” If he had known that she was here to see the cyclists off at the station, all hell would have broken loose!
She felt fortunate that Gerhard had told her he’d be having lunch with a colleague that day. Just minutes after he had left the house, she had grabbed the carriage and hurried off with Matthias.
A brass band struck up a march, and Clara looked anxiously into the carriage, hoping the music would not wake her boy. But Matthias went on sleeping peacefully.
Matthias. Her darling. He was all that mattered. He needed her. And Gerhard needed her, too. How could she forget that even for a moment? Clara took a deep breath, then stepped forward lightheartedly to join the gathered women.
“Here, I brought a few things for all of you! Ointment for grazes and a few bandages, just in case. And some cough drops and peppermints.” She handed the package to Josephine with a smile.
“I fear we’re going to need all of it. Thank you!” Josephine handed the package to Lilo, then threw her arms around Clara. “Keep your fingers crossed for us, won’t you?”
“Of course! You’ve got to show everyone what we women can do, after all,” said Clara, her voice breaking with her tears.
It was his cologne. A whiff of it mixed with the odor of disinfectant in the hallway. Gerhard was there. For whatever reason, he had not gone to have lunch with his colleague. Clara picked up her son from his carriage and stepped inside.
The closer he got to Berlin, the more excited Adrian became. Soon! Soon he would have done it!
When he had begun the journey home the previous autumn, he never would have believed that it would take him so long. Now, his first shipment of bicycles had actually arrived in Germany ahead of him. His father and his sister had accepted all two thousand bicycles on his behalf and organized their storage in an enormous, empty warehouse. Adrian had no idea of what his family thought about his highly speculative adventure. But he would soon find out.
Adrian looked eagerly out the window of the compartment. His warehouse was somewhere out there. He could hardly wait to inspect the Crescent Bikes. Buying and selling bicycles . . . that was all that he—the most passionate cyclist of them all—had left. He had to succeed . . .
He could still not believe that it had taken him so long to return. When he’d first been injured, experienced surgeons had immediately set to work to fix his damaged knee. Right after the operation, they had predicted that he’d be up and riding a bicycle again in a few weeks.
That’s when things had begun to go wrong. No matter what disinfectants or salves the nurses used, the wound simply would not heal. Instead, the ointments they had applied mixed with the pus and other fluids oozing from the wound, and the malignant mixture found its way into his bloodstream. Instead of healing, he’d gotten blood poisoning! The nurses quickly applied leeches, and his leg was cupped several times a day.
Thousands of miles on a bicycle, a bullet wound, and now blood poisoning and a raging fever—it was all too much for Adrian’s weakened constitution. He fell into a coma for several weeks. After waking again, which few in the hospital believed would ever actually happen—Adrian wanted to know how he had given death the slip. The doctors hemmed and hawed and tossed med
ical expressions around, but he still didn’t understand how he’d survived.
It was one of the nurses who finally revealed to whom Adrian owed his recovery: an aging Potawatomi—an Indian that the man in the bed next to Adrian’s had convinced the hospital to call in. Back when the old man’s tribe had lived in the marshlands surrounding Chicago, he had been a medicine man. Now, though, he dwelled in one of the poorest of Chicago’s suburbs, where Adrian’s neighbor also lived. One evening, when most of the doctors had already gone home, the medicine man had appeared at his bedside and examined his leg as Adrian lay there almost lifeless. The next day, the old man returned and smothered Adrian’s knee and leg in a foul-smelling paste concocted from herbs. He came back the following day and the next one after that, removing the old dressing and reapplying fresh paste each time. The doctors and nurses resigned themselves to letting the medicine man work. Their patient had nothing to lose.
After ten days, the wound had healed. All that remained was a clean, pink scar though the knee itself could no longer bend. Adrian woke from his coma. When he found out what had happened, it was too late: the man in the next bed had been discharged days earlier. But he badgered the hospital administration until they gave him the man’s address. He took a horse and carriage out to the run-down district, thanked both men with all his heart, and gave each of them a hundred dollars.
Adrian’s thoughts were interrupted by a shrill scream of brakes. The train was pulling into the station. He was home.
His apartment was stuffy, and he opened the windows to let in the warm May wind. Then he washed, changed, and took a small leather etui out of his travel bag. Then he left his apartment.
Josephine’s house was locked. The cat rubbed against him and meowed.
On the workshop hung a sign: “Closed.” Beneath that, it explained that items for repair could be dropped off or picked up again starting in mid-May.
While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) Page 35