While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) (16 page)

“The homemaker’s virtues are indispensable for a lady,” added Sophie Berg. “Which is why we sent our Clara to the best home-economics school in Berlin for a year.”

“Where I practically died of boredom,” Clara added with a laugh. “But the horror finally came to an end, thank God. I can bake cookies and serve tea perfectly well without those kinds of lessons.” Smiling, she reached across the table for the teapot and refilled Gerhard Gropius’s cup with a skillful flourish. “I hope that’s all right?”

Sophie Berg opened her mouth as if to say something, then changed her mind.

Anton Berg cleared his throat. “Pardon me if what I said a moment ago gave you the wrong impression,” he said, turning to his guest. “You mustn’t think that we compel our daughter to do simple assistant work or cleaning in the pharmacy. We would never demand that of our child. I’ve been teaching Clara something of the profession—and with quite a bit of success, if I do say so myself. Clara’s healing ointments are even better than my own.”

“Father . . .” Clara lowered her eyes, abashed. First her mother brought up the home-economics school, and now her father chimed in. Why did they feel such a need to extol her merits to Gerhard Gropius? Of course, she wanted him to like her as well. But not in such an obvious way! She was beginning to get an idea of how Isabelle must feel at the balls her father dragged her to.

With her head still bowed, she looked over at Gerhard Gropius, and their eyes met. Had it been so warm there in the salon the whole time? Clara felt hot suddenly, almost feverish, as if a cold was on the way.

“The truth is the truth, Clara,” said her father, patting her hand. Then he turned back to Gerhard Gropius. “Honestly, I didn’t initially believe that a young woman could demonstrate a talent for the pharmacist’s profession. But my daughter has proven me wrong.” He spoke with clear pride in his voice. “I can even imagine that Clara will be among the first young women to be accepted into a course of study in the biological-pharmaceutical faculty of the University of Jena. In any case, the masters there are currently discussing such a possibility. Should they decide to accept women, I will wholeheartedly support Clara in her wish to attend.”

“Your daughter wants to study at the university?” Gropius abruptly set down his half-eaten cookie on a plate. His tone suggested that he might as well have asked, “Your daughter wants to fly to the moon?”

Clara giggled in embarrassment but immediately collected herself. “Well . . . it’s true—” she began. But before she could explain any more, her mother cut her off.

“Pipe dreams!” said Sophie Berg, narrowing her eyes at her husband. “Anton, please. The way you talk, you’re bound to give our guest a false impression. You’ll have Dr. Gropius thinking our daughter is one of those bluestockings who is so wedded to her studies that she can’t so much as knit a sock.”

“Why must we spend all this time talking about me?” asked Clara bitterly. “I would be far more interested in finding out what plans Dr. Gropius has for his practice.”

But instead of following up on Clara’s objection, the young doctor turned to her mother.

“My dear Mrs. Berg, I would never think of comparing your charming daughter Clara to one of those addled furies! It is shameful the way some young women abuse the trends of our day to pursue their own ends, but your daughter is certainly not one of them. I find it wonderful when a young woman is ready to assist her parents, as Miss Clara does in the pharmacy. But I also believe that too much hustling and bustling is not appropriate, and I would therefore like to make a suggestion.” He smiled slightly, then turned to Clara. “I would like to invite you for a cup of coffee, if I may. On my way here, I passed a very pretty little café at the end of the street. Perhaps I will be able to distract you a little from all your work.”

Chapter Fourteen

In the past, she had had to make sure that she got enough to eat so that she had the strength and stamina to ride the bicycle. These days, she had to make sure she got enough to eat just to avoid losing too much weight. This was what was going through Josephine’s mind as she stuffed the dry, slightly blackened roll into her skirt pocket. Slices of black bread, coarse rolls, a little bland marmalade, and chamomile tea—that was the extent of prison breakfast every day. Even today, Christmas Eve. But the baker had made one exception: either he was in love or he thought the special day needed a little something extra, because he’d burned everything he’d baked. Still, Jo reached greedily into the bread basket in the middle of the table one more time.
No doubt Mother has baked the round gingerbread cookies she makes every year,
thought Jo wistfully. Everyone at her table was trying to hoard as much food as they could. Not that having the food on your plate or in your pocket meant it was safe. Most of the girls were quick to hand over whatever rations they had to Adele or one of her entourage. Even Josephine had occasionally been left with no choice but to give up her food; avoiding a fight was usually worth a piece of bread. But today was different; today her stomach was growling far too loudly. She fixed Adele with a glare that said,
Don’t even think about trying to take anything from me today!

“I feel sick. If I eat one more bite of this black stuff, I’m going to throw up,” whispered Martha, who sat beside Josephine. “Do you want this?”

Just a few weeks earlier, Josephine would have rejected the nibbled roll in disgust. Today, she added it to the one already in her pocket.

“So now you’re pinching the food from Martha’s mouth, too?” Adele hissed at her from across the table. “She’s got to eat for two. The decent thing would be for you to give her something and not the other way around.”

Josephine did not respond. Talking at the table was forbidden, and the guards were not to be trifled with. If someone was caught, punishment was swift, and the talker would have to help with incinerating the garbage, cleaning the latrines, or scrubbing the greasy pans in addition to her regular work. Adele was the only one who put herself above the ban on speaking and got away with it. Adele with her cold eyes . . . Sometimes Josephine had the feeling that even the guards were afraid of her. But Josephine was not. For her, Adele was more of a troublesome pest. What was Adele trying to prove with her endless harassment? It was always about not missing out, in any way. Snatching the choicest scrap of food. Getting the best place. Which was why Josephine did not understand Adele’s remark about Martha. No doubt she was just saying it to annoy Jo. What nonsense! Wouldn’t they be better off sticking together? As if life behind bars wasn’t hard enough already!

Silent night, holy night—as if.

If only Gerd Melchior were here and I could spend a few hours with him in the workshop,
Josephine thought. But the caretaker had gone to stay with his son for a few days, a circumstance that only added to Jo’s bad mood. The time passed much more quickly when she was working with Melchior. Sometimes she was even able to forget where she was.

The chief guard of the juvenile wing, a powerfully built, middle-aged woman, appeared at the door of the refectory. The low whispering stopped instantly.

“Some of you have received Christmas mail. I shall call the names in alphabetical order, and you will step forward one at a time in an orderly fashion!”

Josephine felt her heart beat faster. Mail! Was there a letter for her? Perhaps from her parents?

Four names were called, and then Jo heard her own. She walked to the front of the room on shaking legs. The guard handed her two letters. Neither one was from her parents. One was from Clara, the other from Frieda. Josephine pressed the two envelopes to her chest. A message from Frieda. It was the first time her old friend had written to her. During Isabelle’s and Clara’s visit, Josephine had asked Clara to tell Frieda how truly sorry she was and that she felt completely miserable at the thought of having let down Frieda and everybody else.

Whether Clara had ever fulfilled her request she did not know. Perhaps the letter would say something about that. Carefully, as if she were handling the finest lace, Jo ran her forefinger over the glued side of the envelope. Would she dare to open at least Clara’s letter?

“There will be no reading now!” The guard’s voice shot across the room like an arrow. “Off to your lessons! Do not think that idleness will be tolerated just because it is Christmas Eve.”

That night, Josephine retreated to her bunk and pulled the two letters from her skirt pocket. They were warm and crumpled. Clara’s letter gave off a hint of lavender and lemon. When Jo slit open the envelope with her fingernail, the noise sounded loud in her ears.

Dear Josephine,

Four weeks have passed since our visit and I feel terribly guilty that I haven’t been back to visit you since. But there is so much to do in the pharmacy every single day! The cold season has always been hard on the people, and they’re buying piles of cough syrup, menthol drops, and creams for rubbing on their chests. I’m having trouble keeping up with the demand.

Josephine smiled. She could picture Clara in her clean white apron, stirring an ointment, a blissful expression on her face.

I haven’t seen Isabelle since then, either. She is off in her own world, as usual. I think her father is probably after her to finally “make a good catch.” Just imagine, sometimes she even gets mentioned in the newspaper! It says things like, “clothing manufacturer Moritz Herrenhus honored this or that social event with his presence, accompanied by his charming wife and his daughter Isabelle.” She was even in a photograph once and looked very elegant, too. Oh, what wouldn’t I give to be able to attend such an event, just once!

But I don’t want to complain, dear Jo, and I also have some exciting news: Do you remember how I went on and on to you about an interesting doctor I met when I was in the hospital with my broken leg? Dear Jo, hold on to your hat! The very same doctor, Gerhard Gropius, is old Fritsche’s replacement!

Josephine closed her eyes. She could hear Clara’s voice in her mind and picture her cheeks, rosy with excitement, before her. She would have done anything to be drinking a cup of tea and chatting with her now. She read on with a heavy heart:

Dr. Gropius is a fine person and the patients love him. The waiting room in his practice is already overflowing from morning till night. But that’s no surprise, for he has a wonderful way with people. He takes his time with them and listens to their problems. Just like his predecessor, he sends his patients to us, which of course makes Father very happy. Sometimes, the doctor himself comes by. My dearest Jo, you can’t imagine how my heart beats when he appears! I can hardly get a word out in his presence. I’m so excited I can’t think straight, and I know I must come across as a silly goose.

Gerhard, however, always has plenty to say, about his studies or his time in the hospital. Oh, he is simply wonderful . . .

Best of all, though, is this: last week, Gerhard invited me to join him for coffee and a slice of poppy-seed cake at the Ratsmann bakery. I was so jumpy I could hardly swallow a bite! I eat like a sparrow, he said. He thinks that all the work I do must make me tired and that I need to get outside more. So he wants to go walking with me in the spring. Perhaps he’s right and I really do work too much? I’ve decided to put aside my evening reading—medical books mostly—for now, just to be on the safe side.

Oh, Josephine, I can hardly believe my luck. That such a clever and good-looking gentleman would court me, of all people. I’m knitting him a scarf for Christmas to keep him toasty and warm during his house calls. I realize it’s a bit meager, but Mother believes it will be a nice gesture that Herr Doktor—that’s what she calls Gerhard—will certainly appreciate. I think she can already hear wedding bells ringing! If I’m perfectly honest, the idea would please me as well. Oh, Jo, I’m so happy . . .

Jo lowered the sheets of paper into her lap. Dear Clara, how I’d like to be with you now! I’d listen to you rave about how in love you are for hours . . . A sob escaped her throat.

Adele looked up. “You’re not going to start bawling over some letter, are you?”

Jo cast her a cold look, then folded Clara’s letter neatly and put it away.

Frieda’s letter consisted of a single sheet of paper, but it was covered on both sides in Frieda’s small handwriting. It smelled not of lavender and lemon but of cleaning powder and the sauerkraut vat she had in her basement.

My dear child,

I wish you a merry Christmas from afar. Unfortunately, I am not able to come to visit you, because my legs are again making it hard for me to get around. The new doctor says it’s gout. I say it’s age. And there we have our first difference, but I forgive him because he has such a pretty face.

Alas, there is something that hurts much more than the pain in my legs: the thought that you are locked away in that women’s prison like some prostitute! I will never forgive myself that it has come to this. I should have looked after you better! While I was frittering away my time with all sorts of nonsense, I was neglecting the greatest and most important task of my life, that of accompanying you on your path to adulthood. I should have been standing beside you, ready to help not only with clever words but with action . . . That would have been a far more sensible use of my time. I should have fought for you to find a better job than working in your father’s smithy. I should have taken you in with me. You and I, under one roof, that would have been a fine thing. Instead, I let you run headlong to your downfall.

The angular letters in black ink blurred before Jo’s eyes. She blinked several times before she could read on.

Dear girl, I promise you this: I will be there for you when you have done your time. I won’t forsake you ever again. I swear it, so help me God. For now, I have no other choice but to wish you all the best for Christmas in this letter.

Frieda, dear Frieda . . . Jo pressed the letter to her cheek as if doing so could bring her closer to her old friend. She felt drained by loneliness and grief. She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and laid her head in the nest they formed. She made no effort to fight the rising wave of tears. Salty drops gathered at the corners of her mouth as she cried softly to herself.