While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) (34 page)

Leon Feininger didn’t want coffee. He asked for a glass of red wine, which he sniffed at length before draining it in a single gulp. Only when he had a second glass in front of him did he begin to tell them about himself.

He was the son of a winemaker in the Rhineland-Palatinate region. But he had left the region because, as a sportsman, he saw no future for himself there. He had heard that in Berlin he’d find not only a lot of track racers but also many long-distance cyclists. He had come here with the intention of pitting himself against Berlin’s best. He wanted to find—or perhaps
invent
—a new challenge there.

Isabelle hung on his every word, mesmerized. How the man could talk . . . Suddenly she saw in her mind’s eye the photographs of a cyclist grinning at the camera, his bicycle held victoriously over his head.

“I know who you are!” she cried. “I read about you in a magazine! The writer called you the ‘Hero of Road and Mountain.’ You’re . . .” She waved her hand in the air as if the words she was looking for were hovering there to be caught. “You’re the one who rode his bicycle over the Alps to Italy. And . . . weren’t you also the man who once rode from Vienna to Berlin in record time?”

“There wasn’t just
one
article written about those rides. There were dozens.” Leon smiled complacently. “But it’s really no surprise. I did the Vienna to Berlin stretch in just under thirty-one hours, after all, which was less than half the time of the previous record holder, an officer on horseback.”

“Really?” said Josephine, leaning closer. “That’s very interesting. When was that?”

Isabelle felt like jabbing her friend in the ribs. “Didn’t you want to go and visit Clara?” she hissed. Actually, they had planned to go visit the young mother together—it was a good time to pay a visit, because her horrible husband was away at a medical conference—but all thought of visiting Clara had vanished from Isabelle’s mind. She turned back to her intoxicating guest.

“My last adventure—which was also covered in all the papers—was the race from Paris to Brest. I came in with the leading group.”

“Paris to Brest,” purred Isabelle breathlessly.

“And here I am. Seeking new adventures.” Leon leaned forward across the table. Playfully, he took her hand and turned it so that he could look at the rings she wore. Isabelle returned the challenge in his eyes.

“Who knows? Maybe you’ve already found the first.” She smiled like a cat lapping cream.

“You should have seen Isabelle. She was laughing like you wouldn’t believe. She practically threw herself at the man. And the looks that flew between them! What was it I read in one of Frieda’s novels? ‘They sank into each other’s gaze.’ ” Josephine frowned. “I’ve never seen Isabelle quite like that before.”

“Sounds to me like they were falling in love,” said Clara airily, covering her son in his bassinet with a pale-blue blanket. They took turns rocking the child.

“He’s asleep, thank God,” Clara whispered a little while later. They tiptoed out of the child’s room into the sitting room next door, where Clara had set out everything for coffee.

“You look tired,” said Josephine, pouring the coffee, which was by now completely cold. Clara let her do so without protest. The currant cake was soaked through and had taken on an unappetizing brown shade. Fruit flies swarmed around it. Jo flapped her hands to shoo the insects away. She had no appetite for it at all . . .

“I
am
tired! Matthias sleeps three hours a night, if that. He starts howling the moment he wakes up. I tried ignoring him at first, thinking he would eventually stop on his own. But Gerhard gets all in a huff as soon as Matthias starts crying, and he
does
need to sleep at night. So I have to hurry out and pick him up from his cradle as soon as makes a peep. And because I’m so afraid of missing that first peep, I hardly get to close my eyes at all. It’s not much better during the day, as you’ve just seen.” Clara was unable to suppress a yawn.

Josephine nodded. She had arrived an hour earlier, and all they had done in that time was try to get the bawling child to sleep.

“Is it normal for a baby to cry so much? Your husband’s a doctor. He should know what’s going on with Matthias. Maybe he gets gassy? Or . . .” Jo shrugged helplessly. Babies weren’t exactly her specialty.

Clara let out a bitter laugh. “Gerhard says it’s my fault. I’ve passed my poor, nervous disposition on to Matthias. And he says I don’t give Matthias enough motherly care.” Fighting tears, she cried out, “I’m with my son day and night! What else can I possibly do?”

“Your poor, nervous disposition?” Jo frowned. “Your husband seems to have some very strange ideas, and not just where cyclists are concerned.”

Clara took her hand. “Which makes me all the more grateful that you still come to visit. Believe me, I find Gerhard’s newspaper articles to be a terrible embarrassment! But he won’t stop writing them. The conference he’s gone to in Bonn is all about the negative effects of cycling on women. He’s really heading in the wrong direction.”

“You could call it that,” said Jo drily.

A long silence ensued. Jo looked around inside Clara’s home. Everything looked as though it had come out of a doll’s house: lace doilies, a silver tray, fresh flowers in a vase on the sideboard. A faint hint of lavender hung in the air, reminding Jo of the smell inside the pharmacy. Everything was clean. At least, far cleaner than her own home, where dust collected in the corners and cat hair covered the sofa. This was the kind of home where the signature of a good housewife could be read with ease.
So why do I feel so uncomfortable?
Josephine wondered. Was it the knowledge that Gerhard Gropius lived there? Or did it have more to do with the fact that Clara appeared to be anything but a happy young wife and mother?

It was Clara who broke the silence, asking in an affectedly cheerful voice, “So what are the other club members saying about your guest from Rhineland-Palatinate?”

“Everyone’s thrilled to have him there. And no wonder. The man is a born storyteller. He has a wonderful smile, he’s good looking . . . and he’s amassed quite an impressive list of bicycle performances. Assuming, of course, that everything he says is true. But I think it probably is.”

Clara smiled. “It sounds like you might be a little in love with the man yourself.”

“Me? Not on your life!” Jo said, laughing. “Oh, he’s perfectly nice. But I also think he’s a devil-may-care guy who’s mainly out for himself. When Isabelle asked him who was helping his parents with their vineyard in his absence, all he did was shrug. As if he didn’t care at all.”

“But in a family business like that, every hand is needed,” said Clara. “It nearly makes me sick to see how my father has to slave away in the pharmacy on his own. I’d love to help him, but how?”

“Why don’t you take on a nursemaid for Matthias? A girl from a big family who knows her way around a young child . . . That couldn’t be so hard to find, could it?”

“Oh God, I can’t imagine ever suggesting such a thing to Gerhard! He thinks it’s a mother’s duty to look after her children. Women who don’t are bad mothers.” Clara suddenly looked very unhappy. “Besides, I have all the housework to do. And the accounts for the practice. All of that comes first.”

Josephine did not want to get into a fight with Clara, so she changed the subject. “I’ll be very interested to see where things go with Isabelle and Leon.”

Placing one hand on Josephine’s arm, Clara said, “If it goes anywhere at all, give Isabelle a piece of advice from me. She should think hard about what she’s doing. In the end, everyone has to sleep in the bed they’ve made for themselves.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“My dear colleagues, ladies and gentlemen, cyclists all, it is my very great pleasure to introduce the Danish professional cyclist, Susanne Lindberg!” Irene Neumann looked around at the assembled audience excitedly as everyone clapped.

It was good that Irene had insisted on holding Susanne Lindberg’s talk in the generous rooms of the men’s club, even though she was mainly there to speak to the women. Every seat was filled, and people were standing, crowding in at the edges of the room. Many men had decided to come along as well. Jo watched as Isabelle squeezed closer to Leon. Everyone at the club was gossiping about their dalliance.

“Susanne Lindberg is twenty-five years old and a member of the famed Danish Bicycle Club,” said Irene. “She dropped her studies to devote herself entirely to cycling, which she has pursued with great success. She has ridden in practically every race there is, against male competitors. To list all of her successes would take far more time than we have tonight, but she is the true grande dame of women’s cycling, and her successes have contributed tremendously to the greater general acceptance of our sport. Dear Susanne . . .” She waved her guest over to her on the improvised stage.

An attractive and petite young woman climbed up onto the podium. Josephine guessed that she weighed no more than a hundred pounds.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is an honor to be able to speak to you here tonight,” the woman began, speaking excellent German. She radiated enthusiasm and strength, and within moments, the entire audience was hanging on her every word.

“Both the First Berlin Cycling Club for Women and the original men’s First Berlin Cycling Club enjoy a reputation second to none. The quality of your riders is known far beyond the borders of the German Empire.”

The club members thanked her for the praise by rapping their knuckles against the tables.

“I know that no cyclist likes a long detour,” said Susanne Lindberg and smiled conspiratorially at her audience, “so I will come straight to the point.” She paused momentarily for effect and signaled to a man to come forward.

“I would like to introduce my fiancé, Charles Hansen. Some of you probably know him from cycling. He is currently involved with a study on behalf of the Danish government. The object of this study is the positive effects of sport on the human mind and body.

“As he began work on this study, Charles hit upon an idea that I fully support. More than support, in fact: I will be one hundred percent part of it!” Susanne Lindberg fixed her audience with a gaze that accepted neither objections nor questions. “Charles would like to organize a long-distance race for women, through Denmark, for the spring of 1897. With this race, we want to prove that women can ride bicycles at least as well as men. And we want to show that the female body does
not
suffer from riding a bicycle. On the contrary, our aim is to prove just what women are capable of!”

Now it was the turn of the women to applaud, while the men just frowned.

“That’s brilliant!” Josephine cried. “We must do something like that here, too! That would take down all those hacks who rail against our sport a peg or two.”

“How long is your long-distance course going to be?” Leon Feininger asked. “For me, long distance means at least in the realm of Paris to Brest and back to Paris, or Bordeaux to Paris. I don’t suppose you can match that, can you?”

His remark was sure to draw a few approving laughs, and it did.

But the laughter stopped when Susanne said, “Our race will take us through Zealand, the largest island in Denmark, from one end to the other, twice. In total, we will cover six hundred miles over no more than four days, though I estimate we can complete the distance in three.”

“Six hundred miles in three days?”

“Impossible . . .”

“On a bicycle?”

“A
women’s
race?”

“. . . never manage that . . .”

“That’s something for men!”

Tumult broke out. Everyone began speaking at once. Josephine tried to think of the greatest distance she had covered on a bicycle. Sixty, perhaps seventy-five miles, riding at Adrian’s side. Six hundred miles? What a challenge!

It was Irene who finally managed to bring the team back to order.

Then the petite Dane cleared her throat and went on in a quiet but determined voice, “We have a number of extremely talented women cyclists in Denmark these days. A handful of them have already assured me of their participation. But Charles and I would like to make this an international affair.”

“So you’re here to recruit a few good women to take part. Is that right?” said Isabelle.

Susanne Lindberg nodded.

“Six hundred miles. That’s a very long way,” Isabelle murmured respectfully.

“I’d say your plan is both daring and propitious,” said Leon, though he sounded both dubious and confrontational. “But do you really have any idea what kind of willpower and endurance is necessary for such a distance?”

“Yes. As well as cold-bloodedness, foresight, and a huge amount of courage,” Susanne Lindberg added. “Do you think we’re beginners? I am well aware that many don’t think we possess those qualities. We still struggle against many prejudices. Sometimes, it seems to me that cycling has become harder for us rather than easier.” For the first time, her smile disappeared. But then she seemed to pull herself together. “It is all the more important, therefore, to show the world how strong women are!”

The applause came tentatively at first, then grew louder, and even some of the men joined in.

“This race will also send a very strong signal to the Association of German Cyclists,” said Irene Neumann. “As you already know, that association is considering banning women’s races across the entire empire.”

Luise Karrer, who had been quiet until then, asked, “What about the press? Getting a few newspaper writers to accompany the race and report on it would make a huge difference. How else will the public ever hear about it?”

“We have excellent contacts in the Danish press,” said Charles Hansen. “But it would naturally be good for the foreign riders to bring journalists of their own as well. A decent drawcard is usually enough to get them interested. Our drawcard is Susanne.” He looked with immense pride at his fiancée. “A graceful young woman daring to attempt such a distance by bicycle is a worthy story to many writers.”

“If
I
decide to join, then we can certainly count on loads of press,” said Fadi Nandou, and all eyes turned to the beautiful Persian woman.

Susanne Lindberg raised her eyebrows meaningfully as she looked first into Fadi’s kohl-ringed eyes, then at the rest of the assembly. “Allow me a word of warning: fame in itself is not enough to guarantee participation. Anyone who wants to take part in our race has to be able to demonstrate race experience and be willing to undertake the hardest training imaginable during the next six months. You will have to spend more hours on a bicycle than you ever have before. You will have to ride rain or shine, and you will have to get used to riding at night . . .”

A pleasant tingling spread through Josephine, something she hadn’t felt for a long time. But many of her clubmates clearly thought differently, practically slumping in their seats as Susanne went through her list. It was obvious that they had not imagined it would be so difficult.

“We will sleep in simple accommodations, sometimes for only one or two hours in a cold barn. From a sanitary perspective, expect the most primitive conditions. A scoop of water from a well by the road will have to do for a quick splash.” She looked intently into her audience. “And then there’s the question of money. Every woman who takes part will have to bring her own bicycle with her, along with suitable equipment and proper clothes. We will send out a clothing guide well in advance of the race. It is, of course, very important that the public be well-disposed toward us. Every participant will also be required to pay for her own travel expenses. Charles will cover the cost of the first night’s accommodation in Copenhagen, as well as all meals during the race.”

“How does a race like that work?” asked Isabelle. “I mean, does everyone ride in one group? And what about the route itself? Would we be riding on good roads the whole way, or riding over sticks and stones?”

Susanne raised her voice. “Why don’t we let one of the men with long-distance experience tell us what it’s like. Leon?”

Leon didn’t need to be asked twice. “A long-distance race is fundamentally different from short road or track races,” he began. “For one thing, it takes place alongside all the usual traffic on the roads. The stretch is not closed as it would be for other races, which means that each rider is responsible for his own safety. And part of the route will naturally cross rough terrain, as well. Although riders all start together, the field soon drifts apart so that each rider rides alone. Usually, small groups form and ride short sections together. But at the end of the day, each rider has to ride the race for himself. That means that each competitor has to decide how long he will ride at a stretch, as well as when he will take a break to eat, drink, and take care of any other business.”

A few laughed, but Leon went on immediately. “Good physical condition is one thing. But dividing the race up intelligently into riding and resting periods, that’s the true art. And then there’s the question of sleep: When and for how long? What if you’re exhausted and sleep for five or even eight hours? Absurd in a race like that. Which is why there are riders—and I do not lie when I say I am one of them—who ride Paris to Brest and back to Paris without sleeping at all!”

“You ride the whole way without a break?” said Isabelle, awestruck.

Irene snorted. Isabelle’s adoration of Leon had not escaped her.

“I take breaks, definitely, but I don’t sleep,” Leon corrected her.

Josephine frowned. “It all sounds very exciting. But I’m still not clear on one thing: If the route isn’t marked and each rider rides on her own, how do you find your way? Especially in a foreign country . . .”

“The route is detailed in a small booklet that also contains the names of the towns and checkpoints where you have to report.”

“Report? What for?” asked Isabelle.

“Somebody has to check that you’ve actually ridden the course you’re supposed to! Or some wise guy would come up with the idea of taking a shortcut and saving himself a few miles. At every checkpoint, you get a stamp in your booklet. The race is only over when that’s complete.” He turned to look at Charles Hansen. “Are you planning to set up food stations at the checkpoints?”

Charles nodded. “We’ll have hot soup, drinks, and cakes on hand about every hundred and twenty miles.”

“A lot can happen to a person and a machine over six hundred miles,” said Josephine. “Do you have a doctor and a mechanic on hand?” If she were to take part, she would know what to do if her bicycle broke down. But would the others?

Susanne Lindberg said no, then asked, “Do you know somebody?”

“Perhaps.” Josephine shrugged casually, but inside she was suddenly brimming with excitement. Gerd Melchior would be just the man for repairs! She would write him a letter that same evening. No doubt he’d be very happy to see something other than prison bars for a change.

Luise Karrer twisted her mouth and said, “We can ask Dr. Gerhard Gropius if he’d like to come along.”

“We could certainly ask his wife,” said Isabelle when the laughter had died down. “When Clara used to ride with us, she always had bandages and ointments handy, remember, Jo? As a chemist’s daughter, she knows her way around cuts and grazes.”

Josephine sighed. “There’s just one catch: Gerhard Gropius would
never
allow his wife to go to Denmark with us.”

When the talk was over, Jo went over to one of the windows and inhaled the sweet summer air. She closed her eyes for a moment and shut out the excited voices of her clubmates. Her mind grew calm.

Should she? Or not? It was so tempting . . . Since Adrian’s departure, her life consisted of nothing but work and cycling. But here was the prospect of something truly exciting!

She had the money to pay for it. And as long as Adrian was away in America, she had enough time to train. If he came back in late autumn, he would even be able to help her with that.

Josephine turned back to the people in the room. She took a deep breath, then said in a loud voice, “Well, if you can use me . . . I would like to come along.”

The individual conversations ceased, and all eyes turned to Jo, the first woman to pledge her participation.

“I would probably join you, too,” said Isabelle slowly, and she exchanged a look with Leon.

“Do you happen to need a capable male rider, too?” Leon asked.

Lindberg and Hansen both nodded, then said they would need not only
one
man, but several, as protective chaperones for the women. Charles Hansen, in particular, was excited at the prospect of the famous Leon Feininger joining them for the race.

“I’ll ride, too,” said Irene.

“But not without me!” Luise shouted. Everyone laughed.

Susanne Lindberg smiled. “Charles and I will have to speak with each of you individually, of course. But if those interviews go well—and I’m sure they will—then we’ve got three, no, four German women coming along, which is excellent!”

“Would you let a fifth rider take part?” said Jo. “I have someone in mind who would be more than suitable for something like this.”

“I know exactly who you mean,” cried Isabelle brightly. Spontaneously, she threw her arms around Jo’s neck and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “What a brilliant idea!”

On a signal from Irene, the club manager began to distribute glasses of sparkling wine. When everyone had a glass, Susanne raised her voice. “Here’s to our great adventure!”

“Here’s to six hundred miles through Denmark!” Charles Hansen called.

“Here’s to us!” said Leon.

Josephine took a sip of sparkling wine, and the tiny bubbles prickled pleasantly on her tongue. Who would have thought that one talk could have such far-reaching effects?