While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) Page 3

  “So? Why are you here?”

  Reluctantly, Josephine turned to the redhead who had sat beside her. She didn’t even know the girl’s name, didn’t know whether she was really pregnant or she just had a strange figure. And she didn’t want to know.

  “Theft,” Josephine replied.

  “Is that all . . . ?” asked the red-haired girl, evidently disappointed. “I was tricked!” she added, then launched into a drawn-out story in which three friends, an old couple, and money hidden under a mattress all played a role. The fact that the old couple lay dead in their narrow bed by the end of the story didn’t seem to trouble the girl much. She repeated several times that she had had nothing to do with it.

  As if Josephine cared! She chewed in silence, wishing she were able to close her ears as easily as she could close her eyes.

  “And I got tricked the same way with this.” The girl thumped her stomach with her right hand. “He said he’d be careful and that we’d both have fun. Fun my foot! But I suppose one good thing did come of it. If I wasn’t knocked up, they’d have stuck me in the prison in Moabit. They only brought me here because the women’s prison has a birthing ward.” The redhead reached out her hand. “My name’s Martha, by the way.”

  Josephine had no choice but to take the extended hand. It was moist, and a few breadcrumbs clung to it.

  “Jo.”

  “At least your name isn’t too long!” Martha laughed. “It sounds more like a man’s name. But from what I know about you, it fits. It sounds really . . . tough.”

  For the first time since this nightmare had begun, a gentle smile appeared on Josephine’s face. “Someone else once told me the same thing.”

  Martha, who obviously claimed Jo’s smile as a personal success, beamed. “A girlfriend? Do you have one?”

  Jo bit a chunk of the roll but said nothing. Did she have friends? God, yes, very good friends—the best anyone could imagine! She had been friends with Clara since she could walk and had known Isabelle since they were both small. But she and Isabelle had only really become close about a year and a half ago. And then there was Lilo down in the Black Forest.

  “They won’t want anything to do with me anymore,” Jo said. “Not after I got caught stealing from Isabelle’s father.” Jo felt nauseous at the memory of his actions on the night in question. Instead of talking to her, he had immediately filed a complaint with the police.

  “Oh,” said Martha, but she did not look as taken aback as she sounded. “Friends!” She gestured dismissively. “They probably tricked you somehow and you didn’t even notice. That’s the second thing we have in common. The first is that we both got here yesterday.”

  Josephine looked at Martha with annoyance. What nonsense was she spouting? They had nothing—not a single thing!—in common.

  Martha grasped Josephine’s right hand and squeezed it. “I can be your friend, if you’d like.”

  Josephine jerked her hand free. “Just because I helped you out of a jam yesterday doesn’t mean you have to stick to me like a burr! Let’s get one thing straight: in the future, you look out for yourself. I do not feel like—”

  A shrill bell sounded, cutting Josephine off.

  Karlheinz Krotzmann had just passed through the gatehouse of the Barnim Road Women’s Prison when he felt the old familiar rumbling in his stomach. His face contorted in pain as he surveyed the prison, which consisted of a U-shaped building housing several hundred inmates. The facility had been built a few years earlier by some notable architects, following a decision by the Royal Ministry of Justice. The left wing contained the apartments of the prison officers and the kitchens. The prison had its own boiler building and power plant that supplied the complex with power and light. Behind the main building were an orchard and a vegetable garden that were tended by the inmates. The architects had even added a prison chapel on the top floor.

  Karlheinz Krotzmann sniffed. He would have bet that hardly anybody here had ever set foot in that house of the Lord. His discomfort increased with every step. Although the building was no more than twenty years old, everything looked dilapidated. The footpath that led to the main building was uneven and potholed; the walls were stained or covered in moss. The windows were grimy, the bars rusted . . .

  These people are like animals! They destroy everything, without the slightest hesitation about the damage they’re doing, Krotzmann thought. He was glad that the start of his classes did not coincide with the release of the inmates into the yard. The idea of breathing the same air as murderers and thieves any more than he had to made him uneasy.

  He had almost reached the main block when he saw the caretaker coming around the corner pulling a handcart stacked with tools. The man lived in a small apartment on the premises and was busy with repairs from dawn till dusk. What a life! thought Krotzmann with a shudder, and he gave the caretaker a sympathetic nod. After a brief greeting, the man said, “I need a new helper. One of the younger ones for a change, I reckon. Maybe they’re not as degenerate as the adults. Can you send me someone at the end of your class?”

  Krotzmann nodded. He was responsible for assigning the young convicts to the laundry, the cleaning crews, and the kitchen.

  “Didn’t you have a skinny old woman helping you fix the chicken run fence last week? What happened to her?”

  The caretaker snorted. “She tried to crack my skull with a hammer. I saw it coming at the last second. I managed to duck but just barely avoided it. They’ve thrown the old girl in solitary. Pity. I thought there was more good in her than that.”

  Thought there was more good in her! The man was an irredeemable fool if he believed that. The churning in Krotzmann’s belly grew stronger. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, then pushed open the heavy iron door of the main block. Its painful creak was the starting signal for the three hours of agony he endured every day in the newly built juvenile wing.

  The juvenile wing was a waste of money, just like the chapel. It made no difference whether the younger whores and thieves were shut away separately for a few years or whether they were thrown in with the adult offenders from the start. Maybe they’re not as degenerate . . . Ha! The mere thought of that Adele with her ice-cold eyes was enough to make him nauseous. To beat your own—drunken!—father to death from behind . . . One could only imagine what that took.

  What a disgrace, thought Krotzmann, not for the first time, and felt his bile rise. An abysmal disgrace, that he of all people should be condemned by the Education Authority to teach behind the barred facade of the Barnim Road Women’s Prison. Of course, the head of the authority had put it differently: “An attempt to lead wayward young members of society back onto the right path. An educational challenge requiring rigor and benevolence in equal measure.” It was said that he, Karlheinz Krotzmann, could be entrusted with such a task. He was left with no other choice but to comply, in the hope that one or two years in the women’s prison would help him achieve his ambition of higher office someday. For more than a year now, he had taken the trams halfway across the city, day after day, to this den of iniquity. And each day, his loathing of his pupils grew. It was revolting to even call them that . . .

  Not that he hadn’t started out with the best intentions! Because there were no lesson plans for this kind of “school,” he had created his own. The lesson plans, which mainly focused on building his pupils’ discipline and endurance rather than their intellect, consisted of multiplication tables, reading, writing, and memorization.

  But he quickly became convinced that his cleverly conceived lesson plans were wasted on such ignorant, undisciplined rabble. A workhouse, in his opinion, would have been far more suitable for these lazy sluts than mental arithmetic or the poems of Goethe.

  Krotzmann took a final deep breath, then pulled open the door of the so-called classroom, which was no more than just another gloomy, poorly ventilated room.

  “Good morning, Mr. Krotzmann,” thirty young women droned.

  At least the morning greeting had
been successful. But how they slumped in their chairs! One could identify their miserable characters simply by looking at their postures. There was no need to even look into their wicked eyes.

  He spotted the two new arrivals instantly. A red-haired, scared-looking harlot. Either she’d been pushed around by the others, or she was a cunning little tramp. Beside her sat another young woman—

  Krotzmann started. What was a girl like that doing here? She was tall and slender, with an even complexion and well-cared-for, curly hair. Unlike the others, she sat upright and radiated a natural elegance. Such a creature was clearly not a product of the gutter. Had things degenerated to the point that girls from decent households were no longer able to tell good from evil? What could her crime have been? Had she swindled some good-natured sucker? Robbed a poor mother? Perhaps killed someone? She was as good-looking as the actresses on the posters of the Berlin Schauspielhaus, which only served to stoke the fires of Krotzmann’s malevolence.

  He cracked his wooden cane impatiently against the lectern at the front of the room. He squinted as he looked out over his pupils.

  “The sight of you all slouching there makes me sick! How many times do I have to explain the proper posture? Feet must be flat, with the entire sole flush with the floor! Thighs must rest straight and level on the surface of the seat! It’s disgusting to you see sprawled out that way!” He took his cane and whacked a pupil in the first row across the back, causing a sharp clapping noise.

  “And you! Keep your head up! The chin should never touch the chest!” Another swish of the cane, this time at the back of the first girl’s neighbor. Neither of the girls so much as flinched. They could take it; he had to give them that. But why do they prefer a stroke of the cane to following my instructions? he wondered as he made his way to the back rows.

  “Hurry up—feet parallel and flat on the floor! Thighs straight on the seat. Upper bodies may be inclined slightly forward, but woe betide anyone who leans against the edge of the table! And your shoulders! How many times do I have to repeat myself? Shoulders must be aligned with the edge of the table. The right shoulder no higher or lower than the left.” He looked on grimly as the young women struggled to adopt his decreed posture. The slim newcomer seemed to be having particular difficulties. Looking closer, Krotzmann realized she had quite a broad, strong back. This evidence of physical strength angered him, although he could not have explained why. Instantly, he was standing beside her.

  “You!” He brought his cane down on the table in front of her with a thwack. “Name!”

  “Josephine Schmied,” came the reply, soft but firm.

  Josephine. He knew it. This was no Martha or Karla. What was she doing here? He glared at her.

  “The deportment of your arms is unacceptable! This is a classroom, not some train station or wherever else you feel like loitering.” His stick came down hard on her hand. His right eye twitched nervously when he saw the blood welling up from her knuckles. Bright-red blood. He withdrew the cane and felt a kind of pleasant relief. Two or three girls laughed, and he recognized Adele’s voice among them. He cast a warning glare around the room, then turned back to the newcomer. “Your left forearm should rest entirely on top of the desk, and your right with the hand and wrist.”

  “I had an accident. My shoulder is injured. Unfortunately, I am not able to sit any other way,” the young woman said and swept a lock of hair from her forehead.

  Why would she not look at him? Did she imagine she was better than he was? Was she trying to flirt with him? The tension rose in him once again. “Do you believe for a minute I would accept such a ridiculous excuse?”

  His cane came slashing down on her other hand. Once. Twice. The newcomer shook in a way that did not come entirely from the pain she must have felt, but from something else, something deeper. For a moment, he feared the young woman would leap from her chair and defend herself from his blows. But the moment passed and nothing happened. He exhaled. He looked down at her, his superiority established.

  “I hope that will teach you not to answer back. And just so you know: There’ll be no cozy potato peeling in the kitchen or ironing in the laundry for you. I’m assigning you to our caretaker. Let’s see what your shoulder says to a bit of hard labor . . .”

  Although it was shortly before midday, gas lamps were still burning in every house in Luisenstadt—it was one of those November days that seemed unwilling to brighten. Isabelle’s lips were white with cold and her eyes were tearing up from the icy east wind. She pulled the collar of her coat closer around her neck.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been twiddling my thumbs for ten minutes out here—next time I’ll go by myself!” she said, when Clara finally emerged from the pharmacy.

  “Stop complaining. I had a lot of trouble getting out at all!” Clara answered breathlessly as she straightened the strap on her bag. Inside it, in addition to a few medicine bottles, were a block of chocolate and some peppermint candy for Josephine. She had told her parents that she was going to deliver the medicine to several of their older, disabled customers. And before they could question her as to who and where, she was out the door.

  The two young women strode quickly toward the tram stop and were just able to jump aboard before the tram rolled away.

  “When I think of all the trouble I got into with my father because of Jo, I hardly feel like going on this little jaunt at all,” said Isabelle as they crammed in beside the other passengers on a hard wooden bench. “She got me in serious hot water, and if my parents knew I was visiting her now, it would start all over again.”

  “Then why didn’t you just stay home?” asked Clara. Her mother, too, would rake her over the coals if she knew where she was really going. But a year ago, when she had been lying in the hospital with a broken leg, Josephine had visited her every day. She couldn’t turn her back on her friend now . . .

  A shudder ran down Clara’s spine. Josephine in the Barnim Road Women’s Prison—the very thought made her cringe. That place was full of prostitutes, con artists, and other lowlifes. Josie didn’t belong there, not her best friend for as long as she could remember!

  “Besides,” Clara said, “you’re partly to blame for Josephine’s being in prison in the first place. You were the one who was always filling her head with crazy ideas and all just because you were bored.”

  “That is . . . outrageous,” Isabelle answered indignantly. “I certainly didn’t make Josephine steal from my father. Just the opposite, in fact. I tried to stop her from going out that night. But all you could think about was your work. It made no difference to you what Jo was up to.”

  Clara looked away, clearly hurt. She’d accused herself of that very thing plenty of times—it was true that she hadn’t tried hard enough to get through to Jo. Isabelle didn’t have to rub it in.

  “And that old neighbor, Frieda, the one Josephine liked so much—she could just as easily have said something to her,” said Isabelle. “Frieda knew about Jo’s obsession. She just chose not to do anything about it.”

  At the next station, they transferred to another tram. They had hardly sat down when Isabelle, keeping her voice low, picked up where she had left off. “Even if we had all used all our powers of persuasion, it wouldn’t have made any difference—she was insatiable and completely immune to reason.”

  “Then why did you ever let it go so far? Opportunity makes the thief—that’s what they say, right?” Clara said bitterly. “Besides, you certainly could have done more to stick up for Jo with your father. If you had, maybe he never would have reported her.”

  Isabelle let out a short, shrill laugh. “How do you know whether—or how much—I stuck up for Jo?! I . . .”

  The girls continued bickering, throwing more recriminations at each other. When they arrived at the Landsberger Allee station—several tram changes and more than half an hour later—the mood between them was as chilly as the east wind.

  “Friedrichshain Park looks so grim in winter,” Isabelle murmured,
glancing in the direction of the empty park, where a few stray dogs were the only sign of life. There was an unusual glimmer of trepidation in her eyes.

  The girls began walking through the early winter wasteland toward the forbidding building with its many small windows. The prison exuded an aura of menace. Clara’s steps grew heavier.

  The man inside the small gatehouse looked up from his newspaper. His eyes narrowed to slits, and he looked the two young women up and down.

  “What do you want?” A reek of decay escaped through the small window with each word. The man’s mouth contained rotten black stumps where his teeth should have been.

  The sight made Clara’s skin crawl, but she forced herself to smile. “We would like to visit a friend—”

  “This ain’t a hotel. No visitors. Get lost.”

  “But . . .” Clara began. “How dare you speak to us like—”

  Isabelle pushed her aside. “Please accept my apologies. My companion doesn’t always choose her words wisely. We are from the . . . Committee for the Social Rehabilitation of Delinquent Girls. Our mothers sit on the committee’s board of directors. They have sent us here to find out whether donated monies are being put to good use. Our visit is devoted solely to this end.” She looked at Clara disdainfully, then took out her purse. With a sweet smile, she slipped a few marks across to the gatekeeper. “Your employer would certainly be grateful to you, were you to lend the efforts of such an indispensable committee your . . . unbureaucratic assistance. Which is to say, please let us in. The young woman with whom we would like to speak on behalf of the committee is named Josephine Schmied.”

  The gatekeeper’s face contorted into an unpleasant grin. “Well, then, if that’s how it is . . . though I’m going to have to convince my colleagues over at the main building of the importance of your committee. And one or two of the guards, too . . .” He held up the money suggestively.

  “Get on with it, then. We’re in a hurry.”