While the World Is Still Asleep (The Century Trilogy Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

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