Flight of Dreams (15 page)

G
ertrud is woken, not so much by light, but by the feeling of being watched. Without opening her eyes she knows that Leonhard's gaze is on her face. Without looking at him she can't tell whether the gaze is amorous or angry, but she can feel its heat nonetheless. Gertrud groans and rolls away, taking the blanket with her. “It's too early. Go back to sleep.”

His voice is a warm hum in the near darkness. “Why? When I was so enjoying the surprise of waking to actually find you here.”

Damn him. So it's anger, then.

Gertrud shifts onto her back but does not open her eyes. Her scalp hurts. The backs of her eyeballs feel like they are coated with sand. There's fur on her teeth and sleep in her limbs. “That's such a rare thing?”

“Where did you go last night,
Liebchen
?” Leonhard loops an arm around her waist and pulls her against his chest. There is nothing seductive about the gesture. He is locking her in.

“What do you mean?” She won't lie to him exactly, she's never been good at that, but Gertrud feels no guilt about feigning confusion.

“You smell of cigarettes. And booze.” He throws the blanket back to expose her rumpled slip. “And last I checked, the only thing you were wearing…was me.”

She opens her mouth, but Leonhard lays a finger across her lips in warning. He does not like it when she's deceptive. He's giving her a way out.

“And then there's always the fact that when I woke last night you weren't here,” he adds.

“Maybe I got cold? Maybe I got up in the middle of the night to use the toilet?
Maybe
I was hungry?”

“Maybe you went looking for trouble because you thought I wouldn't be along to stop you?”

“Does it matter?”

Leonhard gives her a nip on the ear with his teeth. “Of course it does. I am your husband after all.”

“Then why didn't you come looking for me if you were so concerned?”

The stateroom is beginning to fill with a pale, silvery light, but they can't see out the window from the angle at which they are lying. “We're six hundred feet in the air. You're afraid of heights. Didn't figure you could get very far.”

“I didn't think you'd wake. I'm sorry.”

“Clarify that apology,
Liebchen.
Sorry that I woke? That you were reckless? Or that you worried me?”

Gertrud turns to face him. She forces one eye open. “Sorry that you think this is a big deal.”

“It is a very big deal. Where did you go?”

“To the bar. I couldn't sleep.” The look she gives him suggests that this is his fault, that he'd promised her sleep and didn't deliver on his end of the bargain.

They have spent such a large part of their relationship in some form of playful banter that she is unnerved by the severe crease that forms between his eyes. Leonhard is quite genuinely angry.

“What were you doing? In the bar?”

“Drinking.”

“And?”

“Smoking.”

“With?”

“Edward Douglas.”

“Pray tell,
Liebchen,
who in the
fucking hell
is Edward Douglas?”

Gertrud yawns and stretches her arms behind her head until her palms rest flat against the wall. She pushes against it, and the muscles in her spine begin to protest. “Well, for starters, he's the drunk
Arschloch
who was on the bus yesterday.”

“Starters?”

She sits up and folds her legs beneath her. Gertrud pushes her hair away from her face, then crosses her arms over her chest. She does her best to match the harsh expression on Leonhard's face. “He also happens to be the mystery man who ran up the stairs that day in Frankfurt when Herr Goebbels yanked my press card.”

Gertrud waits. Leonhard has the squint-eyed look of a man trying hard to remember something just beyond his grasp. After a moment he sits up with a start. “The mustache!”

“It doesn't really suit him, does it?”

“You are a terrifying creature. You know that, right?”

“I like to think I'm simply observant.”

Leonhard isn't ready to let her off the hook just yet, however. He sets a gentle hand on each shoulder. “What I'd really like to do right now is shake you so hard your teeth rattle. And I would if I thought for a moment that it would do any good. But I know you better than that. So instead I want you to tell me every single thing you learned about that man. Do you understand? Everything.”

“You'll just be disappointed. I don't know much more than you do. Despite my best efforts. He's cagey. And a spectacular liar. He answered my questions, but only just. And in a way that left me with more questions. That bastard had five empty glasses on the table when I got there. And two more by the time the bartender kicked us out at three o'clock, and he wasn't even the least bit drunk. How is that
possible,
Leonhard?”

“Clearly he holds it well.”

“No one holds it that well.”

“You're using absolutes again. I would have thought life had taught you better by now.”

“It's too early to get philosophical.”

“This is logic. Not philosophy.”

“You want logic? Why the act on the bus yesterday? What could he possibly have gained from that little charade?”

Leonhard isn't a man who smiles often. He isn't jovial. Or histrionic. He often keeps his emotions tucked behind that reserved, precise exterior. So Gertrud is somewhat anxious when a broad, wicked grin stretches across his face. “That is something you'll likely have to puzzle over while you get ready. We're going to breakfast.”

“No.” She dives back into the covers. Pulls them over her head. “I'm going back to sleep. I'm exhausted.”

She can feel the mattress shift beneath her when Leonhard climbs out of bed. And for the briefest moment she actually believes that he will let her sleep. But a second later he yanks the bedding clean off, sheets and all, and drops it to the floor.

“Stop it!”

“Get up.”

“No.” She flings herself back into the pillows like a petulant child.

There is an edge to his voice now. “You, my dear, are going to get up and make your way to the shower. Then you will dress and put on, not just your makeup, but your best poker face. Because you've been a fool. You have shown your hand. And that man, whoever he might be, now knows ten times more about us than we know about him. We will rectify that today,
Liebchen.
But we will do it together. In a manner that I find appropriate.” Leonhard leans across the bed and runs a single calloused thumb across her cheek. “You will get your
Scheiße
together. Starting now.”

There are fifteen things that Gertrud wants to say. And for one long, jumbled moment they knock around inside her mind, jockeying for position. Accusations. Profanity. Excuses. Not one, but three Romani hexes she learned from her maternal grandmother. But judging by the look on his face, it's an apology he's looking for, and she cannot find a single one to offer him. So in the end she says nothing. Gertrud is not ready to admit any wrongdoing on her part. And her husband is not ready to accept anything less. An uneasy silence settles between them. After a moment Leonhard lifts a long, cream-colored satin robe from the closet. He holds it out.

“You know,” she says, taking a stab at levity, “the best thing about this trip was going to be sleeping in. I can't remember the last time I didn't have to get up early and deal with a child.”

“Think about that the next time you crawl into bed smelling like an ashtray. How long has it been since you've smoked? Two years?”

“Almost. It's therapeutic.”

“I find it unnerving.”

“You used to find it sexy.”

“I still do. That's not the point.” He shakes the robe, impatient.

So this is how it will be. Fine. Gertrud slides off the bed and lets Leonhard help her into the robe. He secures it high on her breastbone, then ties it at her waist. Leonhard hands her the cosmetic bag and a towel that hangs beside the sink.

Her voice is clipped. “Which dress?”

“The blue one. It matches your eyes. And I've never seen you wear it without every man in the room staring at you.”

“I thought you didn't want me to put myself out there?”

“The problem,
Liebchen,
is that you can be such an idiot in the way you go about doing it.”

He is done with argument. Leonhard shoos her out the door. “Be in the dining room in thirty minutes,” he says. “We're going to make an appearance at seven like the civilized people we are.”

“You're not waiting for me?”

He chucks her chin. “Why bother when you're so good at rushing ahead?”

The only people whom Gertrud encounters on her short trip to the shower are two uniformed crew members who discreetly avert their eyes at the sight of her in a dressing gown. Once inside the small room, Gertrud locks the door and hangs her clothing on a series of hooks bolted to the wall. The shower is split in half and separated by a curtain. The walls and floor are covered in clean white tiles. There's a single light overhead and a drain in the floor. Gertrud hangs up her robe and drops her slip to the tiled floor. When she turns the knob she discovers insufficient pressure and tepid water. It rather feels as though she's being pissed on. Gertrud has to make three full rotations before her entire body is wet, and it takes minutes of standing directly beneath the showerhead to saturate her hair. Gertrud finishes her shower with military efficiency, scrubbing at her body with a bar of lavender soap. Shampoo gets in her eyes, and she can't rinse it out before the sting spreads. What little bit of good humor she had left slips away, leaving behind a raw, bristling anger.

It's not until she goes to step over the lip of the shower that she slips and has to steady herself against the wall. At first she thinks there's a sliver of soap near the drain, but when she bends to pick it up she finds a pendant of some sort at the end of a ball chain. It's oval, tarnished, and stamped with raised letters and numbers. Gertrud wipes it against her towel and holds it up to the light so she can read it.

It looks to be a Deutsches Herr identification tag.

The tin is well worn on one side. She runs the pad of her thumb across it to help identify the digits she can't read. There are ten numbered fields on the disk, each containing a bit of pertinent information about the soldier it was issued to. Religious preference: rk for Catholic. Service number: 100991–K-455(-)6(-)8. Blood type: AB. And various vaccinations. Whoever this soldier might be, she now knows almost everything about him but his name. The only thing that Gertrud is certain of as she squints at the tag, trying to make sense of its presence in this place, is that the American had one very much like it in the bar last night. But she has no intention of giving it back.

She is flushed, excited, as she dries and dresses and readies herself for breakfast. Hair and makeup and general grooming are done in the cabin, in record time, and she's buzzing like a live wire by the time she reaches the dining room. Leonhard rises from his seat and comes to greet her as soon as she enters. He is so hell-bent on intercepting her that he doesn't notice the dramatic change in her countenance. He bends low to place a kiss on her cheek. “You smell better.”

“Hhhmm. I did think a bit of food would improve your manners.”

Leonhard takes her arm and tucks it into the crook of his arm. “Hold it against me all you like. But I need you angry this morning.”

“What's that supposed to mean? You provoked me on purpose?”

“Yes.” He pulls out her chair and helps her settle into place at the table. Their voices are low. Polite. No one would guess they are hovering on the edge of a quarrel. “For one, you're at your sharpest when you're angry. I've always rather appreciated that about you.”

She snaps out her napkin and then presses it smooth across her lap. Gertrud skewers him with her gaze.

“Well, if I'm honest, it also terrifies me a bit. But I can't deny it's sexy.”

“Shall I congratulate you on your bravery?”

“No. But I'd appreciate it if you'd let me finish my point.”

She waves a hand indicating that he should go ahead.

“Look around,
Liebchen.
What do you see?” He leans an arm across the back of his chair. “I'm rather surprised you hadn't noticed already. You do dislike the man after all.”

The American. Holding court. In the promenade beside the dining room. He is clear-eyed and clean shaven, showing no signs of a man who was up half the night drinking. He never looks in their direction, but Gertrud knows he's watching them nonetheless. His body is angled in such a way that the Adelts are right in his peripheral vision. He is surrounded by a small crowd of male passengers. Whatever he says makes them roar with laughter, and Gertrud looks away in disgust. She is offended at the mere suggestion that such a man could be funny.

Leonhard summons one of the dining stewards to their table. His name tag reads
SEVERIN KLEIN
, and his face reads Aryan poster child. Blond hair. Square jaw. Blue eyes. “Coffee for both of us, please.”

She catches Klein's quick surveillance and immediate approval of them. He tips the silver carafe over her mug, and Gertrud begins an elaborate preparation ritual involving so much sugar and cream that Leonhard shakes his head in disgust. She is soon nursing a full cup of ivory coffee and a viscous mood. Klein hasn't been nearly so attentive to the Jewish businessmen seated next to them. Nor was he last night.

“Do you see what we're up against now?” Leonhard asks. It takes her a moment to realize he is not talking about the steward or all that he represents. He's watching the American with that look he gets when there's a puzzle to be solved. “He'll have them believing anything he says before the dishes are cleared. So yes, I made you angry on purpose. And I'll gladly keep you that way so long as you do not, for a moment, forget that there are certain protections your husband can provide. I'd suggest you make good use of them. Even if the thought does chafe your unique sensibilities. It's what I'm here for, damn it.”