Flight of Dreams (18 page)

T
he American has been asleep for almost an hour—one hour only, he won't allow himself more than that—when there is a rap at his cabin door. Four sharp knocks. Hard. Measured. Insistent. He knows immediately that this is the steward, and he is tempted to leave Wilhelm Balla standing out in the corridor. The steward isn't overly fond of him. That much is clear. But neither does he appear to be a social creature, so there must be some legitimate reason for the visit.

The American eases from his berth and opens the door. He tries to look amiable. Alert. When in reality a desperate sort of exhaustion is creeping up his spine. As a young man he could go for days without sleep and sometimes up to a week on a drinking binge and still be able to function at a high level. But over the last day he has been deprived of one and indulged in the other, and he finds that his body is no longer capable of such abuse.

“Pardon me for interrupting your rest, Herr Douglas. But I have a message from Captain Lehmann.”

“Oh? How may I be of service to the captain?”

“He has requested the pleasure of your company at dinner tonight.”

Interesting. First the commander, now the captain.

He finds the appropriate smile to offer the steward. Surprised. Humbled. Just the right lift to his eyebrows, and his lips curved but closed. No teeth for this smile. “Please assure the captain that I will be honored to join him.”

Balla clicks his heels sharply. Nods his head. Turns to leave. The friendships of men are, by and large, less complicated than the friendships of women. They hinge on loyalty, territory, and tolerance. And the best way to get a man to deliver information is to threaten his friend. It's an unfair tactic, to be honest. But he has never been all that interested in fairness.

“Hold on a minute!” he calls after the steward.

Balla returns to the door with a look of strained patience.

“May I ask you a question?”

“Certainly.”

“It is, I'm afraid, rather personal and none of my business.”

“Then I shall do my best to answer. If I can.”

The American feels the weight of his body settling into his joints. He would much rather return to bed than pursue this line of questioning, but he has a hunch it will pay off. The American does not ignore his hunches. It would be a mistake, however, to let the steward see how confident he feels about getting his answer. So he drops his gaze to the floor and shifts from one foot to the other, feigning awkwardness.

“Yes?” Balla is impatient. Irritated.

Good. The American will wring that out of him. He will make the steward reckless.

“Ah, how should I say this? You are good friends with the navigator, yes?”

“There are four navigators aboard this airship. Which one would you be referring to?”

“Zabel, I believe, Max Zabel.”

“Yes, Herr Zabel and I are quite well acquainted.”

“Then you would be somewhat privy to his personal life?”

He stiffens. “Perhaps.”

The American laughs awkwardly. Purposefully. “So you would know whether he is in a romantic relationship?”

The look that flashes across Wilhelm Balla's face is first confusion. Then alarm. Then something that could be either fear or disgust. The American isn't certain which. It's too fleeting.

Balla holds up a hand. “I can assure you that Max is not—”

“That's not what I meant.” He is quite pleased to hear the perfect note of surprise and admonition in his voice. He waits a moment to let the steward's face color fully with embarrassment before he continues. “Please, let's do be clear on
that.
”

Balla rubs his nose with the back of one finger. “Yes. Of course. Forgive me. What might you have meant, then?”

“Well. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I am rather curious about whether or not Max Zabel is romantically involved with the stewardess. Emilie…”

“Imhof,” Wilhelm finishes.

“Yes. Miss Imhof. Are the two of them involved?”

The steward opens his mouth slowly. And then reverses the action. This delayed response is all the answer the American needs. The two are clearly dating and trying to hide it from their fellow crew members.

The American is tired of maintaining his drunk and boisterous act. Now he wants to throw the steward off-kilter. He wants information. “I see,” he says. “It's not public knowledge?”

“I don't think—”

“Or perhaps it's not official? In all truth I'd much rather that be the case as I'd planned to invite Miss Imhof to dinner once we reach Lakehurst. So you can see how I would rather save myself the embarrassment of rejection if her affections are engaged elsewhere.”

He's not keen on the girl, of course. It's been a long time since a woman turned his head for any reason other than physical gratification, and he certainly doesn't need to go to the trouble of setting up a dinner to find that. No. The stewardess is irrelevant. But the American is quite interested in discovering any weaknesses the navigator might have. And learning how to exploit them.

The steward takes his time in answering. When he comes to a decision there is a sharp, conniving slant to his mouth. He chooses his words carefully—one at a time—and in such a manner that they are both loaded and innocuous. “The only thing I am at liberty to say is that the relationship between Max Zabel and Emilie Imhof is…
complicated.
”

The American leans into this morsel of information. “Complicated
how
?”

I
t is early afternoon and Emilie is in desperate need of coffee. Her one vice. She rarely drinks and has never dabbled in other recreational substances, but she freely admits that coffee is her addiction. It's not something she intends to apologize for, however. Or give up. As far as fixations go, it's rather benign. Quitting gives her a headache. Overindulgence gives her the jitters. So she places herself firmly in the middle, avoiding either extreme. The easiest place to secure a cup would be the kitchen, but she has no interest in facing Xaver—or his questions. So she makes her way to the bar instead. The coffee there isn't as good, falling somewhere between adequate and pitiful, but under the circumstances she doesn't feel that beggars can be choosers.

Schulze has just arrived at his station and is arranging bottles when Emilie knocks on the air-lock door. He greets her with a jovial grin.

“Another patron! And a lovely one at that.”

“A boring patron, I'm afraid. And one whose break isn't nearly long enough. So it will be coffee for me, if you don't mind.”

“How do you take it?”

“Black.”

“Easy enough. Why don't you take a seat in the smoking room while it brews. You'll have it almost to yourself.”

Emilie hadn't counted on anyone else being here so early in the day, and she hesitates as the bartender moves to open the interior air-lock door.

“Julius—”

He stops. “No one calls me that.”

“It's your name.”

“Not the one I go by.”

Most of the crew call him by his middle name. Max. But there are far too many Maxes on board to suit her. The same with Werners, Alfreds, Fritzes, Kurts, Wilhelms, Walters, and Ludwigs. When it comes to naming their children, Germans seem to be highly unoriginal. And Emilie, despite her fantastic memory, has a hard time keeping them straight. So to her Schulze has always been Julius.

He offers that broad, generous smile she is so fond of. “You've only room for one Max in your life?”

“Be warned, that's not a name I'm fond of at this particular moment.”

Schulze is no fool. “The thing about bartenders,” he says as he pulls the smoking room door open, “is that we know when to pry and when to keep our mouths clamped shut. After you.”

Emilie has a habit of observing rooms at different times of day. Lighting can alter not only the ambiance but the aesthetics of a space dramatically. At night the smoking room is exotic. Rich. Sensual. But in the afternoon, with natural daylight streaming through the observation windows, it looks rather like a funeral parlor. Dark and somber. Somewhere you would go to whisper in hushed tones while grieving a loss. It fits her mood splendidly.

“Do you smoke?” Schulze asks.

“Afraid not.”

“Will you mind if she does?” He points to the pretty journalist who sits at a round table in the middle of the room, one shoe kicked off and her legs crossed at the knees.

“No. I'm quite used to it.”

“I'll get your coffee, then.”

Rules. There are always so many damned rules to be considered. Technically Emilie is not working at the moment, but she is in uniform. Approaching the journalist as an equal would be inappropriate, but ignoring her would be worse. She hesitates only until the journalist laughs.

“Please, have a seat. I don't bite.”

Emilie accepts the invitation with a nod and pulls out a chair at the table. She settles into it with relief. Her feet are tired. Her lower back aches.

“I owe you an apology. I was quite horrid to you yesterday,” the journalist says. She extends her hand in official greeting. “Gertrud Adelt. I am, believe it or not, quite pleased to meet you.”

“Emilie Imhof.” There is nothing limp about Gertrud's shake. She has a man's grip. Confident. Firm. Abrupt. Emilie returns it the way her father taught her. As one professional to another.

“You need not apologize. It's not an easy thing this…flying. Most people are uncomfortable with it.”

“Are you?”

“Sometimes. When I think about it logically. It doesn't seem as though such a structure has any business floating through the air.”

“Ah, but an engineer would say that it makes all the sense in the world. They would cite any number of facts about the lifting power of hydrogen versus the weight of steel. You'd be bored senseless and no less comfortable with the prospect, so I advise that we avoid the exercise entirely.”

Emilie can feel her face soften as her smile spreads wide. “I generally do.”

“How do you live with it, then, if it makes you uneasy?”

“It only bothers me when I really stop to think about it. Most of the time I stay busy. And it's not so different from any of the ocean liners or hotels I've worked in. Ships sink. Hotels burn. This is a bit more confined, perhaps. And there's not much in the way of fresh air. But the clientele is the same. The same demands on my time.”

“I am quite impressed. You are the first woman ever to work aboard an airship. You should be quite proud.” Gertrud winks when Emilie raises a questioning eyebrow. “I read the papers.”

Emilie
is
proud. “First and only. So far, at least. I do forget that sometimes.”

“You've worked on the
Hindenburg
the entire time?”

“Since it was completed. I am one of the original crew.”

“Very altruistic of them, hiring a woman for their ‘ship of dreams.' ”

“No. Just shrewd. Easier to get wealthy men to book passage for their families if a woman is present to help bathe their children and dress their wives.”

“I'd hope there isn't too much dressing involved.”

Emilie laughs. “There is an occasional corset to be dealt with.”

Gertrud draws on the end of her cigarette, then pinches it between two fingers so the lit end points directly at Emilie. “I won't wear them. I'm convinced those things are a form of subjugation. Only men care about hip-to-waist ratio.”

She laughs. “I'd have to quit if it became part of my uniform requirements.”

“You must have a rather impressive résumé to land such a position.”

“I'm fairly sure it's the gaps in my file that interest them more.”

“How so?”

“No husband. No children.” She gives Gertrud a long, stoic glance. “No distractions.”

There is kindness in the gaze that Gertrud returns but no pity, and Emilie is grateful. If there is one thing she cannot stand, it is being pitied. She may end up liking the journalist after all.

“Ah. I see.” Gertrud shifts her gaze to the window and some distant point beyond. “I will be the first to admit that children do create something of a weak spot.”

“How many do you have?”

“Just one. But he's more than enough to leave me feeling vulnerable on this flight. That's why I was so terrible to you yesterday, you see. We'd just left him behind.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault.”

Schulze pushes through the air-lock door carrying a tray filled with various paraphernalia. Two fine china cups and saucers. A silver carafe of steaming coffee. Spoons. Sugar cubes. A small jug of cream.

“I know you prefer your coffee black, Fräulein Imhof. But I thought Frau Adelt might like some coffee as well, and I wasn't sure how she takes it.”

They thank him and Gertrud spends a few moments in silence preparing her drink. As it turns out Frau Adelt isn't quite so bold with her coffee as she seems to be in other areas of her life. Before long the journalist's coffee is the color of ivory and loaded with four cubes of sugar.

“I know,” Gertrud says, “it's ungodly. Not to mention a little embarrassing. But I've always taken it this way. And from what I can gather, I may as well enjoy it while I can because the whispers have already begun.
Rationing.
Damn these men and their idiotic wars. I hate rationing.”

Gertrud doesn't know the half of it. There are parts of Frankfurt where people can no longer buy milk, much less sugar. Coffee itself will soon be a luxury available only to the elite. The stewardess is reminded of this every time she indulges in this comfort.

Emilie's coffee is boiling and bitter and stings the roof of her mouth when she takes her first sip. It's like consuming motor oil right out of the car. She takes another sip. Sighs. She stretches her legs beneath the table—they are too long to cross. Then she makes a mental note to return to her cabin and brush her teeth before resuming her shift. Schulze was a bit enthusiastic when he measured out the coffee.

“I am curious about one thing,” Gertrud says. She takes a sip and looks at Emilie over the rim of her cup. Her expression is too pleasant. Contrived.

“What's that?”

“Do you know all the crew members who work aboard this airship?”

Emilie is aware that there is a smooth tone to Gertrud's question. A change in intensity that hasn't been present until now. She's up to something.

“Many of them. Why?”

Gertrud pulls a military identification tag from her pocket and lays it faceup on the table. She scoots it toward Emilie with her finger. “Is there any way you can help me figure out who this belongs to?”

Emilie lifts the chain and dangles it from one finger. She studies the tag. “What makes you think this belongs to one of the crew?”

“Just a hunch.”

It's a military identification tag from the First World War. About twenty years old. Emilie runs her finger over the raised letters and numbers on each side of the tag, paying careful attention to the service number: 100991–K-455(-)6(-)8. Emilie's father was in the Deutsches Herr during the First World War. He had a similar tag, and as a child she spent many hours curled on his lap playing with it. The first series of numbers represent a soldier's birth date. The letter is the first letter in his last name. Three numbers to identify his home district. One number to show how many soldiers serving at that time have the same last initial and the same birthday. And then an error-checking number. Germany never prints the name of a soldier on his tag. Never. Regardless, Emilie knows this tag belongs to Ludwig Knorr, chief rigger serving aboard the
Hindenburg.
There are four crew men on this ship whose last name starts with
K.
Two of them are too young to have been born on October 9, 1891, and the other has never been in the military. That leaves Ludwig.

“Where did you find this?” Emilie asks.

“I came upon it by accident.”

“What do you intend to do with it?”

“That depends on who it belongs to. And what you can tell me about him.”

Emilie is very careful to manipulate her expression into one of general curiosity without a hint of understanding. She lays the dog tag back on the table. “I have no idea who this belongs to,” she says.