Flight of Dreams (29 page)

T
he cabin boy looks as though he has been struck by lightning. But the second he sees her, his expression of delight drains away and is replaced by terror. Werner freezes at the top of the stairs, mouth open. It takes Gertrud only a moment to realize that she can play this to her advantage. She holds up one finger—silence—until Irene's retreating back disappears below. It's not fair, but what's the point of being intimidating if she doesn't exercise the skill every once in a while? And it's not like he will be permanently harmed by what she's about to do. Just startled. And really, when dealing with teenage boys, it's best to keep them off balance.

“Are you trying to get that girl in trouble?” she demands.

Werner flinches, and she has to stuff her guilt behind an impassive expression.

“No.”

“So what are you playing at, then?”

“Nothing! I…she kissed
me.
”

“You've been flirting with her. You gave her a flower.”

The circulatory system of the adolescent male is superior to that of all other humans. There is no other explanation for the ferocious color that fills his cheeks. Adults simply cannot get that red. Gertrud isn't sure if the boy is going to cry or faint, so as an act of mercy she places one calming hand on his shoulder. Gives him a gentle pat.

“Please don't—”

“I won't tell—”

“Oh, thank God!”

“I won't tell,” she repeats, slower this time, “if you will do me one small favor.”

He may only be fourteen, but he is smart and cautious, and he frowns at her now, suspicious. “What sort of favor?”

“The kind where you do what I tell you, no questions asked.”

“I don't—”

“The alternative,” she says, “is that I go to Irene Doehner's father—he's just around that corner, on the promenade—and tell him that his daughter is kissing cabin boys in the corridors. That she is keeping and pressing flowers that have been given to her. That young boys can't be trusted, and that he ought to keep a better eye on his daughter so she doesn't get taken advantage of. What do you think a man like Hermann Doehner would think of such things?”

Werner is quick and shrewd and thinks well on his feet. “So you would have me exchange one trouble for another?”

“If I wanted to get you in trouble I wouldn't bother trying to negotiate. If you are as clever as I suspect you are, you will find no danger in this task.”

“And if not?”

Gertrud ponders this for a moment. “Then we will both find ourselves in a very difficult predicament. Does that sound fair enough to you?”

“It all depends on the task, I suppose.”

W
hen Emilie was hired by the Deutsche Zeppelin-Reederei in September of 1936, the company sent out a press release and a number of photographs, one of which showed Emilie bathing a young girl in a child-size tub. At first glance it appears that both Emilie and her young charge are on the
Hindenburg
and that the picture is a candid snapshot of her work life. Germany was fascinated by the world's first airship stewardess, after all. And her employment on this ship is a milestone for women. Emilie thinks of that photo at some point during every flight. Not because she accomplished something no other woman ever has, but because she badly wishes there was a bathtub on the
Hindenburg.
The photo was staged, of course. There is only the one shower, and it's not the most practical place for bathing children. Yet the Doehner boys have gone from smelling rangy to smelling ripe, and their mother has ordered them to shower. She has brought Emilie along to assist. Once they're inside the small room, and the boys are shrieking and splashing beneath the spray, Emilie realizes that Matilde is also creating space for them to speak without being heard.

“You have questions, I suppose?” Matilde crosses her arms over her chest—how she does this with such large breasts Emilie can't fathom—and looks at her expectantly.

“I wouldn't call them questions.”

“Doubts?”

“Fears.” Emilie collects Walter's trousers from the floor and folds them neatly. She sets them on the bench and then does the same with Werner's. “How did you know about my situation?”

She shrugs. “It didn't take much sleuthing, I'm afraid. We overheard something at dinner last night. They were speaking English at the table next to us. Hermann is better at it than I am, but it comes with the territory. We travel a lot. We speak a number of languages, though not so many as you, I suspect.”

Emilie turns her attention back to the dirty clothes. She folds each item slowly. She doesn't want to seem too eager. “Who was speaking in English?”

“Captain Lehmann and that strange American fellow.”

“What did they say about me?”

“Lehmann didn't say much, to be honest. But the American wanted to make an exchange.”

“Of?”

“Names. The name of someone on board the ship for the name of a crew member planning to remain in America.”

“And he gave my name?”

“He did.”

Emilie thinks of the dog tag. “Did Captain Lehmann offer a name as well?”

“No. He did not. The American scribbled something on a napkin and when the captain read it he said he would get back to him with the name.”

Emilie tries to keep her voice from sounding frantic. “Anything else?”

“That was it. But it's enough. When we got back to the cabin, Hermann suggested we offer you the job. We need a governess, and you want to leave Germany—at least you haven't denied it.”

“You would offer a job to a woman you barely know?”

“No.” She swats the suggestion away. “We would poach the world's first airship stewardess from the Nazis. A woman who speaks a number of languages. How many exactly?”

“Seven fluently. I'm passable in three others.”

“Ten languages! Amazing. That's a rare gift. So you see, our interest is not just in needing help with our children, but in tutoring them as well. We show you the world; you help Irene, Werner, and Walter learn to navigate it. I think that's a fair trade.”

“It's not that simple. Captain Lehmann knows I was planning to leave. I've been reprimanded. My papers have been confiscated.” She looks at Matilde. “They won't let me off the ship when we land.”

“Is that what you're worried about?”

“It's plenty. I will be under house arrest.”

Matilde waves this off as if they were discussing the difficulties in negotiating a restrictive curfew. “That's not a problem.” She peeks around the curtain and hands each boy a washcloth and a bar of soap. “Clean all of your parts. Especially the ones you can't see. You have five minutes.”

“They are wonderful children. And I would love to care for them. But I'm afraid I don't share your optimism about my situation.”

“So what is your alternative?”

“Return to Germany and continue my work with the Zeppelin-Reederei.” She does not mention Max or his proposal. That is too private, and she will not share it with Matilde Doehner. Not yet, anyway.

Matilde thinks about this for a moment and then changes tactics. “Do you know what my husband does for a living?”

“No.”

Matilde laughs. “Neither do I, if I'm being honest. Not the particulars, at any rate. But what I can tell you is that he is the general manager of Beick, Félix y Compañía, a wholesale drug company based in Mexico City. They dabble in a variety of pharmaceuticals but primarily focus on vaccines. According to his visa, Hermann was just in Germany to organize an affiliate company in Hamburg. Our visas stated that we accompanied him as dependents.”

Emilie squints. “Are you telling me that was not the case?”

“It was a partial truth. One of Hermann's chemists went missing a number of months ago. The trip was a convenient excuse to find him.”

There are a dozen questions that Emilie could ask at this point, but she gets the impression that Matilde is more interested in completing her story, so she waits silently for her to continue.

“This chemist is a good friend of ours. A kind man. Practically a genius, if you want to know the truth. Generous. Charming.” Matilde pulls two towels from the canvas bag at her feet. “His name is David Rothstein. He is Jewish. And he is an outspoken critic of Adolf Hitler.”

“Oh.” Emilie sees what Frau Doehner is getting at.

“That is the Germany you are returning to. A place where brilliant minds are persecuted because they happen to be of an unpopular race.”

Emilie can't be sure whether or not Matilde suspects her heritage. But if nothing else the woman does have an uncanny sense of the political situation at home.

“Listen, your offer is tempting. Please don't get me wrong. I simply don't see how it can possibly work.”

Again Matilde seems unperturbed. “Have you ever gone out in public with children,
Fräulein
? Gotten off an ocean liner or an airship?”

Emilie shakes her head.

“Have you ever taken them shopping or walked down the street with three of them in tow? Gone into a bank or a grocery store or a park with a pack of bickering children?”

It's an interesting question, but Emilie can't see how it pertains, and she isn't sure if Matilde is trying to rub salt into what she perceives as an open wound. “No. I haven't.”

“You really should try it sometime. It's a fascinating experiment.” Matilde lifts two towels from the bench and shakes them out. “No matter how lovely or striking a woman is, when she goes out in public with children she becomes invisible. I once saw Luise Rainer standing at a bus stop in Düsseldorf—that was her hometown you know, she made it famous—next to a set of twins. They weren't even hers. And she was dressed like a movie star. Thirteen men got on that bus and seven got off. Not one of them looked in her direction. Why? Because two children sat at her feet. This is a reality for every woman who bears a child. I was put out to pasture the day Irene was born. Children are the perfect camouflage.”

“And you are offering your children as camouflage?”

“Tomorrow when we land, things will be hectic. We will be late. Some passengers will be in a rush, others excited. The crew will be busy. There will be crowds awaiting our arrival. You will wear one of my dresses—”

“I'm a good deal taller than you are.”

“Then you wear your skirt and my blouse. My hat. You walk out on the arm of my husband—”

“I'm taller than he is as well—”

“Then slouch—”

“But—”

“You will have my children at your side, and no one will see you. That is a guarantee.”

“And you?”

“I will wait in the cabin and exit a few moments after you do. I will find a crowd. Place myself in the center. Then I will meet you at the car on the airfield. And then we will be gone. You will come to New York with us. Cuba. Mexico. Before long Germany will be a distant memory.”

Emilie wants this. She does. And yet her heart twists a bit at the idea. She forces Max's face from her mind. “Someone will see. If not when they bring the luggage, then sooner. It will never work.”

Matilde pushes the curtain aside. She turns off the shower and drapes a towel over each son, then sniffs both little blond heads to make sure they have properly followed her instructions. Matilde does not argue with Emilie as she attempts to dry them off. But the boys are ticklish and squirmy and she abandons the exercise after a few seconds. The boys fling water droplets from their hair and giggle as they try to pull dry clothes onto wet bodies. Matilde checks them carefully before sending them from the bathroom with a pat on their bottoms.

“Do give me more credit than that,
Fräulein,
” she says. “You wouldn't be the first person I've smuggled out of a country. I am very, very good at it. Just ask David Rothstein.”

I
t is close to midnight, and the crew's mess is empty except for five tired souls. Four of them have recently ended their shifts, and the fifth is breaking the rules by being there. But then again, the American has never been one for following the rules. Nor is he the sort of man who will ignore a poker game once he knows it exists. They hadn't intended to let him stay—he could tell that much by the look on their faces when he'd walked in twenty minutes ago—but he had given them reason to set the rules aside. Margaret Mather's diamond solitaire ring. He had dropped it on the table and let it bounce and skitter to a stop. It looked like a small fortune there in the middle of that pile of dingy marks. The chief steward pulled out a chair and personally invited the American to join them.

“There's more where that came from.”

“Dare I ask how you acquired such a bauble? I will deeply regret my invitation if you say it was won at poker.” It was a halfhearted attempt to be threatening. But Kubis is married and the American could see that he had plans for the ring already.

“It was part of my divorce settlement. I'd planned to sell it along with some other items when I get to New York. I certainly don't have a use for them anymore. But I'd just as soon try my luck with them tonight.” He'd looked up then, met each man glance for glance. “As long as you don't mind. I have cash as well. If you prefer.”

Not a single man at the table objected. Chairs were scooted over. Elbows tucked in. Welcomes muttered. They dealt him in.

He looks at the five cards in his hand now—shit every one of them—but doesn't let on. “Pass,” he says, and throws a mark into the pot. The others were at the game for almost an hour before he got here. They're already warmed up, clued in to one another. He will have to catch up fast. It shouldn't be hard. Poker is a game uniquely suited to his particular abilities.

Of the four other men seated at this table Heinrich Kubis is the easiest to read. He tries to keep a neutral expression. But he's working so hard at masking his face that he forgets the rest of his body. He leans forward when his cards are good but droops to the left, into the armrest, when they're bad. He's constantly shifting in his chair, trying to get comfortable.

Xaver Maier wants to smoke. He would be far more comfortable playing this game in the corner of a seedy tavern where he could smoke and drink and run the table than in this regimented airship. So he twitches. He pulls at his mouth and taps his cards on the table—but only when he thinks he can win. If he thinks losing is likely he lays the cards in his lap and waits.

August Deutschle is the American's strongest competition. This is a man who knows how to gamble. He's comfortable with the idea of losing money and feels certain he'll win it back. He's the one who raises the stakes on each round, pushing the others a bit further than they are comfortable with. He doesn't bluff often but likes to call out others when they do.

And then there is Ludwig Knorr. He makes the American nervous. Ludwig is a big man, and the cards look small in his broad, scarred hands—like he's playing with a child's deck. He has an unnerving way of never making eye contact, even when he answers a question directly. He hedges. Holds back. Hides his cards and his emotions. It's a good thing he's not a particularly good poker player or he would be very dangerous.

In the last twenty years the American has learned that men can keep only one secret at a time. And while these men are protecting their cards, all of their thoughts and energy are bent toward that one goal. They want to win the pot of money on the table. Each of them has something in mind that he will spend it on. Some debt he will pay off. Some girl he will seduce. So all of them are paying little attention to the conversation at the table, the questions that are asked, or the answers that are given.

Gertrud Adelt told the American that the dog tag belonged to Ludwig Knorr. But Captain Lehmann said it is Heinrich Kubis's. One of these men was on a zeppelin that dropped bombs over Coventry in 1918, and there is only one way to find out which it was.

“How long have you gentlemen been flying?” the American asks.

Kubis is the first to answer. “Since 1912. I catered on the airship
Schwaben.
First air steward in history.”

The chef groans. “He never misses an opportunity to remind us. Shut up about it already. You've made history. We get it.
You're special.
”

“And you?” the American asks. He puts a card down. Takes another.

He shrugs. “Four years. I started on the
Graf Zeppelin.
”

“Rookie,” Ludwig Knorr says with a grunt.

“Old man,” replies Kubis.

“Old enough to be your father.”

“My father is better looking.”

They go around the table like this. Swapping cards and insults. Adding money to the pile. Telling their zeppelin stories.

“Just a year and a half for me,” August Deutschle says.

Xaver snorts. “Baby.”

“I'm older than you.”

“You're still drinking from your mother's tit.”

“I like your mother's tits better.”

This makes the American think of his brother and how his mother laments that boys are like dogs—how they do things in a pack that they would never do by themselves. Age has no bearing on this truth. Especially given the fact that boys never really grow up. They simply age. There is something about male camaraderie that lends itself to insults. You will never see men who dislike each other trading jabs like this without drawing blood. But friends can be bitterly cruel and end up loving each other more. It's about wit and laughter and one-upmanship with men. Insults become terms of endearment. This is the thing that the American misses most about the military.

“I've got the most seniority,” Ludwig Knorr says, stating a simple fact.

Again the groan. Xaver tosses a coin in the pile. “As usual.”

“Took my first flight in '06. But that was a balloon. I've been on zeppelins since 1912.”

“You've all got me beat, I'm afraid,” the American says. “Six months ago for me. On the
Graf Zeppelin.
I like this ship better. But given the choice I'd prefer to do my traveling on the ground.”

Ludwig tries to hide the disdain in his voice. “Afraid of heights?”

“Only when falling.” The American arranges his cards. He's ready to call. “I just prefer to be on the ground when disaster strikes. Easier to tuck and roll.”

Knorr narrows his eyes. “So the military, then?”

“For a short while, 1918 mostly. France. You?”

“For most of my life. All of the Great War.” He doesn't look up. This is sensitive territory. Two men at the same table who were on opposite sides of the same conflict. Ludwig Knorr pulls further into himself. He sheds the visage of good humor. He becomes a soldier again before the American's eyes.

He looks at Heinrich Kubis but asks the entire table, “Anyone else?”

“No,” Kubis says.

Maier and Deutschle shake their heads. The American can see this from his peripheral vision.

“Good,” he says, laying his cards facedown on the table. Four of a kind. Tens and the ace of spades. “I call.”

He is about to collect his winnings when Ludwig lays his cards down with a cold smile. A straight flush. Hearts. The American watches as Margaret Mather's ring is stuffed inside the chief rigger's coat pocket.

The American has found his target—Ludwig Knorr—but there is, strangely, little satisfaction in having done so. Captain Lehmann lied to him. It is certain the captain does not trust him, and with good reason. But why protect one man only to endanger another? He has to concentrate, to heighten his intuition. He studies them, and the answer soon becomes clear. Heinrich Kubis is innocuous. Arrogant, yes. But he is no threat, and he is almost always surrounded by other people. Lehmann knows this. Ludwig Knorr, on the other hand, is a different kind of man entirely. Lehmann took a calculated risk with his deception, hoping to distract the American. No matter. Tomorrow he will kill Ludwig Knorr. And then he will destroy the
Hindenburg.