Flight of Dreams (4 page)

T
he promenade on A-deck is filled with passengers leaning over the slanted observation windows when Emilie enters, holding the hand of a tear-stained young boy who has lost his mother. She squats down next to him, his hand nestled in her palm, and points at a short, capable-looking woman who is stretched onto her tiptoes to see over the shoulders of the man in front of her. “See, there she is. I told you we wouldn't leave without her.”

Matilde Doehner. Emilie pronounces the woman's name to herself three times—once in German, once in English, and once in Italian—to set the face in her mind. It had taken poor little Werner two minutes of rattled sobs to stutter her name. He'd managed to say his own name with a teakettle screech and a fresh batch of tears.

The child is eight years old and clinging to the last remnants of little boyhood. He pulls his hand from Emilie's, wipes his sleeve across his nose, then takes a deep breath that bears an uncanny resemblance to a hiccup. “Please don't tell my brother I cried. He'll think I'm a baby.”

His little face is so earnest, so fearful that she has to suppress a laugh. “I won't say a word. I promise.”

Werner's brother—Walter, she notes, again mentally, repeating the name in every language she knows—stands next to their mother, back turned. The bottom of one pant leg is tucked into his sock, and his shoes are unlaced. Emilie is certain that when push comes to shove—which it certainly will, they are boys after all—little Werner will be able to hold his own. “Off you go,” she says, then gently nudges him toward his mother.

He squares his shoulders and joins his family as they jostle for position in front of the windows. He announces his arrival by giving Walter a pre-emptive elbow in the ribs.
I'm here,
that elbow says,
and I'm not afraid of you.
Emilie fights the ache she feels at the good-natured tussle.

“Neatly done, Fräulein Imhof.”

It takes her one beat too long to recognize Colonel Fritz Erdmann. He's wearing civilian clothes instead of his Luftwaffe uniform. He hasn't shaved. And he looks haggard.

“Colonel Erdmann”—she dips her head slightly in respect—“how can I help you?”

Erdmann motions her to step aside with him. He lowers his head and his voice. “I need you to page my wife.”

“But we're about to cast off—”

“Bring her to me. I need to say good-bye.”

Erdmann has a strong Germanic brow ridge and bright, curious eyes. Emilie feels very much as though she's being skewered by his gaze. And she would like to ask if there is someone else who can perform this errand—she is in the middle of her duties, after all—but the look on Colonel Erdmann's face brooks no argument.

“Of course,” she says. “Where should I bring her?”

He looks around the promenade as though the question has rendered him helpless. It seems as though every passenger is crowded around the windows pointing, laughing, eager. “Here will be fine, I suppose.”

Emilie takes the stairs two at a time down to B-deck. She's not entirely certain there is time to fulfill Colonel Erdmann's request, although she does note that the ground crew has not raised the gangway stairs.

Willy Speck and Herbert Dowe startle when Emilie throws the door back and steps into the radio room. They look at her as though she has materialized naked right in front of them, as though they've never seen a woman before. Both men are at their stations, headphones on, fingers hovering over a board filled with knobs and levers as they await orders for liftoff.

“You can't be in here,” Willy says. The lame protest seems to be the only speech he's capable of, for he falls silent afterward.

“Yes I can.” Emilie has never taken kindly to being told what she can and cannot do. Certainly not by a gap-toothed radioman with hygiene issues.

“But you're a…woman,” he adds lamely.

“I'm a crew member. Same as you. With full access to the ship. Same as you. I also happen to be performing my duties, namely having a family member of one of our premier passengers paged to come aboard the ship. Excuse me,” she says, pushing past the still-silent-therefore-clearly-more-intelligent Herbert Dowe and descending a ladder into the control car below. Her uniform makes the job delicate, but she's too angry now to care. If anyone below is peering up her skirt, let them see her garter belt, and her acrimony. But the officers below are gentlemen. They keep their eyes lowered until she has planted both feet firmly on the carpeted floor of the utility room.

Emilie meets the questioning glances of Commander Pruss and his crew without hesitation. “I'm sorry to interrupt your flight preparations, Commander, but Colonel Erdmann requested that I page his wife.”

“Why?”

She doesn't intend to lie; the words simply form in her mouth before she has time to think about them. “He didn't say. But he's quite insistent.”

The colonel said he wanted to tell his wife good-bye. That's what she's thinking while Pruss mulls the request. It was the strangled note in Erdmann's voice at the word
good-bye
that has Emilie lying so easily now. Her own husband never had the chance to say good-bye before he left her for good. Her fingers twitch, wanting to reach up and find the key that hangs between her breasts, the key that her husband gave her on their wedding night.

One of the things that puzzles Emilie most about Max Zabel is his timing. He finds her, always, in these moments when she is vulnerable. Emilie does not want to be rescued, and yet there he is. Max descends the ladder into the control car and steps forward to stand between her and Commander Pruss. The gesture is not so much protective as authoritative, as though he's certain that whatever the trouble might be he can resolve it.

“Is something wrong?” Max asks.

Emilie finds herself the object of Max's curious gaze. It is alarming, that gaze, how it can root her to the floor. How it can wipe her mind clean of every thought, every objection. How it can make her forget even her late husband. This is why she resists Max, why she hates him at times. Emilie does not want to forget.

They both look to Pruss for an answer.

“No,” the commander says, but does not elaborate. Instead he stares at Emilie as though he is seeing her for the first time.

Many years of service aboard ocean liners and her tenure aboard the airship have taught Emilie that important men do not like to be pressed for time, answers, or decisions. Benevolence, although often required, is something they bestow on their own terms. In their own way. So she stands with her fingers laced in front of her, her face set pleasantly in expectation, her lips pressed together with the barest hint of a patient smile.
Hurry, hurry,
she thinks.
I'm the one who will have to serve Colonel Erdmann for the next three days, not you.
If Pruss refuses the colonel's request there is nothing she will be able to do about it. He is commander, after all, but she will be required to deliver the news.

“Max,” Pruss finally orders, “get the bullhorn and instruct the ground crew to have Dorothea Erdmann brought up from the other hangar.” He turns to Emilie. “You will collect her, I presume?”

“Yes, Commander.”

Max gives Pruss a sharp, obedient nod and steps around a glass wall into the navigation room. She has never seen him in this environment before; she has been in the control car only one time—during her initial tour of the airship. Seeing Max surrounded by his charts and navigational equipment makes sense. Another little piece of the puzzle locks into place. He is a mystery that is slowly, consistently being solved.

“Is there anything else, Fräulein Imhof?” There's the trace of humor in Commander Pruss's voice.

She's staring at Max.
Damn it,
she thinks.
Everyone has noticed. They'll pick him apart for that.
“No,” she answers.

“You may return to your duties, then.”

Emilie hears a distorted version of Max's deep voice echoing through the bullhorn as she ascends the ladder. The pointed look she gives the radiomen is very much an I-told-you-so rebuke. Once the door is shut behind her she stops to compose herself.

The only jewelry that Emilie wears is a skeleton key on a silver chain around her neck. The chain is long and tucked beneath her dress, hidden from view. She has not taken it off in the years since Hans died, and the side that lies against her skin has grown tarnished. It feels warm and heavy now, like a weight against her heart, so she pulls it out and cradles the key in her palm. It is the only thing she has left of her old life.

It is a life worth remembering, and Emilie struggles to keep Max Zabel from invading it. She tucks the key back inside her uniform, squares her shoulders, and goes to the gangway stairs to collect Dorothea Erdmann.

“W
ho is that woman, do you think?” Gertrud sets a slender fingertip against the window and points at a military jeep speeding across the tarmac toward them. A woman sits in the front seat, her hair blowing wildly around her face while she holds on to the door with one hand.

“She was on the bus. I saw her,” Leonhard says.

“Is she a passenger?”

“Apparently not.”

The jeep parks directly below them, out of sight, and a few moments later the woman rushes into the promenade, followed closely by the stewardess, and throws herself into the arms of a man standing apart from the rest of the passengers. Some turn to watch the spectacle, but most seem oblivious, their attention held by the pre-flight operations below.

The moment the couple embraces, the stewardess backs away, leaving the room looking pale and unsettled. Gertrud puzzles at this as they embrace each other, as tight as two humans can, for well over a minute.

“You know,” Leonhard whispers, “I've never seen a guest brought on board this close to takeoff before. They're quite serious about security. It's likely that only his rank made it possible.”

The man's clothing is indistinguishable from that of the other civilian passengers, and Gertrud gives her husband a questioning glance. “Who is he?”

“Fritz Erdmann.”

“You know him?”

“He's a Luftwaffe colonel. Kommandant at the Military Signal Communications School. He was appointed as a military observer to the
Hindenburg
earlier this year. It's not something he's thrilled about.”

“You know this because…?”

“He told me. During the first commercial flight to Rio de Janeiro in March.”

Of course Leonhard would know this. Leonhard knows
everything
about Germany's airship program. It is this knowledge, and his journalism skills, that have them on this ridiculous flight to begin with. He has recently collaborated on the autobiography of Captain Ernst Lehmann, director of flight operations for the Deutsche Zeppelin-Reederei. This flight was provided gratis so Leonhard could meet with his U.S. publishers prior to the book's release next month. Gertrud's attendance, though unwilling, was required as well.

Colonel Erdmann and his wife finally separate and stand gazing at one another. He brushes his thumb along her cheekbone, perhaps to wipe away a tear—Gertrud cannot be certain—and then she steps away from him and quietly leaves the ship. It occurs to Gertrud as she watches the jeep carry Frau Erdmann back to the hangar that neither of them uttered a word the entire time.

The colonel looks despondent as he watches his wife leave, and Gertrud smells a story. She sets her hand on Leonhard's arm. “Darling,” she says, “I think that man needs a drink.”

Leonhard gives her the look, the one that says he recognizes the purr in her voice, and that he knows she's up to something, but she's just too damn clever for him to preempt whatever mischief she has planned. He won't try to stop her, though. He never does.

“You will behave yourself?” He takes a step toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To the bar.”

“Why? The stewards are passing out champagne.”

He clucks his tongue. “
Liebchen,
champagne is not going to give you what you're after.”

“Who says I'm after anything?”

“I would be highly disappointed if you weren't.”

This is why Gertrud married a widower twenty-two years her senior. Leonhard is the only man she has ever met who not only appreciates her gumption but encourages it. “Well, then, order the good colonel a Maybach 12 and one for me as well.”

“Careful,
Liebchen.
Alte Füchse gehen schwer in die Falle.
”

She laughs and pats his cheek. “He's not such an old fox as that. Younger than you by the looks of it. And my traps are well laid.”

Leonhard lifts her hand and turns it palm up. He kisses it lightly. “I cannot argue that.” He dips his mouth toward her ear. “Many things about you are well laid,
Liebchen.
Though I prefer that you not spread such tempting traps for him as you did for me.”

“I hardly doubt you'll be gone long enough for that.”

“If it's the Maybach 12 you're drinking tonight, you'll not have much time yourself before I'll have to carry
you
to bed.”

“You'll hardly get the chance if you never get the drinks.”

“Start slowly at least. You don't have the legs to hold much of that particular drink.” Leonhard leaves her then and goes in search of the bar on B-deck and its famous cocktail, the recipe for which is known only to the bar steward, a secret that is guarded more closely than the
Hindenburg
itself.

Gertrud sniffs. They have established on more than one occasion that she is a lightweight when it comes to booze. Fine. She'll pace herself. But still, she waits a few moments to approach Colonel Erdmann. Waits to make sure that none of the other passengers will seek him out. He lingers apart from the cluster of people, his eyes glued to the hangar on the other side of the tarmac where his wife has disappeared once again.

She goes to stand beside him but does not draw attention to herself. After a moment she simply says, “Your wife is lovely.”

He does not look at her when he responds, “You have no idea.”

“You might be surprised. I'm a good judge of character.”

“I'll grant that. Given your husband.”

He is observant. She will have to be careful. “You know Leonhard?”

“As much as one man can know another from a few pleasant conversations.”

“He thinks highly of you.”

“I think not.”

This takes her aback. “Oh?”

For the first time since he entered the promenade Colonel Erdmann grins. He turns to face her. “It will take more than one Maybach 12 to get me talking, Frau Adelt. I would hope Leonhard gives me more credit than that.”

“So you heard our conversation?”

He shrugs. “I pay attention.”

Observant
and
clever. Gertrud mentally recalculates her plan of attack. “Alas, I am responsible for that poor estimate. Forgive me? I tend to assume the Luftwaffe recruits only one kind of man.”

He gives a lopsided grin. Waits for the punch line.

“Libertines.”

“Guilty as charged.”

She takes his laughter as a small victory and extends her hand with a smile. “Gertrud Adelt.”

“Fritz Erdmann.” He grasps her hand. Shakes it. “I see that you and Leonhard are very well matched.”

Gertrud opens her mouth to answer but is interrupted by the return of her husband.

“I'll be damned if I wasn't going to get it right the second time around.” Leonhard joins them at the window carrying three frosted glasses containing ice chips and a murky citrine liquid. The look he gives Gertrud is a mixture of astonishment and respect. He hands one of the glasses to the colonel. “You will join us for dinner? Unless my wife has revealed too much of her impetuous nature.”

Gertrud takes a tiny sip of the Maybach 12 and can almost feel her hair blow back. The drink is everything, all at once, and she has an immediate appreciation for its reputation. She can taste the kirsch and the Benedictine in equal parts, along with a good dry gin, and something else she can't identify. “He means I'm an acquired taste.”

“On the contrary,
Liebchen,
” Leonhard says. “It didn't take me long at all. One kiss, if I recall correctly.”

The colonel is clearly enjoying their banter. “This may come as a surprise to you, Frau Adelt, but I prefer women who speak
and
drink freely.”

“Why would that surprise me?”

“It's not the sort of thing you admit in polite society.”

“Oh, I'm hardly polite.”

“Neither is my wife.”

Gertrud can't help but look at the rectangular hangar across the tarmac. She's trying to find the right thing to say when the colonel speaks again.

“Dorothea would have liked you very much.”

“I would be honored to meet her. Perhaps when we return to Frankfurt?”

She offers her drink in toast, but he only clinks her glass halfheartedly. “Perhaps.”