Flight of Dreams (6 page)

“Only when mixed with oxygen.” Pruss tilts his head a few degrees to the side. Takes in the American now that he has been challenged twice. “You are American?”

He nods at the others. “We all are.”

“I see,” Pruss says, “then you might want to ask your government why they are hoarding the world's largest supplies of helium.” He gives Margaret Mather a look that could be mistaken for an apology but is actually defensiveness. “This ship was designed to be lifted by helium. Which is not flammable.”

“Combustible.” The American corrects him again quietly.

“But your government,” Pruss continues, “refused to sell us the gas. Regardless of our arguments and our generous offers. So we were forced to use hydrogen.”

“But why wouldn't they sell Germany the helium?”

The American smiles.
Oh, Margaret,
he thinks,
you pretty fool.
“Our government,” he says, “is not in the business of furthering Germany's military goals.”

Pruss snorts. “This is a passenger ship.”

“With swastikas emblazoned on the side. Flown by Luftwaffe pilots. And fitted for artillery. It may look like a floating luxury hotel, Miss Mather, but you are, in reality, traveling on a Nazi warship.”

“That is a gross misrepresentation,” Pruss says. The angrier he gets, the heavier his accent becomes, the more he fumbles with what is usually clear and precise English.

The American draws back now that he has brought the commander to the edge of rage. He puts his hands up—a show of surrender. “I do not mean to offend. I simply meant to help Miss Mather understand the politics at play. The underlying tensions, so to speak.”

It's a cheap trick, using her as a shield, and Pruss is not fooled. “There is no tension.” He smiles at Margaret, then looks at the American. His eyes tighten at the corners, but the anger slips from his face. Pruss makes a jab of his own. “You purchased a ticket for this flight. Why financially support this airship when you claim to be so offended by it?”

“I didn't pay for my ticket. The McCann Erickson company did.” The American deflects the blow easily, then circles back to his point. “Regardless, a Nazi warship that flies over New York City fifteen times a year creates more than enough tension. Especially when safety is not always the primary concern of Zeppelin-Reederei.”

“Do explain what you mean by that.” Pruss leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, scowling.

The American takes a long sip of his wine, swishing it around his mouth before answering. “The propaganda flight last year on behalf of Herr Goebbels? Didn't this airship sustain damage during takeoff? And all so you could drop election pamphlets for the Nazis in adverse weather conditions?” He looks at Margaret and gives her a grin. Easy. Jovial. Uncomplicated. “Whatever else this airship might be, it was first funded by the Nazis and used for their purposes.”

While Pruss is formulating his answer, the American rises from the table and wipes his mouth with a linen napkin. “If you will excuse me, I need to use the restroom.” Seeds are planted and germinating within the minds of the two most social passengers on board this airship. Joseph and Margaret will spread this message from person to person, meal to meal, over the next three days. And by the time they land, every one of them will look at this ship and its parent company with the appropriate level of misgiving. The American is certain of this, determined even, that it will be so.

The American leaves Commander Pruss behind to deal with his rhetoric. As he weaves his way through the dining room, he can hear Pruss dismissing the accusations offhand, the commander's accent growing heavier with each word. It is as he passes the lovely young journalist and her husband that he remembers where he has seen them.

Neue Mainzer Strasse 56. The Frankfurt branch of the Ministry of Propaganda. Fourth floor. Three months ago.

Yes, it is all coming back to him now, confirmed in the curious glance Gertrud Adelt—for that is her name, he's certain of it now—directs at him as he passes. He remembers her bellow of rage as she stood in the fourth-floor hallway before the Kulturstaatssekretär. It was loud enough to draw the American from his desk on the floor below and up the stairs into the hall. She handed over her press card with a shaking hand, but her voice was calm and firm as she uttered such a string of profanities that every man present stood with mouth agape. It had certainly made an impression on the American. He's quite certain that he had witnessed her inventing a new obscenity on the spot. And then her husband had deftly removed her from the building before she could be arrested. Had Leonhard Adelt not been a man of some import himself, the American is certain things would have gone quite differently for them that day.

The American debates whether to classify Gertrud as a threat or a hindrance as he leaves the dining room. She clearly has no love for the Nazis, but she is too curious for her own good. In the end he decides to label her as unknown. It will have to do until he can make a better assessment.

All of the passengers are either seated at the tables or in the promenade as he slips into the keel corridor. Most of the crew is either serving dinner or in the midst of flight operations, so he goes down the stairs, away from the restrooms, and into the corridor on B-deck without being seen. The American pulls the pilfered salad fork from his pocket and tucks it into his palm, the handle hidden in his sleeve, as he approaches the mailroom door.

The lock is harder to pick than he anticipated, and for one moment he fears the tine will break off, but the tumblers shift at the last moment and the door swings inward. When he pulls the fork out he notices that the sharpest point of the tine has indeed snapped inside the lock and is lodged within. No worry. He won't need to do this again.

The American shuts the door behind him but does not turn on the light. He is accustomed to the dark. The letter in his suit pocket is standard size, thin, and cased in a thick paper envelope. Stamped express mail. The address typewritten. The single sheet of paper within contains a single line of print, also typewritten:
On board. Collect load at Hof Hotel. Room
218
. Will proceed as planned.
There is no light other than what seeps in beneath the door, and it takes his eyes a couple of moments to adjust. But he quickly finds the bag marked
KÖLN
hanging by the door and unties it. He tucks his letter inside and knots it again easily. The American is reaching for the door when he hears voices in the corridor outside. The doorknob jiggles. Someone curses. And he dives for the pile of mailbags on the floor.

B
y the time Emilie collapses into the banquette in the crew's mess she is limp from exhaustion and shaking with hunger. A table is tucked into each of the four corners, and padded seats run the length of two walls. The banquettes create distinct nooks where small groups of crew members can eat their meals in peace. Emilie sits at one on the far side with her back to the observation windows, ignoring the darkened scenery below. She's the only person in the mess, the rest of the crew having long since eaten their dinner. Emilie barely has a chance to settle into the upholstered cushions when Xaver Maier sets a plate of poached salmon in front of her. He arranges the utensils to accommodate her left hand.

“You remembered?” She wiggles her fingers and picks up the fork.

“It's my job.” He shrugs. “The rolls were hot an hour ago.”

“I wouldn't care if they were frozen. I'm starving.”

Emilie falls to her food as though it's her last meal on earth, and Xaver watches like a hovering parent, making sure each item is sampled and appreciated.

“How is it,” Max asks, standing in the doorway once again, “that this chef knows every important detail about you—the fact that you're left-handed, for instance—while I know so little?”

“She's not a chart,
Dummkopf.
Stop trying to read her,” Xaver says, irritated, as he pushes against the swinging door that leads into the kitchen. He stops midstep and turns. “If you'd like coffee I'd be happy to make some.”

Emilie shakes her head and waves him off. She glares at Max. Her mouth is full of roasted potatoes, and she has to chew quickly then swallow before she can speak. “How do you
do
that?”

Max grins. “Do what?”

“Magically appear in the doorway every time I'm in the middle of a conversation?”

“It's a gift, I suppose.”

“It's obnoxious,” Emilie says, but she's smiling anyway.

He settles into the seat across from her, arms on the table as though he's got nothing else to do.

“That's rude, you know, staring at people while they eat,” she says around a mouthful of green beans.

“It's also rude to talk with your mouth full. Yet here we are.” He waits a moment as though deciding whether to concede, and then adds, “I came to collect you. I thought it would be polite to let you finish dinner.”

She growls softly and attacks her meal with renewed energy. Emilie is neither delicate nor discreet about the way she dispatches the rest of her meal. She's hungry, damn it, and she doesn't care if Max is horrified. Perhaps this will run him off. She can feel the taut thread of exhaustion in her spine begin to fray, ready to snap. With a job like this, each day brings a definite and complete end to her coping skills. She stabs at a loose green bean with the tines of her fork and watches it skitter off the edge of the plate and onto the table. She pinches it with two fingers and eats it anyway. Of
course
someone would need her the moment she finally has a chance to sit down and eat. Emilie catalogues the passengers she is responsible for on this flight, trying to guess which one might have paged her. It's a game she plays on every trip, and she's almost always correct. She once had a passenger on board the
Columbus
who insisted that Emilie clean beneath her toenails with a letter opener every night before bed. Emilie had the woman pegged as trouble the moment she walked up the gangway pinching her nostrils and complaining about the harbor stench.

“Was it good?” Max asks when she finally sets her fork down.

“I don't know. I didn't get the chance to taste it.” She's immediately sorry for snapping at him. She softens her tone. “Haven't you eaten?”

“I'm still on duty.” He shrugs. “The mail.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

Max waves the apology away and motions her toward the door. They step into the dim, empty corridor. She straightens her uniform, then takes a deep breath to gird herself for whatever distasteful task awaits. “Which one of the passengers paged me?”

“I never said a passenger needed you.”

“You said you came to—”

“Collect you.”

“For what?”

Max extends his hand, palm up, as though pleading. “There's something I'd like to show you.”

A memory, sudden and Technicolor, rises to the surface: Hamburg, Germany, twenty years ago, a blue door, a red dress, and fingers fumbling at a zipper. Emilie leans against the corridor wall to steady herself as a sudden, unexpected burst of laughter erupts. Two minutes ago she wanted to stab Max with her fork, and now she can barely stand because she's laughing so hard.

“What's so funny?”

“I'm sorry. I can't help it. The last time a boy said those words to me, I was fifteen years old, and Frank Becker took me to the back of my father's shop and tried to show me his
Schwanz.
”

Max is dark. Black hair. Olive skin. Eyes like flint. But the color still begins to show in his face, and this makes her laugh even harder. She's doubled over now, arms wrapped around her ribs, leaning hard against the wall so she won't tip over.

“That's not what I…I don't…well, I mean I
do,
but…
Scheiße
! I'll shut up.”

Her breath comes in gasps. “Oh no, do keep going.”

Max clears his throat. Tries to regain his dignity. To match her bawdiness. “Did he succeed, then, Frank Becker?”

“Almost. I left him there, balled up on the floor grabbing his crotch.”

“Duly noted.”

“Oh, I
was
curious.” Emilie hiccups. “But I felt that I had to kick him on principle.”

“No uninvited
Schwanz
flashing?”

“It simply won't do.” She gives a curt shake of her head, making her curls bounce against her shoulders. “Besides, I was a good girl. And my father would have castrated Frank if he'd found out. A bloody mess that would have been, given that he worked with Frank's father.”

“Pun intended?”

“Most definitely.”

“And what did your father do for a living?”

“He was a butcher.”

Now it's Max's turn to laugh. It occurs to Emilie that she likes the sound very much and that she doesn't hear it often enough.

“I am curious about something, Herr Zabel.”

“Yes?”

“Why is it that I can't spend ten minutes in your company without laughing?”

There's something about the look on his face, like he's pleased with the whole world, like this is a private triumph. She wants to know what's behind that look, but she is also aware that Max has revealed a lot about his feelings for her, and that she has given him little in the way of reciprocation. So she isn't surprised when he brushes the question aside.

“If you're going to make a joke about my face, I'd like the chance to beg your mercy. My
Schwanz
has already shrunk an inch thanks to your last story. I'm not sure how much more of your honesty I can take.”

Emilie sets a hand against his cheek. His skin is soft below the day's worth of stubble. “Well,” she says, her voice just a notch above a whisper, “I've not been acquainted with the other, but I like your face just fine.”

Max leans into her touch. The softness around his eyes and the curve of his mouth suggests he can't help himself. “This is where I prove myself to be smarter than young Herr Becker.”

“It's not hard, but pray tell, how do you plan on doing that?”

“By keeping my trousers zipped.”

There is an easiness in the way she relates to Max that Emilie finds alarming. Easy anger. Easy laughter. Easy companionship. It has been a long time since Emilie has felt these things, and she does not know how to surrender to them. She meets Max's steady gaze with all the bravery she can muster. “Now, what was it you wanted to show me?”

“Cologne,” he says.