by Ariel Lawhon
Max’s reverie is broken by the guttural clearing of a throat. He turns to find Heinrich Kubis staring at his hand on Emilie’s arm. The chief steward drops two bulging mailbags at Max’s feet. “These are yours, I believe?”
He releases Emilie and lifts the bags. They are surprisingly heavy, but he’s determined not to show it. “So there’s the last of it. Commander Pruss said two more loads were coming on the bus.”
Emilie nods at the bags. “What’s this?”
“Max is our new postmaster,” Kubis says. He glances at Max and Emilie as though an idea has just occurred to him. “He will attend to those duties in his off hours.”
“His off hours? Meaning he won’t have any hours off?”
“You will have precious few yourself, Fräulein Imhof. And I’d highly suggest that you not spend them fraternizing with an officer in full view of the passengers.” He tips his head toward the control car. “Or the commander.”
Max is absurdly pleased that Emilie looks disappointed at this news. Perhaps she had imagined ways of filling his spare time? He takes a step back and clicks his heels sharply. Nods. “If you will excuse me, I need to get these stored in the mailroom before we cast off.”
Emilie is not pleased that their conversations seem to end on his terms, and he enjoys the lines of frustration that appear between her eyes. “Don’t you want my answer?” she calls after him.
“Send it by post!”
She may have something left to say, but he doesn’t wait to hear it. Max turns, a mailbag gripped tightly in each hand, and walks up the gangway. Instead of taking a sharp right and going up another set of stairs to A-deck, he turns left into the keel corridor and heads toward the front of the airship.
Max neatly sidesteps Wilhelm Balla. He has his hand on the elbow of a staggering American who is mumbling the words to some lewd drinking song, but the man slurs so badly Max catches only every other word.
“No. Your cabin is this way,” Balla says. “Nothing to see down there.”
Max offers the steward a cheerful smile. “Good luck with that.”
Balla expertly holds up the American with one arm while checking his manifest with the other. “The good news is that this Arschloch’s room isn’t on A-deck. I probably couldn’t get him up the stairs. The better news is that his cabin is right next to Kubis.”
The chief steward is a teetotaler and not generally fond of anything originating from America, whether people or products. Watching these two interact over the next few days should be interesting. Balla, at least, is smiling at the prospect. He shuffles off with the American, wearing the impish grin of a schoolboy anticipating some minor disaster.
The mailroom is down the corridor, on the left, just before the officers’ quarters, and Max has to drop the mailbags so he can unlock the door. All 17,000 pieces of mail were inspected by hand earlier that day in Frankfurt. The cutoff for letters to make this flight was three o’clock, and based on the weight of the last two bags, there was quite a last-minute rush. This is Max’s first flight as postmaster, having inherited the position from Kurt Schönherr for this year’s flight season, and he inspects the room carefully to make sure everything is in order.
The room smells of paper and ink and musty canvas, and in the dim light the piles of mail bear an uncomfortable resemblance to body bags. A bag marked KÖLN hangs on a hook by the door, waiting for the airdrop later that evening. In the corner is a squat, black, protective container. Metal. Locked. Fireproof. And off-limits to everyone but him. Inside are pieces of registered mail. And the items that require special care or discretion. The key to this lockbox is on the ring at Max’s waist. Three hours ago he was given a small package, one hundred newly printed marks, and a promise that if the package is kept safe until their arrival in New Jersey, he would receive another hundred.
The parcel is inside the lockbox, and the box itself is, thankfully, still locked. Max scans the room one more time to make sure everything is in order. Then he pats the mailbag headed for Cologne and locks the door behind him.
THE AMERICAN
He isn’t drunk. Not even close. It would take more than three watered-down gin and tonics to make him stumble. But he leans on the steward’s arm just the same. A well-timed lurch, a garbled word here and there, and no one is the wiser. The easiest way to be dismissed is to appear inordinately pissed in public.
Before he’s shuffled away by the steward, the American takes note of the key ring clipped to the officer’s belt and which door leads to the mailroom. Its proximity to the control car is problematic—there will always be officers lurking about—but he can deal with that later. The keel corridor is long and narrow with walls that slant outward, and he and the steward have to stand aside to let others pass four times before they reach his stateroom. It wouldn’t be appropriate to deposit a wasted Yankee in someone else’s cabin, so the humorless steward checks his clipboard twice before shoving the door open and guiding him to the bed. The steward’s name tag reads WILHELM BALLA, and his white jacket is perfectly pressed, as are the corners of his mouth. The American takes a perverse pride in the steward’s disapproval.
“You’ve got the room to yourself, so there’s no need to worry about inconveniencing anyone else while you sleep this off.” The steward shrugs out from beneath one of the American’s leaden arms. The American tips backward into the berth, seemingly incoherent. “Dinner is at ten. You’ll be seated at Commander Pruss’s table, I understand?” He waits for a beat and then continues, not bothering to hide the disdain in his voice. “I’ll come collect you if you’ve not woken by then.”
The American does not respond. He counts to five after the door clicks shut. Then he sits up and straightens his jacket. The room is larger than is typical for a cabin on board an airship. Eight feet wide by ten feet long. One berth that can sleep two instead of bunk beds. But it’s the window that makes it worth the ticket price. Like the windows elsewhere on board, this one is long and narrow and set into the slanted wall. Unlike the observation windows on the promenade, however, this one does not open. The sink and writing desk are larger here than on A-deck—there’s a bit of room to spread out. The small, narrow closet has enough room to hang a handful of shirts and trousers, but the rest of his clothing will need to be stowed beneath the bed. No trouble, he only checked two bags, and the item he is most eager to find isn’t in either of them. The American stands in the middle of the room and turns in small quarter-circle increments, methodically taking note of every detail. The walls and ceiling are made of foam board, thin and covered with cloth. Sound will travel easily through them. A handy thing if one wants to listen in on the conversations of one’s fellow passengers.
Where would it be? He tips his head to the side, pensive. Not in the closet. A quick search finds no hidden panels or packages. Neither is it in the mattress, pillowcases, or any of the bedding. The cabinets above and below the sink are empty, as is the light fixture attached to the ceiling. The American wonders for a brief moment if his request has been refused. He dismisses the idea out of hand. His requests are never refused. There is only one place in the room he has not checked, and he immediately feels a sense of disappointment. He thought the officer would have more imagination. Apparently not. He finds what he’s looking for beneath the berth in the farthest, darkest corner: an olive-green military-issue canvas bag. He is pleased with the contents.
A note, folded in half, with three words scrawled in black ink by a hasty hand: Make it clean.
A dog tag strung on a rusted ball chain, once belonging to the man he has come to kill. And a pistol, a Luger with a fully loaded cartridge. But there is no name. He was promised a name. He lifts the tag and inspects the information stamped on its surface. They expect him to decipher this clue on his own. They have baited him.
The American slides the bag under his pillow and stretches out on the bed, his arms beneath his head. He’s still lying there ten minutes later when the steward returns with his suitcases. They are tucked be
neath the bed and once again he is alone. But not asleep. He is thinking about what he must do next. He is thinking about the mailroom and how he will get inside unnoticed before they reach Cologne later tonight. He is thinking about the letter that has to be delivered. The American creates a mental inventory of each action that needs to be taken over the next three days and how everything—absolutely everything—must go according to plan.
THE CABIN BOY
Werner Franz will not let them see him cry. He has smashed his knee into the edge of a large steamer trunk and the pain is so sharp and deep inside the bone that he can feel a howl building in his chest and he clamps his teeth shut so it won’t come bellowing out. If he were at home or at school or anywhere but here with these men, he would allow himself the luxury of sobbing. But he will not prove himself a baby in front of his fellow crew members. He already takes enough ribbing as it is. So Werner steps aside and closes his eyes. Men pass him carrying trunks and luggage. He hears the shuffling of feet and the bark of a dog and a muttered curse, and he counts to ten silently, trying to compose himself. He lets out a long, deep breath, his scream subdued into silence, but he can’t help glaring at the trunk. It’s none the worse for wear, but he’ll be bruised for weeks.
Werner spins around when a large hand grips his shoulder. He looks directly into a broad barrel chest, then up into the face of Ludwig Knorr. The man is a legend on this ship, and Werner is in awe of him. But it’s the sort of awe that leads him to scuttle out of a room when Knorr enters, or to press himself against the corridor wall when they pass one another. A sort of reverence turned to abject terror, even though the man has never so much as spoken to him. Until now.
“If you’re going to kick something,” Knorr says, his voice a low rumble, “make sure it’s the door and not that trunk.” He points at the letters LV stamped in gold filigree across the leather. “It costs more than you’ll make all year. Understand?”
Werner nods his head. Drops his eyes. “Yes, Herr Knorr.”
Ludwig ruffles his hair. “And steer clear of Kubis for a while. He’s in a rage today. It’s the dogs. He hates dogs.”
Heinrich Kubis checks the tag on the trunk next to Werner. Then he orders one of the riggers to take it to the cargo area instead of to the passenger quarters. He tics a box on the clipboard in his hand and moves on to the next item. Beside Kubis is a large provisioning hatch that opens onto the tarmac below, where a pile of luggage is waiting to be lifted into the ship. The tricky part is determining whether the items go to the cabins or the cargo area. Kubis is unruffled, however, and gives orders without the slightest hesitation.
There is a frantic scrambling and clanging as the dogs are raised on the cargo platform. They spin and bark and whimper, making their wicker crates rattle. Werner knows the poor little beasts are terrified, but Kubis shows no sympathy. “To the cargo hold,” he orders, and the cages are lifted by two riggers apiece and carted away through the cavernous interior of the ship.
“I will never understand,” Kubis mutters, “why these fools insist on traveling with their pets.”
After ten more minutes of Kubis griping about live cargo, all the luggage has been dispersed except for one leather satchel. This he hands to Werner. “Stateroom nine on B-deck. Set it neatly on the bed so Frau Adelt will see it upon entering. She is, apparently, quite particular about her things.”
Werner takes the satchel and heads toward the passenger area. He is as familiar with the layout of this ship as he is with his parents’ apartment in Frankfurt. He turns the corner near the gangway stairs a bit too fast, almost knocking a young woman to the ground. But she has great reflexes and an even better sense of humor. She dances out of the way with a smile.
“I’m so sorry, Fräulein.” Werner blushes.
She ignores the apology. “Have you seen my brother?”
Werner is typically quick on his feet and quite affable. But this girl is very pretty. And she looks to be about his age. She’s staring at him, waiting for an answer to her question. He can’t seem to remember what she asked, so he stands there with the satchel clutched stupidly to his chest.
“My brother?” she asks again. “Have you seen him? He’s eight and blond and I’m going to wring his neck when I find him. Mama is in a state looking for him.”
“No.” Werner clears his throat so his voice won’t crack. “I’ve not seen him.”
“Well, if you come across the little imp, would you send him to the observation deck?”
“Of course. What is his name?”
“Werner.”
“That is my name also.” He almost doesn’t ask. It isn’t technically appropriate. But the question is out before he can reel it back in. “What is yours?”
Her eyes widen a bit, but in surprise, he thinks, not objection. “Irene.”
He’s careful to give her a small subservient nod. “Nice to meet you.”
Irene almost says something to this—her lips are parted slightly as though to reply—but she appears to change her mind. She pauses for a moment, then flounces off without another word. But when she turns to go up the stairs to A-deck, Werner can see a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, and she betrays herself by giving him a quick backward glance before she disappears. He stands there, watching her go, wondering why he wishes she would come back and make some other impertinent remark about her brother.
It has been almost two years since Werner was in school, and just as long since he has spent any significant amount of time around girls. So he is surprised by the heat in his cheeks and the smile on his face. He does not know what to make of the flipping in his stomach. Werner cannot identify the subtle shift that takes place within him as he carries the satchel through the open door and into the Adelts’ stateroom. He places it carefully beside the pillow. It feels as though the wires in his mind have come alive all at once in a sudden rush of electrical current. There is a buzzing in his head. He knows what it’s like to be afraid and to be exhausted and to be hungry, and even though this feels like a combination of all three, he is aware that it is something different. Something unique. Werner Franz makes his way to the observation deck to join the rest of the stewards, experiencing something very new indeed.
THE STEWARDESS
The 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.
