Flight of Dreams

by Ariel Lawhon

  “You have been paged, Frau Imhof.” The dry, impatient voice is that of Heinrich Kubis. “Margaret Mather requires your assistance.”

  Emilie mentally repeats the name in several languages until the face of the American heiress drifts into her mind.

  “I will be right there.”

  “Very well.”

  She listens to Kubis’s retreating footsteps. And now, another choice. Max cannot very well be seen following her from the room, especially with Kubis in the corridor. But if he stays here they will have to continue this conversation, and Emilie will have to finally give her answer. She sits there, looking at Max, one hand on the key and the other pressed lightly to her lips where he has just kissed her. “Will you wait here?” she whispers.

  He gives a small, pleased smile. “Of course.”

  Max stands and lifts her dress from the ladder. “I am quite fond of that robe already, and what lies beneath it even more so, but I doubt Kubis would approve of your attending to Frau Mather in your slip.”

  “And you propose to help me dress?”

  “I can turn to the wall, if you like.”

  As always, the decision is hers. Max Zabel truly is the most infuriating man she has ever met. But Emilie unties her robe and sets it on the top berth. She shrugs and raises her hands above her head like a little girl being dressed by her mother.

  This time Max does look. But it’s the barest whisper of a glance as he lowers the dress over her head. Somehow they do the buttoning and the belting in tandem. They do not speak. They do not look at one another. Max approaches the job very much the way she imagines he approaches his charts: with precision and delicacy. And it is now, even more so than during the kiss, that Emilie realizes how much she has missed being touched.

  In the end he does turn to the wall when she pulls on her stockings. There is only so much intimacy she can handle for one night.

  Max straightens her collar and with a warm hand slides the key back inside her slip. His knuckles brush against the swell of her breast but it does not linger. Seconds later he stands there, hands tucked into his pockets.

  “I will be right back,” she says.

  “I will be right here.”

  THE NAVIGATOR

  Max does not mean to find the documents. It happens by accident, the way everything with Emilie happens. Much like the way he has fallen in love with her. She should have been back by now. Of course, he thought that thirty minutes ago as well. Whatever help this Mather woman needs must be excessive and completely unnecessary. It has been over an hour now, and Max has not even begun to cool off. That’s what set him pacing in the first place. And if he hadn’t been pacing he wouldn’t have gotten a little carried away and started swinging his arms in agitation. And if he hadn’t been charging around the room like a damned horny monkey he wouldn’t have run into the closet door, knocking it open. And he would not now be staring at a birth certificate, passport, five hundred American dollars, and immigration documents in the name of one Fräulein Emilie Imhof. Max scoops them up, takes one look, and then sits down roughly on the bed.

  Emilie does not plan on returning to Germany.

  The strangled sound he makes is one of despair. These are her private things, and he has no business riffling through them. He knows that. Emilie owes him nothing. But she kissed him back, damn it. He mutters this as he lifts the pale green satin robe from the bed. He buries his face in it, inhales her clean, sweet scent until it fills his head.

  For over a year Max has wondered what it would be like to kiss Emilie. He has watched her from the day of their first flight. He has created opportunities to speak with her. Slowly, one trip at a time, he has lessened her resistance. He has reveled in her humor. Marveled at her defiance, her intelligence, her uncanny ability to anticipate the needs of others. And now he knows that her kiss is even sweeter than he imagined, that her skin is softer, and the feel of her breast beneath his hand—no matter how fleeting—reduces him to putty.

  And Emilie Imhof is leaving him.

  There are certain attributes that work better than others in the field of aviation, and for the most part Max has them in abundance. He is cautious. Patient. Thorough. Punctual. He has diligently applied these traits to his pursuit of Emilie. But at this moment he is also embarrassed. He is hurt. Sad. Volatile emotions that filter through a rapidly deteriorating fuse of anger. When that fuse burns dry he is past the point of reason.

  Max jerks to his feet. He grabs his cap from the top berth and places it firmly on his head. He pulls a pen from the inside of his coat pocket and writes a note, a single line, on the envelope that holds her money, the nib digging so deeply into the paper that it almost tears. He looks at what he has written. It’s blunt and acerbic, and he isn’t sorry. He sets everything back in the closet where he found it. Then Max Zabel, navigator, postmaster, breaks his first promise to Emilie. He does not wait for her to return.

  THE JOURNALIST

  Leonhard is wrong. She cannot sleep. He lies beside her, on the outer edge of the berth, lost in the deep, contented slumber of a man who has just been soundly bedded. She spoke the truth to him earlier that day: being a good girl is not one of her talents. She has many others that he much prefers anyway.

  He looks younger when he sleeps, boyish somehow. The deep lines on his brow smooth out, his mouth relaxes. She lifts the glasses gently from his face—she hadn’t noticed that he’d left them on—and sets them on the ledge beside the bed. They will be the first thing he reaches for in the morning. He turns to the side and buries his face in the pillow while Gertrud pushes the sheet away and rolls around, unable to get comfortable. It’s not that she doesn’t want to sleep; she simply can’t. Her mind is sharp and clear, every thought standing out in deeper contrast the longer she lies here. This is always what happens when she’s on deadline. When a story has piqued her interest. When there is a trail to chase. But right now there are only worries to catalogue.

  Egon. She tries to push that thought away but he only becomes clearer in her mind.

  Colonel Erdmann.

  The bomb threats. Bomb threats, for God’s sake! And credible ones at that. How can a girl get an ounce of sleep with that on her mind? She balls her hand into a fist and pounds it against the mattress. Leonhard doesn’t stir and she frowns in the dark, resenting this singular male ability to sleep like the dead after sex.

  Gertrud thinks of the fact that at this very moment they are flying over the Atlantic Ocean in an aircraft lifted by combustible gas. Of course a man would come up with this, she thinks; you’d never find a woman inventing a floating bomb.

  Her press card and its current location at the bottom of a desk drawer in Frankfurt. The thought makes her wince. And then cuss. “Drecksau.” She spits the word out, not even bothering to whisper, but Leonhard doesn’t so much as stir beside her.

  That was easily the single worst day of her career. Leonhard had been so calm on the surface, so unperturbed, as he’d taken her arm and turned her back down the hallway after she’d insulted not only the Kulturstaatssekretär but the Hure fungus of a mother who brought him into the world. She regrets that last part. Gertrud hates the word, hates it entirely, and has made a point never to insult other women. For a woman who trades in words and wields them with precision, using such a word was inexcusable. And yet it came unbidden in her rage, and even Leonhard could not hide his astonishment.

  The Frankfurt branch of the Ministry of Propaganda leases office space at Neue Mainzer Strasse 56. It’s on the fourth floor and has an impressive view of the city. As do all the other floors, but they are empty except for a small sublet office on the third floor. She was told it is occupied by an American advertising company. Which would make sense. Many Germans aren’t comfortable with the idea of doing business anywhere near the Ministry of Propaganda.

  Something clicks in Gertrud’s mind and she sits up so quickly the blood rushes to her head. She waits for the dizziness to subside, then picks the thought up. Turns it over. Ex
amines it closely.

  Neue Mainzer Strasse.

  Her press card.

  Americans.

  “Oh shit.”

  Gertrud scrambles over Leonhard and stands stark naked in the middle of the room, thinking. She presses the heels of her hands against her temples, forcing her mind into submission. Forcing it to slow. Caution is not one of Gertrud’s greater attributes, and she throws it to the wind now. She checks the watch on Leonhard’s limp wrist. Two a.m. Her decision is made before she has time to stop and consider the consequences. She gathers her discarded clothing from the floor and dresses herself in the dark. Runs fingers through her hair. Pinches her cheeks.

  Gertrud places a tender kiss on Leonhard’s cheek and quietly slips out the door. The bathrooms are open at all hours and well lit. Thank goodness. So she’s able to inspect her appearance with greater care before heading toward the bar. It will close in one hour, and she desperately needs a glass of wine and a good cigarette—something she hasn’t enjoyed since becoming pregnant with Egon. The doctors told her she needn’t quit, that smoking was a benign pleasure, but she had given it up anyway. The same way she’d given up coffee and drinking and a distinctly unladylike penchant for bicycling five miles a day.

  “Oh. Back again?” the bartender asks. He takes in her wrinkled clothing, her disheveled hair with a curious tilt of his head.

  Schulze. His name is Schulze, she thinks. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “And your husband?”

  “That’s not something he struggles with. Unfortunately.”

  “And what can I do for you, Frau…”

  “Adelt.”

  “A nightcap perhaps? I make a fine hot toddy.”

  She had come for wine—Sauvignon blanc in particular—but something about the idea of whiskey and cinnamon, honey and lemon, cloves and a warm mug very much appeals to her right now. “That would be wonderful. And a pack of Chesterfields, if you have them.”

  “I do have them, but I can’t give you a pack. I can bring you two to start with, and then more if needed. But the packs are not allowed out of the bar, and the cigarettes themselves stay in the smoking room. I’m sure you understand the need for this?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Follow me.” Schulze motions toward the air-lock door.

  There is only one other passenger in the room, and Gertrud stops short inside the door. His jacket is off. His tie is loose. And despite the fact that there are no fewer than five empty glasses on the table before him, his eyes are clear, quite different from how he looked on the bus that afternoon. The American has dark hair, parted down the middle, and a stray piece hangs across his forehead. It has been a long day for everyone, apparently. His mustache is neat and trimmed, but his lips are pursed. He is not happy to see her. The American slides something off the edge of the table—some sort of pendant on a ball chain—and tucks it in his suit pocket.

  “Forgive me,” Schulze says, “where are my manners? Frau Adelt, this is Edward Douglas. He’s traveling home to visit family in America. Herr Douglas, this is Frau Adelt, a journalist, I believe?”

  She nods when he looks at her in question.

  Perhaps it’s because her mind is already ticking along faster than she can control, but Gertrud makes the first move. “Pleased to meet you,” she says, extending her hand.

  The American takes it. “Charmed.”

  “Do you mind if I sit here?” Gertrud succeeds in summoning a perfectly guileless tone. “My husband is asleep, and I detest drinking alone.”

  “Of course.” He stands and pulls out a chair from the table, the one farthest from him, she notes.

  Having seen her neatly situated, Schulze returns to the bar to prepare her drink. Gertrud does not speak as she waits. Neither does the American. They simply survey one another, like two predators circling. Schulze returns with a tray and places it on the table, and she thanks him. Takes a sip of her hot toddy. Assures him that everything is to her liking.

  The bartender lifts one of the cigarettes from the tray and pulls a pack of matches from his pocket. He is the keeper of flame on this airship. To Gertrud it appears as though he guards it with his life.

  “May I?” Schulze asks.

  “Please.”

  A sweet, pungent smoke drifts from the glowing end of her Chesterfield. She inhales once to show the bartender her gratitude but then waits until the air-lock door clicks shut behind him before she speaks. She looks at the American. “Who are you?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “But I asked first.”

  “You heard the introduction. I’m American. I’m traveling home to visit my family in New Jersey.”

  “You’re also a very, very good liar.” She looks at the empty glasses on the table. Shakes her head.

  “I’ve spoken nothing but the truth, Frau Adelt.”

  “Forgive me. You’re a good actor, then.”

  He shrugs. “And you?”

  “I’m a terrible actor.”

  “I’d imagine you’re a damn good liar, though.”

  “I prefer the truth. I’m a journalist. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” he says matter-of-factly. “I did.”

  “You were there that day in Frankfurt.”

  He nods.

  “Why?”

  “I work in the building.”

  “No one works in that building. Not unless they have a death wish.”

  “Cheap rent.”

  “You don’t work for the Ministry of Propaganda?”

  He snorts. “No.”

  “But you were in the hallway when it happened.”

  “You made quite a ruckus, Frau Adelt. It was hard to ignore.”

  “So curiosity brought you up those stairs?”

  “It did rather sound as though you were being slaughtered.”

  “No. Not me. Just my career.”

  “It’s one and the same where I come from,” the American says.

  This is why Gertrud pursued a career in journalism. She imagines it to be why people charge into battle or go on safari. There is nothing so addictive as the hunt. Her problem is that she likes it a little too much. Finds it too compelling. She swings her foot beneath the table, and her hands begin to tremble in anticipation, so she slowly raises the Chesterfield to her lips and pulls a mouthful of smoke into her lungs. Gertrud lets the cigarette sit there, burning, until her extremities settle.

  “Just who the hell are you?” she asks.

  DAY TWO

  TUESDAY, MAY 4, 1937—5:00 A.M., ATLANTIC STANDARD TIME

  NORTH ATLANTIC OCEAN

  2 DAYS, 8 HOURS, AND 25 MINUTES UNTIL THE EXPLOSION

  Out of the softening sunset came the airship; and the manner of its moving was beautiful. Few inanimate objects attain beauty in the pursuance of their courses, and yet, to me, at least, the flight of this ship was far lovelier than the swooping of a bird or the jumping of a horse. For it seemed to carry with it a calm dignity and consciousness of destiny which ranked it among the wonders of time itself.

  —From The Zeppelin Reader, “Even the Birds: U.S.S. Akron,” Anonymous

  THE STEWARDESS

  Max’s handwriting is exactly what you would expect from a man of charts and maps and letters. It is blunt and precise. He has a steady hand. No smudges or crooked letters. The harsh words are written with deep, straight lines, the strokes heavy and thick with ink. Each word makes Emilie wince. Their combined effect makes her angry and nauseous and ashamed.

  You should have told me sooner.

  She has a moment of heart-stuttering panic before she remembers that Max cannot have learned her heritage from those papers alone. If that were possible, the Zeppelin-Reederei would have done so long ago and she never would have been offered this job. Perhaps it was laziness on their part. She will never be certain. Regardless, knowing that the Nazis hired a Jewish woman as their first stewardess is a small, private triumph for Emilie.

 
; It is her plan to defect that has angered Max, not her secret. He has written his note on the envelope that holds her life savings. She found it sitting on top of her travel papers when she got back to her empty room the night before. It had taken over an hour to get Margaret Mather out of her corset. The inept maid who had helped her into it in Frankfurt had double-knotted the laces at six points, leaving Emilie with no option but to cut the heiress out of her garment. Fräulein Mather had shown remarkably good humor during the ordeal. Emilie had done everything in her power to save the garment, and to untie the tangled knots first. But all to no avail. The heiress did not tell her what the contraption cost, but she winced visibly when it fell to the floor after being severed with a pair of Xaver’s kitchen shears.

  And all the time Emilie was gone the only thing she could think of was Max. The warmth of his hands. The way he looked at her beneath hooded lids. How she hungered to be kissed again. Only deeper and longer. By the time she slipped back into her cabin Emilie had convinced herself that she wanted Max to stay. She was ready to give him the answer he desired. But the room was dark and silent, and she knew as soon as she shut the door behind her that he was no longer there. His absence was tangible.

  It took Emilie several minutes to find the note. And when she read it a hundred tiny threads tethering her heart in place loosened and slipped away. She did not cry. Or rush after him. Emilie simply put her papers back in the bottom of her cosmetics case, stripped off her rumpled clothing, and crawled into bed. There was no transition between waking and sleeping. There was only the heavy, complete surrender to oblivion.

  Sleep abandoned her just as suddenly a few moments ago, and now she lies wide-eyed in the dark. She is in the same position in which she fell asleep last night—on her back, fingers laced over her navel. She doubts that she even rolled over. It takes only a few breaths before she remembers the note.

  You should have told me sooner.

  Would it have changed anything? she wonders. Would he have decided not to waste his time? And what will he do now that he knows her plan? Betray her? She considers the possibility. No. Max would never do that.