Flight of Dreams

by Ariel Lawhon

  Her shift begins in an hour, so she turns on the light and dresses in a clean uniform identical to the one she wore yesterday. Emilie looks wrong—disheveled and jumpy—and she feels wrong—flustered and restless—but she does not know what to fix. Or how to go about fixing it. It’s as though she has taken a step sideways, outside herself, and can’t get back in alignment. Emilie’s hair is dark and her skin is light and her eyes are large, and the combination makes her look ghostly at this early hour. She brushes her hair until it crackles with static. She chooses the brightest shade of lipstick she owns—a deep ruby—and paints on a bit of mascara in the hope that it will make her eyes look bright instead of exhausted. It’s not yet five-thirty but there is nothing else to be done, so she goes in search of food. Emilie will not make yesterday’s mistakes. She will eat well. She will stay focused. She will avoid Max.

  It is a good plan, but ill-fated. She has not reached the crew’s mess before she finds herself face-to-face with the navigator. He is waiting for her in the keel corridor outside the kitchen. His eyes are the color of smoke this morning. They are bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles. Smoldering with anger. He didn’t sleep well, and the exhaustion is evident despite his perfectly groomed appearance. Max has simply tried to put a good face on a bad night.

  Emilie won’t meet his gaze. She tries to step around him and into the kitchen, but he catches her elbow. “No.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “You can wait.”

  When she tries to shake him off his grip tightens. “Let. Me. Go.”

  He takes a step forward, closing the gap between them. Max drops his mouth to her ear. “That’s not going to happen, Emilie.”

  Most of the crew and passengers are still asleep, so there is no one to hear her complaints as Max pulls her back down the keel corridor, around the gangway stairs, and down the outer walkway beside the observation windows. Somewhere below them is the Atlantic Ocean, but all she can see is gaping, heavy darkness and her own guarded reflection in the glass.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Somewhere we can talk privately.”

  “I don’t want to talk.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I thought you were a gentleman.”

  He snorts. “And I thought I could trust you.”

  “Trust?” Emilie yells just as Max opens the door to the public shower and pushes her inside. “You are lecturing me about trust?”

  It’s a small room, tiled floor to ceiling, and her voice ricochets the moment he closes the door behind them. It’s the only shower on board the airship and is rarely used—most passengers prefer to wash in their rooms; the crew members who could most benefit from the luxury of a shower are discouraged from spending any time on the passenger decks. But she can tell someone has been here this morning. The showerhead is dripping, and rivulets of moisture are running down the tile walls. It smells of soap and humidity. Behind them is the steady, irritating drip of water.

  “You went through my things!” Emilie’s restraint vanishes, and she shoves Max against the wall, furious. Betrayed. Desperate. For a brief moment she thinks this display of emotion makes him smile. But she isn’t sure. There’s a single overhead light, and Max’s face is obscured by the shadow of his cap.

  “I wasn’t trying to pry,” Max says. “I knocked your closet door open. The papers were right there. It’s not like I could miss them.”

  “You just knocked it open? That’s convenient.”

  “I was restless. You stood me up.”

  “I didn’t stand you up. I was—”

  “I don’t care what you were doing. You didn’t come back. You said you would come back.”

  “I did. And you were gone when I got there.”

  “Did you expect me to wait all night? Or perhaps you’d like for me to wait even longer? Years, maybe, while you flounce around America?”

  “That’s not your business.”

  “It is now.”

  “What? You think I’ve promised you something? Just because we’ve kissed?”

  “Do you treat kisses so lightly? Because I don’t.”

  “It was just a kiss.”

  “It was a hell of a lot more than that, Emilie. And you know it.” He seems to grow larger with every word, filling the bathroom until he’s towering over her.

  Emilie doesn’t remember there being such a difference in their heights, but she feels very small right now. Somewhat ashamed. Afraid. She straightens her spine and meets his wounded gaze. “You read too much into it.”

  “You asked me to stay.”

  She winces a little at this. And then a new rage washes over her. “Well, you should have. I would have made it worth your while. That’s what you want, right? My dress on the floor?”

  Max places the tip of his right index finger in the middle of her breastbone. It feels like a poker, red-hot and searing. Her entire body feels anchored to that one spot. “I. Want. You.”

  “Then take me!”

  “So you’d give me your body?” Max pulls away, slowly, in control of himself again. “And all the while you’d keep your heart locked away? I don’t want one without the other.”

  “Oh, I think you do.” Emilie takes a step forward. It’s cruel, she knows, but she doesn’t care. She’s only inches away from him now. He inhales sharply as she rubs the tip of her nose along his jaw.

  Max grabs her shoulders, and she can feel his arms tremble with restraint. He growls her name. And she is certain that he will kiss her. His head is tilting to the side to do just that. But he stops when Emilie begins to soften beneath him.

  “No.” A ragged breath. “We’re not done talking.”

  “This conversation isn’t urgent.”

  “Yes it is!” He shakes her a bit and lets go in alarm. Takes a deep breath. Steps back. “Don’t you understand? This is urgent. Are you leaving?”

  “Hush. Someone will hear you.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Well, I do, damn it,” she whispers. “In case you haven’t noticed, those papers aren’t exactly public.”

  When he speaks the volume is gone but the rage is still there, bubbling below the surface. “Do you know what Captain Lehmann will do to you if he finds out? Commander Pruss? Have you even stopped to think about that?”

  “Of course I have! Why do you think I hid them? I’m not stupid.”

  “They didn’t look very hidden to me.”

  “I don’t keep them in the closet, Max. I have a place. A compartment. I was looking at them last night when you came to my room. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “How long have you been planning this?”

  “A while.”

  “So what was I? A distraction? Some toy that you played with to kill time?”

  “Hey!” She shoves him again and tries to pull away, but there’s no room in this tiny shower, and he’s right there in front of her, no matter where she moves. “That’s not fair and you know it. I didn’t meet you until last year. I didn’t expect you. You’re just…” She waves her hands in front of her face as though trying to bat him away.

  A glimmer of understanding crosses his face. “You were making up your mind last night, weren’t you, when I knocked at the door?”

  “I had already made my decision. But it was the wrong one.”

  Max looks as though he wants to touch her. To hold her. As though he wants to collect her in his arms and swallow her whole so that she can’t run from him anymore. “How do you know?”

  This crack in Emilie’s defenses is a temporary thing. She pulls herself together right in front of him. Squares her shoulders. Sets her jaw. She controls every emotion with the same detached resolve that has enabled her to survive for the last decade. Her voice is cold when she finally speaks. “Because you weren’t there when I got back.”

  “I’m here now,” he says.

  “Too late.”

  “Because I discovered your secret?”

  “Are you go
ing to tell?”

  “Are you going to leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why leave everything you’ve ever known? It makes no sense.”

  “My God, are you blind? Deaf? Do you not read the papers or listen to the radio? War is coming, Max.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Hitler is trying to take Austria. Take it! Like a toy from another child. You think there won’t be war?”

  “I think a lot can happen between now and then.”

  “Then let me tell you what’s happening now. In case that future threat is not enough.” Emilie grows incensed but has no way to contain her trembling rage. “The Gestapo is more powerful than our court system. They are throwing people in prison just for criticizing Hitler.”

  Max flinches at this. He reaches out a finger and sets it on her lips to quiet her. They are on Hitler’s prize airship after all.

  Emilie continues in a whisper. “And the Jews? Where do I even begin with that?” She raises her hands and begins ticking offenses off with her fingers. “They are prohibited from all public and private employment. So they can’t work. At all. They are not allowed in public buildings. Many families cannot even buy milk or medicine for their children. There are rumors that…” She cannot even speak it aloud, it is too insane. “This is the country we are returning to. And you want me to stay there and be consumed? There is nothing left for me in Germany.” The diatribe leaves her breathless. Exhausted. To speak of her own people as they, as something other, to hide the fact that she is one of them leaves her ashamed, and she cannot meet Max’s gaze.

  He lifts her chin with one finger. “You have me.”

  “And you’re a navigator. An officer aboard the Hindenburg. You will be gone the moment that first shot is fired, called away to fight another man’s war, and I will be left again. Do you know what it’s like to hear that knock on the door? To have a stranger tell you that you are a widow? Is that what you want for me? Because I don’t. I am so tired of having things ripped from my hands. If you care anything for me at all, let me go. Please.”

  “So you’ll do the leaving this time? The ripping? Without any concern for the state in which you’re leaving me?”

  “You’re a man. It’s different.”

  “And you’re a fool if you believe that. I just hope you change your mind before we get off this damned ship on Thursday.”

  “I won’t change my mind, Max. I can’t.” She lifts her palm and sets it gently against the smooth skin of his cheek.

  “Do you have so little faith in me?”

  “I have faith in nothing.” She has never spoken the words aloud, but the admission leaves her gutted. For ten very long years this has been the truth. It is a jarring confession for a woman whose very identity is rooted in ancient faith.

  “Give me the chance to restore it.”

  She shakes her head. No.

  And then there is an urgent rapping of knuckles on the other side of the door. “Herr Zabel.” The voice is young and male, and Emilie recognizes it as the cabin boy’s.

  Max does not answer. He reaches for Emilie’s hand instead.

  The cabin boy speaks again, his voice barely above a whisper, “There is an urgent message for you.”

  THE CABIN BOY

  Werner sets the tray down beside the hatch that leads to the control car and yells, “Coffee!”

  Usually before returning to the kitchen he waits beside the opening until one of the officers climbs the ladder to collect the tray. But this morning when Christian Nielsen pops his head out of the hatch he motions Werner forward. “Commander Pruss wants to see you,” he says. There’s less than an hour until Max replaces Nielsen at the navigation table, and he looks like a man eager to see his bed. Pallid skin. Tired eyes. And his breath isn’t much to speak of either.

  Werner blinks, startled. The commander has never summoned him before. Though it isn’t uncommon for him to be called to help with the passengers occasionally, he is on this ship to serve the needs of the officers and crew. Werner joins Xaver Maier in the kitchen at 6:00 a.m. to clean any dishes used by the crew on the late shift. Plates and bowls and mugs are always strewn around the kitchen and mess areas, covered in bits of dried food. Xaver leaves out a variety of meats and cheeses and breads for them, and he is enraged every morning when he finds that none of the crew has gone to the trouble of rinsing their dishes in the sink. For his part, Werner doesn’t know why the chef throws such a fit. He’s not the one who has to wash them. It’s part of the cabin boy’s job, and he always does it without complaint. Once the kitchen is clean and prepped for breakfast, Werner takes coffee to the control car. A large silver carafe and six mugs. No cream. No sugar. No spoons. Werner has noticed that all of them sweeten their coffee when they have it in the officers’ mess but they drink it black while on duty. For a long time he thought it had to do with wanting to stay alert. But he has known the men long enough now to realize they are simply competing with one another. It’s stupid, he thinks, and when he’s a man he’ll drink his coffee however he wants and won’t care if anyone thinks less of him for adding cream and sugar.

  After an uncertain pause, Werner hands the tray to Nielsen and shimmies down the ladder after him. The control car is cold, at least a good ten to fifteen degrees colder than the rest of the airship, and all of these warm bodies in the chilly room have created a layer of condensation on the windows. They’re foggy. Not that it would matter. Everything outside of them is gray mist anyway. He follows Nielsen through the utility area, into the navigation room, then to the bridge. Pruss stands at the rudder wheel, staring into the gloom.

  “You need me, Commander?”

  Pruss nods a greeting, then hands Werner a piece of paper folded in half. One word is scrawled on the outside in black ink, a surname. “I need you to deliver this right away,” he says. He turns back to the rudder wheel without another word, but Werner can see his profile and he is struck, as he always is in the presence of the commander, that Pruss has the perpetual frown of a man lost in thought. The twin lines of concentration etched in his forehead are coupled with a determined mouth and a long, straight nose. This combination of features makes him appear formidable to Werner, almost unapproachable.

  Werner waits until he has climbed the ladder and left the radio room to look at the name written on the paper. He doesn’t want the other men to see him struggling to sound it out. He doesn’t want them to know how difficult it is for him to read the simplest things. To him, reading is a lesson in frustration. A reason to throw books and stomp his feet. Even though he has learned to control those childish urges, he still approaches the written word with dismay. Sometimes a page will blur around the edges, but most often the words will double when he tries to focus. He sees two Rs where there should be only one. But he is making progress, or at least that’s what his mother says. She is the one who sits with him in the evenings and patiently, consistently teaches him to see the words through the pile of letters and symbols. Had she left it to the school he would never have learned to read at all. But there are things that even his mother cannot fix. She can’t stop the letters from dancing or flipping over; a d becomes a b in the time it takes him to blink. Werner doesn’t know whether that’s the letter on the page or whether his mind has swapped it for something similar. He doesn’t know whether he’s reading about a ditch or a bitch.

  Werner lifts the note and looks at the name. Breathes a sigh of relief. He knows this letter. Z. And because Werner has grown very used to guessing words instead of reading them, he assumes that the note in his hands is meant for Max Zabel.

  Max is not in the officers’ mess. Werner searches all of the passenger areas, the kitchen, and the corridors. He is starting to panic, to wonder what he will tell Commander Pruss if the navigator cannot be found, when he hears raised voices coming from the shower near the portside stairs. The boy has been taught not to eavesdrop, but he does so anyway, pushing aside the twinge of guilt that comes from knowing his mo
ther would be disappointed. It takes only a few seconds to recognize Max’s voice within. But he is clearly upset, and he’s with a woman. Werner is scared to interrupt whatever is happening on the other side of the door.

  Finally he reaches out and knocks. His fist sounds like a rabbit anxiously thumping its foot. “Herr Zabel,” he says, his voice little more than a squeak.

  There is no immediate answer from within.

  He knocks again, louder this time. “There is an urgent message for you.”

  In the long seconds that follow Werner unclenches his hand and smoothes out the note. He looks at the name again, and this time Werner sounds it out carefully. His heart becomes a trip hammer. He had assumed that Pruss intended the note for Max. But he was wrong. It is meant for someone else.

  Werner would usually never read a private communication from the commander, but he is terrified now. The message is two sentences long. Simple words. A direct command. And Werner makes his decision as the door swings outward. He will give the message to Max anyway.

  THE NAVIGATOR

  Max holds on to Emilie with one hand and fumbles the bathroom door open with the other. He pushes it out with such force that Werner Franz jumps back to avoid being hit. “What?”

  “A message,” he stutters. Werner blushes at the sight of their clasped hands and tries again. “I have a message for you. From the control car. It’s important.”

  Before stepping into the corridor, Max turns back to Emilie. “This conversation isn’t over.”

  She narrows her eyes, then shuts the door in his face to signify otherwise. Max takes a moment to smooth the scowl from his forehead and to straighten his cap and jacket. One measured breath helps him gain composure. Then he turns a gimlet eye on the cabin boy.

  Werner Franz is only fourteen, a quiet boy known to work hard and rarely complain. Max feels guilty for being so gruff. But he isn’t certain whether he will get another chance to talk sense into Emilie. She is water through his hands. Ungraspable. Elusive. And if he must frighten Werner to settle things with her, so be it.