Flight of Dreams

by Ariel Lawhon

  She is flushed, excited, as she dries and dresses and readies herself for breakfast. Hair and makeup and general grooming are done in the cabin, in record time, and she’s buzzing like a live wire by the time she reaches the dining room. Leonhard rises from his seat and comes to greet her as soon as she enters. He is so hell-bent on intercepting her that he doesn’t notice the dramatic change in her countenance. He bends low to place a kiss on her cheek. “You smell better.”

  “Hhhmm. I did think a bit of food would improve your manners.”

  Leonhard takes her arm and tucks it into the crook of his arm. “Hold it against me all you like. But I need you angry this morning.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You provoked me on purpose?”

  “Yes.” He pulls out her chair and helps her settle into place at the table. Their voices are low. Polite. No one would guess they are hovering on the edge of a quarrel. “For one, you’re at your sharpest when you’re angry. I’ve always rather appreciated that about you.”

  She snaps out her napkin and then presses it smooth across her lap. Gertrud skewers him with her gaze.

  “Well, if I’m honest, it also terrifies me a bit. But I can’t deny it’s sexy.”

  “Shall I congratulate you on your bravery?”

  “No. But I’d appreciate it if you’d let me finish my point.”

  She waves a hand indicating that he should go ahead.

  “Look around, Liebchen. What do you see?” He leans an arm across the back of his chair. “I’m rather surprised you hadn’t noticed already. You do dislike the man after all.”

  The American. Holding court. In the promenade beside the dining room. He is clear-eyed and clean shaven, showing no signs of a man who was up half the night drinking. He never looks in their direction, but Gertrud knows he’s watching them nonetheless. His body is angled in such a way that the Adelts are right in his peripheral vision. He is surrounded by a small crowd of male passengers. Whatever he says makes them roar with laughter, and Gertrud looks away in disgust. She is offended at the mere suggestion that such a man could be funny.

  Leonhard summons one of the dining stewards to their table. His name tag reads SEVERIN KLEIN, and his face reads Aryan poster child. Blond hair. Square jaw. Blue eyes. “Coffee for both of us, please.”

  She catches Klein’s quick surveillance and immediate approval of them. He tips the silver carafe over her mug, and Gertrud begins an elaborate preparation ritual involving so much sugar and cream that Leonhard shakes his head in disgust. She is soon nursing a full cup of ivory coffee and a viscous mood. Klein hasn’t been nearly so attentive to the Jewish businessmen seated next to them. Nor was he last night.

  “Do you see what we’re up against now?” Leonhard asks. It takes her a moment to realize he is not talking about the steward or all that he represents. He’s watching the American with that look he gets when there’s a puzzle to be solved. “He’ll have them believing anything he says before the dishes are cleared. So yes, I made you angry on purpose. And I’ll gladly keep you that way so long as you do not, for a moment, forget that there are certain protections your husband can provide. I’d suggest you make good use of them. Even if the thought does chafe your unique sensibilities. It’s what I’m here for, damn it.”

  It’s then that she notices Leonhard has placed himself strategically between her and the American. No matter that the man is twenty feet away or out of earshot. It’s a small thing, but he has created a buffer between them. Marking his territory as it were. Leonhard is a man after all. And, she must admit, a good one.

  “You are right.”

  It’s the closest she will come to offering an apology, and Leonhard knows well enough to take what he can get. He lifts her hand from the tablecloth and kisses it.

  The American’s audience has grown by a handful as the passengers wait for breakfast to be served. “What is he going on about over there anyway?”

  “Funny you should ask, Liebchen.”

  THE AMERICAN

  The American has been watching Leonhard Adelt for twenty minutes. The journalist rises from the table and goes to greet his wife. She looks a bit worse for wear, though it appears as though she has at least managed a shower this morning. The tips of each curl hang heavy with moisture against her jaw, and Leonhard escorts her to their table and seats her in the chair farthest away. Once settled, they begin to have a calm but rather intense debate. The American would wager that her husband was not aware of, or in favor of, her little excursion in the middle of the night. He can tell by the stiffness of her spine and the set of her jaw that she is being taken to task for it now.

  His attention is drawn to one of the couples sitting near him. The wife is complaining about the trip, and he has to hide his irritation. Wealthy brats. They expect to be entertained at all times. The press makes it sound as though movie stars and royalty crowd every voyage, and she is vexed to find herself mingling with common businessmen and housewives.

  “This isn’t the most exciting voyage so far,” she says to her husband. She is disappointed. The weather is dreary. And the company more so. The food is decent, but she has had better. The beds are too small and the temperature too cold. “I wish we had been on the Millionaires Flight last year.”

  “You can keep your millionaires,” her husband says. “I just wish we had been on board when it flew over the Olympics. Can you imagine?”

  “Heard about that flight, did you?” the American asks. He moves closer. Introduces himself. Learns they are Otto and Elsa Ernst. Retirees. Upper-middle class. Unimportant.

  “Everyone heard about it. The pictures were all over the papers. The Hindenburg flew right over the stadium.”

  The American leans toward them and lowers his voice as though telling a secret. “Did you know that Hitler had the Olympic rings emblazoned on the side of this ship just for the occasion?”

  “I don’t recall that actually.” Otto frowns. The memory is lost somewhere in the folds of his mind.

  He shrugs. “Most people never noticed them. The swastikas are rather more obvious.”

  A nervous tremor runs through the small crowd, and the American keeps his smile hidden. The Nazi symbol represents the white elephant in the room, a thing to be avoided in civilized discussion. Ignore it long enough and it will go away. Keep opinions spare and to yourself. And yet he very much enjoys poking the dragon.

  He continues. “The Nazis had just finished funding the completion of our good airship here, and, given their proprietary feelings, it only made sense for them to make a showing during the opening ceremonies last year in Berlin. And it was quite impressive. I was there.”

  “I wanted to go but had to settle for reading about it in the papers,” Otto admits.

  A carefully worded version, no doubt. That particular event went down in history but not in the way the Führer intended. At the mention of the Olympics several more people wander into the promenade. The results of one particular competition are well-known in Germany, but little publicized. Curious citizens have to get their gossip where they can.

  “It was all rather symbolic for him,” the American says. “Prophetic even. It was meant to be the event in which his people showed their superiority. All carefully orchestrated, of course. The very motto of the Olympics, the hendiatris: Citius, Altius, Fortius. Higher, Faster, Stronger. It was a sign to him. And the rings, of course. Well, that bit took on a religious significance that we will spend decades debating. Mark my words. But what can you expect from a man who bases his worldview on an opera about Norse mythology?”

  They are completely lost at this bit of information, and he doesn’t bother to enlighten them. All of these people, these sheep, will understand their leader soon enough, and they will wish that they didn’t. Let them regret it later. Let them wish they had taken a moment to know who Adolf Hitler really is and what he believes. An old prophecy. A burning of the world. Renewal. Perfection. They put the psychopath in power. Let them live with the consequences.
He takes a deep breath to control his own trembling fanaticism. The irony isn’t lost on him. It takes a zealot to know a zealot. And sometimes it takes one to stop one. He will do what he can. Even if it means the only thing he stops is Hitler’s favorite airship.

  “The Führer,” he says, “didn’t just expect a great German sweep of those games; he was certain of it. Hitler’s designs were clear—in his mind, at least, if not in the minds of most people who sat in those stands. Germany was superior. Jessie Owens put an end to that, of course.”

  He finds Werner Franz in the crowd of faces staring at him and acknowledges the unspoken question in his eyes with a nod. The boy’s mouth forms into a circle. Oh. The dog.

  The serving pantry door swings wide and three stewards step out holding large trays loaded down with steaming plates. Much of the crowd dissipates. The American can’t compete with food. Doesn’t intend to. Another seed has been planted. He’ll let it germinate before he pokes this soil again. Let them eat. Let them revel in their petty luxuries for a moment. He can live with that. Because something is growing beneath the surface. He can see it in the uneasy shift of their eyes while he speaks. Subversion dressed up as storytelling, as entertainment, as gossip. It’s easier to swallow that way. He turns to the window, letting the stragglers come to him if they will.

  With gray clouds above and gray sea below, and the Hindenburg floating smoothly between them, it feels very much as though they are trapped in the space between lid and pan. The few passengers who wander over to the observation window seem greatly disheartened by the sight. They want scenery. Excitement. Perhaps a breaching whale or a passing steamship. Instead they have stillness and conformity. They are restless, and the American will exploit this.

  He notes that the Jewish men seated beside the Adelts make quick work of their meal. No coffee refills. No extra toast or marmalade. Slices of cold bacon are pushed to the edge of their plates. He suspects that their steward, Severin Klein, added it to the order out of spite. In less than ten minutes the two men are standing casually beside him at the observation windows. Heads bent. Eyes fixed, but unseeing, on the ocean below. After a moment they introduce themselves as Moritz Feibusch, a food broker from San Francisco, and William Leuchtenberg, an executive in New York City. Clearly they’ve been talking about what the American has said.

  “The Olympic rings are gone now,” Moritz says. “I didn’t see them when we boarded.”

  “Of course. Hitler wouldn’t very well keep them painted on the side of his airship next to his swastikas after a black man took home four gold medals, would he?”

  William is pensive, eyebrows drawn, lips pursed. “Seems a risk to do it in the first place.”

  “Oh, it makes perfect sense. Picture it if you can. An open arena. Tens of thousands of spectators. The best athletes from every nation on earth. And the Führer standing glorious on the field as the greatest airship in history flies overhead. What do you think he was trying to say?”

  “That he couldn’t lose,” Mortiz says, nodding slowly.

  “Except he did,” William whispers.

  “Some would argue it was his prerogative after all. The Nazis supplied the money to finish construction on the airship. So it became their symbol. Their means of propaganda. And once the rings had outlived their usefulness they were removed.”

  “Hitler is good at removing things that outlive their usefulness,” William mutters darkly.

  The American seizes this. Manipulates it. He looks around the dining room, his gaze stopping at strategic points, as though fascinated. “And yet here we all are, funding his cause.”

  “This is travel. Not politics,” Moritz says. Clearly the thought makes him uncomfortable.

  “No. This,” he spins a finger in the air to indicate the entire ship, “is about luxury. And luxury and politics are always bedfellows. Money is power. And power is courted by politics. Why do you think so much time and press went into the Millionaires Flight last year?” He pauses to let his point sink in. “Take the wealthiest men in the world on a ten-hour flight to garner support for a unique aviation dream. Invite Winthrop Aldrich, Nelson Rockefeller, and executives from TWA and Pan American Airways. Convince Standard Oil to supply the diesel and hydrogen. Make sure key portions are broadcast live on NBC radio so millions of listeners can join them vicariously. It was orchestrated. It was political. You know what a flight like that says?” he asks William Leuchtenberg. “That they are willing to support a tyrant financially. You can call it luxury or convenience, if you like. But it’s politics nonetheless.”

  “If what you say is true, then we are all guilty.”

  “Ah, my friend, therein lies the rub. We’re all willing to justify our actions when we need to.”

  The American looks up to find Gertrud Adelt glaring at him over the rim of her steaming coffee cup. In a different world he might consider the woman an ally. Perhaps if he were on a different mission. Or if her damned curiosity didn’t keep getting in the way of his plans. As it stands, however, the American does not want friends or partners. He wants revenge, and he will not allow this brassy troublemaker to distract him from his job.

  “So what’s the point of this little lecture, then? Guilt?” William Leuchtenberg asks.

  After a moment’s thought the American finally says, “Enlightenment.”

  THE STEWARDESS

  The cabin boy has a flower in his hand. It’s a carnation. Small and pink and nothing special, but he’s fiddling with the stem and shifting from foot to foot as though his privates itch. He has the look of a boy who is winding up his courage for some difficult task. And then Emilie understands why. Werner Franz is staring at Irene Doehner, and the girl is pretending not to notice.

  As far as children go, the Doehners are not difficult to care for. Irene has her brothers well in hand most of the time, and even when they drift beyond the boundaries of what she can control, a firm word from Emilie reins them in. They are not picky eaters and haven’t rejected anything set before them this morning. They have, however, eaten copious amounts of food, mostly bacon, toast, and cheese. They wanted coffee as well, but Emilie put her foot down. No point in asking for trouble. There is only so much energy they can expend in such close quarters, and she has little interest in picking up the pieces of whatever they may break along the way.

  Irene looks flushed; the apples of her cheeks are tinged a warm pink against her pale skin. She glances at the cabin boy and then away. Only the most careful observer would notice the wordless flirting between the two.

  “You’re a kind girl,” Emilie says, pulling Irene’s attention away from Werner. “Letting your parents sleep in like this.”

  “Kindness has little to do with it, Fräulein. My brothers stayed in my cabin last night. I didn’t think it would be right to wake my parents just because they wanted breakfast.”

  One of the perks of not having a full flight is that there are cabins to spare. It was easy enough to settle Irene in a room of her own yesterday, right across the hall from her parents. And it’s no surprise that they took full advantage of the chance for a little privacy. Emilie can’t say that she blames them. She doubts they often get a moment to themselves, what with the boys’ perpetual antics. A bit like herding cats, looking after those two.

  She winks at Irene, causing the girl’s face to flame even brighter. “Like I said, a kind girl.”

  It makes sense now why the boys came to breakfast in yesterday’s rumpled clothes. Emilie had passed it off as a quirk unique to male children. They are not known for their reason or their hygiene. These two in particular. There’s a stain on Walter’s shirt from dinner last night, and little Werner—he has the same name as the cabin boy, good Lord, she’ll never keep them straight—seems to have lost three buttons on his shirt. From wrestling, no doubt. She has never seen children who take such delight in roughhousing. They actually fell down the stairs to B-deck last night, landing in a pile of arms and legs and laughter. She had run after them only to find tha
t they were delighted with the ordeal and wanted to do it again. Emilie had made them sit on their hands in the corridor for ten minutes as punishment.

  The boys are slowing their ravenous consumption of eggs, and Emilie clears the empty plates from the table. No sooner has she stepped into the serving pantry to send the dishes down the dumbwaiter than she sees Werner Franz drift toward the table. Werner does nothing inappropriate. He does not look at Irene or speak to her. But, from Emilie’s perspective, the sleight of hand is clear. The pink carnation now lies where Irene’s breakfast dishes once cluttered the table. He hesitates at her side just long enough to see whether his gift will be accepted and is clearly pleased when Irene lifts the flower from the table, sniffs it quickly, and hides it beneath the napkin in her lap. She meets Werner’s gaze for one quick second, offering the sort of smile that no girl of fourteen should know how to wield. Emilie is somewhat surprised that Werner can think, much less walk straight afterwards. But he does. Had Emilie not witnessed the exchange she would not know from his appearance that anything of significance had just passed between the teenagers. Werner is smiling, but in the way he often does. It’s a grin of pleased servitude. A steward’s grin. Damn if that child doesn’t have a rather brilliant poker face.

  She returns to clear the remaining dishes from the table only to notice that the American has observed the moment as well. He is stretched out in the promenade, feet propped up on a window ledge, hands behind his head, grinning. The American catches her eye and tips his chin toward Werner. He winks as though this is a secret between them. The fact that he includes her in the observation makes her uncomfortable. The fact that he continues to watch her with a sleepy sort of gaze makes her even more so.

  Emilie wonders if she should confront Werner. He doesn’t need to meddle with Irene. But as he brushes past her and sets the dishes in the dumbwaiter she can’t bring herself to say anything. Why shouldn’t someone on this ship be happy? It’s not like this crush can go anywhere. In two days Werner will return to Frankfurt, and the Doehners will travel on to Mexico City. This will end before it has a chance to begin.