Flight of Dreams

by Ariel Lawhon

  Commander Pruss is not satisfied, but he is interested. “So trial by fire, Herr Franz?”

  The cabin boy ducks his head. Tries not to grin. “I do feel a bit singed.”

  He’s greeted with laughter and one raucous slap on the back that almost sends the plate shooting right out of his hands and into the wall. He grabs it at the last second and stands tall before the second barrage of laughter. Werner Franz is, for a few short moments, one of the men.

  Lunch, when it’s served a few moments later, proves to be simple and elegant. Pan-seared chicken crusted with rosemary. Sautéed asparagus. New potatoes with roasted garlic. Yeast rolls served with sweet cream butter. When Werner sets the plate before Max, the navigator considers shoving it aside on principle. This is Maier’s meal. And given the events in the kitchen Max would be justified in indulging in a temporary hunger strike. But he’s famished. And smart enough to know that what Emilie did was about him, not Maier. So he eats, begrudgingly, only to discover that the meal is superb. When his plate is empty he leaves the officers’ mess without giving his compliments to the chef.

  Max makes a quick detour to deposit the morning’s collection of letters and postcards in the mailroom, then checks his watch. There are only a few minutes left in his lunch break, but he doesn’t want to return to the control car just yet. He needs to clear his head. Five minutes of silence in his cabin will do the trick.

  Wilhelm Balla intercepts him just as he’s leaving the mailroom. “Du siehst schlimm aus,” he says. “What has Emilie done now?”

  Max hasn’t seen a mirror since early this morning, so he guesses that Wilhelm’s assessment of his appearance is likely correct. His eyes are dry and they sting when he blinks. He nicked himself while shaving, and every time he smiles it feels as though the cut is splitting open on his chin. Best not to smile, then. It’s an overrated expression anyway.

  He rubs his jaw. “It was stupid of me to think it would ever work.”

  “Oh.” The tendons beside Balla’s mouth curve to accommodate the knowing smirk. “So you got your kiss, then?”

  “Maybe,” is all Max says. He had gotten his kiss and then some.

  “And a broken heart to go along with it. So tell me.”

  No response.

  “She’s leaving the airship for one of the luxury hotels?”

  A glare.

  “She’s joining a convent?”

  He clenches his jaw.

  “She’s pregnant with another man’s baby.”

  “For God’s sake!”

  “What? It’s not like you’re giving me any hints here. I’m a man after all. My mind is base.”

  “I would think your mind is blank given this lack of creativity.”

  “She’s dying?”

  “Just stop,” Max says. “It’s much worse than any of that.”

  “Worse than dying?”

  “Maybe. Almost.” The words sound crass and petty to him and he immediately regrets them. He clears his throat. “If she were dying—which she’s not—at least she wouldn’t be leaving me on purpose.”

  “Leaving?”

  He hadn’t planned to confide in Balla. This certainly isn’t his secret to share. But he needs to talk to someone, and the steward is the closest thing he has to a friend aboard this airship.

  “Emilie is immigrating to America.”

  “She told you this?”

  “No. I found papers in her cabin last night.”

  “You were in her cabin at least. That’s progress,” Balla says. “When is she leaving? Maybe you’ll have time to change her mind.”

  He looks at his watch. “In a little less than two days, I’d say.”

  This brings Balla up short. His eyes have a natural almond shape and they narrow even further at this news. “And you discovered this by…”

  “Accident.”

  “I take it she isn’t pleased that you know?”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “So she had no intention of telling you. That’s a problem.”

  “The problem is that she’s leaving. That’s why I look like hell and feel worse. Scheiße!” Max grabs his cap and throws it against the wall.

  “You love her.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Does she know that?”

  “I don’t see how she couldn’t.”

  “But have you said it in so many words?”

  “Listen,” Max says, the rage he felt in the kitchen returning in a hot whoosh, “it’s not like she has reciprocated much. Call me a fool, but I can only put myself out there for so long without any encouragement.”

  “She kissed you, yes?”

  “You could say it was the other way around.”

  “But she responded?”

  Max closes his eyes and gives himself five seconds to remember the kiss. “With enthusiasm.”

  Something occurs to Max. Clearly she has been planning to leave Germany for some time. Her papers were in order. It must have taken several years to save as much as she has. And the plan alone is meticulous. So Emilie was planning to leave Germany long before she ever met him. She’s scared enough to leave everyone and everything she has ever known, and he goes and takes the decision as a personal slight. Stupid. Selfish. He’s ashamed, and now he’s angry with himself as well.

  “Scheiße!”

  “What now?” Wilhelm asks.

  “I’m an idiot.”

  “I’ve known that for ages.”

  Max picks up his cap. Dusts it off. Places it back on his head with precision. “I’m going to set things right.”

  THE AMERICAN

  The American has been asleep for almost an hour—one hour only, he won’t allow himself more than that—when there is a rap at his cabin door. Four sharp knocks. Hard. Measured. Insistent. He knows immediately that this is the steward, and he is tempted to leave Wilhelm Balla standing out in the corridor. The steward isn’t overly fond of him. That much is clear. But neither does he appear to be a social creature, so there must be some legitimate reason for the visit.

  The American eases from his berth and opens the door. He tries to look amiable. Alert. When in reality a desperate sort of exhaustion is creeping up his spine. As a young man he could go for days without sleep and sometimes up to a week on a drinking binge and still be able to function at a high level. But over the last day he has been deprived of one and indulged in the other, and he finds that his body is no longer capable of such abuse.

  “Pardon me for interrupting your rest, Herr Douglas. But I have a message from Captain Lehmann.”

  “Oh? How may I be of service to the captain?”

  “He has requested the pleasure of your company at dinner tonight.”

  Interesting. First the commander, now the captain.

  He finds the appropriate smile to offer the steward. Surprised. Humbled. Just the right lift to his eyebrows, and his lips curved but closed. No teeth for this smile. “Please assure the captain that I will be honored to join him.”

  Balla clicks his heels sharply. Nods his head. Turns to leave. The friendships of men are, by and large, less complicated than the friendships of women. They hinge on loyalty, territory, and tolerance. And the best way to get a man to deliver information is to threaten his friend. It’s an unfair tactic, to be honest. But he has never been all that interested in fairness.

  “Hold on a minute!” he calls after the steward.

  Balla returns to the door with a look of strained patience.

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “It is, I’m afraid, rather personal and none of my business.”

  “Then I shall do my best to answer. If I can.”

  The American feels the weight of his body settling into his joints. He would much rather return to bed than pursue this line of questioning, but he has a hunch it will pay off. The American does not ignore his hunches. It would be a mistake, however, to let the steward see how confident he feels about getting
his answer. So he drops his gaze to the floor and shifts from one foot to the other, feigning awkwardness.

  “Yes?” Balla is impatient. Irritated.

  Good. The American will wring that out of him. He will make the steward reckless.

  “Ah, how should I say this? You are good friends with the navigator, yes?”

  “There are four navigators aboard this airship. Which one would you be referring to?”

  “Zabel, I believe, Max Zabel.”

  “Yes, Herr Zabel and I are quite well acquainted.”

  “Then you would be somewhat privy to his personal life?”

  He stiffens. “Perhaps.”

  The American laughs awkwardly. Purposefully. “So you would know whether he is in a romantic relationship?”

  The look that flashes across Wilhelm Balla’s face is first confusion. Then alarm. Then something that could be either fear or disgust. The American isn’t certain which. It’s too fleeting.

  Balla holds up a hand. “I can assure you that Max is not—”

  “That’s not what I meant.” He is quite pleased to hear the perfect note of surprise and admonition in his voice. He waits a moment to let the steward’s face color fully with embarrassment before he continues. “Please, let’s do be clear on that.”

  Balla rubs his nose with the back of one finger. “Yes. Of course. Forgive me. What might you have meant, then?”

  “Well. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I am rather curious about whether or not Max Zabel is romantically involved with the stewardess. Emilie…”

  “Imhof,” Wilhelm finishes.

  “Yes. Miss Imhof. Are the two of them involved?”

  The steward opens his mouth slowly. And then reverses the action. This delayed response is all the answer the American needs. The two are clearly dating and trying to hide it from their fellow crew members.

  The American is tired of maintaining his drunk and boisterous act. Now he wants to throw the steward off-kilter. He wants information. “I see,” he says. “It’s not public knowledge?”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Or perhaps it’s not official? In all truth I’d much rather that be the case as I’d planned to invite Miss Imhof to dinner once we reach Lakehurst. So you can see how I would rather save myself the embarrassment of rejection if her affections are engaged elsewhere.”

  He’s not keen on the girl, of course. It’s been a long time since a woman turned his head for any reason other than physical gratification, and he certainly doesn’t need to go to the trouble of setting up a dinner to find that. No. The stewardess is irrelevant. But the American is quite interested in discovering any weaknesses the navigator might have. And learning how to exploit them.

  The steward takes his time in answering. When he comes to a decision there is a sharp, conniving slant to his mouth. He chooses his words carefully—one at a time—and in such a manner that they are both loaded and innocuous. “The only thing I am at liberty to say is that the relationship between Max Zabel and Emilie Imhof is…complicated.”

  The American leans into this morsel of information. “Complicated how?”

  THE STEWARDESS

  It is early afternoon and Emilie is in desperate need of coffee. Her one vice. She rarely drinks and has never dabbled in other recreational substances, but she freely admits that coffee is her addiction. It’s not something she intends to apologize for, however. Or give up. As far as fixations go, it’s rather benign. Quitting gives her a headache. Overindulgence gives her the jitters. So she places herself firmly in the middle, avoiding either extreme. The easiest place to secure a cup would be the kitchen, but she has no interest in facing Xaver—or his questions. So she makes her way to the bar instead. The coffee there isn’t as good, falling somewhere between adequate and pitiful, but under the circumstances she doesn’t feel that beggars can be choosers.

  Schulze has just arrived at his station and is arranging bottles when Emilie knocks on the air-lock door. He greets her with a jovial grin.

  “Another patron! And a lovely one at that.”

  “A boring patron, I’m afraid. And one whose break isn’t nearly long enough. So it will be coffee for me, if you don’t mind.”

  “How do you take it?”

  “Black.”

  “Easy enough. Why don’t you take a seat in the smoking room while it brews. You’ll have it almost to yourself.”

  Emilie hadn’t counted on anyone else being here so early in the day, and she hesitates as the bartender moves to open the interior air-lock door.

  “Julius—”

  He stops. “No one calls me that.”

  “It’s your name.”

  “Not the one I go by.”

  Most of the crew call him by his middle name. Max. But there are far too many Maxes on board to suit her. The same with Werners, Alfreds, Fritzes, Kurts, Wilhelms, Walters, and Ludwigs. When it comes to naming their children, Germans seem to be highly unoriginal. And Emilie, despite her fantastic memory, has a hard time keeping them straight. So to her Schulze has always been Julius.

  He offers that broad, generous smile she is so fond of. “You’ve only room for one Max in your life?”

  “Be warned, that’s not a name I’m fond of at this particular moment.”

  Schulze is no fool. “The thing about bartenders,” he says as he pulls the smoking room door open, “is that we know when to pry and when to keep our mouths clamped shut. After you.”

  Emilie has a habit of observing rooms at different times of day. Lighting can alter not only the ambiance but the aesthetics of a space dramatically. At night the smoking room is exotic. Rich. Sensual. But in the afternoon, with natural daylight streaming through the observation windows, it looks rather like a funeral parlor. Dark and somber. Somewhere you would go to whisper in hushed tones while grieving a loss. It fits her mood splendidly.

  “Do you smoke?” Schulze asks.

  “Afraid not.”

  “Will you mind if she does?” He points to the pretty journalist who sits at a round table in the middle of the room, one shoe kicked off and her legs crossed at the knees.

  “No. I’m quite used to it.”

  “I’ll get your coffee, then.”

  Rules. There are always so many damned rules to be considered. Technically Emilie is not working at the moment, but she is in uniform. Approaching the journalist as an equal would be inappropriate, but ignoring her would be worse. She hesitates only until the journalist laughs.

  “Please, have a seat. I don’t bite.”

  Emilie accepts the invitation with a nod and pulls out a chair at the table. She settles into it with relief. Her feet are tired. Her lower back aches.

  “I owe you an apology. I was quite horrid to you yesterday,” the journalist says. She extends her hand in official greeting. “Gertrud Adelt. I am, believe it or not, quite pleased to meet you.”

  “Emilie Imhof.” There is nothing limp about Gertrud’s shake. She has a man’s grip. Confident. Firm. Abrupt. Emilie returns it the way her father taught her. As one professional to another.

  “You need not apologize. It’s not an easy thing this…flying. Most people are uncomfortable with it.”

  “Are you?”

  “Sometimes. When I think about it logically. It doesn’t seem as though such a structure has any business floating through the air.”

  “Ah, but an engineer would say that it makes all the sense in the world. They would cite any number of facts about the lifting power of hydrogen versus the weight of steel. You’d be bored senseless and no less comfortable with the prospect, so I advise that we avoid the exercise entirely.”

  Emilie can feel her face soften as her smile spreads wide. “I generally do.”

  “How do you live with it, then, if it makes you uneasy?”

  “It only bothers me when I really stop to think about it. Most of the time I stay busy. And it’s not so different from any of the ocean liners or hotels I’ve worked in. Ships sink. Hotels burn. Th
is is a bit more confined, perhaps. And there’s not much in the way of fresh air. But the clientele is the same. The same demands on my time.”

  “I am quite impressed. You are the first woman ever to work aboard an airship. You should be quite proud.” Gertrud winks when Emilie raises a questioning eyebrow. “I read the papers.”

  Emilie is proud. “First and only. So far, at least. I do forget that sometimes.”

  “You’ve worked on the Hindenburg the entire time?”

  “Since it was completed. I am one of the original crew.”

  “Very altruistic of them, hiring a woman for their ‘ship of dreams.’ ”

  “No. Just shrewd. Easier to get wealthy men to book passage for their families if a woman is present to help bathe their children and dress their wives.”

  “I’d hope there isn’t too much dressing involved.”

  Emilie laughs. “There is an occasional corset to be dealt with.”

  Gertrud draws on the end of her cigarette, then pinches it between two fingers so the lit end points directly at Emilie. “I won’t wear them. I’m convinced those things are a form of subjugation. Only men care about hip-to-waist ratio.”

  She laughs. “I’d have to quit if it became part of my uniform requirements.”

  “You must have a rather impressive résumé to land such a position.”

  “I’m fairly sure it’s the gaps in my file that interest them more.”

  “How so?”

  “No husband. No children.” She gives Gertrud a long, stoic glance. “No distractions.”

  There is kindness in the gaze that Gertrud returns but no pity, and Emilie is grateful. If there is one thing she cannot stand, it is being pitied. She may end up liking the journalist after all.