Flight of Dreams

by Ariel Lawhon

  “Ah. I see.” Gertrud shifts her gaze to the window and some distant point beyond. “I will be the first to admit that children do create something of a weak spot.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Just one. But he’s more than enough to leave me feeling vulnerable on this flight. That’s why I was so terrible to you yesterday, you see. We’d just left him behind.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  Schulze pushes through the air-lock door carrying a tray filled with various paraphernalia. Two fine china cups and saucers. A silver carafe of steaming coffee. Spoons. Sugar cubes. A small jug of cream.

  “I know you prefer your coffee black, Fräulein Imhof. But I thought Frau Adelt might like some coffee as well, and I wasn’t sure how she takes it.”

  They thank him and Gertrud spends a few moments in silence preparing her drink. As it turns out Frau Adelt isn’t quite so bold with her coffee as she seems to be in other areas of her life. Before long the journalist’s coffee is the color of ivory and loaded with four cubes of sugar.

  “I know,” Gertrud says, “it’s ungodly. Not to mention a little embarrassing. But I’ve always taken it this way. And from what I can gather, I may as well enjoy it while I can because the whispers have already begun. Rationing. Damn these men and their idiotic wars. I hate rationing.”

  Gertrud doesn’t know the half of it. There are parts of Frankfurt where people can no longer buy milk, much less sugar. Coffee itself will soon be a luxury available only to the elite. The stewardess is reminded of this every time she indulges in this comfort.

  Emilie’s coffee is boiling and bitter and stings the roof of her mouth when she takes her first sip. It’s like consuming motor oil right out of the car. She takes another sip. Sighs. She stretches her legs beneath the table—they are too long to cross. Then she makes a mental note to return to her cabin and brush her teeth before resuming her shift. Schulze was a bit enthusiastic when he measured out the coffee.

  “I am curious about one thing,” Gertrud says. She takes a sip and looks at Emilie over the rim of her cup. Her expression is too pleasant. Contrived.

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you know all the crew members who work aboard this airship?”

  Emilie is aware that there is a smooth tone to Gertrud’s question. A change in intensity that hasn’t been present until now. She’s up to something.

  “Many of them. Why?”

  Gertrud pulls a military identification tag from her pocket and lays it faceup on the table. She scoots it toward Emilie with her finger. “Is there any way you can help me figure out who this belongs to?”

  Emilie lifts the chain and dangles it from one finger. She studies the tag. “What makes you think this belongs to one of the crew?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  It’s a military identification tag from the First World War. About twenty years old. Emilie runs her finger over the raised letters and numbers on each side of the tag, paying careful attention to the service number: 100991–K-455(-)6(-)8. Emilie’s father was in the Deutsches Herr during the First World War. He had a similar tag, and as a child she spent many hours curled on his lap playing with it. The first series of numbers represent a soldier’s birth date. The letter is the first letter in his last name. Three numbers to identify his home district. One number to show how many soldiers serving at that time have the same last initial and the same birthday. And then an error-checking number. Germany never prints the name of a soldier on his tag. Never. Regardless, Emilie knows this tag belongs to Ludwig Knorr, chief rigger serving aboard the Hindenburg. There are four crew men on this ship whose last name starts with K. Two of them are too young to have been born on October 9, 1891, and the other has never been in the military. That leaves Ludwig.

  “Where did you find this?” Emilie asks.

  “I came upon it by accident.”

  “What do you intend to do with it?”

  “That depends on who it belongs to. And what you can tell me about him.”

  Emilie is very careful to manipulate her expression into one of general curiosity without a hint of understanding. She lays the dog tag back on the table. “I have no idea who this belongs to,” she says.

  THE JOURNALIST

  Gertrud knows that the stewardess is lying. Her pretty face is molded into an expression of bored indifference. As far as poker faces go, Emilie’s is rather good. Lips closed but not pressed. No crease in the forehead. Hands folded around the coffee cup. Her gaze fixed at a point behind Gertrud’s left ear as though she’s lost in thought. The conversation evaporates, and each woman takes a moment to sip her coffee. To think. Gertrud taps her cigarette against the ashtray, then puts the Chesterfield to her mouth. They regard one another but do not speak. Gertrud has spent many years learning the art of quiet observation, however, and everyone has a tell. Everyone. It takes a few long seconds for her to find the evidence of Emilie’s internal debate: a slow blink. Emilie is consciously delaying her physical movements.

  Finally Gertrud asks, “Did you ever think of going into intelligence? You’re an excellent liar.”

  A wry smile bends the corners of Emilie’s mouth. She bows her head slightly as though to say Touché. “Intelligence? I’ve been assured, on more than one occasion, that women do not possess such a trait.”

  Gertrud snorts. “So have I. Though I’d wager that’s part of why women make such damned good spies.” She has known three, in fact, all of them alarmingly good. But she doesn’t share this with the stewardess.

  The ground has shifted a bit with Gertrud’s challenge and Emilie’s admission, so she’s a bit less coy with her next response. “It has never made much sense to put my deficiencies to work for anyone other than myself.”

  “I can drink to that.” Gertrud lifts her coffee cup in salute and they clink their cups together.

  “The crew member who owns that tag. You know who he is.”

  Emilie gives a noncommittal shrug.

  “I need to speak with him.”

  “Why?”

  This is the trouble in Gertrud’s line of work. It’s rarely clear who she can confide in, and she usually has little time to make her decision. Lying tends to be the best course of action, followed by charm if she’s dealing with the opposite sex. But neither of those options will work with Emilie. She’s too shrewd. So Gertrud settles on evasion.

  “I’m a journalist.”

  “And I’m a brunette,” Emilie counters. The challenge is clear. Tell her something relevant. “Has he done something illegal?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Are you writing a story about him?”

  “No.”

  “And yet you’re very curious to know who he is?”

  “Ridiculously so, yes.”

  Again, the challenge. “Why?”

  Gertrud debates for a moment, then says, “This tag was lately in the possession of a man I do not like or trust.”

  “Did you steal it?”

  “I found it. And I would wager a good deal that the man who had it would like to get it back. However, I’m not inclined to let that happen just yet. Nor am I inclined to let him locate the owner if that can be at all avoided. Which is why I need your help.”

  Emilie’s blink slows again. Her hands grow still on the coffee cup. What is she holding back? Gertrud wonders. More than just a name. She knows this man. She wants to protect him.

  “Are you going to return that tag to its owner?” Emilie asks.

  Gertrud picks it up and cradles it in her palm. Returns it to her pocket. “Not just yet, if you don’t mind.”

  “Why would I mind?”

  “Because I’m a stranger. And a nosey one at that. Given the events of yesterday and our conversation just now, I’ve not proven myself to be the kindest or most ethical person. Though I would like the record to show that I’ve been honest. And I think that should count for something.”

  “I d
o believe you have been honest,” Emilie says. “In the explicit details. Though I do wonder why you’ve come to me with this.”

  “Technically I was here first. So you came to me. But to answer your question, this airship is populated by men. A gender I distrust implicitly. I married the only man I’ve ever been truly fond of.”

  “As did I.”

  Gertrud glances at the stewardess’s bare ring finger. She senses a story but chooses not to ask. “Then we have that in common, at least.”

  “You trust me simply because I’m a woman?”

  “I am inclined to trust you more because of that, yes.”

  “You don’t know women all that well, then.”

  Gertrud laughs at this. A deep, throaty laugh that draws a smile from the stewardess. “I didn’t say I like women. I said I tend to trust them at a higher capacity.”

  The stewardess drains her cup and sets it lightly on the table. “My break is over.”

  “Emilie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why won’t you tell me who this tag belongs to?”

  “You might be predisposed to trust other women but I am not.”

  THE NAVIGATOR

  The bartender looks up when Max taps on the air-lock door.

  “Max! Come in! What can I get for you?”

  “I need a quick favor.” There’s little time left in his break and he needs to be as expedient as possible.

  “Anything for you.” Schulze secures the air-lock door behind them and gives Max an expectant look.

  “What I’m going to ask you is technically against the rules.” He sighs. He has been doing a lot of rule breaking on this voyage. “So now is your chance to pretend you didn’t hear me. Or that I didn’t ask. Whatever you prefer.”

  The bartender clucks his tongue. “I’m not so easily scared.”

  Max is committed now. He may as well continue. “I was in France a number of years ago on holiday. I stayed at an inn in a small town by myself. It rained the entire time and I was unspeakably miserable. The trip would have been a total loss if not for a certain kind of brandy produced in Gascony that I drank every evening by a roaring fire. I’m rather ashamed to say that I went through several bottles that week. And while drunkenness and gluttony are not vices I’d normally boast about, I do confess that I’ve never enjoyed any beverage more.”

  Schulze is a man of spirits, literally and metaphorically. He can be as moody as any woman, though he tends toward cheerfulness. But it is the spirit that comes corked and bottled that he knows best.

  “Brandy, you say?”

  “Armagnac, to be precise.”

  Schulze swirls his finger in the air and turns toward the mirrored shelves behind him. “I knew you were a man of fine taste. It’s a fine liquor. Some would say mystical. Vital du Four once claimed that Armagnac has forty therapeutic virtues. I don’t recall that healing the lovesick was among them. However, should you suffer from burning eyes, hepatitis, consumption, gout, canker sores, impotence”—he gives Max a skeptical glance at this—“or memory loss, it’s certainly the drink for you.”

  “Would these mystical properties include helping a woman set aside lunacy and think straight?”

  “Not even God could do such a thing,” Schulze says. “As for myself, I simply prefer the taste, the warmth, and the feeling of invincibility after consuming a bottle.” He shifts a few large decanters around on the shelf, then stretches up on his tiptoes. Max Schulze is not a tall man. After a moment he sets a lovely teardrop-shaped bottle on the counter. It is corked and sealed with wax. The liquid inside is the color of stained and polished cedar. “To be fair, the bottles are quite small.”

  “You have some.” Max breathes a sigh of relief.

  “The first thing you need to know about me is that I always have some of everything.”

  “Duly noted.” He lifts the bottle. Gives Schulze a questioning glance.

  “If you tell anyone I will swear you stole it.”

  “My lips are sealed.” Max slides the bottle into a deep pocket of his trousers. “Might you have two glasses that I could borrow? I will return them first thing in the morning, of course.”

  Schulze sets a pair of crystal goblets on the counter. “I can respect a man of action.”

  They both turn at the tapping sound on the smoking room door. Emilie stands on the other side, staring daggers at Max, waiting to be let out.

  The bartender is smart enough to say nothing. Schulze escorts Emilie through one air lock and then the other. Her chin is lifted, her unwavering gaze directed at the corridor. She does not speak to Max or look at him. Once she has departed, Schulze steps back behind the bar and laughs. “Good luck. You may need more than one bottle of Armagnac to win her over.”

  “Do you have more?”

  “No.”

  When Max returns to his cabin, Balla is waiting for him.

  “I may have solved your problem,” the steward says.

  His broad mouth is curved into an unfamiliar smile. The steward is pleased with himself. Max registers this first—it’s so unusual to see the man smile—before he can actually make sense of what Balla has just said. Max hears the words, but from a distance. He simply wants to deposit the Armagnac and goblets in his cabin and finish his shift.

  “I’m sorry. What was that?”

  “Emilie.”

  “What now?”

  “You want her to stay?”

  “Of course I do.

  “Let’s just say it will be very difficult for Emilie to follow through with her plans if she is no longer in possession of her papers.”

  Max steps around Balla and unlocks his cabin door. He deposits the brandy and goblets next to the sink so he won’t break them over the steward’s head. He turns slowly. Fists clenched at his side. “What have you done?”

  THE JOURNALIST

  “Who else have you shown this tag to?” Leonhard asks. The chain lies wadded in the palm of his hand. He pokes it with his finger.

  “Only the stewardess.”

  He is surprised at this. “Why?”

  Gertrud thinks for a moment, looking for a way to explain. “There’s something about her mind. She seems to remember everything. Names and places. Dates. Insignificant details. They say she’s fluent in seven languages. Can you imagine?”

  “I know exactly what this is,” Leonhard says. “But I can’t tell you what half of it means. Much less who it belongs to. Why would you think that she could?”

  “It was a hunch. Not to mention damned good timing. She showed up in the bar while I was puzzling through it all. And I was right. I know I was. She just wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Don’t you think that was an unnecessary risk?”

  “We have to do something, Leonhard. I don’t know what that American is up to. But it can’t be good.” She closes his fist around the chain. “This man has to be warned.”

  “Who would you have me tell? We know nothing! Only the whisper of a threat.”

  “Tell Captain Lehmann. You’re friends. He trusts you.”

  “We will not speak a word of this to him. Not now.”

  “So we just keep it to ourselves?”

  “What exactly are we keeping, Liebchen? A rumor. My God, last I checked that was called discretion.”

  “What if something happens to the man who owns that tag?”

  “So your plan is to run to the captain and babble about this like a crazed goose? You want to figure this out?” He shakes her by the shoulders a bit too roughly, then lays his palms gently on her arms, apologetic. “Yes? Then we use our minds, Liebchen. That’s our greatest weapon. We learn something useful. Then we speak.”

  “What about the bomb?”

  “We don’t know if there is a bomb! This ship has been picked over with a fine-tooth comb.”

  “But the threats—”

  “There are always threats, Liebchen. They multiply like a venereal disease everywhere Hitler goes. We must learn to maneuver them if we are to surviv
e.”

  A slow, constricting panic crawls up her throat and tightens around her vocal cords. Gertrud feels as though she can’t breathe. She has assumed all this time that Leonhard isn’t concerned. That he has simply been frustrated with her wild theories and tired of accommodating her fear of this trip. But she sees now that a deep concern has taken root. His eyes have grown tight. Dark. Leonhard pulls her into his chest. His shirt smells of books and pipe smoke and the faintest traces of his cologne. “We can figure this out.”

  “But can we do it in time?”

  “I hope so.”

  “I hear the clock ticking, Leonhard.”

  “This isn’t the first time we’ve worked on deadline. And,” he tucks a curl behind her ear, “this time we don’t have to mess with the writing itself. Just the investigation. I have always suspected that is your favorite part anyway.”

  She grins. “I do love having written.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  Gertrud snorts. “Oh, don’t lie. You’re a purist. You don’t struggle with the actual craft the way the rest of us do. You enjoy the construction. I just want the finished product.”

  He does smile at this. It’s true after all. Leonhard very much enjoys the process of writing. In the years that she has known him, Gertrud has never once heard him complain while at work. He’s happy to sit in his study and collect his thoughts on paper.

  “I do like my job,” he concedes.

  Gertrud sniffs and raises up onto her toes to look him in the eye. “Well, it would be easy for me too,” she says, “if I had a wife to make my dinner and care for my son and press my trousers.”

  “You look terrible in trousers.”

  She smacks his shoulder.

  “I look quite nice in trousers, thank you very much. All the men tell me so.”

  “The men are trying to get in your trousers, Liebchen, not encourage you to wear them more often.”

  “Just because you went about it that way…”

  “As I recall, you were wearing a skirt, and all I had to do was lift it up, like this.” Leonhard demonstrates his method and slides his hands along the smooth skin of her outer thigh.