Flight of Dreams

by Ariel Lawhon

  Emilie turns her attention back to the dirty clothes. She folds each item slowly. She doesn’t want to seem too eager. “Who was speaking in English?”

  “Captain Lehmann and that strange American fellow.”

  “What did they say about me?”

  “Lehmann didn’t say much, to be honest. But the American wanted to make an exchange.”

  “Of?”

  “Names. The name of someone on board the ship for the name of a crew member planning to remain in America.”

  “And he gave my name?”

  “He did.”

  Emilie thinks of the dog tag. “Did Captain Lehmann offer a name as well?”

  “No. He did not. The American scribbled something on a napkin and when the captain read it he said he would get back to him with the name.”

  Emilie tries to keep her voice from sounding frantic. “Anything else?”

  “That was it. But it’s enough. When we got back to the cabin, Hermann suggested we offer you the job. We need a governess, and you want to leave Germany—at least you haven’t denied it.”

  “You would offer a job to a woman you barely know?”

  “No.” She swats the suggestion away. “We would poach the world’s first airship stewardess from the Nazis. A woman who speaks a number of languages. How many exactly?”

  “Seven fluently. I’m passable in three others.”

  “Ten languages! Amazing. That’s a rare gift. So you see, our interest is not just in needing help with our children, but in tutoring them as well. We show you the world; you help Irene, Werner, and Walter learn to navigate it. I think that’s a fair trade.”

  “It’s not that simple. Captain Lehmann knows I was planning to leave. I’ve been reprimanded. My papers have been confiscated.” She looks at Matilde. “They won’t let me off the ship when we land.”

  “Is that what you’re worried about?”

  “It’s plenty. I will be under house arrest.”

  Matilde waves this off as if they were discussing the difficulties in negotiating a restrictive curfew. “That’s not a problem.” She peeks around the curtain and hands each boy a washcloth and a bar of soap. “Clean all of your parts. Especially the ones you can’t see. You have five minutes.”

  “They are wonderful children. And I would love to care for them. But I’m afraid I don’t share your optimism about my situation.”

  “So what is your alternative?”

  “Return to Germany and continue my work with the Zeppelin-Reederei.” She does not mention Max or his proposal. That is too private, and she will not share it with Matilde Doehner. Not yet, anyway.

  Matilde thinks about this for a moment and then changes tactics. “Do you know what my husband does for a living?”

  “No.”

  Matilde laughs. “Neither do I, if I’m being honest. Not the particulars, at any rate. But what I can tell you is that he is the general manager of Beick, Félix y Compañía, a wholesale drug company based in Mexico City. They dabble in a variety of pharmaceuticals but primarily focus on vaccines. According to his visa, Hermann was just in Germany to organize an affiliate company in Hamburg. Our visas stated that we accompanied him as dependents.”

  Emilie squints. “Are you telling me that was not the case?”

  “It was a partial truth. One of Hermann’s chemists went missing a number of months ago. The trip was a convenient excuse to find him.”

  There are a dozen questions that Emilie could ask at this point, but she gets the impression that Matilde is more interested in completing her story, so she waits silently for her to continue.

  “This chemist is a good friend of ours. A kind man. Practically a genius, if you want to know the truth. Generous. Charming.” Matilde pulls two towels from the canvas bag at her feet. “His name is David Rothstein. He is Jewish. And he is an outspoken critic of Adolf Hitler.”

  “Oh.” Emilie sees what Frau Doehner is getting at.

  “That is the Germany you are returning to. A place where brilliant minds are persecuted because they happen to be of an unpopular race.”

  Emilie can’t be sure whether or not Matilde suspects her heritage. But if nothing else the woman does have an uncanny sense of the political situation at home.

  “Listen, your offer is tempting. Please don’t get me wrong. I simply don’t see how it can possibly work.”

  Again Matilde seems unperturbed. “Have you ever gone out in public with children, Fräulein? Gotten off an ocean liner or an airship?”

  Emilie shakes her head.

  “Have you ever taken them shopping or walked down the street with three of them in tow? Gone into a bank or a grocery store or a park with a pack of bickering children?”

  It’s an interesting question, but Emilie can’t see how it pertains, and she isn’t sure if Matilde is trying to rub salt into what she perceives as an open wound. “No. I haven’t.”

  “You really should try it sometime. It’s a fascinating experiment.” Matilde lifts two towels from the bench and shakes them out. “No matter how lovely or striking a woman is, when she goes out in public with children she becomes invisible. I once saw Luise Rainer standing at a bus stop in Düsseldorf—that was her hometown you know, she made it famous—next to a set of twins. They weren’t even hers. And she was dressed like a movie star. Thirteen men got on that bus and seven got off. Not one of them looked in her direction. Why? Because two children sat at her feet. This is a reality for every woman who bears a child. I was put out to pasture the day Irene was born. Children are the perfect camouflage.”

  “And you are offering your children as camouflage?”

  “Tomorrow when we land, things will be hectic. We will be late. Some passengers will be in a rush, others excited. The crew will be busy. There will be crowds awaiting our arrival. You will wear one of my dresses—”

  “I’m a good deal taller than you are.”

  “Then you wear your skirt and my blouse. My hat. You walk out on the arm of my husband—”

  “I’m taller than he is as well—”

  “Then slouch—”

  “But—”

  “You will have my children at your side, and no one will see you. That is a guarantee.”

  “And you?”

  “I will wait in the cabin and exit a few moments after you do. I will find a crowd. Place myself in the center. Then I will meet you at the car on the airfield. And then we will be gone. You will come to New York with us. Cuba. Mexico. Before long Germany will be a distant memory.”

  Emilie wants this. She does. And yet her heart twists a bit at the idea. She forces Max’s face from her mind. “Someone will see. If not when they bring the luggage, then sooner. It will never work.”

  Matilde pushes the curtain aside. She turns off the shower and drapes a towel over each son, then sniffs both little blond heads to make sure they have properly followed her instructions. Matilde does not argue with Emilie as she attempts to dry them off. But the boys are ticklish and squirmy and she abandons the exercise after a few seconds. The boys fling water droplets from their hair and giggle as they try to pull dry clothes onto wet bodies. Matilde checks them carefully before sending them from the bathroom with a pat on their bottoms.

  “Do give me more credit than that, Fräulein,” she says. “You wouldn’t be the first person I’ve smuggled out of a country. I am very, very good at it. Just ask David Rothstein.”

  THE AMERICAN

  It is close to midnight, and the crew’s mess is empty except for five tired souls. Four of them have recently ended their shifts, and the fifth is breaking the rules by being there. But then again, the American has never been one for following the rules. Nor is he the sort of man who will ignore a poker game once he knows it exists. They hadn’t intended to let him stay—he could tell that much by the look on their faces when he’d walked in twenty minutes ago—but he had given them reason to set the rules aside. Margaret Mather’s diamond solitaire ring. He had dropped it on the table and let i
t bounce and skitter to a stop. It looked like a small fortune there in the middle of that pile of dingy marks. The chief steward pulled out a chair and personally invited the American to join them.

  “There’s more where that came from.”

  “Dare I ask how you acquired such a bauble? I will deeply regret my invitation if you say it was won at poker.” It was a halfhearted attempt to be threatening. But Kubis is married and the American could see that he had plans for the ring already.

  “It was part of my divorce settlement. I’d planned to sell it along with some other items when I get to New York. I certainly don’t have a use for them anymore. But I’d just as soon try my luck with them tonight.” He’d looked up then, met each man glance for glance. “As long as you don’t mind. I have cash as well. If you prefer.”

  Not a single man at the table objected. Chairs were scooted over. Elbows tucked in. Welcomes muttered. They dealt him in.

  He looks at the five cards in his hand now—shit every one of them—but doesn’t let on. “Pass,” he says, and throws a mark into the pot. The others were at the game for almost an hour before he got here. They’re already warmed up, clued in to one another. He will have to catch up fast. It shouldn’t be hard. Poker is a game uniquely suited to his particular abilities.

  Of the four other men seated at this table Heinrich Kubis is the easiest to read. He tries to keep a neutral expression. But he’s working so hard at masking his face that he forgets the rest of his body. He leans forward when his cards are good but droops to the left, into the armrest, when they’re bad. He’s constantly shifting in his chair, trying to get comfortable.

  Xaver Maier wants to smoke. He would be far more comfortable playing this game in the corner of a seedy tavern where he could smoke and drink and run the table than in this regimented airship. So he twitches. He pulls at his mouth and taps his cards on the table—but only when he thinks he can win. If he thinks losing is likely he lays the cards in his lap and waits.

  August Deutschle is the American’s strongest competition. This is a man who knows how to gamble. He’s comfortable with the idea of losing money and feels certain he’ll win it back. He’s the one who raises the stakes on each round, pushing the others a bit further than they are comfortable with. He doesn’t bluff often but likes to call out others when they do.

  And then there is Ludwig Knorr. He makes the American nervous. Ludwig is a big man, and the cards look small in his broad, scarred hands—like he’s playing with a child’s deck. He has an unnerving way of never making eye contact, even when he answers a question directly. He hedges. Holds back. Hides his cards and his emotions. It’s a good thing he’s not a particularly good poker player or he would be very dangerous.

  In the last twenty years the American has learned that men can keep only one secret at a time. And while these men are protecting their cards, all of their thoughts and energy are bent toward that one goal. They want to win the pot of money on the table. Each of them has something in mind that he will spend it on. Some debt he will pay off. Some girl he will seduce. So all of them are paying little attention to the conversation at the table, the questions that are asked, or the answers that are given.

  Gertrud Adelt told the American that the dog tag belonged to Ludwig Knorr. But Captain Lehmann said it is Heinrich Kubis’s. One of these men was on a zeppelin that dropped bombs over Coventry in 1918, and there is only one way to find out which it was.

  “How long have you gentlemen been flying?” the American asks.

  Kubis is the first to answer. “Since 1912. I catered on the airship Schwaben. First air steward in history.”

  The chef groans. “He never misses an opportunity to remind us. Shut up about it already. You’ve made history. We get it. You’re special.”

  “And you?” the American asks. He puts a card down. Takes another.

  He shrugs. “Four years. I started on the Graf Zeppelin.”

  “Rookie,” Ludwig Knorr says with a grunt.

  “Old man,” replies Kubis.

  “Old enough to be your father.”

  “My father is better looking.”

  They go around the table like this. Swapping cards and insults. Adding money to the pile. Telling their zeppelin stories.

  “Just a year and a half for me,” August Deutschle says.

  Xaver snorts. “Baby.”

  “I’m older than you.”

  “You’re still drinking from your mother’s tit.”

  “I like your mother’s tits better.”

  This makes the American think of his brother and how his mother laments that boys are like dogs—how they do things in a pack that they would never do by themselves. Age has no bearing on this truth. Especially given the fact that boys never really grow up. They simply age. There is something about male camaraderie that lends itself to insults. You will never see men who dislike each other trading jabs like this without drawing blood. But friends can be bitterly cruel and end up loving each other more. It’s about wit and laughter and one-upmanship with men. Insults become terms of endearment. This is the thing that the American misses most about the military.

  “I’ve got the most seniority,” Ludwig Knorr says, stating a simple fact.

  Again the groan. Xaver tosses a coin in the pile. “As usual.”

  “Took my first flight in ’06. But that was a balloon. I’ve been on zeppelins since 1912.”

  “You’ve all got me beat, I’m afraid,” the American says. “Six months ago for me. On the Graf Zeppelin. I like this ship better. But given the choice I’d prefer to do my traveling on the ground.”

  Ludwig tries to hide the disdain in his voice. “Afraid of heights?”

  “Only when falling.” The American arranges his cards. He’s ready to call. “I just prefer to be on the ground when disaster strikes. Easier to tuck and roll.”

  Knorr narrows his eyes. “So the military, then?”

  “For a short while, 1918 mostly. France. You?”

  “For most of my life. All of the Great War.” He doesn’t look up. This is sensitive territory. Two men at the same table who were on opposite sides of the same conflict. Ludwig Knorr pulls further into himself. He sheds the visage of good humor. He becomes a soldier again before the American’s eyes.

  He looks at Heinrich Kubis but asks the entire table, “Anyone else?”

  “No,” Kubis says.

  Maier and Deutschle shake their heads. The American can see this from his peripheral vision.

  “Good,” he says, laying his cards facedown on the table. Four of a kind. Tens and the ace of spades. “I call.”

  He is about to collect his winnings when Ludwig lays his cards down with a cold smile. A straight flush. Hearts. The American watches as Margaret Mather’s ring is stuffed inside the chief rigger’s coat pocket.

  The American has found his target—Ludwig Knorr—but there is, strangely, little satisfaction in having done so. Captain Lehmann lied to him. It is certain the captain does not trust him, and with good reason. But why protect one man only to endanger another? He has to concentrate, to heighten his intuition. He studies them, and the answer soon becomes clear. Heinrich Kubis is innocuous. Arrogant, yes. But he is no threat, and he is almost always surrounded by other people. Lehmann knows this. Ludwig Knorr, on the other hand, is a different kind of man entirely. Lehmann took a calculated risk with his deception, hoping to distract the American. No matter. Tomorrow he will kill Ludwig Knorr. And then he will destroy the Hindenburg.

  THE CABIN BOY

  Werner Franz crouches outside the swinging door that leads from the kitchen into the crew’s mess. It’s past midnight and the American has been in there for long enough that Werner is starting to feel stiff and cramped in this position. That is his task: spy on the American. Frau Adelt wants to know whom he speaks to and what he says. She wants to know where he sits in the room. The journalist was very clear about these things, but when he asked why she was so interested he was told it was none of his busin
ess.

  The boy knows nothing of poker, although he hears it’s not all that different from chess in that it requires a straight face and a good bit of strategy. But his father has always told him that chess is a thinking man’s game and that he’s raising Werner to be a thinking man, not one who relies on the luck of the draw. So that’s how they spend their time together when he is home. Sitting at the kitchen table beside the fire escape, discussing the merits of the Sicilian Defense over the Alekhine Defense. The Queen’s Gambit. The English Opening. The Stonewall Attack. They rehearse the moves, pieces in hand, eyes on the board, the name of each play and the name of each piece suggesting arcane military tactics. And he wonders if the men in the kitchen have names for their own moves. Is it just a bluff? Or a blindman’s bluff? A fold? Or a Folded Hat? Is there room for such creativity in a game of chance, or does a man simply rely on his own luck and powers of subterfuge?

  As he listens, conversation moves to flying, how long each man has served aboard the Hindenburg, and then on to military service. This topic of conversation seems to interest the American more than the others. He is very curious about Ludwig Knorr and the time he spent flying over England during the Great War.

  The American has not won a game yet. Or is it a hand? Werner isn’t sure. Regardless, they’ve dealt the cards a number of times, and the American has come up short on all of them. However, he suspects that is about to change because he lost something valuable in the last hand and now he tosses something heavy and metallic into the middle of the table that sends coins scattering in all directions. The other men gasp. Someone whistles.

  “I told you I had more,” the American says.

  “That confident, are you?” This sounds like Heinrich Kubis.

  The American. “My wife had a thick neck. That never looked good on her anyway.”

  So a necklace, then. The American is betting jewelry. No wonder they let him in the game. Werner tried to get in a game once, but all he had to bet was the five marks he’d earned as a tip the day before, and the men had sent him scuttling out the door. He suspects they wouldn’t let him play because the entire crew knows he works to help support his family and none of them wants to be responsible for any damage his brother and parents would suffer because of a loss. Most of them are rough and dirty men, but they are honorable. And many of them have wives and children of their own at home. They know what it’s like to come up short for the month, and how bitter it is when their own stupidity is at fault.