Flight of Dreams

by Ariel Lawhon

  Around the table they go, betting, raising, folding. Two players leave the game in disgust. Eventually the American calls. Cards slap the table. Someone curses. The American has kept his necklace and everything else along with it. Werner does his best to remember these details so he can report them to Gertrud Adelt.

  More money goes in the pot. Cards are dealt again. The men swap war stories. And the American wins again. Only now Werner isn’t paying attention. He is fascinated. He rarely hears of battlefields and brothels when they know he is within earshot, so he misses the signal that the American is calling it quits for the night. He hears the footsteps but doesn’t have time to scramble away. Before he can get to his feet, Werner is knocked backward by the door. He doesn’t grunt or call out when he lands hard on his tailbone, so his presence goes undetected by the crew in the other room. They hover over the table, looking at new cards, trying to recover their losses. As the door swings shut, the American bends low over Werner’s crouched form, murder in his eyes.

  DAY FOUR

  THURSDAY, MAY 6, 1937—5:35 A.M., EASTERN STANDARD TIME

  THE EASTERN COAST OF THE UNITED STATES NEAR PORTLAND, MAINE

  13 HOURS AND 50 MINUTES UNTIL THE EXPLOSION

  I rated the Zeppelin much lower as a weapon of war than almost anyone else. I believed that this enormous bladder of combustible and explosive gas would prove to be easily destructible.

  —Winston S. Churchill, First Lord of the Admiralty

  THE JOURNALIST

  “Do you think he believed you?” Gertrud asks. Their stateroom is dark—nothing more than a suggestion of light coming from the westward-facing windows—and filled with pre-dawn quiet. Her voice sounds like an intrusion. But she knows Leonhard is awake, has been for at least an hour, because he’s tracing tiny circles around the knobs of her spine. Slowly. Methodically. From her tailbone to the base of her skull, he does not miss one vertebra.

  She can feel his answer from where she lies across his chest—a shake of the head. “No, Liebchen,” he says. “I do not.”

  There’s no need to explain her question. He knows well enough what she means. And he’s angry with himself for falling into such a neatly laid trap. Of course there’s no way the two of them could have figured out the owner of the dog tag on their own. And Leonhard’s nonchalant explanation about the deductive skills of journalists did nothing to convince Captain Lehmann last night in the bar. He knows that Leonhard lied to him, and that leaves them at a disadvantage. They talked for over an hour and, when pressed, Leonhard had been forced to tell Lehmann their suspicions regarding the American and his interest in Ludwig Knorr. He had, thankfully, left out Emilie’s part in their discovery.

  Gertrud burrows deeper into the warmth of Leonhard’s bare arm. “Thank you for protecting her.”

  “Never give up a source, right?” He murmurs it against her hair.

  “She’s a friend,” Gertrud says, and then amends her comment, “for my part, at least.”

  “I didn’t think you made friends.”

  “End of days.”

  He laughs at this and rolls her over so she’s lying on her back, pinned to the mattress by the weight of his body. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “Take me home.”

  It’s the closest she will come to begging, and he flinches at the desperate note in her voice. “I’m trying.”

  “We seem to be going in the opposite direction.”

  “No way out but through, Liebchen. You want to go home to Egon? Home is through Lakehurst and then New York, and then this godforsaken book tour. We miss a single one of those steps and we won’t have a son to go home to.”

  Leonhard has never said the words so plainly, though she has known the truth of them for some time.

  “Is that what Goebbels told you?”

  “That and more.”

  The breath catches in her throat. “I’m so sorry. I caused this trouble.”

  “No. You were just a handy excuse. I have co-written a book about German aviation and the Nazis’ recent grasp for power. I have become a public figure now that the book will be published internationally. I have put this target on our backs.”

  “I certainly didn’t help things.”

  “No. But you made them a hell of a lot more interesting.”

  Leonhard moves across her body, tucking his head into the crook of her neck, as though protecting her from an assailant. “I am sorry, Liebchen.”

  The mood is heavy, too much for Gertrud. She tickles him in the ribs until he curses and slides away.

  “You can’t help yourself. You’ve been making mischief with your words since the beginning. I’d be rather disappointed if you stopped now.”

  “So mischief is what you want?” He slides a hand over her bare hip, down her thigh.

  “Tempting.” Gertrud yawns. “But at this particular moment I’d rather have sleep.”

  “Come home to me, then.” Leonhard loops an arm around her and pulls her into his chest as he whispers their pet saying. The first time they made love, Leonhard told her that having her in his arms felt like being home. And so now every time he wants her near him he asks her to come home. And she obediently backs herself into the warmth of his broad chest. As Gertrud sinks a few degrees toward unconsciousness, a single question tugs at her mind.

  “What do we do about the American? Lehmann listened to you. But he’s stalling. We both know that.”

  Leonhard lies there, silent for a moment. Then he pulls the blanket high over their bare shoulders. “First we rest. Then we bide our time and get off this damned airship when it lands tomorrow. With any luck we won’t have to do a thing about the American. We’ve planted the seed with Lehmann. He can take it from here.”

  “And the cabin boy?”

  “What about him?”

  “He never came back last night.”

  Leonhard’s voice is heavy with sleep. “Look for him in the morning. See what he learned.”

  And so she drifts toward that blissful void known as sleep. And as she goes she thinks of Werner. How she needs to find him. She thinks of the peculiar absurdity of the adolescent male. She thinks of boys. Boys and brothers. Something about brothers. One or four or what was it? Some inconsistency she has heard. And then the thought has slipped from her and her frantic mind is suspended in temporary peace.

  THE NAVIGATOR

  Max drops into the control car exactly twenty-five minutes early for his shift. It’s not like him, and Christian Nielsen squints in his direction, his tired eyes pinched at the corners, suspicious.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” Max says as he makes his way into the chart room. He stands beside the window, hands crammed deep into his pockets, and surveys the landscape for nearly five minutes before something obvious occurs to him. “That isn’t New Jersey.”

  “Maine,” Nielsen says.

  “We should be over New Jersey.” Max looks at the clock above the chart table. “We’re supposed to land this morning.”

  “More headwinds,” Nielsen says by way of explanation. “Pruss just radioed Lakehurst to let them know they should expect us around four this afternoon. Hopefully we can make up some time now that we’re over land. But if so, it won’t be much.”

  Commander Pruss is at the helm, looking out the front windows of the control car into the early morning gloom. The persistent cloud cover that has plagued the entire trip is present here as well—but with a more sinister look. Pruss doesn’t comment on the delay or greet Max. He simply stands there, hands on the rudder wheel, glaring out into the mist, daring the weather to turn adverse. They can’t afford to lose any more time.

  They’ve been fighting headwinds since the first night, but this is an even more significant delay than he expected. Max assumed they were five or six hours behind schedule, but not—he looks at the clock again to double-check his mental calculations—ten.

  “How?” he asks Nielsen.

  “The jet stream picked up east of Nova Scotia. There was a
block of low pressure offshore, and when we flew into it we lost a lot of speed.”

  It’s amazing what can happen while a man sleeps. While Max tossed and turned in his cabin not twenty feet away, the ship practically ground to a halt without his knowing. Two, maybe three hours of sleep is all he got. But he has a plan now, and that’s more than he had yesterday.

  Max doesn’t answer Nielsen. He’s afraid his voice will betray relief. He feared he wouldn’t have time to do the thing he needs to do, but this fortuitous delay has blown his plan wide open and given him the gift of unexpected time. Perhaps he is not doomed after all.

  Nielsen’s shift is almost over, and he looks like a man with his mind bent on breakfast. Max cannot help but feel a certain amount of glee at the realization that Xaver Maier will be forced to cook a number of unexpected meals today. He makes a mental note to stop by the kitchen at some point and gloat.

  When Werner announces the arrival of coffee a few minutes later, it’s Max who goes to fetch the tray. And if the cabin boy is surprised to see him in the control car so early he doesn’t let on. But neither does he make eye contact. Something about the boy doesn’t look right.

  “What’s wrong?” Max asks.

  Werner shakes his head. “Nothing.”

  He lowers his voice to a near whisper. “Look at me and say that.”

  Werner’s eyes are clear, and he doesn’t appear to be injured. His uniform is crisp and clean. His hair parted. But there is no light in his eyes. “I’m fine,” he says. But he meets Max’s curious gaze with reserve.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Werner hesitates, then sighs. “You weren’t there last night when I came back to your cabin. You told me to come back. I waited as long as I could.”

  The boy’s voice sounds hurt and accusing, and Max feels a stab of guilt. “I’m sorry, I—”

  Werner pulls back from the hatch a few inches. Whispers. “There’s something I need to tell you.” But when Max leans forward, curious, Werner nods toward Commander Pruss at the helm. “Not now.”

  THE AMERICAN

  “Breakfast! For the bitches!” Joseph Späh thrusts a plate into the American’s face.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, come off it. You’re not a prude. And that is a perfectly correct reference for female dogs. Dogs which, I might add, are waiting to be fed.”

  “Ulla is female. Owens is not. Therefore your plural usage is incorrect.”

  “Owens?”

  “We have to call him something.”

  “Not something stupid.” The American looks at him with disdain, so Späh feigns an expression of mock supplication and a bad English accent. “My good fellow, would you care to accompany me to feed the hounds?”

  Werner Franz has most likely fed the dog already, but the American isn’t about to tell Späh. “Might as well,” he finally says. “It’s not like I have anything else to do.”

  It’s a familiar ritual by now. The American follows Späh through the security door and down the keel catwalk. The little acrobat looks wistfully at the cruciform bracing as they pass underneath. He tells the American that with a little practice he could make a real spectacle out of that climb. They are discussing the merits of such a display when a man moves toward them from the access walkway that leads to the first engine gondola.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The voice is hard and deep and commanding. It is the voice of Ludwig Knorr.

  “The same thing I’ve done twice a day every day since this ship departed Frankfurt.” Späh takes a dramatic bow. “Feeding my dog.”

  “Passengers aren’t allowed in this part of the ship.” He looks at the American and receives a disinterested shrug in return.

  “Tell that to every crewman who has seen me traverse this stretch of catwalk for the last three days.”

  If Späh has been intercepted on his solo trips he has not mentioned it to the American. Most likely he’s bluffing.

  Knorr is unconvinced. “Names.”

  “Joseph Späh and”—he looks at the American—“I don’t know his name. No one does. But he answers to Asshole in a pinch.”

  “Not your names, your—”

  “Right. You meant the dogs. Ulla and Owens. The latter is the dumbest name I’ve ever heard for a dog. But it’s what we’ve come to expect from Asshole here.”

  “Listen, Arschmade, I meant the crewmen. I want the names of the men who let you back here.”

  “I didn’t ask. And I wouldn’t remember anyway. There are so many of you. And you all look alike in your boring gray uniforms.”

  The American does his best not to laugh. Späh is quick and clever. He has a rapier wit and the perfect timing of a man who is accustomed to heckling. He enjoys the game immensely. However, the banter is a nuisance to the chief rigger, and he raises a hand to silence the little man.

  “I will take you to the cargo hold.” Knorr glares at each of them in turn. “And then escort you back to the passengers’ quarters.”

  Knorr leads the way with the air of a martyr, watching while the dogs are fed and their messes cleaned, standing apart from them, inconvenienced and determined to let them know. The American hadn’t intended to actually participate in this ritual, and he finds it distasteful. Dogs are not hygienic creatures. The way they eat and the way they defecate and clean themselves repulses him—Owens in particular with the little clods of shit clumped around his ass. But the American is keenly aware of Ludwig Knorr’s curious gaze, so he plays the part.

  They are almost done when Werner Franz enters the cargo room door holding a paper bag filled with scraps. He eyes the men in turns—Späh and Knorr first, but upon seeing the American he cannot disguise his fear. The American gives him an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Don’t say a word, the look commands.

  “Why are you here?” Knorr demands.

  He points an unsteady hand at the wicker cage. “To feed the dog.”

  Owens sees Werner and begins to leap around, pushing his nose through the narrow slats, begging for attention. Stupid, pathetic creature and his easily bought affections, the American thinks. When Werner offers his hand the dog licks it with devotion.

  Knorr watches this display of affection for a moment. “Why?”

  It’s a direct question from a superior, and the American cannot blame the boy for answering truthfully.

  “I was paid to do so.”

  Knorr’s voice drops lower. Curious. “By whom?”

  There is no hesitancy in Werner’s voice when he answers. He has chosen his course and committed to it. “Him.”

  Knorr’s full curiosity turns to the American now. “It seems you have a habit of being where you do not belong.”

  The poker game. The cargo hold. Knorr’s curiosity turns to suspicion in an instant.

  “It is a long flight and I am easily bored.”

  “Is that dog yours?” Knorr asks.

  He pauses, just long enough to choose the lie. But he speaks it plainly and confidently when he does. “Yes.”

  Knorr doesn’t believe him. That much is clear. But he doesn’t argue while Werner and Späh are staring at the two of them with open astonishment.

  “It is ugly,” he says and then turns to the cabin boy. “Finish what you’re doing and then escort these men back to the passengers’ quarters. They are not to come back again while this ship is in the air. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  And Knorr is gone, walking back into the belly of the ship. The American watches his retreating back until the cargo hold door swings shut again. He allows himself the brief fantasy of driving a knife between those shoulder blades.

  “What was that?” Späh asks.

  “That,” he answers, “is a complication.”

  THE NAVIGATOR

  1:55 p.m.—five hours and thirty minutes until the explosion

  Max fiddles with the key ring clipped to his belt. Making up his mind. Summoning courage. Fumbling for a plausible e
xcuse should he be caught. And, he must admit, getting caught is the most likely scenario because Commander Pruss is standing ten feet away at the helm, arguing about the delay with Colonel Erdmann in barely hushed tones. They have not quite reached the point of gesticulation, but neither of them is happy. If Max is going to go through with this he must do it now.

  Whatever fool decided that Faint heart never won fair lady clearly was not in possession of a pulse. Max can feel his blood pounding in his ears as he tucks the key to the officers’ safe into his palm. He can feel the cool weight of it against his skin like an indictment, a flagrant violation of protocol.

  Max leans over the chart table, his forearms on the polished wood surface, as though studying something. In the end it’s easy. Max drops his right arm. He slides the key into the lock and turns it. The safe door swings outward a few inches without so much as a squeak, and Max only has to lean over a bit more to grab the manila envelope that Pruss took from Emilie’s cabin. There is no digging around the safe to make sure he has picked up the right thing. It is empty apart from this, and his fingers fumble only a little as he pulls the packet from the safe and slides it beneath his logbook. Locking the safe is harder now that Max’s hand is sweating. He holds his breath as he struggles to make sure the tumblers lock. He’s trying too hard. Forcing the key. Applying too much pressure. He lets go and stands back. Flexes his hand. When he dares a glance into the bridge, he sees that Helmut Lau has taken Commander Pruss’s place at the helm while Erdmann stares through the front windows as though willing the distance to lessen.