Flight of Dreams (23 page)

G
ertrud Adelt is obviously wearing nothing under her satin robe when she opens the cabin door. And even this covering has been hastily pulled over her body. It's tied loosely at her waist, and she clutches the seams together at her throat. Her hair is wild, her eyes squinty, and her husband nowhere to be seen.

“Good morning, Frau Adelt.” Emilie's voice is warm and amiable and rises at the end of this last syllable in a note of false pleasantry.

Gertrud squeezes her eyes shut, then blinks several times rapidly, trying to force away her fatigue. She looks down the corridor in both directions—it's filled with passengers and stewards going about their morning business—and then she looks back at Emilie.

“Why are you here?”

Emilie holds her gaze and speaks slowly, as though to a child. Or an idiot. “It's a quarter past seven. You requested that I stop by at this time to assist you. Have you forgotten?”

Though Emilie does not spend much of her free time around other women, one thing she does appreciate about her gender is that they can communicate almost entirely with their eyes. Gertrud narrows hers in understanding and says, “Yes. I must have. Do come in.”

Once Emilie is in the cabin, Gertrud leans against the door and crosses her arms over her chest. “Why are you
really
here?”

“I got tired of waiting for you in the dining room.”

“I'm not an early riser.”

“Your husband has already gone through a pot of coffee and a rack of bacon.”

“My
husband,
” Gertrud says, “agreed to let me sleep in this morning. I find myself rather cross that I did not get to do so.”

“You asked for my help yesterday in the bar. I'm prepared to give it.”

“In exchange for what?”

“The truth. You tell me why you're looking for the man who owns that dog tag and I will give you his name.”

Emilie stands in the middle of the cabin, hands folded below her waist. It is the posture she always maintains when attending to a passenger. On the surface it appears to be one of subservience, but in reality it is a stance of fortitude. She will do what she has to do.

Gertrud circles her now, like a wolf assessing its prey. She looks the stewardess over with those sharp, watchful eyes, searching for a weakness. A clue. She finally stops in front of Emilie. Taps her slender bare foot on the floor. “Something has changed since yesterday.”

“I find myself in a rather precarious situation and I'm looking for…
options.
I believe you can provide me with one.”

The decision came to Emilie immediately upon waking this morning. She learned long ago never to rob herself of sleep, no matter the tragedy or trouble she faced. To Emilie sleep is the solution to every problem. She lets each worry surface in her mind once her head is on the pillow, but she does not try to solve any of them. Emilie thinks of them as tiny spots of light, like those luminous pinpricks that dance in her peripheral vision when she is dizzy. Each concern is a bright spot in her mind. She studies the problems from every angle, acknowledges their presence, waits for them to go dark or brighten. And then she wills her body to sleep, starting at her toes and working her way up, inch by inch, toward her mind. The stewardess learned this skill in the hard, lonely days after her husband died, when she would lie awake at night weeping and worrying, only to be disgusted with herself in the morning, stumbling around in a state beyond anything that could even be described as exhaustion. Now when she faces a troubling issue she sits with it before falling asleep, then passes it off to her subconscious mind to solve. It is a rare morning that she wakes without an answer. Today that single pinprick of light grew and blazed and came barreling into her mind like a meteor.

“Well.” Gertrud sits on the bed and crosses her legs. “This is unexpected.”

“It has been my experience that the worst things in life usually are.”

Gertrud grunts, disdainful. “Please. It's too early for theatrics. Speak plainly. I have a headache.”

“I understand that you are a woman who is usually in control,
Frau Adelt.
” She stresses the title as a reminder that using it behind this closed door, under these circumstances, is a choice, not an obligation. “But it would be a mistake to assume that is the case with me. I'm not interested in melodrama. Nor do I offer second chances. I am here because I have no other options. We are not friends. We do not engage in witty banter. Tell me what you know or you will not get your name. Is that
plain
enough for you?”

“Quite. Plain.” Gertrud's mouth spreads into a wide grin despite the clipped reply.

Emilie expected rage but gets delight instead. What the hell is wrong with this woman?

“Are you sure you don't want to be friends? I imagine we could get into all sorts of trouble.”

“I have enough trouble, thank you.”

“Alright then,” she says with an exaggerated pout. Gertrud pulls the dog tag out of a small jewelry box on the counter and drops it into Emilie's palm. “There is an American passenger on board this airship named Edward Douglas. He's a businessman of some dubious variety. I'd be very interested to know exactly what it is he does. Regardless, I believe that he is on this ship to find the owner of this tag. I doubt very much that his motives are altruistic, and if I had to bet money I'd say they lean toward suspicious.”

“You are sure of this?”

“Four months ago my press card was revoked by the fucking Ministry of Propaganda. Oh, don't look so shocked. I'm a grown woman and I've never met a curse word I didn't like. Politeness is a lost cause in my profession.” Gertrud returns to her spot on the edge of the bed and tightens the edges of her robe around her bare legs. “Edward Douglas was in the building that day. His office is a floor below, and I did not take it well when they tried to escort me from the building sans press card. That is all beside the point, however.”

“So what is your point, then?” Emilie realizes what a relief it is to speak frankly with another person, and a woman at that. It's as though a small bubble of tension has burst in her chest and she can breathe a bit easier. Emilie relaxes into the small chair beside the dressing table. There is no need to guard her expressions or her words for the moment.

“Consider it backstory. Important, but generally left out of the narrative.” Gertrud is awake now, albeit reluctantly, and she goes to the sink and splashes cold water on her face. Emilie knows she's thinking, sorting through what she does and doesn't want to share. Finally Gertrud grabs a brush from her cosmetics case and begins working it through her erratic curls. “The night we took off, you were asked to summon a woman from the hangar?”

“Yes. Dorothea Erdmann. Colonel Erdmann's wife.”

“Why?”

“He wanted to say good-bye.”

“Don't you think it's odd that the family members of all the other passengers and crew members were made to say their farewells at the Hof Hotel? No one was allowed near the airfield. We were bused there under armed guard. And yet Dorothea Erdmann was a stone's throw away in the hangar, at her husband's beck and call.”

“He is a very high ranking military official.”

“Certainly. I can understand why she was allowed to wait in the hangar and why they made an exception for her. I just don't understand why he insisted on it. Colonel Erdmann did not say a single word to her when she came on board. But he held on to her like a drowning man.” She looks at Emilie now and her expression is pointed. “He held on to her like a man who suspected he would never see his wife again.”

“I did not stay and watch,” Emilie says.

“No. I suppose you wouldn't have.” Gertrud glances at her bare hand, and Emilie can see that she is eager to ask questions of a more personal nature. “I'd like to know what capacity he is serving on this voyage. He makes frequent trips to the control car but he's not in uniform. Sometimes he eats with the passengers and other times he's absent—I'm guessing he dines with the crew for those meals. What is he doing here, Emilie?”

“What does this have to do with Edward Douglas?”

“I suspect this has everything to do with him. I suspect Colonel Erdmann is on board this ship to stop whatever it is the American has planned.”

“C
olonel Erdmann is on board this flight as an observer.”

“What does that mean?” Gertrud asks.

“Nothing as exciting as you might think. This ship is state-of-the-art. We're using navigational techniques and weather forecasting technology that are unheard of in the aviation world. Of course the German military has a vested interest. It makes perfect sense that they would want someone on board to watch and learn.”

“And that doesn't bother you?”

Emilie snorts. “Did you look at this thing when you drove up? The swastikas are enormous. I work in a Nazi hotel. How could anything bother me more than that?”

The stewardess seems startled at her own words. It is the most honest thing she has said to Gertrud this entire trip. Anyone else would backtrack. Maybe justify the sentiment or explain their loyalty. But Emilie sits a little straighter. She lifts her chin, daring Gertrud to object or show any sign of shock.

“You keep saying you're not interested in friendship, but I think you just proved otherwise.”

Emilie sighs. She is weary. “The only thing I'm interested in at this particular moment is self-preservation.”

“So tell me the name of the man who owns those dog tags. Tell me what you know about him. Then use the information however you see fit.”

“His name is Ludwig Knorr,” the stewardess says. It's a fact stated simply and without effect now that they have established a truce. “He's something of a war hero. He flew on a number of air raids over England in the First World War. And then he became an aviation legend about a decade ago during the
Graf Zeppelin
's first flight to the United States.”

“How so?”

“A huge section of fabric tore away from the ship midflight and Ludwig led a spectacular repair mission that saved the
Graf Zeppelin
and everyone on board.”

“So he's a mechanic?”

Emilie shakes her head. “No. A rigger. Chief rigger, in fact. He holds the same position here.”

“Please forgive my ignorance. But I don't know what a rigger does.”

“They handle liftoff and landing. The ropes in particular. Landing lines. That sort of thing. It's a tricky process to bring a ship down level. It's about balance and weight distribution. More than one ship has gone ass over elbows because the riggers miscalculated.”

“So what does a rigger do midflight, then?”

Emilie shrugs. “Whatever's needed.”

It's a sparse biography, and Gertrud can't think of any reason why Knorr should be singled out by the American. “What else do you know about him? Anything would help.”

Gertrud studies Emilie's face while she thinks, but she cannot see any signs that the stewardess is holding anything back.

“He's married. I think he has a couple of children. Girls, maybe. I'm not sure.”

“Have you ever spoken with him?”

“This is starting to feel like an interrogation, not an exchange of information.”

Gertrud laughs at this. It's true. She has leaned closer. Her voice has reached a higher pitch. Her muscles are wound tight. “I apologize. Subtlety is not one of my gifts.” She takes a deep breath and returns to her place on the rumpled bed. Gertrud lays her hands on her lap, palms up—a sign of détente. She tries again, her voice soft and child-like. To her it sounds uncomfortably close to mockery, but Emilie doesn't seem to mind. “Have you ever spoken with him?”

“A handful of times. We don't exactly cross paths often. The riggers don't spend much time in the passenger areas.”

There. Gertrud sees Emilie slide back into protective mode. Her face is smooth, a little too relaxed. A little too pleasant. Gertrud presses for more but does her best not to sound threatening in the process. “When was the last time you had a conversation with him?”

Damn it. Emilie pulls back, coiling inward. Her guard is up again. “You are frightening. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“This isn't frightening. Leonhard would call this heightened curiosity. Frightening is when I'm on deadline and every source has dried up and I'm afraid someone else will scoop my story. We can both be thankful those factors are not currently in play.” She picks a piece of lint off the bedspread and drops it to the floor. “You've spoken with him on this flight, haven't you?”

“Last night.”

“Why?”

“Curiosity. You had shown me the dog tag earlier in the day and there he was, in the crew's mess, at dinner. It seemed too good an opportunity to miss.”

“Is that the only time Ludwig Knorr comes in the passenger areas? At dinner?”

Again the hesitation, the internal debate as Emilie struggles with whether or not to confide what she knows. Gertrud decides to pre-empt the debate with a peace offering.

“There is another reason why Colonel Erdmann is on this flight.”

Emilie's face stays expressionless.

“The bomb threats. He believes they are legitimate, that someone might attempt to destroy the
Hindenburg
on this flight.” Gertrud leans forward a bit, imploring. “So you see, it's not just that I'm putting my nose where it doesn't belong or that I'm overly curious. I'd get off this damned ship right now if I could. But that's not a choice I can make. So all I'm left with is figuring out what the hell is going on before someone blows us out of the sky.” She lifts one trembling hand to illustrate her sincerity.

It's the closest Gertrud will come to begging, and still it takes several long, quiet seconds before Emilie finally speaks.

“There's a poker game,” she says. “It takes place in the crew's mess every night after dinner. There are usually only four or five men who play, but Ludwig Knorr is always one of them.”

One corner of Gertrud's mouth curls upward in a devious smile. “Are passengers allowed to join?”

“No. Not officially. But in the end, it's poker. The only thing that really matters is what you bring to the table.”

This morsel of information settles in Gertrud's mind. Takes root. She knows it is important, can feel it the way she does every good lead, but she does not yet know why. It will come to her. It always does. She stands, ready to usher Emilie out. “Are you satisfied with our exchange of information?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Good,” Gertrud says. “I wouldn't exactly say it's been a pleasure, but I am grateful that you came to me. I hope we've formed something of an alliance.”

Emilie rises from the chair and wipes her hands across her skirt, as though dusting them off. “You're dismissing me?”

“I prefer to think of it as freeing up your time. You are on the clock after all.”

“I can't leave yet.”

“You have something left to say?”

“As far as anyone outside this room is concerned, I came here to perform my duties as a stewardess, not the least of which is assisting with the needs of my female passengers.”

“And you're under the impression that I need your assistance?” Gertrud turns to the mirror over the sink. The reflection that greets her is alarming.

“I mean no offense, Frau Adelt, but if you leave this room in your current state my reputation will be ruined.”

“Fine, then.”

Gertrud lowers herself into the chair before the dressing table and submits herself to Emilie's ministrations. Her clothes are selected with care, as are her cosmetics, perfume, and hygiene products. Before long she is dressed and primped. All that's left is to find some way of taming her hair. And, to give Emilie credit, she does try. But the curls and the static are too much even for her considerable skill. After several frustrating attempts to arrange Gertrud's hair into finger waves, Emilie steps back and plants her fists firmly at her waist.

“Do you have a hat?”