Flight of Dreams (3 page)

“Y
ou're staring at her again.”

Max turns to find a slow, amused smile disrupting the sharp angles of Wilhelm Balla's usually stoic face. It looks ill-fitting on the steward, as though he has borrowed another man's coat.

“Wouldn't you?”

“I would go talk to her, not stand there like a pubescent boy with a secret crush.”

“It's hardly a secret.”

“Get on with it, then.”

“Emilie is greeting passengers. And we've already said hello.”

For a man with such a blunt personality, Wilhelm Balla has razor-sharp insight. “Can't have been much of a greeting. You didn't kiss her.”

“How—”

The steward cuts him off by holding up his manifest—right between their faces—and reading from it. “It appears as though Frau Imhof is greeting the last of her passengers now. Journalists from Frankfurt. She will likely have a few scarce moments before boarding herself.”

Max can't hear what Emilie says to the dismissive young woman, but she has to repeat herself. The journalist still doesn't respond, and her husband finally tugs a satchel from her hands and passes it to Emilie with an apologetic shrug. Emilie looks slightly embarrassed, and Max takes a strong and immediate dislike to the journalists.

“Did she tell you I didn't kiss her?” He clears his throat. “Did she want me to—”

“Go.”

The steward gives Max one hard shove. He stumbles forward and tucks his hands in his pockets because he doesn't know what else to do with them. Emilie stands near the portside gangway holding the satchel and scowling at the couple as they whisper intently on their way up.

“Pay them no mind,” he mutters low, over her shoulder, so that his breath tickles her ear. “People go crazy when they fly. I've seen decorated soldiers lose their
Schieße.
”

She laughs, loudly at first, and then lower, a gentle shaking of her shoulders. God, he loves her laugh.

“Are you going to commandeer every conversation I have over the next three days?”

“Are you going to kiss everyone but me?”

“I didn't kiss either of
them.
”

“You kissed the cook.”

“Chef. And you sound petty. I can kiss who I like.”

He loves this about Emilie. How brassy and direct she is. They are well matched in spirit, if not height. Emilie is but an inch or two shorter than Max, and he constantly finds himself in the unusual position of facing her eye to eye depending on her footwear. He is tall; so is she, for a woman.

“Kiss whoever you like. As long as I'm the one you like the most.” He lowers his voice. “You did promise me an answer on this flight. Have you forgotten?”

Emilie is about to respond when they are interrupted by screeching tires.

Max grabs Emilie by the arm and pulls her back a step as the careening taxi lurches to a stop beside the airship. A small, wiry man leaps from the backseat, followed by a dog so alarmingly white that Emilie gasps. The new arrival surveys the curious onlookers as though he has come onstage for an encore. Max half expects him to bow. Instead, the dog barks and things disintegrate into bedlam. Three security guards, two customs officials, and the chief steward all descend on the strange little man as though he's holding a detonator. But he fans his ticket and travel papers in front of his face without the least bit of concern.

“Joseph Späh!” he announces to no one in particular, and this time he does give a theatrical bow. He motions toward the dog. “And this is Ulla. We are so pleased to join everyone on this voyage.”

The ground crew searches his bags, and Späh hangs back to watch, quietly mocking their curiosity. One of the soldiers finds a brightly wrapped package and tears off the paper. He lifts a doll from the pile of tissue and appears somewhat disappointed at the find.

“It's a girl,
Dummkopf,
” Späh says when the officer turns it over to check beneath the ruffled skirt.

It takes no small amount of time to verify that Joseph Späh is a legitimate passenger on board the
Hindenburg,
that Ulla's presence and freight have been approved and paid for in advance, and to locate his cabin—which, as it turns out, is on A-deck near the dining room, much to Späh's satisfaction. He seems delighted at the prospect of maintaining his role as entertainer.

Max and Emilie watch the entire spectacle in bemused silence, and he takes immense pleasure in the fact that she does not draw her arm away from his hand. He can feel the warmth of her skin through the thin sleeve of her dress. Max soaks it in. He has never given her more than a glancing touch before. This is progress.

Max's reverie is broken by the guttural clearing of a throat. He turns to find Heinrich Kubis staring at his hand on Emilie's arm. The chief steward drops two bulging mailbags at Max's feet. “These are yours, I believe?”

He releases Emilie and lifts the bags. They are surprisingly heavy, but he's determined not to show it. “So there's the last of it. Commander Pruss said two more loads were coming on the bus.”

Emilie nods at the bags. “What's this?”

“Max is our new postmaster,” Kubis says. He glances at Max and Emilie as though an idea has just occurred to him. “He will attend to those duties in his off hours.”

“His off hours? Meaning he won't
have
any hours off?”

“You will have precious few yourself, Fräulein Imhof. And I'd highly suggest that you not spend them fraternizing with an officer in full view of the passengers.” He tips his head toward the control car. “Or the commander.”

Max is absurdly pleased that Emilie looks disappointed at this news. Perhaps she had imagined ways of filling his spare time? He takes a step back and clicks his heels sharply. Nods. “If you will excuse me, I need to get these stored in the mailroom before we cast off.”

Emilie is not pleased that their conversations seem to end on his terms, and he enjoys the lines of frustration that appear between her eyes. “Don't you want my answer?” she calls after him.

“Send it by post!”

She may have something left to say, but he doesn't wait to hear it. Max turns, a mailbag gripped tightly in each hand, and walks up the gangway. Instead of taking a sharp right and going up another set of stairs to A-deck, he turns left into the keel corridor and heads toward the front of the airship.

Max neatly sidesteps Wilhelm Balla. He has his hand on the elbow of a staggering American who is mumbling the words to some lewd drinking song, but the man slurs so badly Max catches only every other word.

“No. Your cabin is this way,” Balla says. “Nothing to see down there.”

Max offers the steward a cheerful smile. “Good luck with that.”

Balla expertly holds up the American with one arm while checking his manifest with the other. “The good news is that this
Arschloch
's room isn't on A-deck. I probably couldn't get him up the stairs. The better news is that his cabin is right next to Kubis.”

The chief steward is a teetotaler and not generally fond of anything originating from America, whether people or products. Watching these two interact over the next few days should be interesting. Balla, at least, is smiling at the prospect. He shuffles off with the American, wearing the impish grin of a schoolboy anticipating some minor disaster.

The mailroom is down the corridor, on the left, just before the officers' quarters, and Max has to drop the mailbags so he can unlock the door. All 17,000 pieces of mail were inspected by hand earlier that day in Frankfurt. The cutoff for letters to make this flight was three o'clock, and based on the weight of the last two bags, there was quite a last-minute rush. This is Max's first flight as postmaster, having inherited the position from Kurt Schönherr for this year's flight season, and he inspects the room carefully to make sure everything is in order.

The room smells of paper and ink and musty canvas, and in the dim light the piles of mail bear an uncomfortable resemblance to body bags. A bag marked
KÖLN
hangs on a hook by the door, waiting for the airdrop later that evening. In the corner is a squat, black, protective container. Metal. Locked. Fireproof. And off-limits to everyone but him. Inside are pieces of registered mail. And the items that require special care or discretion. The key to this lockbox is on the ring at Max's waist. Three hours ago he was given a small package, one hundred newly printed marks, and a promise that if the package is kept safe until their arrival in New Jersey, he would receive another hundred.

The parcel is inside the lockbox, and the box itself is, thankfully, still locked. Max scans the room one more time to make sure everything is in order. Then he pats the mailbag headed for Cologne and locks the door behind him.

H
e isn't drunk. Not even close. It would take more than three watered-down gin and tonics to make him stumble. But he leans on the steward's arm just the same. A well-timed lurch, a garbled word here and there, and no one is the wiser. The easiest way to be dismissed is to appear inordinately pissed in public.

Before he's shuffled away by the steward, the American takes note of the key ring clipped to the officer's belt and which door leads to the mailroom. Its proximity to the control car is problematic—there will always be officers lurking about—but he can deal with that later. The keel corridor is long and narrow with walls that slant outward, and he and the steward have to stand aside to let others pass four times before they reach his stateroom. It wouldn't be appropriate to deposit a wasted Yankee in someone else's cabin, so the humorless steward checks his clipboard twice before shoving the door open and guiding him to the bed. The steward's name tag reads
WILHELM BALLA
, and his white jacket is perfectly pressed, as are the corners of his mouth. The American takes a perverse pride in the steward's disapproval.

“You've got the room to yourself, so there's no need to worry about inconveniencing anyone else while you sleep this off.” The steward shrugs out from beneath one of the American's leaden arms. The American tips backward into the berth, seemingly incoherent. “Dinner is at ten. You'll be seated at Commander Pruss's table, I understand?” He waits for a beat and then continues, not bothering to hide the disdain in his voice. “I'll come collect you if you've not woken by then.”

The American does not respond. He counts to five after the door clicks shut. Then he sits up and straightens his jacket. The room is larger than is typical for a cabin on board an airship. Eight feet wide by ten feet long. One berth that can sleep two instead of bunk beds. But it's the window that makes it worth the ticket price. Like the windows elsewhere on board, this one is long and narrow and set into the slanted wall. Unlike the observation windows on the promenade, however, this one does not open. The sink and writing desk are larger here than on A-deck—there's a bit of room to spread out. The small, narrow closet has enough room to hang a handful of shirts and trousers, but the rest of his clothing will need to be stowed beneath the bed. No trouble, he only checked two bags, and the item he is most eager to find isn't in either of them. The American stands in the middle of the room and turns in small quarter-circle increments, methodically taking note of every detail. The walls and ceiling are made of foam board, thin and covered with cloth. Sound will travel easily through them. A handy thing if one wants to listen in on the conversations of one's fellow passengers.

Where would it be? He tips his head to the side, pensive. Not in the closet. A quick search finds no hidden panels or packages. Neither is it in the mattress, pillowcases, or any of the bedding. The cabinets above and below the sink are empty, as is the light fixture attached to the ceiling. The American wonders for a brief moment if his request has been refused. He dismisses the idea out of hand. His requests are never refused. There is only one place in the room he has not checked, and he immediately feels a sense of disappointment. He thought the officer would have more imagination. Apparently not. He finds what he's looking for beneath the berth in the farthest, darkest corner: an olive-green military-issue canvas bag. He is pleased with the contents.

A note, folded in half, with three words scrawled in black ink by a hasty hand:
Make it clean.

A dog tag strung on a rusted ball chain, once belonging to the man he has come to kill. And a pistol, a Luger with a fully loaded cartridge. But there is no name. He was promised a name. He lifts the tag and inspects the information stamped on its surface. They expect him to decipher this clue on his own. They have baited him.

The American slides the bag under his pillow and stretches out on the bed, his arms beneath his head. He's still lying there ten minutes later when the steward returns with his suitcases. They are tucked beneath the bed and once again he is alone. But not asleep. He is thinking about what he must do next. He is thinking about the mailroom and how he will get inside unnoticed before they reach Cologne later tonight. He is thinking about the letter that has to be delivered. The American creates a mental inventory of each action that needs to be taken over the next three days and how everything—absolutely everything—must go according to plan.

W
erner Franz will not let them see him cry. He has smashed his knee into the edge of a large steamer trunk and the pain is so sharp and deep inside the bone that he can feel a howl building in his chest and he clamps his teeth shut so it won't come bellowing out. If he were at home or at school or anywhere but here with these men, he would allow himself the luxury of sobbing. But he will not prove himself a baby in front of his fellow crew members. He already takes enough ribbing as it is. So Werner steps aside and closes his eyes. Men pass him carrying trunks and luggage. He hears the shuffling of feet and the bark of a dog and a muttered curse, and he counts to ten silently, trying to compose himself. He lets out a long, deep breath, his scream subdued into silence, but he can't help glaring at the trunk. It's none the worse for wear, but he'll be bruised for weeks.

Werner spins around when a large hand grips his shoulder. He looks directly into a broad barrel chest, then up into the face of Ludwig Knorr. The man is a legend on this ship, and Werner is in awe of him. But it's the sort of awe that leads him to scuttle out of a room when Knorr enters, or to press himself against the corridor wall when they pass one another. A sort of reverence turned to abject terror, even though the man has never so much as spoken to him. Until now.

“If you're going to kick something,” Knorr says, his voice a low rumble, “make sure it's the door and not that trunk.” He points at the letters
LV
stamped in gold filigree across the leather. “It costs more than you'll make all year. Understand?”

Werner nods his head. Drops his eyes. “Yes, Herr Knorr.”

Ludwig ruffles his hair. “And steer clear of Kubis for a while. He's in a rage today. It's the dogs. He hates dogs.”

Heinrich Kubis checks the tag on the trunk next to Werner. Then he orders one of the riggers to take it to the cargo area instead of to the passenger quarters. He tics a box on the clipboard in his hand and moves on to the next item. Beside Kubis is a large provisioning hatch that opens onto the tarmac below, where a pile of luggage is waiting to be lifted into the ship. The tricky part is determining whether the items go to the cabins or the cargo area. Kubis is unruffled, however, and gives orders without the slightest hesitation.

There is a frantic scrambling and clanging as the dogs are raised on the cargo platform. They spin and bark and whimper, making their wicker crates rattle. Werner knows the poor little beasts are terrified, but Kubis shows no sympathy. “To the cargo hold,” he orders, and the cages are lifted by two riggers apiece and carted away through the cavernous interior of the ship.

“I will never understand,” Kubis mutters, “why these fools insist on traveling with their pets.”

After ten more minutes of Kubis griping about live cargo, all the luggage has been dispersed except for one leather satchel. This he hands to Werner. “Stateroom nine on B-deck. Set it neatly on the bed so Frau Adelt will see it upon entering. She is, apparently, quite particular about her things.”

Werner takes the satchel and heads toward the passenger area. He is as familiar with the layout of this ship as he is with his parents' apartment in Frankfurt. He turns the corner near the gangway stairs a bit too fast, almost knocking a young woman to the ground. But she has great reflexes and an even better sense of humor. She dances out of the way with a smile.

“I'm so sorry, Fräulein.” Werner blushes.

She ignores the apology. “Have you seen my brother?”

Werner is typically quick on his feet and quite affable. But this girl is
very
pretty. And she looks to be about his age. She's staring at him, waiting for an answer to her question. He can't seem to remember what she asked, so he stands there with the satchel clutched stupidly to his chest.

“My brother?” she asks again. “Have you seen him? He's eight and blond and I'm going to wring his neck when I find him. Mama is in a state looking for him.”

“No.” Werner clears his throat so his voice won't crack. “I've not seen him.”

“Well, if you come across the little imp, would you send him to the observation deck?”

“Of course. What is his name?”

“Werner.”

“That is my name also.” He almost doesn't ask. It isn't technically appropriate. But the question is out before he can reel it back in. “What is yours?”

Her eyes widen a bit, but in surprise, he thinks, not objection. “Irene.”

He's careful to give her a small subservient nod. “Nice to meet you.”

Irene almost says something to this—her lips are parted slightly as though to reply—but she appears to change her mind. She pauses for a moment, then flounces off without another word. But when she turns to go up the stairs to A-deck, Werner can see a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, and she betrays herself by giving him a quick backward glance before she disappears. He stands there, watching her go, wondering why he wishes she would come back and make some other impertinent remark about her brother.

It has been almost two years since Werner was in school, and just as long since he has spent any significant amount of time around girls. So he is surprised by the heat in his cheeks and the smile on his face. He does not know what to make of the flipping in his stomach. Werner cannot identify the subtle shift that takes place within him as he carries the satchel through the open door and into the Adelts' stateroom. He places it carefully beside the pillow. It feels as though the wires in his mind have come alive all at once in a sudden rush of electrical current. There is a buzzing in his head. He knows what it's like to be afraid and to be exhausted and to be hungry, and even though this feels like a combination of all three, he is aware that it is something different. Something unique. Werner Franz makes his way to the observation deck to join the rest of the stewards, experiencing something very new indeed.