Flight of Dreams (7 page)

D
amn German men and their cast-iron livers,
Gertrud thinks,
damn them all.
Leonhard included. The more she drinks, the more she talks, and the more she needs to pee. But she's not the one who needs to talk, it's Colonel Erdmann, and he's zipped up tight, laughing at her with his eyes as he eats the last of his pastry.

“I'm going to the bar,” she says abruptly. Gertrud pushes her plate away and stands up. She's wobbly, but she steadies herself easily enough by holding on to the back of her chair. Leonhard and the colonel jump to their feet out of courtesy, both startled. “And you're welcome to come with me.”

“Where else would I go,
Liebchen
?” Leonhard asks. His tone is soft. Indulgent.

She can think of a number of ways to answer that question—all of them impudent—but she says none of them. It's one thing to be charming and pert and amusing in front of the colonel, but she will not be disrespectful to her husband. She won't shame him. She's tipsy, not stupid. Not only would it hurt Leonhard terribly—he is a man, after all, and his ego is nothing to toy with—but she would lose all the advantage she has built with Colonel Erdmann over dinner.

“You will join us, Colonel?” he asks. “I assure you my wife is quite entertaining when she's good and fully drunk.”

“Entertaining? Or talkative?” The wry one-sided smirk suggests that the colonel is not as irritated by the prospect as he sounds.

“They are often one and the same.”

“In that case I'd be honored.”

Leonhard tucks Gertrud's hand beneath his arm. She leans into him, unstable, and he gives her a fond smile, but there is a warning glint in his eyes.
Do not push the colonel too far,
it says.
Play nice. Remember who you're dealing with.
Their marriage is young, just two years old, but they've learned to read each other remarkably well in that time. To speak with the slightest movements. To communicate with little more than a drumming finger or a long stare. It is a rare gift in marriages, one they capitalize on often.

Leonhard guides them out of the dining room, down the corridor, down the stairs, and onto B-deck. He pauses for a moment outside the toilets when Gertrud squeezes his arm to let him know she needs a moment of privacy.

“Forgive my wife,” she hears Leonhard say as the door swings shut. “She has the bladder of a tiny bird.”

The colonel follows with some rejoinder about his own wife, and she knows that they are fast becoming friends. The toilet is tiny, made of some shiny, lightweight metal, and cold enough to make her gasp. She finishes her business quickly and tidies up in front of the mirror. Another coat of red lipstick. She wipes the mascara smudges from beneath her eyes. Smoothes her hair. Something in the roundness of her eyes, the exhaustion written there, reminds her of Egon, the way he looks when she puts him to bed at night. She is struck with a pang so deep she struggles for breath. Gertrud has not thought of her son in two hours. Not once during dinner. Guilt. Sadness. Anger. All of these things are written on her face, on the brightness of her cheeks. Leonhard sees the emotion clearly when she joins them in the hallway, and he gives her hand a questioning squeeze. He won't ask her here, but she knows he has marked it mentally.

The corridor takes a sharp left and then an immediate right, depositing them directly in front of a heavy glass door. Leonhard raps on the door sharply with his knuckles and steps aside as a steward pushes it open. There is an immediate hiss of air and Gertrud's ears pop. The steward holds the door as they enter. It is ingenious the way they have designed this part of the airship. Safety, beauty, and practicality all rolled into one. The cramped antechamber into which they enter is in effect little more than an air lock monitored by the bar steward. To one side is a fully stocked bar, shaped like a banquette with room for one man to stand, but there are no chairs. No tables.

She doesn't catch the steward's first name when he shakes Leonhard's hand, but she hears his last: Schulze. “This room and the one beyond,” he points at the door opposite, “are pressurized, you see. To prevent any trace amounts of hydrogen from entering. Otherwise no one would be allowed to smoke on board.”

Schulze leads them to the opposite door, also glass, and into the smoking lounge. If the rest of the ship is luxurious, this room is opulent.
Priorities,
Gertrud thinks,
the Zeppelin-Reederei knows whom to indulge.
Leather benches and armchairs line the perfectly square room, leaving the center open. Hand-painted murals of early hot-air balloons decorate the walls. Small square tables are set with playing cards and poker chips. Carpet, such a dark blue that it looks like spilled ink, covers the floor. The place smells faintly of sweet pipe tobacco, and also the bitter smoke of cigarettes and cigars, though she can tell they've gone to great pains to air the room out. Wall sconces fill the space with warm yellow light. And then, of course, the starboard wall is an entire bank of windows. The same as elsewhere on the airship, slanted outward at waist height so you can lean over them and see the ground below. This is where she gravitates while Leonhard and the colonel choose a table. There is so little to see at this time of night that Gertrud is drawn to every prick of light. There the headlights of a vehicle. There the light in a farmhouse window. And on the horizon a luminous string, like a glowworm, hinting at some looming piece of civilization.

Schulze sets the cocktail menus on the table. “These rooms are open until three a.m.,” he says. “You will find that we have all varieties of wine and alcohol on board. Cigars. And tobacco as well, though we do not provide the pipes. Our menu is generous, and I can make anything to order, though, if I might be so bold, I highly recommend the Maybach 12. It is a drink of my own invention and is excellent, if I may say so.” He glances at Gertrud as if to measure her tolerance for alcohol. She must appear wanting, for he adds, “Though it is of considerable horsepower. I will be in the bar when you're ready to order.”

They settle into a table near the window, and Leonhard and the colonel begin to discuss the finer points of some obscure brand of Scotch. In the end they both decide to try the LZ 129 Frosted Cocktail, some ridiculous concoction of gin and orange juice, so they can save the straight liquor for the end of the night when they are good and sauced and their taste buds have thrown in the towel for the day. Gertrud orders the Maybach 12 just to spite everyone. Leonhard dutifully delivers their order to the bar, and when her drink arrives several moments later it is completely devoid of spirits. So he's decided to enable her on this fool's errand after all? The man does surprise her. The look she gives him lasts no longer than a blink, and his answering shrug could be misconstrued as the shift of an aging man trying to get comfortable in his seat.

“We'll be approaching Cologne shortly,” the colonel says, looking at Leonhard. “You are from there, correct?”

“Yes. My family moved from Dortmund to Cologne when I was seventeen.”

“You make it sound so prosaic. Tell him why your family was forced to move.” When Leonhard grins but does not speak she turns to the colonel. “My husband tried his hand at writing at a young age. He published his first novel at seventeen, and it caused such a stir that he lost his apprenticeship as a bookseller in Kleve. What did you title your book, darling?”

“Werden.”

“That doesn't sound so threatening,” the colonel says. “There's nothing particularly obscene about willpower.”

Gertrud laughs. “Perhaps it was the lack thereof that had the censors riled. Leonhard's book was filled with teenage sexual
experiences.
” She whispers this last word as though imparting a juicy bit of gossip.

Leonhard shrugs. “I was seventeen. And curious.”

“Lucky for me you still are.”

He pulls an ice cube from his glass and crushes it between his teeth. “It ended up being a good thing. I went to work for another bookseller once we got to Cologne, and then I started writing for the newspapers.”

“A rather inauspicious beginning to a successful career,” the colonel notes.

“And look at you.” Gertrud cannot disguise the pride in her smile. “Thirty years later and you're still causing trouble.”

The colonel settles into his chair and sets the rim of his glass against his lower lip. “Do you make it back to Cologne often?”

“Not directly. I only visit in letters these days.”

“Well, you'll visit it tonight,” the colonel says. “At least from the air. There it is now.” He points out the window at the long, faint glow on the horizon.

They all look out the window for a moment and then fall into conversation. Gertrud flirts with her husband and with the colonel. She tells stories of her childhood. She gives a passionate account of the last few months and how the Nazis revoked her press card after she began to write unflattering articles about the Ministry of Propaganda. And by the time other passengers begin filtering into the smoking room, Colonel Erdmann is finally talking freely. Of his wife. Of his children. Of this flight and how he'd rather be home.

“And yet you're here. With us,” she says.

His grimace is one of resignation. “Duty calls.”

At this point Gertrud is well into her second virgin Maybach 12 and is the only person at the table who is not slurring. She speaks slowly to make up for it. “And all because of a few stupid bomb threats.”

Finally,
finally
Colonel Erdmann leans across the table and gives her what she wants. He pokes the polished wood surface with his finger for emphasis. “No, Frau Adelt, I'm not here because of the bomb threats. I'm here because the bomb threats are
credible.
”

“C
ologne?” Emilie tilts her chin to the side, curious. Her eyes are warm and brown and curious, so light they are almost the color of rust.

“Trust me.” Max takes her hand, laces his fingers through hers, and leads her brazenly down the keel corridor in full view of anyone who cares to watch. The corridor is empty, of course, it always is this time of night, but Emilie whips her head around anyway.

“No need to look so guilty, Fräulein Imhof.”

She lifts their entwined hands. “This is against the rules.”

“Which is exactly why it's fun.”

They are getting perilously close to the door that leads into the officers' quarters when Max stops short at the mailroom door. He frees her hand to unlatch the key ring at his belt. The lock sticks and he has to jiggle the key several times before the tumblers catch and align.

“Für'n Arsch!”
Bloody useless!

The room is dark and musty. He fumbles for the light switch. Everything should be just the way he left it, yet it seems wrong somehow. The smell and the shadows and the mailbags piled against the wall all seem out of place.

“What's that?” Emilie asks. She points at the lockbox.

“A protective case.”

“For the mail?”

“For certified letters. Legal documents, mostly. Stuff that's more valuable than a postcard to your cousin back home. Correspondence that people have paid extra to keep safe.”

The mailroom is quiet. Still. There's no sound except for the distant, faint hum of the exterior engines. This room, like most aboard the airship, is not heated or cooled, and there isn't even the gentle whoosh of moving air. Emilie turns in a small circle in the middle of the room. “Safe from what?”

“Prying eyes. No one is allowed in here but me.” And Kurt Schönherr of course. He has the other set of keys. But Kurt won't interfere unless Max falls down on the job. And that won't happen unless Emilie becomes an insurmountable distraction.

She smiles at him as though able to read his mind. “Do your eyes
pry,
Max?”

He likes it when she's coy. “Depends on the company.”

“Present company excluded?”

“Afraid not.”

“Good.” The smile she offers is filled with encouragement. Max considers it a wild leap forward on her part. “I'm breaking the rules, being here. Right?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“You're a bad influence, Herr Zabel.”

“I do my best.”

“Don't get me wrong. This is all very interesting, but it doesn't look like Cologne to me.”

“It wouldn't. Not in here.” Max lifts a bag from the hook by the door and points at the label. The word is printed in white block letters on the green canvas bag. “Cologne is below us. We're flying over it right now.”

Max slides one arm through the strap and hoists the bag off the hook so that he can swing it around his shoulder. He scans the room once more, then leads Emilie back out into the corridor. The lock is even less cooperative this time, and he curses again, testing the knob several times before he's sufficiently convinced that the door won't swing back open. Max nods at the radio room door across the corridor. “Would you open that for me?”

“They aren't exactly fond of me in there, you know.”

“You don't mean to tell me that you're intimidated by Willy Speck?”

“I am intimidated by Commander Pruss who—”

“Is currently in the lounge nursing his second gin and orange juice. I think the bartender calls it the LZ 129 or something equally pretentious. The glasses are frosted, and so is the drinker after downing a few.” Max gives her a gentle thump with the mailbag. “After you. I'd still like to show you the city.”

He follows close behind as Emilie steps into the radio room. Willy Speck and Herbert Dowe take one look at her and turn back to their instruments without a word. Max drops the mail bag through the opening into the utility room below and then descends the ladder so he can help Emilie down.

“Mail drop,” he announces to the skeleton crew in the control car. The car is crowded with officers and observers during the day but is almost vacant at this time of night, manned by those with the least seniority.

No one seems to care that Max has brought Emilie with him, or if they do they'll save their questions and complaints for later. She is still an anomaly on board, an ill omen. The leftover prejudice of old mariners who believe women to be bad luck on the open seas. No matter that they'll be sailing over them, not in them. Superstitions die hard.

Perhaps Emilie is ignoring the other officers, or maybe she really is enthralled by the sight below. Regardless, she stands at the portside windows, her palms and the tip of her nose pressed against the cool glass. A tiny cloud of fog gathers near her mouth each time she exhales and then fades away as she draws another breath. The baroque silhouette of Cologne's cathedral is clearly visible beneath them, its two great spires reaching up to embrace the airship.

Emilie's mouth is round with wonder. “I've never seen anything like it.”

The
Hindenburg
usually flies at an altitude of six hundred feet, but they have made a slow descent and now hover a mere two hundred feet above the city. The buildings and streets take on a different dimension from above. Boxed out and rimmed with pale light from streetlamps, they look like aerial drawings done in pen and ink. It is well into the evening and the respectable citizens of Cologne have gone to sleep. Only hardy souls wander these streets tonight, and they can be seen furtively drifting in and out of the pooled light. These are the ones who make their living by darkness. An occasional face turns upward as the mechanical roar of the airship passes overhead, but most move farther into the shadows.

“How does it work?” Emilie nods at the mailbag that now rests on the floor at her feet. “The drop?”

“Watch,” Max says.

“Airfield ahead,” Christian Nielsen calls. He has replaced Max in the navigation room for third shift and already looks weary an hour into the job.

Max opens the mailbag and pulls out what appears to be a checkered silk parachute from an inside pocket. He attaches it to the canvas with a series of elaborate knots, then secures it with two carabiners just to be sure.

Max can feel the
Hindenburg
turn slightly starboard. It is amazing to him how this is the only place on ship where directional changes can be felt. Or perhaps he has become attuned to them over time. The Cologne airfield comes into view and is significantly better lit than most of the city itself. They begin a lazy circle toward the middle of the airfield.

Once they approach the massive, illuminated X on the tarmac, he asks, “Would you do the honors?”

“Of?”

“Opening the window.”

It takes her a few seconds to figure out the latch and to slide the heavy plate of glass to the side, but as soon as she has it open, cool air rushes into the control car and blows her hair away from her face, revealing the high angles of her cheekbones and the length of her neck. He's grateful that her attention is on the ground below and that she does not notice him stare.

“Will it catch?” Emilie lifts the edge of the silk parachute.

“It usually does.”

“And if it doesn't?”

“I saw a mailbag split open on the tarmac once. The impact sent letters flying in a hundred different directions. I imagine it was a hassle to collect them all again, but other than a bit of wasted time and dirty paper, no harm done.”

“Well, then.” Emilie grins. “Let's see if this little bird can fly.”

He knew this would delight her. Emilie has always seemed the sort of woman who is fascinated by new things. And, as it turns out, the bird does fly. It's all in the technique, of course. Max drops the bag just right, allowing the parachute to catch and fill almost immediately. It floats to the ground and lands well within the perimeter of the X long before they have finished their orbit of the airfield and changed course. He and Emilie lean out the window together, shoulders pressed together for warmth, wind in their faces, as a military jeep drives out to collect the package.

“No wonder you volunteered for this job,” she says as they finally pull back.

He slides the window shut and turns to lean against it.

“I knew you'd want to see this.”

A wicked look crosses her face and she lifts one shoulder in an impish shrug. “Well, it doesn't compare to seeing your
Schwanz,
but it's a close second.”

Emilie leaves Max in the control car, his fellow officers staring at him in astonishment, as she ascends the ladder back into the radio room.