Flight of Dreams (9 page)

O
n his first trip aboard the
Hindenburg,
Werner Franz negotiated his position on the top bunk with an aplomb far beyond his age. One look at his indomitable cabin mate, Wilhelm Balla, convinced him that the best approach would be one of emotionless logic. So Werner had suggested that it would be easier for him to move in and out of the high, narrow berth due to the fact that he was younger, lighter, and smaller. Balla had looked at the boy and then the ladder that led to the bunk for a prolonged moment, shrugged, and tossed his bag on the lower mattress. They had never spoken of sleeping arrangements again. The truth of the situation, however, was that Werner desperately wanted the top. His reasons were immature, but he was too immature himself to recognize them: being the younger brother, he'd never gotten the top bunk at home, and he was willing to endure any amount of negotiation to make sure he acquired it now.

Balla isn't the most interesting cabin mate, but they get along well enough. And they've learned not to disturb one another as they come and go at different hours. So when Werner hears the door open, he assumes that Balla is turning in for the night. As cabin boy, Werner's primary job is to serve the officers, and his schedule accommodates theirs, stretching from early breakfast at six to evening coffee at nine-thirty. Balla tends the passengers and keeps to more traditional hours. Werner is almost asleep again when he realizes that a gentle snoring is coming from the bunk below. Balla is already in bed. Someone else has opened the door.

“Get up,” a voice says, close to his ear. It is not Balla's.

Werner squeezes his eyes shut. He murmurs a feeble objection and pulls the heavy knit blanket over his head.

The blanket is stripped away. “If I have to turn on the light it will wake Balla and you'll likely get a beating from both of us. Up now. You have work to do.”

It's well past midnight. Werner feels certain of this. He was in bed by eleven p.m. and has been sleeping soundly for some time. He runs through a quick mental checklist to ensure that he has done everything required of him this evening: he has served dinner to the officers, scrubbed down their dining area, and cleaned and put away the dishes; he has taken coffee to the control car for those working the night shift; he has made sure all of the officers' beds are made and their cabins tidy. His clothes are pressed and laid out for the next day. He has not missed anything. He never does.

“I will yank your scrawny carcass from this bed if you're not on the floor in three seconds.” The voice is stern and all the more intimidating for its lack of volume.

Werner has an older brother and has long since learned to take such threats seriously. He's on the floor, hand gripping the ladder for balance, before he has even made the conscious decision to do so. There is a sharp twinge in his bruised knee and he winces at the pain.

It takes several seconds for him to recognize the severe face of Heinrich Kubis. The chief steward is standing with his back to the door, his face cast in deep, angled shadows, and he is holding a large basket of shoes in the crook of his arm. His short black mustache looks like a grim slash in the half-light, a mark of displeasure. Werner says the only words he can gather at this moment. “I don't understand.”

“Come with me.”

The boy looks at his faded flannel pajamas. “But—”

“No need to get dressed.”

Werner grabs his pocket watch from the dressing table, then gently pulls the door shut and follows Kubis down the corridor. He is barefoot and rumpled and half-asleep, and the watch hangs heavy in his pocket. “Where are we going?”

Kubis turns the corner and stops before the gangway stairs. He tips his head to the side, thinks for a moment, and sets the basket down on the third step. “Here.”

The cabin boy pretends to understand. He doesn't ask any questions, but rather looks at Kubis expectantly, as though awaiting instructions. Silence, when coming from a child, is usually interpreted by adults as understanding. Or, at worst, fear. It is a trick he has used every day since coming to work aboard the
Hindenburg.
He watches and listens and inevitably gets the answers he's looking for without ever having to ask.

Kubis points at the basket. “There's a brush and a rag and a tin of wax at the bottom. You will shine those shoes and you will do a damn good job. Understand?”

The boy doesn't trust his voice enough to say more than the minimum. “Yes.”

Werner has worked on board the Hindenburg for seven months and never once has he been asked to perform this task. When Heinrich Kubis hired him last year this was not listed among his job duties. And yet here he is, pulled from a sound sleep and given the chief steward's work to do. If he were a man he would punch Kubis right in his knobby Adam's apple. But he's little more than a boy, so he blinks back tears instead.

Kubis is gone without so much as a word of further instruction. Not that Werner needs it, of course. He has been shining shoes for his father since he was three years old. He looks at the basket. It is brimming—probably ten pairs—and he slumps to the carpeted steps, defeated. His feet are cold, and, the longer he sits there, so is his rear end. The Franz men are not known for having a well-padded posterior, and he is no exception.

Werner winds the pocket watch and sets it on the step next to him. The gentle ticking is a comfort, and the tarnished face reminds him of his grandfather. It is neither gold nor silver but rich and heavy pewter, a family heirloom given to Werner by his father the night before his first voyage on the
Hindenburg.
The glass is scratched and clouded, but the numbers are clear and dark, written in the Roman style. He looks at the time and cringes.

Receiving the watch was a rite of passage, an acknowledgment that he had begun the journey toward manhood. It has traditionally passed from father to oldest son, but his brother insisted that Werner had earned the right to the watch when he gained his position on the
Hindenburg.
So they had gathered in the tiny apartment—his parents, grandfather, and brother—and eaten an elaborate meal they could not afford. His father presented the watch to him with great pomp and circumstance—and no small amount of pride—while his mother played Eddie Rosner on the record player, the trumpet vibrant and celebratory to mark the occasion. Werner has carried the watch with him on every flight since and set it beside him every time he feels lost or lonely or afraid. The watch gives him courage. He draws from it now.

Each pair of shoes has a paper tab tied to the laces indicating the deck and room number. Werner hasn't been given specific instructions, but he would guess it falls to him to return the shoes once they have been shined. He'd rather throw them in the trash and go back to bed than touch a single one of them. The first night of any voyage is always the hardest—so much excitement and adrenaline and so many things that need adjustment—and he feels the exhaustion most acutely in his shins. It's an odd place, granted, but he has been on his feet all day; he is still growing, and all of the strain in his body has settled into that one stretch of bone. When he makes such complaints to his mother she laughs and says he is afflicted with a galloping pain. “Today your wrist, tomorrow your leg,” she says, but she always brings him warm milk with sugar and vanilla and rubs his back until his eyes are heavy and his muscles have relaxed. Werner is usually so caught up in this grand adventure—the travel and the work—that he does not miss his family. But he has such an acute longing to be back home with them at this moment that he has to compose himself by wiping tears and snot on the sleeve of his pajamas.

Werner looks at the watch and thinks of his father, sick and bedridden in their shabby one-bedroom flat in Frankfurt, a man who would give anything to be
able
to work, and reprimands himself for acting like a child. So what if the task costs him an hour or two of sleep? He's making a wage and he can help his family. His mother and father are sleeping all the better tonight because of this job. Werner shakes his head, growls a bit to clear his mind, then gets to work. Best to get the task over with.

Ten minutes later he has settled into something of a rhythm and is working on the second shoe in a pair of black cap-toed loafers—this one tagged for a passenger in cabin A4—when someone comes around the corner at a fast clip. It's that obnoxious American passenger. Werner pulls himself into the shadows because the last thing he needs is to be noticed and sent on some other random errand in the middle of the night. He sits perfectly still and absolutely quiet, waiting for the man to pass, when Max Zabel comes around the gangway stairs from the other direction. For a moment he is certain the American sees Max and that he will sidestep him, but then Werner notices something flash across the American's face—he can't exactly tell from this distance what sort of expression it is—and they collide. The force knocks Max sideways.

Werner is wondering where they are off to at this hour when Heinrich Kubis appears before him with a second basket. This time Werner cannot prevent a small complaint. “There's
more
?”

“I will be in the crew's mess if you need me.”

Oh. Werner understands now. He has tried, and failed, on more than one occasion to join the late-night card game that takes place among the crew.

“Poker?”

Kubis sets this basket down beside the other. He shrugs. “You're a lucky boy,” he says, “to have a job like this. You can help your family. See the world. It would be such a pity if you didn't pass your probationary period.” He gives Werner a cold smile. “Come get me when you're finished.”

I
t is an awkward thing to listen to someone else's lovemaking. Even when you are alone. Even when they are trying to be quiet. The rustling and moans, the terms of endearment mingled with profanity, the occasional thump of a head against the wall, and the muffled laughter are enough to make a grown man lose his mind. This has happened to the American only twice before—both times during the First World War—and he's no better at dealing with it now than he was then. Perhaps worse. He was twenty and a virgin then and has since figured out what the fuss is all about. The American has been alone for many years now, and his lovers have been few and far between. And, based on what he hears on the other side of the thin fabric wall, his experiences have been completely unsatisfactory.

When, after ten minutes, the couple shows no signs of slowing down, he dresses and pulls a clean pair of shoes from his suitcase. While he has no love for the Zeppelin-Reederei overall, he cannot begrudge the world-class treatment of their passengers. Shoes left outside the cabins are collected at night, polished by the stewards, and returned before morning. They're offering the service, so he may as well take advantage of it. The American carefully opens the door so as not to be heard by his neighbors. Or rather so they will not know he has heard
them.
No sooner does he step into the corridor, however, than he comes face-to-face with Heinrich Kubis, the chief steward, standing outside the Adelts' door with a look that is perfectly split between hunger and horror. He grips a basket full of shoes in his hands.

The American cannot remember the last time he blushed, but he does so now. After he and the steward stare at one another for one long, awkward moment, he shrugs and sets his scuffed shoes in the basket with the others.

After a moment the steward clears his throat and stands to his full height. “The bar is open until three,” he says, “should you need something to occupy your time this evening.”

There is a burst of laughter and then whispered hushes on the other side of the Adelts' door.

“I think that would be a good idea.”

“Down the corridor and to the left,” Kubis says.

The American proceeds in that direction and turns the corner only to run directly into the navigator. They mumble apologies while trying to figure out how to pass one another in the narrow space. He does not know the man's name—he will have to find out tomorrow—but he remembers his face. They bid one another a good evening, and the American mentally sets him into place. He takes a few steps forward but then stops and turns to watch the navigator retreat down the corridor, toward the crew's quarters. But not the ones beyond the control car reserved for the officers. The navigator is headed toward the stewards' rooms. And there is only one person housed in this part of the ship that he would likely be interested in seeing after such a long shift: the lovely stewardess with the large breasts, the tiny waist, and the bright smile. So they will be spending more time together this evening? It is but another detail that the American files away for future use.

E
milie sets the makeup case on her bed and empties out the contents. Lotions. Perfumes. A variety of expensive cosmetics—she takes much better care of her skin now that she has gotten older—and the necessary products that accompany being a woman in this modern world: curlers and sanitary napkins, talcum powder and tweezers. She shoves all of this aside and presses her fingernails into the panel at the bottom of the case, exposing a compartment less than an inch deep. The panel lifts easily and she sighs. Emilie knew the documents would be there, but still it's a relief to see them. It took months to get everything together, and even longer to convert the Deutsche marks to American dollars, one small bill at a time. Anything more than a handful every other week would bring too much attention. But it's all here now, neatly stacked and bound with string. She counts it again, just to be sure. This is her insurance policy. And her indictment. These papers contain all but one of her most guarded secrets: her mother's maiden name.

Abramson.

It is a detail that has been obscured by time and marriage. But the names of her parents are plainly written on these documents, and it would take a curious mind very little time to discover the truth. It would be her ruin.

Funny how marriage can erase the person you used to be,
she thinks. It happened for her mother. And it happened to her as well. When she married Hans Imhof all those years ago she went from being the daughter of a Jewish woman to being the wife of a German innkeeper. In a breath—no longer than the time it took to speak a vow—she was someone else.

The loss of her name never troubled her much. But she has never recovered from the loss of her husband.

Emilie pulls off her dress and stockings. She hangs them on the ladder that leads to the upper berth and allows herself to be comfortable for the first time that evening. A hesitant knock sounds on the door. The tension that only moments ago had subsided in her shoulders, the small of her back, and the arches of her feet returns with a lurch. She curses silently. There is no time to shove everything back in her case, so Emilie grabs the papers and the money and hides them in the closet. The knock sounds again, lighter this time. Emilie is at the door wearing nothing but a slip before she can properly think through her response.

“What?” She yanks the door open with a growl and immediately regrets it.

“I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd be in bed already. I just came to say good night.”

It is a great credit to Max's sense of honor that he looks at nothing but her eyes.

“Just a moment.”

Whether he takes a peek as she turns to get her robe she cannot say, but he is waiting calmly at the door, eyes on the carpet, when she returns a few seconds later. There is a decision to be made and she must do it quickly because they are standing in the corridor, in full view of anyone who should happen upon them.

“Come in,” she whispers.

Max takes off his cap and steps into the room. It's identical to his own cabin, but he looks around anyway. Her clothes are hung neatly over the rungs of the ladder. Max reaches out to finger the collar of her uniform.

“I've never seen you not wearing this,” he says.

“I do have other clothes.”

He flicks a glance to the deep V of her satin robe. “So I see.”

The twitching at the corner of his mouth makes Emilie wonder if he wasn't so noble with his gaze after all. It has been less than an hour since the mail drop over Cologne, but from the hunger in his gaze you would think he hadn't seen her in months.

“Is there something I can do for you, Herr Zabel?”

“Yes.” He steps forward and the room shrinks considerably. “You can start calling me Max.”

“I already do.”

“Only sometimes.”

“Are you suggesting that we are on a first-name basis now?”

“I should like to think so.”

“And you don't think that perhaps you're taking liberties?”

“Not at all.” Max seats himself on the edge of the bed and pats the space next to him. He seems unconcerned by the fact that her personal items are strewn all over the blanket. “Let me explain.”

Damn it,
she thinks,
how does he do that?
But she only hesitates for a moment before settling next to him on the heavy knit blanket. “This I need to hear.”

“It's really quite simple,” he says. “We've just spent the evening together—or some of it, at any rate. And now I'm sitting in your private quarters kissing you good night. I think that puts us on a permanent first-name basis.”

She looks up at him in surprise. Max catches her face in his hands. He gives her a smile that is so mischievous, so pleased with himself, that she cannot help but return it.

It has been ten years since Emilie kissed her husband good-bye. Ten years since he left for work one morning and never returned. And in those years she has forgotten the profound, blood-warming pleasure of being kissed.
Of course he would be good at this,
she thinks. He begins with a tender brushing of his lips against hers, and when she tilts her head and softens beneath him he pulls her close and earnestly goes to work. There is no uncertainty with Max, and when her lips part he finds her tongue with his. He tastes of white wine and fresh melon, and she thinks that there is truly no better combination.

She is not ready for him to pull away, but he does anyway.

Max straightens his collar and smoothes his hair. Oh God, did I do that? she wonders briefly, and is certain that she did, in fact, twist her fingers through his hair. She cannot remember doing so. Ten years of widowhood and this is what one brief kiss does to her?

Emilie has no idea what expressions are running over her face in rapid succession, but Max laughs at her.

“You don't have to look so bereft,” he says, bending closer and playing with the curls at the base of her neck. “I'm not ready to stop either. I just thought I'd better make sure you wanted to keep going.”

“So
now
you ask my permission?”

“Easier to ask forgiveness.”

“So you're sorry?”

“Not even a little bit.”

Emilie is certain now that she did indeed muss his hair a moment ago. Because it's between her hands again and this time she notices how smoothly it slides between her fingers.

“
Mein Gott,
that feels good,” he mutters against her lips. “Don't stop.”

Max lays his palm against her neck. His hand is soft and warm, and she shivers just a bit as he slides it downward. It stops at the base of her throat when his fingers meet the chain that she wears around her neck. He pulls away to look at her and then at the chain. Max tucks one finger under the edge of her robe so that he can lift the chain out.

“A key?”

Slowly,
slowly
she realizes what is puddled in the palm of his hand and she jerks back, taking the necklace with her.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—”

“My husband gave it to me,” she says. “On our wedding night.”

Max knows she is widowed. Everyone knows this. But the words have a corrosive effect nonetheless. The heat that charged the air only seconds ago vanishes completely, and they are left sitting on the bed staring at one another in silence.

After a few seconds he manages to speak. “And you still carry it?”

“It's all I have left of him.”

“What was his name?” Max whispers.

“Hans.”

“And you miss him?”

“Every day.”

“You love him still?”

“I will
always
love him.” The ferocity of this statement startles Emilie. The key is gripped so tightly in her hand that it cuts into the tender skin of her palm.

“How did he die?”

“He drowned.” It's her polite way of saying that Hans drove off a bridge and dropped sixty feet into the Main River. But she doesn't tell him this. She doesn't like to think of that long, horrifying fall or the churning water that waited for her husband at the bottom.

Max does not ask for these details. He merely sits there, hands folded in his lap, thinking.

Emilie wants to apologize for her reaction. She wants to explain everything. But she cannot find the words.
It's just a key,
she tells herself;
it can't bring Hans back.
But she holds it anyway.

Max nods at her fist. “What is it to?”

“The front door of the inn we owned. It was a dream. A wedding gift. And when he died I lost it. I lost everything.”

“Except the key?”

She nods. “I took it with me when I went to work on the
Columbus.
I lied to the people who bought the inn. I told them I'd lost the key. I couldn't bear for them to have it.”

Emile can see Max connecting the dots in his mind. A young widow forced to sell everything she owns. Forced to take a job serving wealthy passengers on an ocean liner. Ten years of drifting, never having a home, never working with anyone long enough to call them friend. She erupts in sudden fury at the sympathy she sees written across his face. “I don't want your pity!”

“I wasn't offering it.”

“Then why are you here, Herr Zabel?”

“No.” He catches her face in his hands again. Firm. But gentle. “You don't get to call me that anymore. Not after the way you just kissed me.”

She tries to speak, but her voice cracks. Emilie clears her throat and tries again, but she manages little more than a whisper. “Why are you here?”

“To offer myself as a very willing and very eager substitute for the man you've lost.”

“He can't be replaced.”

Max takes her clenched fist in his palm. He pries her fingers open, pulls the key from her grasp. He dangles it six inches from her nose. “You don't have to torture yourself with this memory.”

She owes him an answer. That's why he came here tonight. And he has forced her hand. Quite literally.

“Max…”

He lowers his head and brushes the corner of his mouth against hers. “That's much better.”

This time when the knock sounds at the door it is hard and urgent and official.

Max doesn't speak aloud, but she can read his lips, and she is quite surprised at his creativity. She has never seen those words used in that particular combination before.

“Yes?” she calls, turning toward the door. Her voice sounds a bit too strangled for her liking, but it's the best response she can muster under the circumstances.

“You have been paged, Frau Imhof.” The dry, impatient voice is that of Heinrich Kubis. “Margaret Mather requires your assistance.”

Emilie mentally repeats the name in several languages until the face of the American heiress drifts into her mind.

“I will be right there.”

“Very well.”

She listens to Kubis's retreating footsteps. And now, another choice. Max cannot very well be seen following her from the room, especially with Kubis in the corridor. But if he stays here they will have to continue this conversation, and Emilie will have to finally give her answer. She sits there, looking at Max, one hand on the key and the other pressed lightly to her lips where he has just kissed her. “Will you wait here?” she whispers.

He gives a small, pleased smile. “Of course.”

Max stands and lifts her dress from the ladder. “I am quite fond of that robe already, and what lies beneath it even more so, but I doubt Kubis would approve of your attending to Frau Mather in your slip.”

“And you propose to help me dress?”

“I can turn to the wall, if you like.”

As always, the decision is hers. Max Zabel truly is the most infuriating man she has ever met. But Emilie unties her robe and sets it on the top berth. She shrugs and raises her hands above her head like a little girl being dressed by her mother.

This time Max does look. But it's the barest whisper of a glance as he lowers the dress over her head. Somehow they do the buttoning and the belting in tandem. They do not speak. They do not look at one another. Max approaches the job very much the way she imagines he approaches his charts: with precision and delicacy. And it is now, even more so than during the kiss, that Emilie realizes how much she has missed being touched.

In the end he does turn to the wall when she pulls on her stockings. There is only so much intimacy she can handle for one night.

Max straightens her collar and with a warm hand slides the key back inside her slip. His knuckles brush against the swell of her breast but it does not linger. Seconds later he stands there, hands tucked into his pockets.

“I will be right back,” she says.

“I will be right here.”