Hillary Kanter - Dead Men Are Easy To Love (17 page)

“Meet me in my cabin then. Number 666. I hope you don’t mind joining me in private, but I don’t want to draw any reporters or cause a commotion.”

“I don’t mind.”

I could not help note, however, that 666 was foretold in the Bible as the number of the Antichrist. Hopefully, it was not an ill omen. I reached for the crystal heart around my neck, caressing the smooth surface beneath my fingers. I also felt a bit concerned that just one photograph of our private meeting could create a major scandal. But I was following his lead here.

And, so far, Charles had been nothing but a gentleman.

***

The next morning, the seas were rough and white-capped, the sky was a mass of storm clouds, and a cold rain pelted my cabin window. Clearly not a day to enjoy on deck. Possibly a day for throwing up my cookies, perhaps. I wondered if Dramamine had yet to be invented. I lounged in bed, stretched, yawned, and fell back to sleep. I dreamed about Lindbergh, flying with him in the open cockpit of
The Spirit of St. Louis
.

The seas were still rolling when at last I pulled myself from bed. I called the kitchen, and had coffee and breakfast delivered to my cabin so that I could work on my manuscript unhindered.

Precisely one minute before 3:00 p.m., I knocked on Charles’s door.

“Come in, come in. And you are right on time,” he said. “Would you like some coffee? I have a fresh pot here.”

“I would love some.”

Charles looked handsome in khaki pants and high leather boots. His eyes were robin’s-egg blue, and his coloring reflected a combination of Swedish, English, Irish, and Scottish ancestry. I remembered this detail about him from college history class.

In between sips of coffee, we chatted about his flying exploits. He had completed the New York-to-Paris flight in exactly thirty-three hours, thirty minutes, and thirty seconds, and he claimed he had nothing but water and five sandwiches, only one of which he ate. During his twenty-second hour in the air, fog settled in around the plane, and he caught himself drifting off to sleep. As the fog dissipated, he found he had dropped close enough to the ocean for the whitecaps to spray his face. This revived him in a critical moment.

He told me also about his earlier days flying mail. “Back then,” he said, “I thought that if I could fly for ten years before I was killed in a crash, it would be a worthwhile trade for an ordinary life.”

“You’re probably the bravest man I’ve ever met,” I exclaimed.

He did not seem full of himself in any way, and I admired the way he played down his bravery. Despite my respect for him, though, I had an itch to ask about his alleged esteem for Hitler. I remembered that Jews in the U.S. had been enraged when he received, for his contribution to aviation, the Service Cross of the German Eagle—even more so when they learned of the Third Reich’s atrocities! While my curious nature insisted upon an answer, my romantic side feared ruining the warm fuzzy feelings I felt between us.

For now, I avoided the issue.

Finally Charles got around to talking about his manuscript. It sounded fascinating, and I encouraged him to continue writing.

“Oh, before I forget …” Charles pulled a paper out of a drawer. “Are you missing a page from those you dropped on the train?”

“Let me see that.”

He handed it over. Of course it had to be an article of mine on female sexuality. Great.

“I didn’t even notice it was gone. Thanks.”

“I didn’t see it until you had already gotten off the train. I tried to flag you down, but I was too late. I meant to give it to you last night.” He smiled. “It’s quite good writing, you know.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Could this polite, gentle man be an anti-Semite as some claimed?

He paused a moment as if reading my mind, and out of nowhere said, “You know, Ariel, people who call me a Nazi have no idea how wrong they are. The press, they are animals. They put me on a pedestal as some kind of hero, and then they seem set on tearing me down and crucifying me. They don’t care about the truth. It’s all about getting their headlines. Facts don’t even matter.” His face became pinched. “I’m just so damned sick of all of it. The only thing I said, which of course the press blew
completely
out of proportion, is that I do
not
believe America should get involved in this war. The Soviets are our biggest enemies, not the Germans.”

“But what about that medal Germany gave to you? People say maybe you should have given it back.”

“Initially, I thought it would be an insult and an embarrassment to the German people to return it. However, I did make a decision just before this voyage to send the medal back, now that we are at war. Matter of fact, it’s on its way as we speak. I’m formally announcing it to the press the minute we arrive in New York. Look, I know what people are saying about me. I am not, nor ever will be, an anti-Semite. Harry Guggenheim, of the Guggenheims of New York, is almost a brother to me. I have only the highest respect for Jews. It’s important that you understand that.”

Ending our time together, he gave me several finished pages of his book to read that evening. And he asked if I would care to meet him again.

Who was I to say no?

When we came back together the following afternoon, I told him his book was very good. He seemed pleased. I found him to be bright, interesting, and attractive—everything I looked for in a man. Plus, a sense of humor, which scored big points with me as well. When he laughed, reaching across the table and touching my hand, I realized I was smitten.

Our meetings continued over the next several days. We talked about all sorts of things, and Charles gave me more pages to read. He liked and tried to address some of my suggestions for his manuscript. We had much in common, I thought.

Alone at night I fantasized, wondering how it would feel to be in his arms. Lusting after these truly unavailable dead men was getting harder and harder for my heart, leading me all to hell, but that did not keep me from going there. I knew at some point I would be swept back to the present, so I rationalized. I told myself to go with the flow and have fun.

On the sixth day at sea, Charles asked if we could meet at eight, after dinner instead of our usual afternoon time. He said he was on a roll with his writing and wanted to finish an important section beforehand.

As eight neared, I looked at myself in the mirror and was satisfied with what I saw. I donned a gray skirt and a pink cashmere sweater that I found in my valise. My long hair was piled loosely atop my head, held in place with a tortoise-shell comb, and my crystal heart necklace seemed bathed in an eerie golden glow. Was that supposed to mean something? Was it another omen?

I shrugged it off as I strolled to Charles’s cabin. The seas were calm, and stars dotted the ink-black sky.

“Hello. Come in,” he said, after I knocked. When I entered, his whole face lit up with a smile.

“Here are the last few pages you gave me,” I said.

“How did you like that chapter?”

“I liked it very much. You’re a good storyteller.”

“Well, I owe most of that to my wife Anne. She’s the
real
writer in the family. She’s helped me a lot.”

Hearing mention of his wife, I felt a slight pang of guilt rise up in me, like a thin wisp of smoke from a chimney. In my real life in New York, I would never
dream
of a tryst with a married man. That was a no-no. It was a rule I had made for myself after the disastrous consequences of a previous affair.

But I seemed hell-bent on bending the rules during my journeys. And why not? Particularly on this one.

Then again, I reminded myself, nothing had actually happened with the married Ernest Hemingway—saved by the phone—nor with Clark Gable—saved by his conscience. Oh, but I had wanted things to happen. And therein lay my trouble. It seemed relationships with married
dead
men might be as dangerous to my heart as relationships with
living
ones. They were certainly capable of causing great pain.

“Would you like a brandy?” Charles offered. “I took the liberty of having the steward bring some for us.”

“That would be lovely.”

He handed me a Waterford brandy glass from a small silver tray on the bureau, and I took a drink, hoping to numb my fraying emotions.

Charles wanted to know more about my life, but I would not tell him too much. He would have never believed me anyway if I told him about my travels through time. He would conclude that I was a nutcase. Instead, I talked about my book and my dreams of publication.

“Ten-thirty,” I exclaimed, catching a glimpse of the clock on his dresser. “I’d better be going. It’s getting kinda late.”

“So it is.” He shook his head in wonder. “Time with you goes by so fast.”

I stood to leave, and he opened the door for me. As I passed him, a sudden urge overtook me. “Wait,” I said. I spun and kissed him full on the mouth, pressing my body against his.

“Well, aren’t
you
full of surprises?” He returned my kiss, then in one fell swoop pulled away my comb so that my hair dropped like a long dark curtain across my shoulders. He stroked my face. “I’ve never felt this way with a woman before. I think I am falling in love with you.”

I nodded. Only this time I felt a pang of conscience. I was in a pickle, all right. I was loving on borrowed time.

Charles was a married man, and not just
any
married man. At this point in time he was the most famous man in the world. In my own timeframe, he was a dead man, but he certainly felt alive to me. If I slept with him here and now would it break my heart in the days to come? Would it change the future in some negative, unalterable way?

Charles caressed my neck. “Say, what’s this beautiful heart?”

“Oh, just something a friend gave me. It’s made of quartz crystal.”

“A friend? Maybe a
boyfriend?”

Before I could answer, a loud knock on the door made us both jump.

“Quick,” Charles said. “Hide in the bath.” From my place of concealment, I heard him speaking with another man: “Yes … I see … I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Is everything all right?” I asked, after the visitor had departed.

“Yes, but apparently I have a telegraph. They’re experiencing trouble with the equipment and need me to come up to the bridge to read it.”

Man. Back home, email was a bona fide pain in the ass at times, but where was it now when you really needed it? He could have handled all this from the cabin.

“Shall I leave?” I asked.

“No, no. Of course, stay. I’m sure it’ll only be a few minutes.”

Once he was gone, I could think clearly again and realized I should not be getting this involved. My heart had crossed the line. No, I didn’t need to be falling in love again. And soon enough I’d be disappearing anyway—if my past travels were any indication. Best to go back to my cabin.

I wrote a quick note:

Thank you for a lovely evening. But I don’t think I can do this.

I dressed hurriedly, then searched for my hair comb. I realized it must have fallen on the floor after Charles pulled it loose. Kneeling, I spotted it under the desk.

What happened next could not be helped.

As I rose with the comb in hand, my eyes fixed upon a notebook atop the desk. A pen held one of the pages open, and I saw it was a diary. I didn’t intend to be a snoop, but the words took hold of my attention before I registered that I was reading the private thoughts of Mr. Lindbergh.

Hitler must have far more character and vision than I thought existed! I have great admiration for him and the German people. He is undoubtedly a great man and has done much for his nation. I disagree with some of his actions, but I understand his popularity. As far as America goes, I think a few Jews add strength and character to our country, but too many create chaos—and, at the present rate of immigration, we are getting too many …

I stopped there, shocked and sickened. And to think that I’d been only moments from surrendering myself to the jerk!

Although I knew I had to get out of here, I sat paralyzed. At my fingertips, the desk drawer was slightly cracked and something glinted from within. I eased the drawer open, wanting to believe I’d find evidence to prove my fears invalid. My hand snaked inside and pulled out a metal object.

No. No, this could not be.

The object dangled on a red and black ribbon, the sight of which carved out a pit in my stomach, a sinking realization of something terrible. My fingers turned it over several times, and it seemed to burn a hole in my hand.

Why, Charles?

It was an Iron Cross, stamped with tiny swastikas in the corners, the Service Cross of the German Eagle, awarded to Lindbergh by order of the Third Reich. Here in my palm I held the proof that he had lied to me, not only about returning the medal, but also about his feelings for Jews.

I slammed the desk drawer, keeping custody of that foul medal, then slammed the door on my way out of the cabin. Fueled by rage, I barely noticed the blast of the wind, and practically bumped into someone along the walkway before realizing it was Charles.

“I’m sorry I took so long, darling,” he said. “The message was from my wife, and I had to wire her back with that malfunctioning telegraph.”

My lips were pressed shut, my entire body tense.

“What’s wrong?” he said. “Why are you leaving?”

I lowered my eyes to hide my anger and hurt. My voice shook as I tried to push past him. “I just have to go,” I muttered.

“Why? Tell me, please.”

I should’ve kept walking and kept silent, but once again I could not leave well enough alone. I had to say something. I turned around and let loose. “So
,
you want to know what’s wrong? How about
this
for starters?” I thrust the medal at him. “I thought you’d returned this. Why did you lie?”

“You had no right to go in my drawer!”

“No, I had no right to go in your drawer. And no, I had no right to go in your diary either, but I did. You tell me you’re not a Jew-hater? Well, I read it
all
, my dear. Every hate-filled word!”