Page 24 of Flight of Dreams

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.

THE STEWARDESS

Emilie 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?”