Page 46 of Flight of Dreams

One of the perks of not having a full flight is that there are cabins to spare. It was easy enough to settle Irene in a room of her own yesterday, right across the hall from her parents. And it’s no surprise that they took full advantage of the chance for a little privacy. Emilie can’t say that she blames them. She doubts they often get a moment to themselves, what with the boys’ perpetual antics. A bit like herding cats, looking after those two.

She winks at Irene, causing the girl’s face to flame even brighter. “Like I said, a kind girl.”

It makes sense now why the boys came to breakfast in yesterday’s rumpled clothes. Emilie had passed it off as a quirk unique to male children. They are not known for their reason or their hygiene. These two in particular. There’s a stain on Walter’s shirt from dinner last night, and little Werner—he has the same name as the cabin boy, good Lord, she’ll never keep them straight—seems to have lost three buttons on his shirt. From wrestling, no doubt. She has never seen children who take such delight in roughhousing. They actually fell down the stairs to B-deck last night, landing in a pile of arms and legs and laughter. She had run after them only to find that they were delighted with the ordeal and wanted to do it again. Emilie had made them sit on their hands in the corridor for ten minutes as punishment.

The boys are slowing their ravenous consumption of eggs, and Emilie clears the empty plates from the table. No sooner has she stepped into the serving pantry to send the dishes down the dumbwaiter than she sees Werner Franz drift toward the table. Werner does nothing inappropriate. He does not look at Irene or speak to her. But, from Emilie’s perspective, the sleight of hand is clear. The pink carnation now lies where Irene’s breakfast dishes once cluttered the table. He hesitates at her side just long enough to see whether his gift will be accepted and is clearly pleased when Irene lifts the flower from the table, sniffs it quickly, and hides it beneath the napkin in her lap. She meets Werner’s gaze for one quick second, offering the sort of smile that no girl of fourteen should know how to wield. Emilie is somewhat surprised that Werner can think, much less walk straight afterwards. But he does. Had Emilie not witnessed the exchange she would not know from his appearance that anything of significance had just passed between the teenagers. Werner is smiling, but in the way he often does. It’s a grin of pleased servitude. A steward’s grin. Damn if that child doesn’t have a rather brilliant poker face.

She returns to clear the remaining dishes from the table only to notice that the American has observed the moment as well. He is stretched out in the promenade, feet propped up on a window ledge, hands behind his head, grinning. The American catches her eye and tips his chin toward Werner. He winks as though this is a secret between them. The fact that he includes her in the observation makes her uncomfortable. The fact that he continues to watch her with a sleepy sort of gaze makes her even more so.

Emilie wonders if she should confront Werner. He doesn’t need to meddle with Irene. But as he brushes past her and sets the dishes in the dumbwaiter she can’t bring herself to say anything. Why shouldn’t someone on this ship be happy? It’s not like this crush can go anywhere. In two days Werner will return to Frankfurt, and the Doehners will travel on to Mexico City. This will end before it has a chance to begin.

The thought makes her anxious. And not because of Werner. Or Irene. But for herself. Max has discovered her plan, and now she feels vulnerable and defensive. Emilie doesn’t realize she is slamming dirty dishes onto the tray until Walter looks up from the table in alarm.

“I didn’t break the plate! It was Werner!” he says, trying to hide a shard in his lap.

God bless a guilty conscience. Who knows what he would have done with the sharp piece of china if he had been able to smuggle it out of the dining room.

She extends her hand, and he surrenders the piece. “Werner?”

He crawls out from under the table with the remaining pieces. Emilie counts them just to be sure. They move so quickly, the little hellions. She never saw them break the plate or try to hide it. She had been too distracted watching the fledgling mating dance of the two resident teenagers.

“Never again,” she says.

They nod solemnly, and she doesn’t believe them for a moment. A smile erupts despite her best efforts to hide it. The look of alarm fades from Walter’s face, and she sees how relieved he is not to be the target of her wrath. The child wants to please. Almost as much as he wants to explore and destroy. And she can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have a child of her own.

Emilie grimaces. This is the problem with being a widow. She knows exactly what she’s missing. There are biological desires that she can do nothing about. She likes children well enough. She has spent the better part of her adult life caring for them, in fact. But she never wanted one of her own—not when Hans was alive. Once the possibility evaporated, however, she found herself consumed with the thought. There is nothing logical to it. She knows the effort it takes to feed and care for the little miscreants. She simply wants a child because she can’t have one. So like human nature.

Emilie shakes the thought away. “Come along, children. We’ll wait for your parents in the reading room.”

They leave the dining room and circle around to the other side of the ship, through the lounge with its mural depicting the routes of the great explorers, toward the small area at the back. It’s quieter here, walled off from the lounge, and she settles all three children into aluminum tube chairs with orange upholstery situated around a small table. The springs squeak in protest as the boys rock back and forth.

She hands them postcards and pencils—she wouldn’t trust these boys with a pen if her life depended on it. God only knows the damage they could do with permanent ink. Emilie then removes herself a bit to offer them privacy to compose their thoughts. It has become something of a novelty to receive mail written and posted from the Hindenburg. A collector’s item. People place value on the strangest things, Emilie thinks.

Of all the public rooms on board the Hindenburg, the reading room is the most subdued. It has the quiet, genteel atmosphere of a library, and the children can feel it, for they settle down within a few minutes. No jostling. No poking one another with pencils or elbows. Here the fabric-covered walls are painted with murals depicting the history of postal delivery, starting with idyllic agrarian settings. Farms. Fields. Livestock. Children playing with sticks. A placid lake. A shallow stream. It speaks of contentment and simplicity. Irene stares at a small cottage with a dreamy smile, and Emilie knows she’s painting domestic fantasies in her mind. Emilie wonders if her own romantic yearnings started at such a young age. She thinks back to Frank Becker and his crass invitation in the butcher shop. Perhaps her own desires were not so innocent.

The airship passes through a cloud bank and into the bright sun for the first time that morning. The atmosphere changes in the time it takes Emilie to blink. Warm golden light spills through the observation windows and across the floor. Irene laughs at the change, her voice a delighted explosion of joy. She runs to look out the window, palms pressed against the glass.

“Look!” someone shouts from the promenade. “A rainbow!”

The boys shoot to their feet, scattering writing paraphernalia across the floor, and dart around the wall. Emilie follows behind, wiping pencil shavings from her skirt as she goes. The long, black shadow of the Hindenburg dances across the water below, warped by the movement of the waves. And circling the shadow is a 360-degree rainbow. A perfect areola of flaming color. All seven hues present. Emilie stands with the passengers in awe. She has never seen a rainbow like this, only bits and pieces of them broken by cloud or skyline or any myriad number of obstructions. But this is different. This is what every rainbow should be. Perfect. Unbroken. Exquisite. Each color pitched against the mirrored sea behind it. And huge. It must stretch hundreds of feet in diameter. To Emilie it looks like the promise of something better. Something more. She releases a single, reverence-laden breath.

The promenade begins to fill as more passengers enter, drawn by the disturbance. Among them are Herr and Frau Doehner, looking fresh and alert. They hold hands, and Emilie suspects it was a night well spent. Hermann Doehner is a good eight inches taller than his wife, but she makes up for it with girth and force of personality. She’s solid rather than pudgy, but doesn’t carry herself like a woman who struggles to maintain her figure. Matilde Doehner practically floats across the floor. Whether from a revived sense of passion, a good night’s rest, or simple joy at seeing her children, Emilie cannot tell. Regardless, she swoops the boys into her arms, smothering their little blond heads with kisses. Whispering endearments. Irene tucks herself into the crook beneath her father’s arm and smiles at him with adoration. Emilie is struck by the joy in this private reunion. A happy family. Two miracles in one day. What are the odds?

Emilie watches the Doehners from a safe distance, reminded of her own isolation. She thinks of the note Max left in his angry scrawl and their argument this morning. Her thin veneer of composure is a sham—this pleasant smile and unperturbed demeanor. On the inside she is a gurgling mass of apprehension and nervous energy. She feels simultaneously caged and exposed. She wants to hide. She wants to run.

Once the excitement has died down, Emilie helps Matilde usher the children back into the reading room while Hermann stays behind to chat with the two Jewish businessmen, their heads bent in whispered conversation. Walter and Werner each select a pencil from a jar on the shelf. They take their time, looking for pencils with new, flat erasers. The boys stand the pencils on end, the erasers set on the smooth, polished aluminum. They squat next to the table, eyes level with its surface, and wait.

“Your legs will tip over before the pencils do,” Emilie says.

“Mother told us about this game,” Walter says. “She will give a mark to whoever’s pencil stays standing longest.”

Emilie gives Matilde a questioning glance and gets a smile in return. Clever woman. The elevator operators in the control car never let the airship drift at more than a five-degree angle. Anything more than that will send dishes sliding off the tables. Frau Doehner must know this. She has counted on it, in fact, because she settles into her chair with a satisfied grin. The boys are competitive. They will be at this for some time.

The morning ambles along pleasantly without any further disturbance. Passengers move in and out of the reading room. They scratch missives onto their postcards. Work the crossword puzzle. Read. A few chat quietly in the corner. Irene scribbles frantically at a pile of postcards. Matilde is absorbed in some novel. Emilie can’t read the title, but, given the pinking of her cheeks, she guesses that romance is involved. The boys are still at their game, but now they are trying to blow down one another’s pencil.

“No cheating,” Frau Doehner warns. “I’ll not reward cheaters.”

They settle down and she returns to her novel. Emilie can see the cover now. The Age of Innocence. She has good taste at least. Not that Emilie can judge. There’s a worn copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, translated into Italian, hidden beneath her pillow. It’s not available in Germany yet, for obvious reasons. She picked up a copy in Rome several years ago, and, given the number of times she has read it, she has easily gotten her money’s worth. Good thing Max didn’t find that last night or they might have had an entirely different sort of evening.