Page 73 of Flight of Dreams

“Oh,” he says. “Max.” And then, “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

Max is exactly where she left him, but he’s no longer panting. He lifts his face when she stops beside him.

“Can we talk?” she asks.

He pushes off the floor and rises, somewhat unsteadily, to his feet. “Not here. Come with me.”

Emilie follows him down the corridor toward the officers’ quarters. She has never been in his cabin before but hesitates for only a moment when he holds the door open and nods for her to enter. It’s a disaster. The bed is in disarray. An empty liquor bottle is on the floor. Toiletries are strewn across the small dressing table. The closet door hangs open and there is, inexplicably, a bucket filled with wet clothing in the middle of the floor.

Emilie pours him a glass of water and hands it to him.

Max drinks it slowly at first, then tips the tumbler back and drains it. “More. Please.”

They repeat this process until he can speak without cotton mouth.

She holds up the bottle. “Aspirin?”

“Yes.”

He takes four, then offers her a feeble shrug. “I’m so sorry, Emilie.”

It takes her a moment to realize he’s talking about her papers and not the near accident. “Why did you do it? I trusted you.”

“I didn’t.” He wipes a bead of sweat from his temple with the back of his hand. “Or at least I didn’t mean to. I was angry. And desperate. So I told Wilhelm Balla you were leaving, because I needed to talk to someone, and you sure as hell weren’t in the mood. And then he blabbed. I never thought he would. Honestly. I’d have never said a word otherwise. But we’ll figure a way out of this mess. You can trust me. I promise.”

Emilie drops her head. Closes her eyes. “There is no way out of this mess.”

“Yes there is. I’ve been thinking—”

“Stop—”

“You could marry me.”

The pronouncement drops between them like a thud. It makes her even sadder, that he would do this for her. That he doesn’t know the truth.

“You don’t want to marry—”

“Stop telling me what I want!”

“A Jewish woman,” she continues, her voice a slow, calm whisper.

Emilie lifts her chin, waiting for him to recoil. Or curse. Or yell. She waits for the accusations and the anger.

Max appears dumbfounded. “You’re Jewish?”

“Half Jewish.”

“Why the bloody hell do you think that would even matter to me?”

She laughs at this. Hard and mirthless. “Don’t you dare tell me that being Jewish doesn’t matter right now.”

“Not to me.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

Max places one steady hand on each of her shoulders. He leans in a bit closer. “I need you to listen very carefully. Are you listening?”

She nods.