Page 74 of Flight of Dreams

“You could tell me that you are half ostrich and I would still want to marry you. Is that clear? Do you understand that, Emilie Imhof?”

“No,” she says. “I don’t.”

Max slides a hand beneath her collar and lifts the silver chain until the key rests in his palm. “Is it so hard to believe that a German man could want to marry a Jewish woman?”

“That was a long time ago.”

“It was yesterday to hear you speak of him.”

“Max…”

He drops the key back into her blouse and steps away. “You don’t have to answer now. God knows I’ve gotten good at waiting. Just know that this thing you’re so worried about does not change my feelings for you.”

This conversation—the damn confounding nature of it—has distracted her from why she came to find him in the first place. She takes a deep breath and changes the subject. “What happened a few minutes ago? With the ship?”

Max groans and presses his fingers against his temples. He rubs as though trying to assuage a headache. Emilie guesses this isn’t far from the truth.

“It was my fault,” he says. “I brought us too close to the coast.”

No, it was my fault, Emilie thinks. I did this to you. She has brought him to the edge and left him there, teetering. Emilie has never known Max to be careless before. Never known him to miscalculate or lose control or indulge in excess of any kind.

Where Max was all softness and rounded edges a moment ago, he is changing before her eyes. She sees his anger return, accompanied by shame and disappointment. Violent emotions flood his face.

He picks the empty bottle off the floor. “I let myself do this. And damn it if I didn’t nearly kill us all as a result.”

There are a dozen questions she could ask, but Emilie settles on one that covers many subjects at once.

“Do they know?”

It’s clear what she means. Do they know you have a hangover? Do they know where you are? Do they know it’s your fault? Do they know about what happened last night?

He chooses the safest topic. “No. I don’t think so. Anyone could have made that mistake in the fog.”

“Except you. You don’t make mistakes. Do you, Max?”

“Apparently I do.” His grip tightens on the bottle, and Emilie is afraid it will shatter in his palm. Max gently places it in the wastebasket beneath the sink. He turns back to Emilie and his gray eyes are storm clouds. “But I won’t let it happen again.”

THE NAVIGATOR

Emilie sets the pitcher down on the counter, and the glass beside it. She hands Max the bottle of aspirin. She swallows. Nods. Leaves. Damn it. She thinks he has dismissed her. But his mind is sluggish and stupid, and she’s halfway down the corridor before this occurs to him. He won’t call after her though. He’s been a fool, moping around like a lovesick schoolboy. And look at the price they nearly paid.

There was sadness on her face when she left. But mostly there was resignation, as though she has known all along that he would eventually turn her away. As though her heritage is some Rubicon that he cannot cross. Knowing this complicates things immensely, but only because her confiscated papers threaten to reveal this secret. And to think he was worried about the trouble she would face for trying to leave Germany. The danger she’s in now is unspeakable.

This knowledge stokes the frustration burning beneath the surface, and Max drives his fist through the wall beside his bed. The hole is almost perfectly round, and he looks at it in disgust. He will have to pay for those repairs, no doubt. And answer for the damage as well. He would punch himself, if he could, for his own stupidity. How many things has he broken in the span of two days? And there’s no time left to fix any of them.

Max is expected back in the control car any moment, but he needs to visit the bathroom first. And he needs to change his damp shirt. Sweat runs in a small stream down the hollow of his spine, and he fears that he smells as bad as he feels. But he’s running low on clean clothes, and he must make sure he has enough for the return trip. There likely won’t be time to have anything laundered before they leave Lakehurst tomorrow evening.

His trousers, jackets, and two clean shirts hang neatly in the closet, right where he unpacked them when he boarded. And at the bottom of the closet is a small duffel bag filled with personal items. Socks. Underwear. Wallet and travel papers and a bit of money in case their leave in New Jersey stretches to a few hours. The bag also contains his holster and gun and extra bullets. All of the ship’s officers are issued weapons, but only the commander and first officer wear them on duty. They make the passengers nervous and they’re something of a security risk.

The duffel bag is in the same place where he had left it when he boarded in Frankfurt. Nothing immediately seems out of place. However, he distinctly remembers zipping it all the way. At the moment, the zipper hangs open an inch. He frowns at the bag. Max is fastidious. Always has been. He buttons his shirt to the top. He tucks his trouser pockets in every morning to make sure no lining is visible. He double knots his shoes. And he always closes a zipper. Always.

Max leans into his closet and takes a closer look at the bag. He opens it. Digs around for a minute out of curiosity. And then he steps back with a violent oath. His underwear is folded neatly in a sailor’s roll. His socks are tucked into one another as always. His undershirts folded in thirds. But the leather holster that holds his Luger is empty. No gun. No bullets.

THE AMERICAN

“I thought I would find you here.” The American pulls out a chair at the corner table in the smoking room where Gertrud Adelt and her husband are seated.

She stiffens. Peers at him suspiciously beneath the brim of her red felt hat. The color brings out the natural scarlet tint of her lips, makes her look as though she’s bloodthirsty. “I didn’t realize you were looking for me.”