Page 89 of Flight of Dreams

“Then you wear your skirt and my blouse. My hat. You walk out on the arm of my husband—”

“I’m taller than he is as well—”

“Then slouch—”

“But—”

“You will have my children at your side, and no one will see you. That is a guarantee.”

“And you?”

“I will wait in the cabin and exit a few moments after you do. I will find a crowd. Place myself in the center. Then I will meet you at the car on the airfield. And then we will be gone. You will come to New York with us. Cuba. Mexico. Before long Germany will be a distant memory.”

Emilie wants this. She does. And yet her heart twists a bit at the idea. She forces Max’s face from her mind. “Someone will see. If not when they bring the luggage, then sooner. It will never work.”

Matilde pushes the curtain aside. She turns off the shower and drapes a towel over each son, then sniffs both little blond heads to make sure they have properly followed her instructions. Matilde does not argue with Emilie as she attempts to dry them off. But the boys are ticklish and squirmy and she abandons the exercise after a few seconds. The boys fling water droplets from their hair and giggle as they try to pull dry clothes onto wet bodies. Matilde checks them carefully before sending them from the bathroom with a pat on their bottoms.

“Do give me more credit than that, Fräulein,” she says. “You wouldn’t be the first person I’ve smuggled out of a country. I am very, very good at it. Just ask David Rothstein.”

THE AMERICAN

It is close to midnight, and the crew’s mess is empty except for five tired souls. Four of them have recently ended their shifts, and the fifth is breaking the rules by being there. But then again, the American has never been one for following the rules. Nor is he the sort of man who will ignore a poker game once he knows it exists. They hadn’t intended to let him stay—he could tell that much by the look on their faces when he’d walked in twenty minutes ago—but he had given them reason to set the rules aside. Margaret Mather’s diamond solitaire ring. He had dropped it on the table and let it bounce and skitter to a stop. It looked like a small fortune there in the middle of that pile of dingy marks. The chief steward pulled out a chair and personally invited the American to join them.

“There’s more where that came from.”

“Dare I ask how you acquired such a bauble? I will deeply regret my invitation if you say it was won at poker.” It was a halfhearted attempt to be threatening. But Kubis is married and the American could see that he had plans for the ring already.

“It was part of my divorce settlement. I’d planned to sell it along with some other items when I get to New York. I certainly don’t have a use for them anymore. But I’d just as soon try my luck with them tonight.” He’d looked up then, met each man glance for glance. “As long as you don’t mind. I have cash as well. If you prefer.”

Not a single man at the table objected. Chairs were scooted over. Elbows tucked in. Welcomes muttered. They dealt him in.

He looks at the five cards in his hand now—shit every one of them—but doesn’t let on. “Pass,” he says, and throws a mark into the pot. The others were at the game for almost an hour before he got here. They’re already warmed up, clued in to one another. He will have to catch up fast. It shouldn’t be hard. Poker is a game uniquely suited to his particular abilities.

Of the four other men seated at this table Heinrich Kubis is the easiest to read. He tries to keep a neutral expression. But he’s working so hard at masking his face that he forgets the rest of his body. He leans forward when his cards are good but droops to the left, into the armrest, when they’re bad. He’s constantly shifting in his chair, trying to get comfortable.

Xaver Maier wants to smoke. He would be far more comfortable playing this game in the corner of a seedy tavern where he could smoke and drink and run the table than in this regimented airship. So he twitches. He pulls at his mouth and taps his cards on the table—but only when he thinks he can win. If he thinks losing is likely he lays the cards in his lap and waits.

August Deutschle is the American’s strongest competition. This is a man who knows how to gamble. He’s comfortable with the idea of losing money and feels certain he’ll win it back. He’s the one who raises the stakes on each round, pushing the others a bit further than they are comfortable with. He doesn’t bluff often but likes to call out others when they do.

And then there is Ludwig Knorr. He makes the American nervous. Ludwig is a big man, and the cards look small in his broad, scarred hands—like he’s playing with a child’s deck. He has an unnerving way of never making eye contact, even when he answers a question directly. He hedges. Holds back. Hides his cards and his emotions. It’s a good thing he’s not a particularly good poker player or he would be very dangerous.

In the last twenty years the American has learned that men can keep only one secret at a time. And while these men are protecting their cards, all of their thoughts and energy are bent toward that one goal. They want to win the pot of money on the table. Each of them has something in mind that he will spend it on. Some debt he will pay off. Some girl he will seduce. So all of them are paying little attention to the conversation at the table, the questions that are asked, or the answers that are given.

Gertrud Adelt told the American that the dog tag belonged to Ludwig Knorr. But Captain Lehmann said it is Heinrich Kubis’s. One of these men was on a zeppelin that dropped bombs over Coventry in 1918, and there is only one way to find out which it was.

“How long have you gentlemen been flying?” the American asks.

Kubis is the first to answer. “Since 1912. I catered on the airship Schwaben. First air steward in history.”

The chef groans. “He never misses an opportunity to remind us. Shut up about it already. You’ve made history. We get it. You’re special.”

“And you?” the American asks. He puts a card down. Takes another.

He shrugs. “Four years. I started on the Graf Zeppelin.”

“Rookie,” Ludwig Knorr says with a grunt.

“Old man,” replies Kubis.