by Ariel Lawhon
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 w
orth. Good thing Max didn’t find that last night or they might have had an entirely different sort of evening.
Emilie looks up just as Max enters the reading room. Her cheeks burn hot and she stares at her feet for a moment. His timing is rather suspect. It’s as though she has summoned him with her thoughts. He’s wearing his cap and an amiable smile. A basket is tucked under one arm. He moves around the room in a counterclockwise direction, collecting postcards and offering stamps. He’s talkative. Cheery. And Emilie realizes that she knows him well enough now to see through the charade. The bags under his eyes and the pinched line of his mouth reveal a hidden misery. A misery that she has caused.
It’s too much for her. Emilie quietly takes leave of the Doehner family. She squeezes Matilde’s shoulder and tells her that she has a few tasks that must be tended to before lunch. And then she slips from the room when Max is at the farthest point from her.
He’s quick when he needs to be. Damn him. And he can’t resist a challenge. She knows this about him too. So she is only mildly surprised to hear his voice in the keel corridor, ringing out behind her. She rushes down the stairs.
“We need to talk, Emilie.”
She ignores him, walking faster, eyes darting to and fro in search of a place to escape. The kitchen is her only promising option, and she pushes through the door without having any real plan in mind. It’s only when she sees Xaver Maier that an idea takes shape. Max will follow her. She’s certain of this. He’s still angry and he has not yet said his peace.
“What’s wrong?” Xaver asks.
Emilie knows she must look crazed. She steps forward just as the heel of Max’s hand smashes against the kitchen door, shoving it inward. She reaches Xaver in three bold steps and throws her arms around his neck. His eyes are wide and alarmed but he hesitates for only a second when she leans in for a kiss. She hears a metal bowl clatter to the floor, dropped by one of the assistant chefs. They have an audience. Good. She can put an end to this situation with Max once and for all.
Xaver is nothing if not opportunistic. His arms are around her waist in a moment. Tight. Greedy. But this kiss is nothing like the one she shared with Max the night before. There is no passion. No warmth. Xaver tastes of yeast and cold water and a hint of parsley. Her skin tingles with nothing but shame, and her ears are tuned to the deep, furious hum emanating from Max’s chest behind her. And Xaver, being the bastard that he is, slides his hand down several inches from her waist, threatening to cup her backside. She stiffens beneath him and feels his taunting smile against her lips.
This is the worst kiss of her life. Worse even than the one she had shared with Frank Becker in the back room of her father’s shop before she dropped him to the floor. She hadn’t told Max that part last night, of course. Emilie wasn’t entirely innocent in the whole affair. But Xaver is smart enough to know what’s happening. He doesn’t take this farce too far. If nothing else he possesses a healthy amount of self-preservation. Max is watching after all. No doubt confounded. Bristling.
Each second is interminable. She wants nothing more than to pull away and wipe her mouth. But she cannot do so until Max leaves. It’s one thing to do this out of spite; it’s another thing to own up to her treachery while he’s standing there.
And yet he must know. Because he waits. Silent. Furious. Seeing how long she will pretend.
So Emilie goes for cruelty. She lays her palm flat against Xaver’s face and lightly plays with his earlobe. He is a man, after all, and she feels him soften beneath her. His kiss takes on a note of sincerity, and he moves one hand up to cradle her skull. She tries to pull away on reflex, but his grip tightens as his fingers wind through her hair.
Only when she hears the door swoosh shut does she pull away. But she can’t look at Xaver right away. She’s too ashamed.
“I don’t know what is happening between you and Zabel, but don’t ever do that to me again.”
She’s insulted. Angry. Irrational. “You didn’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that. Clearly. Where the hell did you learn to kiss like that anyway? But still. Shit. I thought he’d kill me by the look on his face.”
“You kept your eyes open?” Emilie hears her words slip out in a horrified hiss. She flinches at the sound.
“That was rather the point, right? Piss off the navigator? Taunt him? It’s not like you’ve ever kissed me before.” He peers at her, curious. “So?”
“I was making a point.”
“Well done.”
“Would you be serious? Please?”
“That’s what you were just now? Serious? I’d hate to see you act flippant.”
In truth, Emilie is serious. Seriously angry. Seriously ashamed. Seriously confused. Yes. All these things.
“Just”—she holds her palm out, silencing him—“I need to think.”
“A bit late for that, I’d say. You’ve just broken Zabel’s heart and confused the hell out of me. He’ll probably kill me in my sleep.” Xaver’s toque was knocked askew during her little display, and he sets it back into place. “Listen. Do what you like with your navigator, but leave me out of it, okay? I actually value my life.”
THE NAVIGATOR
If Max could breathe he would call out to Emilie. He would tell her to stop kissing the chef. If he could move he would reach out and break Xaver Maier’s skinny neck.
Kiss who you like, he had told Emilie yesterday, as long as I’m the one you like the most. But he hadn’t meant it. Not really. It was a rash comment, an ineffective parry in their ongoing battle. The truth is Max doesn’t want to share this woman with anyone else. The heat behind his eyes builds and then explodes into a dozen tiny sparks when Maier slides his hand down Emilie’s waist. He would sooner cut that hand off than see it groping her. But the chef is less of a fool than he seems, for he stops a fraction of an inch before violating what scant, undeserved trust Emilie has placed in him.
Maier has the eyes of a bear—small and dark and vengeful. He narrows them as he kisses Emilie, taunting Max. He is uncertain whether Maier enjoys the kiss, but Max is certain the chef enjoys the victory. His lungs burn with the agony of expansion. He has yet to release the breath he drew on entering the kitchen. His nostrils sting. His hands begin to shake with the effort of not reaching out to pull Emilie out of Maier’s arms. In some far-off part of his mind a single thought registers: jealousy isn’t just something you feel; it can be tasted as well. Sharp. Metallic. Like blood drawn from the inside of a cheek. He lets the breath out with a whoosh.
Scheiße!
There is nothing to do but leave. One step backward. Then another. One more and the door swings shut on its hinges and he’s standing in the corridor swallowing bloody spit and a good portion of his pride while he gasps for breath as though he has just been kicked in the Hoden. Voices erupt on the other side of the door, an argument, but it’s just noise to his ears. Some foreign language of betrayal.
It’s almost noon and he has no interest in food or company, but he must do something. So he takes twelve steps down the corridor to the officers’ mess. It’s a compact room to the left of the kitchen, connected by an opening in the wall used to pass dishes back and forth. Commander Pruss, Captain Lehmann, and Colonel Erdmann are already seated at the far table, looking out the observation windows while two other officers play poker as they wait for lunch. Werner Franz is busy setting the table. Lunchtimes are staggered, the first at 11:30 and the second at 12:30. The cabin boy often wolfs down his own food in the kitchen before or after, depending on the rush.
Max’s face must still be filled with alarm because Werner’s eyes grow round and he opens his mouth as though to ask what’s wrong. Max is still flushed and out of breath, but he decides to pre-empt the conversation. He says the first thing that comes to mind only to regret it seconds later. “Werner went with me to engine gondola two this morning.”
The cabin boy is startled, like he’s been shot, and the officers assume varying expressions of horror. It takes a moment for Max
to register his mistake. And one more to find a course correction.
Werner is frozen in place. His hand trembles a bit, and Max fears he will drop the plate in his hands. Or begin crying. Just hold it together, kid, he thinks.
“He was quite brilliant actually.” Max tosses his cap onto the table. Smoothes out the dent in his hair left by the snug band, and drops into the nearest seat. “Didn’t even flinch when he went down the ladder. I almost pissed myself the first time I did that midflight. The kid’s a natural.”
This isn’t entirely true. Werner had been terrified and made no effort to hide it. But the accolade has its desired effect on the officers. They turn to Werner. Assess him. Max can almost hear them take stock. He’s tall. Hardworking. Werner will be broad shouldered in a few years, and clearly he knows how to keep his mouth shut. This is the first anyone has heard of their little adventure. Many young men would have bragged about such an escapade.
And slowly the look on Werner’s face changes from betrayal to confusion to understanding.
“I do recall sending you to fetch Zettel for the repair,” Pruss says to the cabin boy.
“I misread the note,” Werner confesses. He fidgets, barely able to maintain eye contact. “I was in a hurry. But Max fixed the problem.”
“The lid on the engine telegraph dial was loose, so the gauge wasn’t pressurized. It was a minor fix. I’d guess we won’t have any further issues with it.”
“A risky thing taking young Werner with you.” Pruss pushes his spine back against the padded banquette. He glares at Max with no small amount of displeasure.
Max could explain that the decision had been coerced. That it was Werner’s clever form of blackmail that forced his hand. But then he’d also have to explain his quarrel with Emilie. And he is too exposed already, his pride smeared all over the kitchen floor. So he shrugs and takes responsibility for the decision instead. In truth he is contrite—it was a deeply foolish thing to do—so there is no guile in his voice when he says, “I wasn’t much older when my commanding officer had me dangling from the Vogtland to repair a broken porthole. I was feeling nostalgic this morning and thought I’d test the boy. If a reprimand is to be given I’m the one who deserves it.”