by Ariel Lawhon
Margaret laughs at this. “Me? No. You forget that young ladies are not permitted to attend Princeton.”
“At all?” Irene asks.
“No.”
Emilie is humored by the look of consternation on Irene’s face. The girl takes in Margaret’s polished form. “But…”
“What?”
“You’re rich.”
The assumption is simple. Naïve. Entitled. And from the corner of her eye Emilie sees Matilde shake her head. Irene is quite intelligent, but clearly her education has been lacking.
“There are things that money cannot buy, young lady. A forward-thinking father is one of them.” Margaret sets a gentle hand on Irene’s shoulder. “Having one is a privilege you should not take for granted.”
“How do you know so much about Princeton if you didn’t go there?”
“My brother is one of their art and architecture professors.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I’ve come home to visit him for the summer.”
Emilie watches Irene’s face change. She sees the resolve drop like a curtain falling across a window. “I will go to university,” she declares, then turns to her mother. “Can I go, Mama?”
There is humor in Matilde’s voice. But there is also pride. “It’s a bit early for that, don’t you think?”
Irene shifts those imperious blue eyes back to Margaret Mather. “How do I get into university?”
Margaret stifles a grin. “Learning English would be a good place to start. As a matter of fact, learn as many languages as you can. Study. Observe. Learn to communicate intelligently—both with your voice and in print.”
Matilde gives Emilie a pointed look as if to say: See, my daughter’s dreams depend on you.
Emilie sighs. Irene is pointing at things on the ground below and having Margaret tell her the English names. She repeats the words carefully, her mind already set on learning this strange new language. It seems possible, this life she’s being offered. Appealing even. There is no threat to her life and very little to her heart. Why shouldn’t she leave? Why shouldn’t she build a life for herself apart from ghosts and dictators? Emilie watches Irene Doehner make her first stubborn attempts to learn a new language, and she pushes the thought of Max from her mind.
Emilie looks at Matilde and nods. “Very well, then.”
THE NAVIGATOR
4:00 p.m.—three hours and twenty-five minutes until the explosion
The light at four o’clock in the afternoon is different from that of any other time of day. Max feels that this is true even now, with the sun blotted out by storm clouds. He would prefer a cobalt sky filled with golden light, of course. This never-ending gray-upon-gray does nothing to lighten his mood, and yet he must admit the sky is oddly beautiful. But it’s a savage beauty, and it makes him uneasy. The clouds are heavy-bottomed, dark and churning, with the low roll of thunder threatening violence.
The crew is restless. They want this ship on the ground. The passengers are restless. They want to be off the Hindenburg and on their way. But six hundred feet is a long way to descend safely when the weather turns unstable. His shift ended two hours ago, but he has come back to the control car to assist with landing.
Max can see the struggle play out on Commander Pruss’s face. His gaze is on neither the sky nor the soil, but straight ahead at that midpoint on the horizon where the two meet. They all hope the path is clearer ahead and that by some miracle they will be able to land, but things are not looking good. Pruss leans forward, tense. His jaw is clenched. His eyes, not tight but wide and round, are unblinking.
The airship glides over the New Jersey Pine Barrens, dotted by the occasional flat scrub oak, and begins its initial approach toward Lakehurst. The enormous bulk of Hangar No. 1 dwarfs everything else in the vicinity. Max notes that the landing crew has not assembled on the field. A bad sign. There are spectators and a handful of reporters—he can see the tiny pop of flashbulbs—but the great hangar doors are closed. And then the telegraph machine sends out a series of abrasive little chirps in the radio room above. Max doesn’t wait for the order. He goes to retrieve the message and then understands why the landing crew has not assembled.
He hands it to Commander Pruss, who reads it aloud: “Wind gusts now twenty-five knots.”
Max can feel the faintest drag of the ship as the crew struggles to keep it from bearing port side. It has not begun to rain. And though the sky threatens lightning, it has yet to manifest. But Pruss will not be able to land the ship. Not now, at any rate. Not with this wind.
The commander’s shoulders drop, just an inch, and his body uncoils from the strain of determination. A sigh. A muttered curse. “Head southeastward,” he finally says, “toward the coast. We will wait out the storm.”
THE AMERICAN
4:15 p.m.—three hours and ten minutes until the explosion
“Where are we going? Why aren’t we landing?” What little hair Moritz Feibusch has sits on the top of his scalp in an unruly pile that he has twisted into something resembling a Brillo pad.
It is an odd camaraderie the American has formed with the two Jewish businessmen. They seek him out whenever the passengers congregate in groups. They join him at meals. They speak with him, as though speaking with a friend. The American is not used to being liked. It makes him uncomfortable.
“We can’t land in a storm,” the American says. And then, “What have you done to your hair?”
Feibusch lays his palm on the tangled nest. Laughs. “It’s a bad habit. I tug my hair when I’m nervous.”
“You’ve been twirling your hair like a schoolgirl for the last ten minutes. It’s disturbing,” William Leuchtenberg says.
The American wanders away, leaving the men to their good-natured jabs. He had not counted on the delay. He had not counted on the headwinds over the North Atlantic or the fact that the Hindenburg itself would not cooperate with him. When he sat in his office in Frankfurt all those months ago reading the telegram and considering, really considering, this opportunity and all it would mean for his life and his career, for the chance at revenge, he had never once taken into account that the airship would arrive twelve hours late, that there would be virtually no time between landing and the next takeoff. He has killed an innocent man—a fellow American—just for the chance to kill Ludwig Knorr. So the thought of abandoning his mission feels untenable. Wasteful. He could always dispatch Knorr and leave his primary orders unfulfilled, but that leaves the Nazi government in possession of the largest, most technically advanced airship in history. It leaves them in a position of worldwide aviation dominance. He may be a small, petty man hell-bent on personal vengeance, but he is also a zealot. He believes in this cause. So there is nothing left to do now but keep himself occupied. He must think. He must sort through all the available options and find the one—there has to be one—that enables him to accomplish what he came on board to do.
The American wanders through the passenger areas with restless energy. He creates a pattern without giving it much thought. The smoking room and then the bar. He chats with the passengers and then Schulze. He orders a gin and tonic but doesn’t drink it all. He ambles off with it in his hand, then leaves it two-thirds full on the first flat surface he can find. Next comes the dining room and the promenade. He drifts among the tables, initiating conversation, provoking arguments. He approaches this task as though he is conversational carbonation, forcing air and livelihood into the dialogue. But he’s quick to abandon the banter once it flares to life. He moves on to the lounge. The reading room. The observation deck. These areas are last. He finds them tedious. This is where the women and children are gathered, fretting over needlepoint and romance novels. But, still, he cannot afford to linger in any place for too long, so he adds these rooms to the rotation, then starts over, making sure to avoid Feibusch and Leuchtenberg on the second rotation. He does not want friends. Friends complicate things.
For now he will stay busy. He will keep his mind sharp. And w
hen the moment is right he will make his move.
THE NAVIGATOR
6:00 p.m.—one hour and twenty-five minutes until the explosion
Max settles into his favorite booth in the crew’s mess as the Hindenburg flies low over Asbury Park, New Jersey. He can see the boardwalk directly beneath them and the small forms of lovers strolling hand in hand on this warm May evening. Some crane their necks and wave. Others whistle. A child jumps up and down, ecstatic, and Max can see a small dog spinning in circles, barking at them madly. For one short moment Max is captivated by the picturesque scene and grateful for his place in it. Then he presses back into his seat and feels the uncomfortable bulk of the envelope and he remembers what he must do. He has fetched the documents from his room, and he feels the weight of them like an anchor lashed to his waist.
But first, dinner.
Max has had so few opportunities to feel superior to Xaver Maier in the last seventy-two hours that he indulges the lesser side of his character now, grinning with delight as the chef pushes the swinging door open and drops a tray of finger sandwiches onto the table.
“Not a word,” Maier says.
Max doesn’t have to say anything. He simply plucks a roast beef sandwich from the tray and bites off a corner. The bread is fresh, the beef is perfectly seasoned, and the creamy horseradish sauce is perfect. It’s hard to hate a man who cooks so well, but Max gives it his best effort anyway. He won’t soon forget the image of Maier kissing Emilie.
In the end Max can’t resist. “Do you think she will remember your name? This girl who’s waiting for you?” Max asks as the chef stares longingly out the window. “Or does she even know it?”
Maier is known for making the most of their short leaves in New Jersey and for the lecherous grin he wears when reporting for duty again. But this delay has ensured that the chef will not make whatever appointment he has been looking forward to. Max experiences no small amount of satisfaction in this. Maier glares at him like a fractious child and returns to the kitchen with a huff. He sends one of the assistant chefs to bring the platters of fruit and cheese into the crew’s mess in his stead. It seems that Maier has had quite enough of the navigator.
Max turns from the window as Werner rushes through the door, a couple of minutes late. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright as he begins pulling plates and silverware from the cabinet to serve the crew. He loads a plate for Max without asking his preference and sets it in front of him, avoiding eye contact. Max is about to ask the boy why he’s blushing, but the door opens then and a handful of riggers enter. Max doesn’t want to embarrass Werner. Ludwig Knorr ruffles Werner’s hair, and the cabin boy turns away to serve them.
It seems to Max that Werner is euphoric. So it’s the girl, then. They’ve kissed again or done something equally stupid. He just hopes that whatever the boy is doing goes unnoticed by her parents as well as the officers. It would not go well for Werner if he were caught fraternizing with the daughter of a wealthy passenger. He makes a mental note to scold the boy later.
Max adjusts the envelope at his waist before pushing his plate away. He beckons Werner over with a hand.
“Have you seen Emilie?” Max asks. “I need to have a word with her.”
“She was headed up to A-deck a few minutes ago. Probably going to start tidying the cabins for the return trip.”
“Thank you.”
Max checks the clock above the door. It’s 6:30 now. He doesn’t have much time.
He finds Emilie on A-deck stepping out of a passenger cabin. She closes the door behind her, holding a bundle in her arms. It appears to be a pillowcase stuffed with dirty linens. She jumps, startled, when she sees Max. He searches her face, looking for any hint of pleasure or hope or relief. But her expression is carefully guarded, so he must do this with no encouragement from her.
“I have something for you,” he says.
Emilie tilts her head a bit in surprise but says nothing.
“Consider this my apology—for everything—and the only way I have of proving that I do love you.” He pauses. “Please don’t let that word scare you. Scheiße. I can see that I’ve scared you. Oh, well. Too late now. It’s the truth. I love you. And I hope this proves it.”
Max reaches behind him and pulls the now-crumpled envelope from his waistband. He can see his own handwriting and the message he had written for her a couple of days ago. You should have told me sooner. He still believes that. Believes that knowing Emilie’s plans would have changed everything. But the decision is hers to make now. Max holds the envelope out to her, an offering.
Her voice trembles. “Where did you find that?”
“I didn’t find it. I stole it. From the officers’ safe in the control car while Commander Pruss was standing ten feet away. And if that doesn’t show you that I’m an irredeemable fool, nothing will.”
Max takes a step forward and she doesn’t flinch, so he takes another. And another. He is only a foot away, and he slowly raises his hand to the bundle she holds in her hands. He doesn’t break eye contact with her as he spreads wide the mouth of the pillow case and tucks the envelope inside with whatever else she has in there.
He leans close to her ear. Whispers, “You can leave if you want. I won’t stop you. The choice is yours, as it should be. But if you decide to stay, I will be here, Emilie. I will be here for you. I will keep you safe.” A thought occurs to him and he laughs. “You might have to wait for me to get out of prison, of course, if they find out I took those papers. But it changes nothing on my end.”
“Thank you.” Emilie hugs the bundle to her chest, and he sees that she is blinking fast, trying to force a storm of sudden tears into submission. “I don’t deserve this.”
“You deserve much more.”
She shakes her head in argument, but Max raises his hand and lays it on her cheek to stop the movement. He strokes her face with his thumb. And he looks deep into the rust color of her eyes as he leans in for the kiss he has been imagining for the last two hours.
“I love you.” It is a whisper against her lips. “Whatever happens, do not forget that.”
Max kisses her in the middle of the hallway, the bundle pressed between them, not caring who sees. If this is to be the last time he kisses Emilie Imhof, he will make sure it is a kiss worth remembering. He can feel the hand that holds her bundle pressed against his chest, and he hopes she can feel the frantic, hopeful beating of his heart. It takes a moment, but her other hand rises to his arm, his shoulder, and then slides up his neck. When she moves her fingers to play with his earlobe he allows himself a small moan of pleasure. Max locks Emilie against him with one arm around her waist and one hand at the back of her neck. He drinks her in. He consumes her with his kiss, and she surrenders completely to it.
He is almost past the point of having any sense at all when he hears his name being called lightly from behind.
“Max.”
He ignores it at first.
“Max!”
Finally, reluctantly, he pulls away just enough to turn his head and see the stunned, blushing face of Werner Franz who is standing to his left.
“What?” His voice is filled with gravel and passion.
“We’ve been cleared to land. You’re needed in the control car.”
Max pulls Emilie close. He buries his face in the hair behind her ear, then allows himself the luxury of begging just this once. “Stay with me,” he whispers.
THE STEWARDESS
6:45 p.m.—forty minutes until the explosion
She owes Max an answer.
This is all she can think of as he walks away, hands tucked in his pockets. His kiss still warm on her lips. His plea echoing in her ear. Emilie lays three fingers across her mouth. A prayer. An apology.
She can envision two different versions of her future. One is certain and thrilling, filled with adventure and borrowed wealth and a loneliness that the Doehner family, lovely though they are, cannot fill. And the other contains Max. Max and a million
unanswerable questions. But it also contains passion and love. Companionship. Lurking danger. Both options are impossible. And yet she must choose.
The Hindenburg will land in less than an hour and the passengers will disperse. The next departure is still scheduled for later that night, and the crew members will have no time to leave the ship. There will be no trips to New York or dalliances in Lakehurst. No time to sleep or even rest. There will be no time to let her subconscious mind sort out this mess. She will have to make the decision, and she will have to live with the consequences.
She checks her watch. Ten minutes. That’s all the time she has to spare for this task. Best to get it over with before she can change her mind.
Emilie descends to her cabin on B-deck and places the pillowcase with Matilde’s clothing and the newly returned documents on the bed. A pen. An envelope. One sheet of paper. She sets these things flat on her writing desk. Emilie Imhof, stewardess, widow, brokenhearted woman, picks up the pen with her hand and begins to write, her left wrist bent at an awkward angle, her fingers clenching at the first stroke of ink.
Max.
His name and three more words—I am sorry—before her hand begins to tremble. She drops the pen and flexes her fingers. Summons every ounce of courage. And then she continues. Two short paragraphs. Her answer. Her reasons. Her heart splattered on the clean page, as bold and plain as the ink itself. It will have to be enough. She does not have time nor heart for more than what she has written.
Emilie folds the letter in thirds and slides it into the envelope. She seals it and writes his name on the front. Then she goes in search of Kurt Schönherr.
Like Max, he has been called to the control car for landing, and she finds him entering the radio room.
“Kurt!”
“Fräulein.” He nods his head. Smiles. The older man has always been kind to her. Always respectful. “How can I help you?”
“I need you to do something for me.”