THE STEWARDESS

Max’s handwriting is exactly what you would expect from a man of charts and maps and letters. It is blunt and precise. He has a steady hand. No smudges or crooked letters. The harsh words are written with deep, straight lines, the strokes heavy and thick with ink. Each word makes Emilie wince. Their combined effect makes her angry and nauseous and ashamed.

You should have told me sooner.

She has a moment of heart-stuttering panic before she remembers that Max cannot have learned her heritage from those papers alone. If that were possible, the Zeppelin-Reederei would have done so long ago and she never would have been offered this job. Perhaps it was laziness on their part. She will never be certain. Regardless, knowing that the Nazis hired a Jewish woman as their first stewardess is a small, private triumph for Emilie.

It is her plan to defect that has angered Max, not her secret. He has written his note on the envelope that holds her life savings. She found it sitting on top of her travel papers when she got back to her empty room the night before. It had taken over an hour to get Margaret Mather out of her corset. The inept maid who had helped her into it in Frankfurt had double-knotted the laces at six points, leaving Emilie with no option but to cut the heiress out of her garment. Fräulein Mather had shown remarkably good humor during the ordeal. Emilie had done everything in her power to save the garment, and to untie the tangled knots first. But all to no avail. The heiress did not tell her what the contraption cost, but she winced visibly when it fell to the floor after being severed with a pair of Xaver’s kitchen shears.

And all the time Emilie was gone the only thing she could think of was Max. The warmth of his hands. The way he looked at her beneath hooded lids. How she hungered to be kissed again. Only deeper and longer. By the time she slipped back into her cabin Emilie had convinced herself that she wanted Max to stay. She was ready to give him the answer he desired. But the room was dark and silent, and she knew as soon as she shut the door behind her that he was no longer there. His absence was tangible.

It took Emilie several minutes to find the note. And when she read it a hundred tiny threads tethering her heart in place loosened and slipped away. She did not cry. Or rush after him. Emilie simply put her papers back in the bottom of her cosmetics case, stripped off her rumpled clothing, and crawled into bed. There was no transition between waking and sleeping. There was only the heavy, complete surrender to oblivion.

Sleep abandoned her just as suddenly a few moments ago, and now she lies wide-eyed in the dark. She is in the same position in which she fell asleep last night—on her back, fingers laced over her navel. She doubts that she even rolled over. It takes only a few breaths before she remembers the note.

You should have told me sooner.

Would it have changed anything? she wonders. Would he have decided not to waste his time? And what will he do now that he knows her plan? Betray her? She considers the possibility. No. Max would never do that.

Her shift begins in an hour, so she turns on the light and dresses in a clean uniform identical to the one she wore yesterday. Emilie looks wrong—disheveled and jumpy—and she feels wrong—flustered and restless—but she does not know what to fix. Or how to go about fixing it. It’s as though she has taken a step sideways, outside herself, and can’t get back in alignment. Emilie’s hair is dark and her skin is light and her eyes are large, and the combination makes her look ghostly at this early hour. She brushes her hair until it crackles with static. She chooses the brightest shade of lipstick she owns—a deep ruby—and paints on a bit of mascara in the hope that it will make her eyes look bright instead of exhausted. It’s not yet five-thirty but there is nothing else to be done, so she goes in search of food. Emilie will not make yesterday’s mistakes. She will eat well. She will stay focused. She will avoid Max.

It is a good plan, but ill-fated. She has not reached the crew’s mess before she finds herself face-to-face with the navigator. He is waiting for her in the keel corridor outside the kitchen. His eyes are the color of smoke this morning. They are bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles. Smoldering with anger. He didn’t sleep well, and the exhaustion is evident despite his perfectly groomed appearance. Max has simply tried to put a good face on a bad night.

Emilie won’t meet his gaze. She tries to step around him and into the kitchen, but he catches her elbow. “No.”

“I’m hungry.”

“You can wait.”

When she tries to shake him off his grip tightens. “Let. Me. Go.”

He takes a step forward, closing the gap between them. Max drops his mouth to her ear. “That’s not going to happen, Emilie.”

Most of the crew and passengers are still asleep, so there is no one to hear her complaints as Max pulls her back down the keel corridor, around the gangway stairs, and down the outer walkway beside the observation windows. Somewhere below them is the Atlantic Ocean, but all she can see is gaping, heavy darkness and her own guarded reflection in the glass.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere we can talk privately.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“I don’t care.”

“I thought you were a gentleman.”

He snorts. “And I thought I could trust you.”

“Trust?” Emilie yells just as Max opens the door to the public shower and pushes her inside. “You are lecturing me about trust?”

It’s a small room, tiled floor to ceiling, and her voice ricochets the moment he closes the door behind them. It’s the only shower on board the airship and is rarely used—most passengers prefer to wash in their rooms; the crew members who could most benefit from the luxury of a shower are discouraged from spending any time on the passenger decks. But she can tell someone has been here this morning. The showerhead is dripping, and rivulets of moisture are running down the tile walls. It smells of soap and humidity. Behind them is the steady, irritating drip of water.

“You went through my things!” Emilie’s restraint vanishes, and she shoves Max against the wall, furious. Betrayed. Desperate. For a brief moment she thinks this display of emotion makes him smile. But she isn’t sure. There’s a single overhead light, and Max’s face is obscured by the shadow of his cap.

“I wasn’t trying to pry,” Max says. “I knocked your closet door open. The papers were right there. It’s not like I could miss them.”

“You just knocked it open? That’s convenient.”

“I was restless. You stood me up.”

“I didn’t stand you up. I was—”

“I don’t care what you were doing. You didn’t come back. You said you would come back.”

“I did. And you were gone when I got there.”

“Did you expect me to wait all night? Or perhaps you’d like for me to wait even longer? Years, maybe, while you flounce around America?”

“That’s not your business.”

“It is now.”

“What? You think I’ve promised you something? Just because we’ve kissed?”

“Do you treat kisses so lightly? Because I don’t.”

“It was just a kiss.”

“It was a hell of a lot more than that, Emilie. And you know it.” He seems to grow larger with every word, filling the bathroom until he’s towering over her.

Emilie doesn’t remember there being such a difference in their heights, but she feels very small right now. Somewhat ashamed. Afraid. She straightens her spine and meets his wounded gaze. “You read too much into it.”

“You asked me to stay.”

She winces a little at this. And then a new rage washes over her. “Well, you should have. I would have made it worth your while. That’s what you want, right? My dress on the floor?”

Max places the tip of his right index finger in the middle of her breastbone. It feels like a poker, red-hot and searing. Her entire body feels anchored to that one spot. “I. Want. You.”

“Then take me!”

“So you’d give me your body?” Max pulls away, slowly, in control of himself again. “And all the while you’d keep your heart locked away? I don’t want one without the other.”

“Oh, I think you do.” Emilie takes a step forward. It’s cruel, she knows, but she doesn’t care. She’s only inches away from him now. He inhales sharply as she rubs the tip of her nose along his jaw.

Max grabs her shoulders, and she can feel his arms tremble with restraint. He growls her name. And she is certain that he will kiss her. His head is tilting to the side to do just that. But he stops when Emilie begins to soften beneath him.

“No.” A ragged breath. “We’re not done talking.”

“This conversation isn’t urgent.”

“Yes it is!” He shakes her a bit and lets go in alarm. Takes a deep breath. Steps back. “Don’t you understand? This is urgent. Are you leaving?”

“Hush. Someone will hear you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I do, damn it,” she whispers. “In case you haven’t noticed, those papers aren’t exactly public.”

When he speaks the volume is gone but the rage is still there, bubbling below the surface. “Do you know what Captain Lehmann will do to you if he finds out? Commander Pruss? Have you even stopped to think about that?”

“Of course I have! Why do you think I hid them? I’m not stupid.”

“They didn’t look very hidden to me.”

“I don’t keep them in the closet, Max. I have a place. A compartment. I was looking at them last night when you came to my room. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“How long have you been planning this?”

“A while.”

“So what was I? A distraction? Some toy that you played with to kill time?”

“Hey!” She shoves him again and tries to pull away, but there’s no room in this tiny shower, and he’s right there in front of her, no matter where she moves. “That’s not fair and you know it. I didn’t meet you until last year. I didn’t expect you. You’re just…” She waves her hands in front of her face as though trying to bat him away.

A glimmer of understanding crosses his face. “You were making up your mind last night, weren’t you, when I knocked at the door?”

“I had already made my decision. But it was the wrong one.”

Max looks as though he wants to touch her. To hold her. As though he wants to collect her in his arms and swallow her whole so that she can’t run from him anymore. “How do you know?”

This crack in Emilie’s defenses is a temporary thing. She pulls herself together right in front of him. Squares her shoulders. Sets her jaw. She controls every emotion with the same detached resolve that has enabled her to survive for the last decade. Her voice is cold when she finally speaks. “Because you weren’t there when I got back.”

“I’m here now,” he says.

“Too late.”

“Because I discovered your secret?”

“Are you going to tell?”

“Are you going to leave?”

“Yes.”

“Why leave everything you’ve ever known? It makes no sense.”

“My God, are you blind? Deaf? Do you not read the papers or listen to the radio? War is coming, Max.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Hitler is trying to take Austria. Take it! Like a toy from another child. You think there won’t be war?”

“I think a lot can happen between now and then.”

“Then let me tell you what’s happening now. In case that future threat is not enough.” Emilie grows incensed but has no way to contain her trembling rage. “The Gestapo is more powerful than our court system. They are throwing people in prison just for criticizing Hitler.”

Max flinches at this. He reaches out a finger and sets it on her lips to quiet her. They are on Hitler’s prize airship after all.

Emilie continues in a whisper. “And the Jews? Where do I even begin with that?” She raises her hands and begins ticking offenses off with her fingers. “They are prohibited from all public and private employment. So they can’t work. At all. They are not allowed in public buildings. Many families cannot even buy milk or medicine for their children. There are rumors that…” She cannot even speak it aloud, it is too insane. “This is the country we are returning to. And you want me to stay there and be consumed? There is nothing left for me in Germany.” The diatribe leaves her breathless. Exhausted. To speak of her own people as they, as something other, to hide the fact that she is one of them leaves her ashamed, and she cannot meet Max’s gaze.

He lifts her chin with one finger. “You have me.”

“And you’re a navigator. An officer aboard the Hindenburg. You will be gone the moment that first shot is fired, called away to fight another man’s war, and I will be left again. Do you know what it’s like to hear that knock on the door? To have a stranger tell you that you are a widow? Is that what you want for me? Because I don’t. I am so tired of having things ripped from my hands. If you care anything for me at all, let me go. Please.”

“So you’ll do the leaving this time? The ripping? Without any concern for the state in which you’re leaving me?”

“You’re a man. It’s different.”

“And you’re a fool if you believe that. I just hope you change your mind before we get off this damned ship on Thursday.”

“I won’t change my mind, Max. I can’t.” She lifts her palm and sets it gently against the smooth skin of his cheek.

“Do you have so little faith in me?”

“I have faith in nothing.” She has never spoken the words aloud, but the admission leaves her gutted. For ten very long years this has been the truth. It is a jarring confession for a woman whose very identity is rooted in ancient faith.

“Give me the chance to restore it.”

She shakes her head. No.

And then there is an urgent rapping of knuckles on the other side of the door. “Herr Zabel.” The voice is young and male, and Emilie recognizes it as the cabin boy’s.

Max does not answer. He reaches for Emilie’s hand instead.

The cabin boy speaks again, his voice barely above a whisper, “There is an urgent message for you.”