THE STEWARDESS

The cabin boy has a flower in his hand. It’s a carnation. Small and pink and nothing special, but he’s fiddling with the stem and shifting from foot to foot as though his privates itch. He has the look of a boy who is winding up his courage for some difficult task. And then Emilie understands why. Werner Franz is staring at Irene Doehner, and the girl is pretending not to notice.

As far as children go, the Doehners are not difficult to care for. Irene has her brothers well in hand most of the time, and even when they drift beyond the boundaries of what she can control, a firm word from Emilie reins them in. They are not picky eaters and haven’t rejected anything set before them this morning. They have, however, eaten copious amounts of food, mostly bacon, toast, and cheese. They wanted coffee as well, but Emilie put her foot down. No point in asking for trouble. There is only so much energy they can expend in such close quarters, and she has little interest in picking up the pieces of whatever they may break along the way.

Irene looks flushed; the apples of her cheeks are tinged a warm pink against her pale skin. She glances at the cabin boy and then away. Only the most careful observer would notice the wordless flirting between the two.

“You’re a kind girl,” Emilie says, pulling Irene’s attention away from Werner. “Letting your parents sleep in like this.”

“Kindness has little to do with it, Fräulein. My brothers stayed in my cabin last night. I didn’t think it would be right to wake my parents just because they wanted breakfast.”

One of the perks of not having a full flight is that there are cabins to spare. It was easy enough to settle Irene in a room of her own yesterday, right across the hall from her parents. And it’s no surprise that they took full advantage of the chance for a little privacy. Emilie can’t say that she blames them. She doubts they often get a moment to themselves, what with the boys’ perpetual antics. A bit like herding cats, looking after those two.

She winks at Irene, causing the girl’s face to flame even brighter. “Like I said, a kind girl.”

It makes sense now why the boys came to breakfast in yesterday’s rumpled clothes. Emilie had passed it off as a quirk unique to male children. They are not known for their reason or their hygiene. These two in particular. There’s a stain on Walter’s shirt from dinner last night, and little Werner—he has the same name as the cabin boy, good Lord, she’ll never keep them straight—seems to have lost three buttons on his shirt. From wrestling, no doubt. She has never seen children who take such delight in roughhousing. They actually fell down the stairs to B-deck last night, landing in a pile of arms and legs and laughter. She had run after them only to find that they were delighted with the ordeal and wanted to do it again. Emilie had made them sit on their hands in the corridor for ten minutes as punishment.

The boys are slowing their ravenous consumption of eggs, and Emilie clears the empty plates from the table. No sooner has she stepped into the serving pantry to send the dishes down the dumbwaiter than she sees Werner Franz drift toward the table. Werner does nothing inappropriate. He does not look at Irene or speak to her. But, from Emilie’s perspective, the sleight of hand is clear. The pink carnation now lies where Irene’s breakfast dishes once cluttered the table. He hesitates at her side just long enough to see whether his gift will be accepted and is clearly pleased when Irene lifts the flower from the table, sniffs it quickly, and hides it beneath the napkin in her lap. She meets Werner’s gaze for one quick second, offering the sort of smile that no girl of fourteen should know how to wield. Emilie is somewhat surprised that Werner can think, much less walk straight afterwards. But he does. Had Emilie not witnessed the exchange she would not know from his appearance that anything of significance had just passed between the teenagers. Werner is smiling, but in the way he often does. It’s a grin of pleased servitude. A steward’s grin. Damn if that child doesn’t have a rather brilliant poker face.

She returns to clear the remaining dishes from the table only to notice that the American has observed the moment as well. He is stretched out in the promenade, feet propped up on a window ledge, hands behind his head, grinning. The American catches her eye and tips his chin toward Werner. He winks as though this is a secret between them. The fact that he includes her in the observation makes her uncomfortable. The fact that he continues to watch her with a sleepy sort of gaze makes her even more so.

Emilie wonders if she should confront Werner. He doesn’t need to meddle with Irene. But as he brushes past her and sets the dishes in the dumbwaiter she can’t bring herself to say anything. Why shouldn’t someone on this ship be happy? It’s not like this crush can go anywhere. In two days Werner will return to Frankfurt, and the Doehners will travel on to Mexico City. This will end before it has a chance to begin.

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 worth. 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.”