THE STEWARDESS

It is early afternoon and Emilie is in desperate need of coffee. Her one vice. She rarely drinks and has never dabbled in other recreational substances, but she freely admits that coffee is her addiction. It’s not something she intends to apologize for, however. Or give up. As far as fixations go, it’s rather benign. Quitting gives her a headache. Overindulgence gives her the jitters. So she places herself firmly in the middle, avoiding either extreme. The easiest place to secure a cup would be the kitchen, but she has no interest in facing Xaver—or his questions. So she makes her way to the bar instead. The coffee there isn’t as good, falling somewhere between adequate and pitiful, but under the circumstances she doesn’t feel that beggars can be choosers.

Schulze has just arrived at his station and is arranging bottles when Emilie knocks on the air-lock door. He greets her with a jovial grin.

“Another patron! And a lovely one at that.”

“A boring patron, I’m afraid. And one whose break isn’t nearly long enough. So it will be coffee for me, if you don’t mind.”

“How do you take it?”

“Black.”

“Easy enough. Why don’t you take a seat in the smoking room while it brews. You’ll have it almost to yourself.”

Emilie hadn’t counted on anyone else being here so early in the day, and she hesitates as the bartender moves to open the interior air-lock door.

“Julius—”

He stops. “No one calls me that.”

“It’s your name.”

“Not the one I go by.”

Most of the crew call him by his middle name. Max. But there are far too many Maxes on board to suit her. The same with Werners, Alfreds, Fritzes, Kurts, Wilhelms, Walters, and Ludwigs. When it comes to naming their children, Germans seem to be highly unoriginal. And Emilie, despite her fantastic memory, has a hard time keeping them straight. So to her Schulze has always been Julius.

He offers that broad, generous smile she is so fond of. “You’ve only room for one Max in your life?”

“Be warned, that’s not a name I’m fond of at this particular moment.”

Schulze is no fool. “The thing about bartenders,” he says as he pulls the smoking room door open, “is that we know when to pry and when to keep our mouths clamped shut. After you.”

Emilie has a habit of observing rooms at different times of day. Lighting can alter not only the ambiance but the aesthetics of a space dramatically. At night the smoking room is exotic. Rich. Sensual. But in the afternoon, with natural daylight streaming through the observation windows, it looks rather like a funeral parlor. Dark and somber. Somewhere you would go to whisper in hushed tones while grieving a loss. It fits her mood splendidly.

“Do you smoke?” Schulze asks.

“Afraid not.”

“Will you mind if she does?” He points to the pretty journalist who sits at a round table in the middle of the room, one shoe kicked off and her legs crossed at the knees.

“No. I’m quite used to it.”

“I’ll get your coffee, then.”

Rules. There are always so many damned rules to be considered. Technically Emilie is not working at the moment, but she is in uniform. Approaching the journalist as an equal would be inappropriate, but ignoring her would be worse. She hesitates only until the journalist laughs.

“Please, have a seat. I don’t bite.”

Emilie accepts the invitation with a nod and pulls out a chair at the table. She settles into it with relief. Her feet are tired. Her lower back aches.

“I owe you an apology. I was quite horrid to you yesterday,” the journalist says. She extends her hand in official greeting. “Gertrud Adelt. I am, believe it or not, quite pleased to meet you.”

“Emilie Imhof.” There is nothing limp about Gertrud’s shake. She has a man’s grip. Confident. Firm. Abrupt. Emilie returns it the way her father taught her. As one professional to another.

“You need not apologize. It’s not an easy thing this…flying. Most people are uncomfortable with it.”

“Are you?”

“Sometimes. When I think about it logically. It doesn’t seem as though such a structure has any business floating through the air.”

“Ah, but an engineer would say that it makes all the sense in the world. They would cite any number of facts about the lifting power of hydrogen versus the weight of steel. You’d be bored senseless and no less comfortable with the prospect, so I advise that we avoid the exercise entirely.”

Emilie can feel her face soften as her smile spreads wide. “I generally do.”

“How do you live with it, then, if it makes you uneasy?”

“It only bothers me when I really stop to think about it. Most of the time I stay busy. And it’s not so different from any of the ocean liners or hotels I’ve worked in. Ships sink. Hotels burn. This is a bit more confined, perhaps. And there’s not much in the way of fresh air. But the clientele is the same. The same demands on my time.”

“I am quite impressed. You are the first woman ever to work aboard an airship. You should be quite proud.” Gertrud winks when Emilie raises a questioning eyebrow. “I read the papers.”

Emilie is proud. “First and only. So far, at least. I do forget that sometimes.”

“You’ve worked on the Hindenburg the entire time?”

“Since it was completed. I am one of the original crew.”

“Very altruistic of them, hiring a woman for their ‘ship of dreams.’ ”

“No. Just shrewd. Easier to get wealthy men to book passage for their families if a woman is present to help bathe their children and dress their wives.”

“I’d hope there isn’t too much dressing involved.”

Emilie laughs. “There is an occasional corset to be dealt with.”

Gertrud draws on the end of her cigarette, then pinches it between two fingers so the lit end points directly at Emilie. “I won’t wear them. I’m convinced those things are a form of subjugation. Only men care about hip-to-waist ratio.”

She laughs. “I’d have to quit if it became part of my uniform requirements.”

“You must have a rather impressive résumé to land such a position.”

“I’m fairly sure it’s the gaps in my file that interest them more.”

“How so?”

“No husband. No children.” She gives Gertrud a long, stoic glance. “No distractions.”

There is kindness in the gaze that Gertrud returns but no pity, and Emilie is grateful. If there is one thing she cannot stand, it is being pitied. She may end up liking the journalist after all.

“Ah. I see.” Gertrud shifts her gaze to the window and some distant point beyond. “I will be the first to admit that children do create something of a weak spot.”

“How many do you have?”

“Just one. But he’s more than enough to leave me feeling vulnerable on this flight. That’s why I was so terrible to you yesterday, you see. We’d just left him behind.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Schulze pushes through the air-lock door carrying a tray filled with various paraphernalia. Two fine china cups and saucers. A silver carafe of steaming coffee. Spoons. Sugar cubes. A small jug of cream.

“I know you prefer your coffee black, Fräulein Imhof. But I thought Frau Adelt might like some coffee as well, and I wasn’t sure how she takes it.”

They thank him and Gertrud spends a few moments in silence preparing her drink. As it turns out Frau Adelt isn’t quite so bold with her coffee as she seems to be in other areas of her life. Before long the journalist’s coffee is the color of ivory and loaded with four cubes of sugar.

“I know,” Gertrud says, “it’s ungodly. Not to mention a little embarrassing. But I’ve always taken it this way. And from what I can gather, I may as well enjoy it while I can because the whispers have already begun. Rationing. Damn these men and their idiotic wars. I hate rationing.”

Gertrud doesn’t know the half of it. There are parts of Frankfurt where people can no longer buy milk, much less sugar. Coffee itself will soon be a luxury available only to the elite. The stewardess is reminded of this every time she indulges in this comfort.

Emilie’s coffee is boiling and bitter and stings the roof of her mouth when she takes her first sip. It’s like consuming motor oil right out of the car. She takes another sip. Sighs. She stretches her legs beneath the table—they are too long to cross. Then she makes a mental note to return to her cabin and brush her teeth before resuming her shift. Schulze was a bit enthusiastic when he measured out the coffee.

“I am curious about one thing,” Gertrud says. She takes a sip and looks at Emilie over the rim of her cup. Her expression is too pleasant. Contrived.

“What’s that?”

“Do you know all the crew members who work aboard this airship?”

Emilie is aware that there is a smooth tone to Gertrud’s question. A change in intensity that hasn’t been present until now. She’s up to something.

“Many of them. Why?”

Gertrud pulls a military identification tag from her pocket and lays it faceup on the table. She scoots it toward Emilie with her finger. “Is there any way you can help me figure out who this belongs to?”

Emilie lifts the chain and dangles it from one finger. She studies the tag. “What makes you think this belongs to one of the crew?”

“Just a hunch.”

It’s a military identification tag from the First World War. About twenty years old. Emilie runs her finger over the raised letters and numbers on each side of the tag, paying careful attention to the service number: 100991–K-455(-)6(-)8. Emilie’s father was in the Deutsches Herr during the First World War. He had a similar tag, and as a child she spent many hours curled on his lap playing with it. The first series of numbers represent a soldier’s birth date. The letter is the first letter in his last name. Three numbers to identify his home district. One number to show how many soldiers serving at that time have the same last initial and the same birthday. And then an error-checking number. Germany never prints the name of a soldier on his tag. Never. Regardless, Emilie knows this tag belongs to Ludwig Knorr, chief rigger serving aboard the Hindenburg. There are four crew men on this ship whose last name starts with K. Two of them are too young to have been born on October 9, 1891, and the other has never been in the military. That leaves Ludwig.

“Where did you find this?” Emilie asks.

“I came upon it by accident.”

“What do you intend to do with it?”

“That depends on who it belongs to. And what you can tell me about him.”

Emilie is very careful to manipulate her expression into one of general curiosity without a hint of understanding. She lays the dog tag back on the table. “I have no idea who this belongs to,” she says.