THE STEWARDESS

Emilie does not taste her dinner. She would be hard-pressed to say what it is, exactly, that she’s eating. She simply cuts and eats and then repeats the process, all the while trying not to stare at Ludwig Knorr, who is seated at the table beside her in the crew’s mess. As a rigger, his primary duties include takeoff and landing. Mooring lines and such. Although he’s frequently called on to make in-flight repairs all over the ship. He’s quite well liked among the crew and thanks to a spectacular midair fix he accomplished on the Graf Zeppelin a decade ago he has become a legend among the shipmen. He is revered. Respected. She cannot think of any reason why Gertrud Adelt—or anyone else for that matter—would consider him a threat. Physically he’s not much to look at. Middle-aged. Nondescript except for a long, thin mouth that looks bovine when he isn’t speaking.

“Can I help you, Fräulein Imhof?”

It takes her a moment to realize that Knorr has spoken to her. He has caught her staring. “Oh. I’m sorry,” she says. “Forgive me. I was just thinking.”

“It must be a weighty thought to cause such a frown.”

A beat and then she says, “I was thinking about my father.” The falsehood comes so quickly she is startled. “He died fifteen years ago today.” Another lie, God help her.

“I am sorry for your loss.”

Well, hell. She’s committed now. She may as well follow through. “Thank you. But we lost him long before he died. He was never the same after the war.”

Something of a shadow passes over Knorr’s face. “It was a terrible time. Many men came home empty.”

Emilie tilts her head to the side. It’s a gesture intended to show interest, to put him at ease. “You served? How?”

“Flying on the zeppelins mostly. Air raids over England.”

The raids were legendary and the casualties—both military and civilian—were numerous. It is a thing about which many men of his generation feel both pride and shame. Her father rarely talked about his time in the Luftwaffe. Emilie isn’t sure whether to thank Knorr for his service or apologize. It’s a difficult thing, this. Emilie would like to pepper him with more questions, but Commander Pruss walks into the crew’s mess and Knorr jumps to his feet with a salute.

“As you were,” Pruss says, scanning the small room. “Ah. Fräulein Imhof. There you are. May I have a word?”

This sort of thing happens occasionally—some delicate matter is confided to the commander and he finds the most discreet steward to deal with it. She’d been in such a position once or twice before and has proved herself quite capable. She likes to think that Commander Pruss regards her highly. So it isn’t until he leads her into the officers’ mess, seats her in the corner, and asks if she is comfortable that Emilie begins to realize what is happening. They make small talk as they wait and slowly, steadily her heart begins to beat faster. Her eyes burn and fill and she blinks rapidly.

And then Captain Lehmann walks through the door followed by Max.

Lehmann looks at her calmly. “We have an issue, Fräulein.”

“Yes,” she says, “I can see that.”

Her voice is emotionless. Distant. It’s the same voice she has used many times in the years since Hans died. It’s the voice she calls upon when people ask how she’s doing or if she’s ready to begin seeing other men. I’m doing fine, or, Not just yet, thank you. It is the voice of evasion, of self-protection. Disinterest. Yet she is stunned at the pain she’s able to hide behind this calm exterior, as though a knife has slid cleanly between her shoulder blades.

Et tu, Brute? The line, so famous, so applicable, flashes across her mind. Max stands in the doorway, his hands filled with her most private, most precious belongings, and she cannot bring herself to look at him. Emilie studies the points of his shirt collar. She is afraid to see an expression of triumph on his face. Of superiority. Even worse, she fears the pity she knows she will find there. She will take anything from Max but pity.

Commander Pruss motions them into the room. “Fräulein Imhof has been keeping me company for the last few minutes. I’ve been quite interested to hear of her experience on our airship so far. A little over a year, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“And to think I was rather under the impression that you enjoyed being part of this crew.”

“I do,” she says.

“And yet we have this.” Pruss lifts the papers and the envelope from Max’s stiff hands and sets them on the table before her. “Herr Zabel was kind enough to collect them for us.”

A sound escapes Max’s throat. Something like a mewl. Emilie does not acknowledge it.

“Yes. I’m sure he was,” she says.

Commander Pruss begins looking through the documents. “Is there anything you would like to explain?”

“Forgive me, I mean no disrespect, but I doubt explanations would do much good. The papers speak for themselves.”

“See,” Captain Lehmann says, looking at Max, “I told you she was not ignorant.”

“You plan to leave Germany?” Pruss asks.

“I did.” She offers him a small shrug and a resigned smile. “I very much doubt that I will be allowed to do so now.”

“That would be correct. Though I must inquire as to why you would feel such a compulsion to begin with.”

“May I speak frankly?”

“Certainly.”

“I have no desire to live through a war. Or to die in one.”

Lehmann laughs. “Have you received word of an invasion? I certainly have not.”

“I have eyes. And ears.”

Emilie can feel Max’s gaze burning, probing her face. She will not give him the satisfaction of meeting it.

“What is to be done about this?” Lehmann asks.

“I would assume that I am to be dismissed from my duties, Captain?”

“That would be the obvious answer,” he says, “though not the correct one.”

She did not expect this. “I can keep my job?”

“It’s rather a matter of you having to keep your position. We have made something of a fuss over you in the press. Your sudden departure, regardless of the reason, would make the Zeppelin-Reederei look quite inept. So you will keep your position and you will be delighted to do so.”

This is too easy. She is frightened by the simplicity of the solution. “And when we are not flying? What then?”

There is a note of admiration in Captain Lehmann’s voice when he says, “Ah. Not even the slightest bit ignorant.” He chooses his next words carefully. “That has yet to be determined. There are others who must be consulted before we will know the answer to that question. I expect there will be discussions when we return to Frankfurt.”

There is no need to give her any further warnings. She has no means of escape. “You are dismissed,” Commander Pruss says. “I trust you will return to your duties in the morning in a timely fashion.”

“Of course,” she says, rising from the table. She makes sure her legs are stable before stepping toward the door. “Guten Abend.”

Max reaches out a hand as she passes him, but she drops her shoulder, evading the touch.

“Emilie.” His voice cracks with emotion.

She does not speak to him. She does not look at him. Emilie leaves the officers’ mess without ever having once acknowledged his presence. And as far as she is concerned she will never do so again.