THE JOURNALIST

“Colonel Erdmann is on board this flight as an observer.”

“What does that mean?” Gertrud asks.

“Nothing as exciting as you might think. This ship is state-of-the-art. We’re using navigational techniques and weather forecasting technology that are unheard of in the aviation world. Of course the German military has a vested interest. It makes perfect sense that they would want someone on board to watch and learn.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

Emilie snorts. “Did you look at this thing when you drove up? The swastikas are enormous. I work in a Nazi hotel. How could anything bother me more than that?”

The stewardess seems startled at her own words. It is the most honest thing she has said to Gertrud this entire trip. Anyone else would backtrack. Maybe justify the sentiment or explain their loyalty. But Emilie sits a little straighter. She lifts her chin, daring Gertrud to object or show any sign of shock.

“You keep saying you’re not interested in friendship, but I think you just proved otherwise.”

Emilie sighs. She is weary. “The only thing I’m interested in at this particular moment is self-preservation.”

“So tell me the name of the man who owns those dog tags. Tell me what you know about him. Then use the information however you see fit.”

“His name is Ludwig Knorr,” the stewardess says. It’s a fact stated simply and without effect now that they have established a truce. “He’s something of a war hero. He flew on a number of air raids over England in the First World War. And then he became an aviation legend about a decade ago during the Graf Zeppelin’s first flight to the United States.”

“How so?”

“A huge section of fabric tore away from the ship midflight and Ludwig led a spectacular repair mission that saved the Graf Zeppelin and everyone on board.”

“So he’s a mechanic?”

Emilie shakes her head. “No. A rigger. Chief rigger, in fact. He holds the same position here.”

“Please forgive my ignorance. But I don’t know what a rigger does.”

“They handle liftoff and landing. The ropes in particular. Landing lines. That sort of thing. It’s a tricky process to bring a ship down level. It’s about balance and weight distribution. More than one ship has gone ass over elbows because the riggers miscalculated.”

“So what does a rigger do midflight, then?”

Emilie shrugs. “Whatever’s needed.”

It’s a sparse biography, and Gertrud can’t think of any reason why Knorr should be singled out by the American. “What else do you know about him? Anything would help.”

Gertrud studies Emilie’s face while she thinks, but she cannot see any signs that the stewardess is holding anything back.

“He’s married. I think he has a couple of children. Girls, maybe. I’m not sure.”

“Have you ever spoken with him?”

“This is starting to feel like an interrogation, not an exchange of information.”

Gertrud laughs at this. It’s true. She has leaned closer. Her voice has reached a higher pitch. Her muscles are wound tight. “I apologize. Subtlety is not one of my gifts.” She takes a deep breath and returns to her place on the rumpled bed. Gertrud lays her hands on her lap, palms up—a sign of détente. She tries again, her voice soft and child-like. To her it sounds uncomfortably close to mockery, but Emilie doesn’t seem to mind. “Have you ever spoken with him?”

“A handful of times. We don’t exactly cross paths often. The riggers don’t spend much time in the passenger areas.”

There. Gertrud sees Emilie slide back into protective mode. Her face is smooth, a little too relaxed. A little too pleasant. Gertrud presses for more but does her best not to sound threatening in the process. “When was the last time you had a conversation with him?”

Damn it. Emilie pulls back, coiling inward. Her guard is up again. “You are frightening. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“This isn’t frightening. Leonhard would call this heightened curiosity. Frightening is when I’m on deadline and every source has dried up and I’m afraid someone else will scoop my story. We can both be thankful those factors are not currently in play.” She picks a piece of lint off the bedspread and drops it to the floor. “You’ve spoken with him on this flight, haven’t you?”

“Last night.”

“Why?”

“Curiosity. You had shown me the dog tag earlier in the day and there he was, in the crew’s mess, at dinner. It seemed too good an opportunity to miss.”

“Is that the only time Ludwig Knorr comes in the passenger areas? At dinner?”

Again the hesitation, the internal debate as Emilie struggles with whether or not to confide what she knows. Gertrud decides to pre-empt the debate with a peace offering.

“There is another reason why Colonel Erdmann is on this flight.”

Emilie’s face stays expressionless.

“The bomb threats. He believes they are legitimate, that someone might attempt to destroy the Hindenburg on this flight.” Gertrud leans forward a bit, imploring. “So you see, it’s not just that I’m putting my nose where it doesn’t belong or that I’m overly curious. I’d get off this damned ship right now if I could. But that’s not a choice I can make. So all I’m left with is figuring out what the hell is going on before someone blows us out of the sky.” She lifts one trembling hand to illustrate her sincerity.

It’s the closest Gertrud will come to begging, and still it takes several long, quiet seconds before Emilie finally speaks.

“There’s a poker game,” she says. “It takes place in the crew’s mess every night after dinner. There are usually only four or five men who play, but Ludwig Knorr is always one of them.”

One corner of Gertrud’s mouth curls upward in a devious smile. “Are passengers allowed to join?”

“No. Not officially. But in the end, it’s poker. The only thing that really matters is what you bring to the table.”

This morsel of information settles in Gertrud’s mind. Takes root. She knows it is important, can feel it the way she does every good lead, but she does not yet know why. It will come to her. It always does. She stands, ready to usher Emilie out. “Are you satisfied with our exchange of information?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Good,” Gertrud says. “I wouldn’t exactly say it’s been a pleasure, but I am grateful that you came to me. I hope we’ve formed something of an alliance.”

Emilie rises from the chair and wipes her hands across her skirt, as though dusting them off. “You’re dismissing me?”

“I prefer to think of it as freeing up your time. You are on the clock after all.”

“I can’t leave yet.”

“You have something left to say?”

“As far as anyone outside this room is concerned, I came here to perform my duties as a stewardess, not the least of which is assisting with the needs of my female passengers.”

“And you’re under the impression that I need your assistance?” Gertrud turns to the mirror over the sink. The reflection that greets her is alarming.

“I mean no offense, Frau Adelt, but if you leave this room in your current state my reputation will be ruined.”

“Fine, then.”

Gertrud lowers herself into the chair before the dressing table and submits herself to Emilie’s ministrations. Her clothes are selected with care, as are her cosmetics, perfume, and hygiene products. Before long she is dressed and primped. All that’s left is to find some way of taming her hair. And, to give Emilie credit, she does try. But the curls and the static are too much even for her considerable skill. After several frustrating attempts to arrange Gertrud’s hair into finger waves, Emilie steps back and plants her fists firmly at her waist.

“Do you have a hat?”