Page 116 of Flight of Dreams

The cabin boy is frozen in place, dripping from head to toe, staring at Xaver Maier, who laughs so hard he has to steady himself against the table. “You look like a drowned cat.”

Werner spits a mouthful of water into his hand. “What did you do that for?”

“It was my idea.” The boy turns slowly at the stern voice of Heinrich Kubis. The chief steward holds an empty bucket in one hand and a towel in the other. “Congratulations, Herr Franz, you have just crossed the line.”

A sailor’s baptism can take many forms—most of them far more cruel than what Werner experienced—but they all have one thing in common: a new sailor is initiated upon crossing the equator for the first time. It’s a sign that he can handle a long journey, that he is accepted by his peers. Werner has heard the stories often enough, but he never thought that he would experience the ritual.

“But we didn’t cross the equator,” Werner argues.

He has never seen the chief steward smile before. Under different circumstances he might mistake it for a wince.

“Perhaps not,” Kubis says. “But today we land in Bremershaven and this voyage will be complete. You have carried yourself like a man. You deserve to be recognized.” He looks directly at Werner and when he speaks again his voice is filled with sincerity. “You have passed your probationary period, Werner. Would you like a permanent position with the Zeppelin-Reederei?”

He is confused. “But the ship is gone.”

Kubis appears unconcerned. “They will find a place for you.”

“You mean I still have a job?”

“Not just any job.” Kubis pulls a telegram from his pocket and hands it to Werner. “You have been invited to become a steward on the Graf Zeppelin. By Captain Hans von Schiller himself.”

Hope, that small fluttering thing, beats against his rib cage. Werner has been mourning the loss of his job as deeply as he has mourned his friends. He did not know how much he loved flying until he set foot on the damp, rocking deck of the Europa. Every day on board the steamship has been a small, acute death for him.

Werner takes the telegram from Kubis and reads it for himself. Slowly. Carefully. If he struggles over a word or two he does not let on. He stands there for a moment letting the invitation sink in. Werner is no longer a cabin boy. He is a steward.

Heinrich Kubis grabs Werner’s hand and shakes it with a firm, confident grip. Man to man. “They are expecting your response this morning. But first you should have some cake.”

THE NAVIGATOR

July 24, 1937, Hauptfriedhof cemetery, Frankfurt, 7:25 p.m.

This is not a place where people linger. The cemetery is so filled with shadows and sorrow that Max finds himself alone, as he has every other evening he has come to visit Emilie’s grave. This is a place that whispers of loss if you listen closely. And if you linger beneath the sprawling branches or walk among the worn headstones, you will be lured into an otherworldly trance. This frightens most people and they hasten away the moment their tears and flowers have been laid upon the ground. But Max knows that if you resist the instinct to run you will find something lovely here. You will find peace. And he craves that more than company these days.

Max sits beside Emilie, his shoulder pressed against the smooth granite of her headstone, watching the sun sink above a copse of spruce trees that have turned beryl and fragrant in the summer heat. In this gathering dusk the light has a spectral quality, a shimmering goldenness that is breathtaking. Humbling, even. The beauty of this silent, reverent place lifts the shell of numbness that Max has carried since the wreck. His body aches, desperate for Emilie’s phantom touch, the way she tugged his earlobe between thumb and forefinger when they kissed. Her cool hand at the base of his neck. Her laughter. Anything. Everything. Max misses the entirety of her. So he participates in this aching, visceral ritual. It is a cruelty he inflicts upon himself, the pulling of a scab from an aging wound, one he picks constantly to keep her near.

Her memory returns, hovers at his side as he prepares to read the letter again. Max can almost see her gliding through this verdant place, the beautiful woman who could have been his wife, now nothing more than ghost and memory. He can almost hear the sound of her laughter, can almost feel the warmth of her hand. This vision of Emilie evaporates as quickly as it came, but emotions follow immediately in its wake. They come first as pain—there are so many and they are so intense—but he closes his eyes and lets them wash over him. Soon they turn to other things. Sadness. Joy. Loneliness. Anger. Hope. Regret. Guilt. Love—this is the hardest to bear, and he bends beneath its weight. Max receives the emotions one by one, and when the wave has subsided he looks to the sky again. He breathes.

It took him weeks to understand that he asked Emilie to do the impossible. He wanted her to let go of her husband’s memory. To accept that he was dead. To move on. It was a foolish thing to expect. He knows that now. Her death proved that. There is no moving on from this kind of loss.

It was Emilie’s letter, however, that began the work of patching him back together. Max is shattered. He may always be. But he finally has the answer he wanted, and that is enough for today. Tomorrow. A lifetime perhaps. Max has memorized the words, but he reads them every evening at 7:25 anyway. It is the moment when the fire broke out, the moment when he lost Emilie. He unfolds the letter and turns his back to the setting sun so he will have light to read.

Max,

I’m so sorry I don’t have the courage to say this in person. But I imagine you sitting somewhere in one of those straight-backed chairs that you prefer, spectacles on the end of your nose (yes, I realize you don’t wear spectacles but this is my fantasy, so you must suffer through as I see it), sifting letters and sorting them into piles. I imagine you lifting this one from the stack. To be honest, I hope that your breath catches in your throat or that your heart beats a little faster. And I know it has taken me ages to come to that conclusion. But you must forgive me. My heart isn’t whole. It has been broken and badly put back together. Yet the truth is that I want you to lean forward a bit when you see your name in my handwriting. I want that. And it’s only now that I realize I need it as well. I need you.

So my answer is yes. It’s that simple. Yes, you can have my heart, all that’s left of it, at any rate. There’s a part of me that will always belong to Hans. There is nothing I can do about that. But it’s a part of me that lived a long time ago and now resides in distant shadow. All that I am today is yours. My heart is no great prize. I am scared and selfish and years away from being young. But I will be waiting for you on our return flight. Please come find me any day or night or anytime that you are not guiding us home with your strong and sure hands. In the meantime wear this. It’s not the key to my heart—we are too old for sentimental gestures—but it is proof that I trust you with it.

Yes, I will be your wife if you will still have me.

Emilie

The first time Max read the letter he didn’t have the courage to take her necklace from the envelope. But he wears it now, tucked beneath his uniform. Emilie gave him everything she was capable of giving. More than he deserves. He has the letter and he has her key. And now he is the one who will hold memories and mourn her loss. Max will carry her the way that she carried her first husband. She will be the beautiful, painful wound that will never entirely heal.

THE JOURNALIST

August 10, 1937, Frankfurt, Germany, 9:15 a.m.

Gertrud steps into her own kitchen. It is filled with morning light, and the windows are open. A bee buzzes at the screen. She can hear the neighbors talking about road conditions and rationing. Leonhard is still in the driveway, pulling bags from the car. He calls to them and they answer back, but he sounds older since the wreck. There is a coarseness in his voice that wasn’t there before. This trip aged him, and for the first time since they married he looks two decades older than her.