“Max!”
Finally, reluctantly, he pulls away just enough to turn his head and see the stunned, blushing face of Werner Franz who is standing to his left.
“What?” His voice is filled with gravel and passion.
“We’ve been cleared to land. You’re needed in the control car.”
Max pulls Emilie close. He buries his face in the hair behind her ear, then allows himself the luxury of begging just this once. “Stay with me,” he whispers.
THE STEWARDESS
6:45 p.m.—forty minutes until the explosion
She owes Max an answer.
This is all she can think of as he walks away, hands tucked in his pockets. His kiss still warm on her lips. His plea echoing in her ear. Emilie lays three fingers across her mouth. A prayer. An apology.
She can envision two different versions of her future. One is certain and thrilling, filled with adventure and borrowed wealth and a loneliness that the Doehner family, lovely though they are, cannot fill. And the other contains Max. Max and a million unanswerable questions. But it also contains passion and love. Companionship. Lurking danger. Both options are impossible. And yet she must choose.
The Hindenburg will land in less than an hour and the passengers will disperse. The next departure is still scheduled for later that night, and the crew members will have no time to leave the ship. There will be no trips to New York or dalliances in Lakehurst. No time to sleep or even rest. There will be no time to let her subconscious mind sort out this mess. She will have to make the decision, and she will have to live with the consequences.
She checks her watch. Ten minutes. That’s all the time she has to spare for this task. Best to get it over with before she can change her mind.
Emilie descends to her cabin on B-deck and places the pillowcase with Matilde’s clothing and the newly returned documents on the bed. A pen. An envelope. One sheet of paper. She sets these things flat on her writing desk. Emilie Imhof, stewardess, widow, brokenhearted woman, picks up the pen with her hand and begins to write, her left wrist bent at an awkward angle, her fingers clenching at the first stroke of ink.
Max.
His name and three more words—I am sorry—before her hand begins to tremble. She drops the pen and flexes her fingers. Summons every ounce of courage. And then she continues. Two short paragraphs. Her answer. Her reasons. Her heart splattered on the clean page, as bold and plain as the ink itself. It will have to be enough. She does not have time nor heart for more than what she has written.
Emilie folds the letter in thirds and slides it into the envelope. She seals it and writes his name on the front. Then she goes in search of Kurt Sch?nherr.
Like Max, he has been called to the control car for landing, and she finds him entering the radio room.
“Kurt!”
“Fr?ulein.” He nods his head. Smiles. The older man has always been kind to her. Always respectful. “How can I help you?”
“I need you to do something for me.”
He turns his wrist. Glances at his watch.
“Please,” she says before he can argue. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
“What do you need?”
“Do you still have your mailroom keys?”
A hesitant nod. “I do.”
She pulls the letter from her pocket. Holds it out to him. “Will you put this in the lockbox? For Max. Please?”
“I can take it to him in the control car. He’s there now.” Kurt takes the letter from her hands and holds it between two fingers the way he would a cigarette or a playing card.
Emilie smiles, sad and winsome. “He asked me to send my answer by post.”
Kurt appraises her with keen, sharp eyes. “Then we wouldn’t want to disappoint him, would we?”
Too late for that. She doesn’t say it out loud, but he can see the sadness in her eyes. “Very well, then,” he says, and Emilie watches him step across the hall and enter the mailroom.
THE AMERICAN
6:55 p.m.—thirty minutes until the explosion
The stewards pass around trays of finger sandwiches, cheese, and fresh fruit while the passengers hover beside the windows watching Lakehurst come into view once again. They see the mooring mast first, its black triangular form rising above the airfield like a crane, and then the arched form of Hangar No. 1. Members of the ground hover at the edge of the landing circle, waiting to secure the lines.