Ten minutes later he has settled into something of a rhythm and is working on the second shoe in a pair of black cap-toed loafers—this one tagged for a passenger in cabin A4—when someone comes around the corner at a fast clip. It’s that obnoxious American passenger. Werner pulls himself into the shadows because the last thing he needs is to be noticed and sent on some other random errand in the middle of the night. He sits perfectly still and absolutely quiet, waiting for the man to pass, when Max Zabel comes around the gangway stairs from the other direction. For a moment he is certain the American sees Max and that he will sidestep him, but then Werner notices something flash across the American’s face—he can’t exactly tell from this distance what sort of expression it is—and they collide. The force knocks Max sideways.
Werner is wondering where they are off to at this hour when Heinrich Kubis appears before him with a second basket. This time Werner cannot prevent a small complaint. “There’s more?”
“I will be in the crew’s mess if you need me.”
Oh. Werner understands now. He has tried, and failed, on more than one occasion to join the late-night card game that takes place among the crew.
“Poker?”
Kubis sets this basket down beside the other. He shrugs. “You’re a lucky boy,” he says, “to have a job like this. You can help your family. See the world. It would be such a pity if you didn’t pass your probationary period.” He gives Werner a cold smile. “Come get me when you’re finished.”
THE AMERICAN
It is an awkward thing to listen to someone else’s lovemaking. Even when you are alone. Even when they are trying to be quiet. The rustling and moans, the terms of endearment mingled with profanity, the occasional thump of a head against the wall, and the muffled laughter are enough to make a grown man lose his mind. This has happened to the American only twice before—both times during the First World War—and he’s no better at dealing with it now than he was then. Perhaps worse. He was twenty and a virgin then and has since figured out what the fuss is all about. The American has been alone for many years now, and his lovers have been few and far between. And, based on what he hears on the other side of the thin fabric wall, his experiences have been completely unsatisfactory.
When, after ten minutes, the couple shows no signs of slowing down, he dresses and pulls a clean pair of shoes from his suitcase. While he has no love for the Zeppelin-Reederei overall, he cannot begrudge the world-class treatment of their passengers. Shoes left outside the cabins are collected at night, polished by the stewards, and returned before morning. They’re offering the service, so he may as well take advantage of it. The American carefully opens the door so as not to be heard by his neighbors. Or rather so they will not know he has heard them. No sooner does he step into the corridor, however, than he comes face-to-face with Heinrich Kubis, the chief steward, standing outside the Adelts’ door with a look that is perfectly split between hunger and horror. He grips a basket full of shoes in his hands.
The American cannot remember the last time he blushed, but he does so now. After he and the steward stare at one another for one long, awkward moment, he shrugs and sets his scuffed shoes in the basket with the others.
After a moment the steward clears his throat and stands to his full height. “The bar is open until three,” he says, “should you need something to occupy your time this evening.”
There is a burst of laughter and then whispered hushes on the other side of the Adelts’ door.
“I think that would be a good idea.”
“Down the corridor and to the left,” Kubis says.
The American proceeds in that direction and turns the corner only to run directly into the navigator. They mumble apologies while trying to figure out how to pass one another in the narrow space. He does not know the man’s name—he will have to find out tomorrow—but he remembers his face. They bid one another a good evening, and the American mentally sets him into place. He takes a few steps forward but then stops and turns to watch the navigator retreat down the corridor, toward the crew’s quarters. But not the ones beyond the control car reserved for the officers. The navigator is headed toward the stewards’ rooms. And there is only one person housed in this part of the ship that he would likely be interested in seeing after such a long shift: the lovely stewardess with the large breasts, the tiny waist, and the bright smile. So they will be spending more time together this evening? It is but another detail that the American files away for future use.
THE STEWARDESS
Emilie sets the makeup case on her bed and empties out the contents. Lotions. Perfumes. A variety of expensive cosmetics—she takes much better care of her skin now that she has gotten older—and the necessary products that accompany being a woman in this modern world: curlers and sanitary napkins, talcum powder and tweezers. She shoves all of this aside and presses her fingernails into the panel at the bottom of the case, exposing a compartment less than an inch deep. The panel lifts easily and she sighs. Emilie knew the documents would be there, but still it’s a relief to see them. It took months to get everything together, and even longer to convert the Deutsche marks to American dollars, one small bill at a time. Anything more than a handful every other week would bring too much attention. But it’s all here now, neatly stacked and bound with string. She counts it again, just to be sure. This is her insurance policy. And her indictment. These papers contain all but one of her most guarded secrets: her mother’s maiden name.