Free Flight of Dreams by Ariel Lawhon Page A

to order.”
    They settle into a table near the window, and Leonhard and the colonel begin to discuss the finer points of some obscure brand of Scotch. In the end they both decide to try the LZ 129 Frosted Cocktail, some ridiculous concoction of gin and orange juice, so they can save the straight liquor for the end of the night when they are good and sauced and their taste buds have thrown in the towel for the day. Gertrud orders the Maybach 12 just to spite everyone. Leonhard dutifully delivers their order to the bar, and when her drink arrives several moments later it is completely devoid of spirits. So he’s decided to enable her on this fool’s errand after all? The man does surprise her. The look she gives him lasts no longer than a blink, and his answering shrug could be misconstrued as the shift of an aging man trying to get comfortable in his seat.
    “We’ll be approaching Cologne shortly,” the colonel says, looking at Leonhard. “You are from there, correct?”
    “Yes. My family moved from Dortmund to Cologne when I was seventeen.”
    “You make it sound so prosaic. Tell him why your family was forced to move.” When Leonhard grins but does not speak she turns to the colonel. “My husband tried his hand at writing at a young age. He published his first novel at seventeen, and it caused such a stir that he lost his apprenticeship as a bookseller in Kleve. What did you title your book, darling?”
    “Werden.”
    “That doesn’t sound so threatening,” the colonel says. “There’s nothing particularly obscene about willpower.”
    Gertrud laughs. “Perhaps it was the lack thereof that had the censors riled. Leonhard’s book was filled with teenage sexual
experiences.
” She whispers this last word as though imparting a juicy bit of gossip.
    Leonhard shrugs. “I was seventeen. And curious.”
    “Lucky for me you still are.”
    He pulls an ice cube from his glass and crushes it between his teeth. “It ended up being a good thing. I went to work for another bookseller once we got to Cologne, and then I started writing for the newspapers.”
    “A rather inauspicious beginning to a successful career,” the colonel notes.
    “And look at you.” Gertrud cannot disguise the pride in her smile. “Thirty years later and you’re still causing trouble.”
    The colonel settles into his chair and sets the rim of his glass against his lower lip. “Do you make it back to Cologne often?”
    “Not directly. I only visit in letters these days.”
    “Well, you’ll visit it tonight,” the colonel says. “At least from the air. There it is now.” He points out the window at the long, faint glow on the horizon.
    They all look out the window for a moment and then fall into conversation. Gertrud flirts with her husband and with the colonel. She tells stories of her childhood. She gives a passionate account of the last few months and how the Nazis revoked her press card after she began to write unflattering articles about the Ministry of Propaganda. And by the time other passengers begin filtering into the smoking room, Colonel Erdmann is finally talking freely. Of his wife. Of his children. Of this flight and how he’d rather be home.
    “And yet you’re here. With us,” she says.
    His grimace is one of resignation. “Duty calls.”
    At this point Gertrud is well into her second virgin Maybach 12 and is the only person at the table who is not slurring. She speaks slowly to make up for it. “And all because of a few stupid bomb threats.”
    Finally,
finally
Colonel Erdmann leans across the table and gives her what she wants. He pokes the polished wood surface with his finger for emphasis. “No, Frau Adelt, I’m not here because of the bomb threats. I’m here because the bomb threats are
credible.
”

THE NAVIGATOR
    “C ologne?” Emilie tilts her chin to the side, curious. Her eyes are warm and brown and curious, so light they are almost the color of rust.
    “Trust me.” Max takes her hand, laces his