David John: Flight from Berlin

She looked at the bug. Its metallic carapace glinted with shades of gold, emerald, and sapphire, like a scarab from a pharaoh’s crown. How beautiful everything is, she thought.

Denham stepped onto the deck, holding himself a little stiffly because of his burns. He’d changed into a linen suit, a white cotton shirt, and a Panama hat and was carrying his Leica.

‘You don’t want to miss this,’ she said, giving him her swimsuit pose as he took a photograph. ‘It’s the first lock of the canal.’

They watched as the lock closed behind them and began filling with water, raising the mighty tonnage of the ocean liner up, over the rocky jungle isthmus of Panama.

‘How does it work?’ she said, fascinated.

‘It’s a matter of weight and sea.’

‘Well, we’ve got all afternoon,’ she said kissing him. The steward approached with a tray of tall iced glasses. ‘I ordered us a Tom Collins.’

‘Who?’

‘Gin, lime juice, soda water, sugar, and ice. Cheers.’

‘Cheers, Senora Denham.’

They sipped their drinks with their arms around each other’s waists. ‘I want to keep travelling like this forever,’ she said. ‘Can’t you and I and Tom settle in the South Seas somewhere?’

Denham turned to the horizon.

‘There’s a war coming,’ he said. ‘Eckener thinks so, too. We can’t prevent it now.’ He looked back at her. ‘You know what we’ll be up against. I want to fight.’

She ran her hand gently over his cheek. ‘My Richard will be too old for the army,’ she said.

‘But I’ll do something. Anything I can.’

She sighed, but not sadly. ‘Yes, I know. And I will, too.’

Soon the ocean liner was through to the third lock, rising higher and higher, with dense banks on either side, and finally they saw it, the Pacific Ocean, a ribbon of dark indigo between forested hills.