Eventually Greta emerged on deck and remained there as long as possible, using the wind to blow away her nausea. At first she seemed to prefer to be alone with her thoughts. Sometimes Drexler would approach her, Hart would surreptitiously observe, and she would give a quiet shake of her head. But later she would chat with him for a bit and the other officers would occasionally join her too, sometimes making a joke to cover their awkwardness. Her gender made her exotic and her quiet beauty— it was more evident here at sea, away from the calculated flash of Göring's actresses— a magnet.
Without effort she became, along with Heiden as captain and Drexler as German philosopher, a focal point in the officer's mess. She would arrive for dinner dressed in practical working clothes— wool pants, boots, and a sweater, her red hair pulled back into a ponytail— and gamely enter the male conversation. Sometimes she smelled of perfume and sometimes of formaldehyde, but she had a light, gentle laugh that sounded in the dark and overheated mess like a bell in a cave. Her effect was amusing: the men would unconsciously straighten a bit, voices would quiet and soften, eyes would quickly dart her way and then turn to a studious examination of a salt shaker or coffee mug. She was aware of this and careful to let her own gaze flit from face to face, democratically pleasant. The woman was an antidote to coarseness, and Hart guessed most of the men in the officer's mess were secretly grateful for her presence. Yet he knew her position was not easy. She was trying to assert a place as an equal and yet adhere to the feminine reticence expected in 1938 Germany.
Her relationship with Jürgen Drexler seemed as "unsettled" as she'd described herself to be. Clearly she enjoyed his company: he was handsome, self-assured, and flattering in his attentions. The German was a man on the make, a comer who might go far in the new regime if this expedition was a success. An alliance with a bright, pathbreaking woman like Greta would likely make them a celebrity couple back home. And he was a dogged campaigner for her affection. Whenever possible, Hart noticed, Drexler would take the seat next to her in the mess. The others often left it empty as if waiting for his arrival. Yet the pilot wasn't sure what the woman made of this presumption. On a few occasions she made a point of sitting between two other men, reminding him of her move at Karinhall. The change, it seemed to Hart, gave her a bit of relief: Jürgen Drexler could be relentlessly persistent. Yet when Drexler talked late in the evening about their expedition— "to the crystal towers of Antarctica!" — he'd lose himself in romanticism and the biologist's eyes would take on a certain shine.
Still, Hart didn't see in Greta's manner an emotional commitment to the German. There was none of the easy partnership of a romance or affair or betrothal. Her fingers were empty of rings and she retained the cautious aloofness attractive women sometimes adopt as a necessary shield. Drexler was clearly seeking an intimacy beyond simple friendship but she had a way of both admitting him and yet putting him off. All this was the subject of idle gossip, of course— it was assumed the presence of both on board was far from coincidental— yet no one claimed firm knowledge. The couple deflected curiosity.
Drexler's behavior persuaded Hart that he should keep a careful distance from Greta. If he was going to rehabilitate his reputation the last thing he needed was a rivalry with the expedition's political liaison— or to get his mind wrapped around another woman. Yet curiosity nagged at him.
One evening he took Drexler's intended seat next to hers in order to see what would happen. She looked at him curiously, but not without welcome. "Hello."
Hart smiled. "It looks like you've gotten your sea legs." He nodded toward her full plate.
"And you appear to be finding your way as well." She studied him.
His throat suddenly felt dry, but he managed: "Well, it isn't that big a ship."
"Yes. And yet, I haven't seen that much of you."
"Everyone is busy and I'm trying not to interfere. You seem… occupied."
She looked up at the dark circle of a porthole, the lift of her chin showing the white curve of her neck. "Not all the time," she said, trying to keep her tone light.
They let that hang for a moment.
"So, have you gotten things— the expedition, I mean— in proper order?" she finally asked.
"Actually my contribution has been pretty minimal. I've done my best, but the clichés about German thoroughness appear to be true."
"Really?" She smiled at that. "How does it feel to be surrounded by meticulous Germans?"
"Depends on the German."
"Of course." She sipped some water, studying him over the rim of the glass. "Well, I suspect we benefit from the perspective of an outsider. There's talk about you on the ship, you know. Your past. Why you're here. I have my own theory."
"Which is?"
"I think you're a deliberate adventurer. Undaunted by the prospect of death but afraid of life. Fond of going to remote, lonely places." She waited for his reaction.
"Hmmm. That might describe anyone on this ship. Including you."
She laughed. "That's the problem with Professor Freud's psychoanalysis. It's like a boomerang, coming back at the analyst."
"Yes, but still, it's fun to form conjectures. I must admit, I've been mostly stymied in your case."
She smiled. "How so?"
"Well— " Hart paused, afraid he was venturing onto unsafe ground. "Your presence on this ship is… puzzling. A lone woman among so many men, willing to risk everything for some scientific data. One wonders— "
"What?"
"I only meant that you're female. That's good, admirable, but I can't help wondering how you came to be here."
"I was invited, like you."
"I know that, yes, of course…"
"For my expertise, Owen. Like you." She sounded annoyed.
"I didn't mean…"
Drexler came in then, his cheeks flushed from some mission outside in the cold. He moved to the table where Greta was and then stopped, clearly a bit nonplussed at Hart's presence. Greta looked up at him with exasperation, as if he'd undercut her point by appearing. Then she studied her salad, poking it with her fork. "I am unclear what you did mean," she said quietly to Hart.
Quickly masking his own discomfort, Drexler moved to a smaller table and took a seat next to Schmidt, pretending a hearty companionship. Greta glanced over at the blond German, who was studiously ignoring her.
Damn.
"You'd better eat that salad," Hart told her, his voice a bit rougher than he intended. "We'll be out of greens in another week."
"Yes, of course." She trimmed a small leaf with her knife and lifted it to her lips, slipping it in. Then she suddenly turned to him. "You must forgive me. I'm still finding my way aboard and am a bit awkward at it, I'm afraid." She abruptly stood up, gathering her dishes. "This motion destroys my appetite."
Hart started to stand too, anxious that he'd spoiled her supper, but as soon as he did so he knocked over his water glass, sending a small flood toward the pilot Kauffman. He lunged. "I'm sorry, Reinhard!" He groped for his napkin, glancing around in time to see Greta leave the galley. Drexler looked after her as she disappeared but didn't move.
Well, thought Hart. Next time I'll sit elsewhere.
After dinner Drexler paused at Hart's table. "No luck? Or no skill?"
Each of the expedition leaders was developing roles in the ship's new social order. Heiden was friendly but professionally distant: appropriately so, Hart judged. The success of the expedition was ultimately the captain's responsibility and so he was trying to cultivate an air of shared competence, not camaraderie. He had a Prussian briskness.