Flight of Dreams (12 page)

“Give me the chance to restore it.”

She shakes her head. No.

And then there is an urgent rapping of knuckles on the other side of the door. “Herr Zabel.” The voice is young and male, and Emilie recognizes it as the cabin boy's.

Max does not answer. He reaches for Emilie's hand instead.

The cabin boy speaks again, his voice barely above a whisper, “There is an urgent message for you.”

W
erner sets the tray down beside the hatch that leads to the control car and yells, “Coffee!”

Usually before returning to the kitchen he waits beside the opening until one of the officers climbs the ladder to collect the tray. But this morning when Christian Nielsen pops his head out of the hatch he motions Werner forward. “Commander Pruss wants to see you,” he says. There's less than an hour until Max replaces Nielsen at the navigation table, and he looks like a man eager to see his bed. Pallid skin. Tired eyes. And his breath isn't much to speak of either.

Werner blinks, startled. The commander has never summoned him before. Though it isn't uncommon for him to be called to help with the passengers occasionally, he is on this ship to serve the needs of the officers and crew. Werner joins Xaver Maier in the kitchen at 6:00 a.m. to clean any dishes used by the crew on the late shift. Plates and bowls and mugs are always strewn around the kitchen and mess areas, covered in bits of dried food. Xaver leaves out a variety of meats and cheeses and breads for them, and he is enraged every morning when he finds that none of the crew has gone to the trouble of rinsing their dishes in the sink. For his part, Werner doesn't know why the chef throws such a fit. He's not the one who has to wash them. It's part of the cabin boy's job, and he always does it without complaint. Once the kitchen is clean and prepped for breakfast, Werner takes coffee to the control car. A large silver carafe and six mugs. No cream. No sugar. No spoons. Werner has noticed that all of them sweeten their coffee when they have it in the officers' mess but they drink it black while on duty. For a long time he thought it had to do with wanting to stay alert. But he has known the men long enough now to realize they are simply competing with one another. It's stupid, he thinks, and when he's a man he'll drink his coffee however he wants and won't care if anyone thinks less of him for adding cream and sugar.

After an uncertain pause, Werner hands the tray to Nielsen and shimmies down the ladder after him. The control car is cold, at least a good ten to fifteen degrees colder than the rest of the airship, and all of these warm bodies in the chilly room have created a layer of condensation on the windows. They're foggy. Not that it would matter. Everything outside of them is gray mist anyway. He follows Nielsen through the utility area, into the navigation room, then to the bridge. Pruss stands at the rudder wheel, staring into the gloom.

“You need me, Commander?”

Pruss nods a greeting, then hands Werner a piece of paper folded in half. One word is scrawled on the outside in black ink, a surname. “I need you to deliver this right away,” he says. He turns back to the rudder wheel without another word, but Werner can see his profile and he is struck, as he always is in the presence of the commander, that Pruss has the perpetual frown of a man lost in thought. The twin lines of concentration etched in his forehead are coupled with a determined mouth and a long, straight nose. This combination of features makes him appear formidable to Werner, almost unapproachable.

Werner waits until he has climbed the ladder and left the radio room to look at the name written on the paper. He doesn't want the other men to see him struggling to sound it out. He doesn't want them to know how difficult it is for him to read the simplest things. To him, reading is a lesson in frustration. A reason to throw books and stomp his feet. Even though he has learned to control those childish urges, he still approaches the written word with dismay. Sometimes a page will blur around the edges, but most often the words will double when he tries to focus. He sees two
R
s where there should be only one. But he is making progress, or at least that's what his mother says. She is the one who sits with him in the evenings and patiently, consistently teaches him to see the words through the pile of letters and symbols. Had she left it to the school he would never have learned to read at all. But there are things that even his mother cannot fix. She can't stop the letters from dancing or flipping over; a
d
becomes a
b
in the time it takes him to blink. Werner doesn't know whether that's the letter on the page or whether his mind has swapped it for something similar. He doesn't know whether he's reading about a ditch or a bitch.

Werner lifts the note and looks at the name. Breathes a sigh of relief. He knows this letter.
Z.
And because Werner has grown very used to guessing words instead of reading them, he assumes that the note in his hands is meant for Max Zabel.

Max is not in the officers' mess. Werner searches all of the passenger areas, the kitchen, and the corridors. He is starting to panic, to wonder what he will tell Commander Pruss if the navigator cannot be found, when he hears raised voices coming from the shower near the portside stairs. The boy has been taught not to eavesdrop, but he does so anyway, pushing aside the twinge of guilt that comes from knowing his mother would be disappointed. It takes only a few seconds to recognize Max's voice within. But he is clearly upset, and he's with a woman. Werner is scared to interrupt whatever is happening on the other side of the door.

Finally he reaches out and knocks. His fist sounds like a rabbit anxiously thumping its foot. “Herr Zabel,” he says, his voice little more than a squeak.

There is no immediate answer from within.

He knocks again, louder this time. “There is an urgent message for you.”

In the long seconds that follow Werner unclenches his hand and smoothes out the note. He looks at the name again, and this time Werner sounds it out carefully. His heart becomes a trip hammer. He had assumed that Pruss intended the note for Max. But he was wrong. It is meant for someone else.

Werner would usually never read a private communication from the commander, but he is terrified now. The message is two sentences long. Simple words. A direct command. And Werner makes his decision as the door swings outward. He will give the message to Max anyway.

M
ax holds on to Emilie with one hand and fumbles the bathroom door open with the other. He pushes it out with such force that Werner Franz jumps back to avoid being hit. “What?”

“A message,” he stutters. Werner blushes at the sight of their clasped hands and tries again. “I have a message for you. From the control car. It's important.”

Before stepping into the corridor, Max turns back to Emilie. “This conversation isn't over.”

She narrows her eyes, then shuts the door in his face to signify otherwise. Max takes a moment to smooth the scowl from his forehead and to straighten his cap and jacket. One measured breath helps him gain composure. Then he turns a gimlet eye on the cabin boy.

Werner Franz is only fourteen, a quiet boy known to work hard and rarely complain. Max feels guilty for being so gruff. But he isn't certain whether he will get another chance to talk sense into Emilie. She is water through his hands. Ungraspable. Elusive. And if he must frighten Werner to settle things with her, so be it.

The cabin boy hands him a square of paper, folded in half. Max reads the dispatch impassively. “How did you find me?”

“It wasn't hard. I'm surprised you didn't wake half the ship with all that shouting.”

Some boys charge into adolescence as though it is something to be conquered with brute force. Others wake one day to find themselves unwilling participants, held hostage by their own bodies. Werner Franz is very much the latter. He often has the look of a boy who is surprised to find that his legs have grown longer overnight or that his voice has dropped an octave since breakfast. He is tall now and he'll be even taller as an adult, but he has not yet learned to manage this new length of bone with ease. He lopes instead of walks. He frequently runs into corners and knocks things over. He's at the stage in adolescence where feet and nose have outgrown the rest of his body. But once this clumsy phase has passed he will make a strong man. Werner has a pleasant face. High cheekbones and a strong nose with a slight arch that suggests Roman descent. His hair is cropped close to his skull at the sides but it hangs longer on top, flopping into his face. Werner smiles with his eyes and laughs with his entire body. It is hard not to like the kid, though Max isn't inclined to feel kindly toward him at this particular moment.

The lack of movement on Max's part clearly makes Werner nervous. “Commander Pruss sent me himself.” He shifts back and forth, his eyes on a button in the middle of Max's shirt. “He wants you to go check the engine telegraph dial in gondola two. They aren't getting any response in the control car.”

“Scheiße!”
The dial in question transmits vital communications from the bridge to the engine gondolas, determining engine speed and power. “You'd best be getting back, then.” Max heads for the security door without another word.

“Wait! I want to come with you.”

“I'll be exiting the ship.”

“I know.”

“You don't have the clearance to leave ship while we're in transit.”

“No. I don't. But I thought we might make some sort of arrangement.”

Max growls a warning. He makes it six steps down the corridor before Werner calls out. “The stewardess!”

Max stops but doesn't turn. “What about her?”

“Crew members aren't allowed to fraternize.”

“Do you even know what that word means?”

“No. But you were in the shower with Fräulein Imhof. And I'm pretty sure that's against the rules too. So take me out with you or I'll tell Commander Pruss what I saw.”

“You're
blackmailing
me?”

“I am displaying ambition.” Werner grins, impish and charming.

Max pauses long enough to hide his amusement and then says, “Come along, you
kleiner Scheißer.
”

Werner runs after Max, delighted. He steps through the security door with the look of a boy who has finally been allowed into his father's smoking club after years of begging. Max can see the boy's narrow rib cage expand with pride. Werner tries to hide his rapturous smile as he scans the cavernous belly of the airship, but the corners of his mouth quiver and Max turns away slightly so as not to embarrass him. He remembers what this feels like. It has not been so long for him either. Werner's unveiled sense of wonder has blunted his anger.

“It's okay if you stare for a bit,” Max says. “I won't tell.”

“They usually don't let me back here.” Werner's head moves in small increments, slowly taking in the sight before him. “They treat me like a kid.”

He is a kid. Max doesn't say this, however. Instead he pulls two pairs of felt boots with rubber soles from a set of hooks on the wall. He hands one pair to Werner. “Don't want to be treated like a kid? Respect is earned, not given. You can start by not blackmailing people. It's not typically considered an honorable trait.”

“That's a one-time thing. Promise. I might not get another chance to go outside the ship.” Werner takes the shoes and eyes them warily. “What are these for?”

Max pulls off one steel-toed boot, then the other. He sets them down gently beside the door. “These shoes were made to navigate the interior of this ship. There are no metal parts. They don't create static. So they won't make sparks.”

Werner's dark eyes grow a little wider. “It's that dangerous?”

“I pity the idiot who is found back here without them.”

Werner may be young and naive, but he is no coward. He slides the shoes over his long feet, lifts his chin, and marches after Max.

“Engine two is this way.” Max nods down the keel catwalk.

The walkway runs the length of the ship, from nose to tail, and sits at the very bottom of the structure. Above them yawns an elaborate skeleton of carefully constructed girders and bracing forms. There are no guardrails on the narrow catwalk—only a rope on either side that would do little to break their fall. They go slowly, placing one foot carefully in front of the other. Should they lose their balance it would be a nasty fall to the fabric shell below. Werner seems cognizant of this and he doesn't try anything risky. No running or testing his balance. It occurs to Max that in order for Werner even to be working aboard the airship at such a young age he is quite a bit more mature than his peers.

Werner's thoughts must have been traveling the same course, for he speaks as he follows closely behind Max. “How do I earn their respect?”

“Work hard. Be honest. Stay out of trouble.”

“Is that how you did it?”

Max nods his head, then asks, “How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“I was seventeen when I went to work for the Hamburg American Line. I started out as an able seaman, which is a piss-poor job if you want to know the truth. And dirty too. Awful pay. But everyone starts somewhere. Usually at the bottom.” He looks over his shoulder and gives Werner a wry smile. “Rather like a cabin boy.”

“But you're a navigator now.”

“I worked my way up. It took seven years, but by the time I was twenty-four I was second officer on the
Vogtland.
Three years in that position and then the Zeppelin Company came calling. I worked as a navigator on the
Graf Zeppelin
first. Then the
Hindenburg
was commissioned and here we are.”

They walk silently for a few meters before Werner shares his thoughts. “Seems like such a long time.”

Max stops in mid-step and turns to face his young charge. “Do you have anywhere else to be?”

The cabin boy shakes his head. “No.”

“Then buck up and do your job. Besides, you have a three-year head start on me. You'll probably be a commander by the time you're my age.”

This cheers Werner immensely and they continue the trek.

“So you've quit school, then?” Max asks.

“I'm not very good at sums.”

“I don't believe you.”

“I—”

“They don't let
dumm
boys work on ships like this. Complain all you want about them treating you like a child, but you did something right just to get here. And I'd wager it didn't happen by failing algebra.”

There is a note of defiance and the slightest hint of anger when Werner replies. “
Mutter
said it was time for me to become a man.”

“Ah. So how long has he been dead, then, your father?”

The voice that answers is feral. “He's not
dead.
”

“Gone?”

“He's sick! Okay? Sick! We've all gone to work.
Mutter.
My brother. Me.”

Max stops but doesn't turn this time. Neither does he apologize. He gives Werner all the privacy he needs to compose his face and check the tears that are threatening to take his voice hostage. “Well, there you have it. You've already earned some respect, my young friend. From me.”

There is a long pause as Werner pulls himself together. Then he asks, “How much farther?”

“There. On the left.” Max points to an access walkway that leads to a hatch in the side of the airship. A small rectangle is barely discernible against the exterior skin. “I hope you're not afraid of heights.”