Flight of Dreams (21 page)

E
milie does not taste her dinner. She would be hard-pressed to say what it is, exactly, that she's eating. She simply cuts and eats and then repeats the process, all the while trying not to stare at Ludwig Knorr, who is seated at the table beside her in the crew's mess. As a rigger, his primary duties include takeoff and landing. Mooring lines and such. Although he's frequently called on to make in-flight repairs all over the ship. He's quite well liked among the crew and thanks to a spectacular midair fix he accomplished on the
Graf Zeppelin
a decade ago he has become a legend among the shipmen. He is revered. Respected. She cannot think of any reason why Gertrud Adelt—or anyone else for that matter—would consider him a threat. Physically he's not much to look at. Middle-aged. Nondescript except for a long, thin mouth that looks bovine when he isn't speaking.

“Can I help you, Fräulein Imhof?”

It takes her a moment to realize that Knorr has spoken to her. He has caught her staring. “Oh. I'm sorry,” she says. “Forgive me. I was just thinking.”

“It must be a weighty thought to cause such a frown.”

A beat and then she says, “I was thinking about my father.” The falsehood comes so quickly she is startled. “He died fifteen years ago today.” Another lie, God help her.

“I am sorry for your loss.”

Well, hell. She's committed now. She may as well follow through. “Thank you. But we lost him long before he died. He was never the same after the war.”

Something of a shadow passes over Knorr's face. “It was a terrible time. Many men came home empty.”

Emilie tilts her head to the side. It's a gesture intended to show interest, to put him at ease. “You served? How?”

“Flying on the zeppelins mostly. Air raids over England.”

The raids were legendary and the casualties—both military and civilian—were numerous. It is a thing about which many men of his generation feel both pride and shame. Her father rarely talked about his time in the Luftwaffe. Emilie isn't sure whether to thank Knorr for his service or apologize. It's a difficult thing, this. Emilie would like to pepper him with more questions, but Commander Pruss walks into the crew's mess and Knorr jumps to his feet with a salute.

“As you were,” Pruss says, scanning the small room. “Ah. Fräulein Imhof. There you are. May I have a word?”

This sort of thing happens occasionally—some delicate matter is confided to the commander and he finds the most discreet steward to deal with it. She'd been in such a position once or twice before and has proved herself quite capable. She likes to think that Commander Pruss regards her highly. So it isn't until he leads her into the officers' mess, seats her in the corner, and asks if she is comfortable that Emilie begins to realize what is happening. They make small talk as they wait and slowly, steadily her heart begins to beat faster. Her eyes burn and fill and she blinks rapidly.

And then Captain Lehmann walks through the door followed by Max.

Lehmann looks at her calmly. “We have an issue, Fräulein.”

“Yes,” she says, “I can see that.”

Her voice is emotionless. Distant. It's the same voice she has used many times in the years since Hans died. It's the voice she calls upon when people ask how she's doing or if she's ready to begin seeing other men.
I'm doing fine,
or,
Not just yet, thank you.
It is the voice of evasion, of self-protection. Disinterest. Yet she is stunned at the pain she's able to hide behind this calm exterior, as though a knife has slid cleanly between her shoulder blades.

Et tu, Brute?
The line, so famous, so applicable, flashes across her mind. Max stands in the doorway, his hands filled with her most private, most precious belongings, and she cannot bring herself to look at him. Emilie studies the points of his shirt collar. She is afraid to see an expression of triumph on his face. Of superiority. Even worse, she fears the pity she knows she will find there. She will take anything from Max but pity.

Commander Pruss motions them into the room. “Fräulein Imhof has been keeping me company for the last few minutes. I've been quite interested to hear of her experience on our airship so far. A little over a year, correct?”

“That's right.”

“And to think I was rather under the impression that you enjoyed being part of this crew.”

“I do,” she says.

“And yet we have this.” Pruss lifts the papers and the envelope from Max's stiff hands and sets them on the table before her. “Herr Zabel was kind enough to collect them for us.”

A sound escapes Max's throat. Something like a mewl. Emilie does not acknowledge it.

“Yes. I'm sure he was,” she says.

Commander Pruss begins looking through the documents. “Is there anything you would like to explain?”

“Forgive me, I mean no disrespect, but I doubt explanations would do much good. The papers speak for themselves.”

“See,” Captain Lehmann says, looking at Max, “I told you she was not ignorant.”

“You plan to leave Germany?” Pruss asks.

“I did.” She offers him a small shrug and a resigned smile. “I very much doubt that I will be allowed to do so now.”

“That would be correct. Though I must inquire as to why you would feel such a compulsion to begin with.”

“May I speak frankly?”

“Certainly.”

“I have no desire to live through a war. Or to die in one.”

Lehmann laughs. “Have you received word of an invasion? I certainly have not.”

“I have eyes. And ears.”

Emilie can feel Max's gaze burning, probing her face. She will not give him the satisfaction of meeting it.

“What is to be done about this?” Lehmann asks.

“I would assume that I am to be dismissed from my duties, Captain?”

“That would be the obvious answer,” he says, “though not the correct one.”

She did not expect this. “I can keep my job?”

“It's rather a matter of you
having
to keep your position. We have made something of a fuss over you in the press. Your sudden departure, regardless of the reason, would make the Zeppelin-Reederei look quite inept. So you will keep your position and you will be
delighted
to do so.”

This is too easy. She is frightened by the simplicity of the solution. “And when we are not flying? What then?”

There is a note of admiration in Captain Lehmann's voice when he says, “Ah. Not even the slightest bit ignorant.” He chooses his next words carefully. “That has yet to be determined. There are others who must be consulted before we will know the answer to that question. I expect there will be discussions when we return to Frankfurt.”

There is no need to give her any further warnings. She has no means of escape. “You are dismissed,” Commander Pruss says. “I trust you will return to your duties in the morning in a timely fashion.”

“Of course,” she says, rising from the table. She makes sure her legs are stable before stepping toward the door.
“Guten Abend.”

Max reaches out a hand as she passes him, but she drops her shoulder, evading the touch.

“Emilie.” His voice cracks with emotion.

She does not speak to him. She does not look at him. Emilie leaves the officers' mess without ever having once acknowledged his presence. And as far as she is concerned she will never do so again.

WEDNESDAY, MAY 5, 1937—4:20, A.M., NEWFOUNDLAND TIME

APPROXIMATELY 250 MILES FROM THE SOUTHWESTERN TIP OF NEWFOUNDLAND

1 DAY, 14 HOURS, AND 5 MINUTES UNTIL THE EXPLOSION

Tomorrow's arrival will be the first of eighteen this summer. Slight interest in the
Hindenburg
is being shown by persons other than naval officers. Arrival and departure of the world's largest lighter-than-air craft on schedule is now taken here as a matter of course.

—Newspaper report on May 5, 1937

I
n all the time that Werner has worked aboard the
Hindenburg
he has never once been late for his shift. He sets an alarm every night but rarely needs it, usually waking on his own minutes before it goes off. This morning is different, however. He jolts awake when his covers are thrown back.

Werner thrashes into a sitting position and looks at the darkened shape of Wilhelm Balla. “What's going on? Am I late? Kubis will kill me!”

He slides off the edge and lands on his feet with a small stagger. The blow that rattles the side of his head knocks him backward even farther. It takes Werner nearly five seconds in his exhausted stupor to realize that Balla has boxed his ear.

“Why did you do that!”

“Be
quiet.
”

“But I'm late!”

“You're not late.”

“What time is it?”

“Four-twenty.”

There are no windows in their cabin—neither of them has the rank for such a luxury—and no lights are on. There's only a lucent strip of illumination leaking beneath the door from the corridor outside. Werner can see dark shapes against darker shadows but no specific details, so the expression on Balla's face is lost to him. He tries to concentrate on the subtext in Balla's voice. Tries to figure out whatever he's missed, the reason he has been yanked out of bed in the middle of the night. He is
tired
of being yanked out of bed in the middle of the night. There is a very short connection between exhaustion and rage for the boy and Werner feels it shuddering now.

“I already shined the shoes.”

“I don't care about the shoes.”

Werner's anger ignites and he feels the heat behind his eyes. He's glad Balla can't see them in the dark room. “Then why did you pull me out of bed!”

“Hush. Or I will box you again. You like Max Zabel, yes?”

“Of course”—a moment of silent confusion and then—“he's my friend.”

“You need to go roust him out of bed and get him to the shower before he loses his job.”

Werner's body is alert but his mind is still groggy. “I don't understand.”

“Herr Zabel had a terrible evening and decided to console himself with a bottle of very expensive French brandy. I would guess that he is probably unconscious at the moment. He will likely remain in that condition for a good long while unless someone intervenes. This is a problem considering his shift starts in less than two hours and he has a great deal of sobering up to do. So given the circumstances and his current lack of goodwill toward me, it would be best if that someone were you.”

Werner looks at Balla's dim shape with the lethargic stare of a child who is trying, and failing, to comprehend. Balla shakes him again. “Do you understand what I've just said?” There is a guilty note to the steward's voice that Werner doesn't understand.

“Yes.”

“Prove it.”

“Max is drunk and can't wake up. He'll lose his job if he misses his shift.”

“Good. Now get dressed. And go wake him up.”

“Am I allowed to turn on the light?”

“If you must.”

The bulb flashes over them, and Werner buries his face in the crook of his arm so his eyes will have a moment to adjust to the glare. He looks up when he is certain he can do so without squinting.

As Balla bends over the cabin boy in the dim light, Werner thinks he looks much like a stick figure that has been broken in half. “Max will need a shower,” Balla says. “You might have to drag him there, and it's best that no one see or hear you. Coffee will make him alert and water will force the alcohol out of his system. Make sure he gets large quantities of both.” The steward sets large, pale, frog-like hands on Werner's shoulders and gives him a small shake. “Can you do this?”

“Yes.”

Balla shoves something hard and cold into the palm of Werner's hand. “Good. Take this. It's a master cabin key and will get you into Max's room. You will use it this one time only. And you will bring it back to me when your task is done. Understood?”

Again the boy says, “Yes.” It's an easy, uncomplicated word, and he doesn't have to summon any energy to find it at this early hour. Werner is certain he has missed something important, namely why this is his responsibility, but he can't order his thoughts well enough to ask the proper questions. So he does the only thing he knows how to do in these kinds of situations. He begins to move. And once he has begun the well-established routine of getting ready for work, muscle memory takes over. He brushes his teeth and combs his hair without thinking, then pulls on his uniform and buttons the steward's jacket. He tucks his flashlight into his belt and straightens his collar.

Wilhelm Balla is snoring in the lower berth before Werner turns off the light and slips out the door, shutting it quietly behind him. The keel corridor is lit by industrial yellow lights at even intervals along the walls and he rushes past them, then beyond the stairs that lead to A-deck. He slows at this point, quieting his footfalls so as not to wake any of the other crew members. He silently passes the radio room—he can hear voices and static within—and then into the short hallway beyond that houses the officers' quarters. Once he has come to a stop in the middle of the corridor, Werner realizes that he does not know which room belongs to Max. Balla never told him. Werner stands in the middle of the hallway, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed, and looks at each door in turn. Being the younger brother is a boon in this particular situation. He has grown accustomed to observation. Max is a junior officer, one of four navigators aboard this ship, so he wouldn't be at the end. Those cabins are reserved for Commander Pruss and Captain Lehmann. So Werner works his way backward, eliminating one cabin at a time as he does a head count of the officers in order of their rank. This leaves him with two cabins, one on either side, farthest from the nose of the ship. Right or left? he wonders. He can't very well go knocking to find out. So Werner does what any inquisitive boy would do: he listens at the door. It takes less than a minute for him to decide on the door to the right. The snores coming from within sound like gravel rolling around a bucket. He turns the knob and finds it locked just as Balla suspected it would be. Werner fingers the key in his pocket but doesn't pull it out until he's certain that all the rooms are quiet and the officers are still asleep within. Because it occurs to him only now that he has been a tremendous fool. He has finally woken up enough to make sense of this situation and to understand the gravity. Getting caught sneaking into an officer's cabin is enough to get him fired if not jailed. And Balla must have known this or he would have performed the task himself. Werner curses his own stupidity.

But he likes Max and feels beholden to him, so he slides the key into the lock and turns it slowly, listening as the tumblers connect with a sharp metallic click. Werner turns the knob and pushes the door inward without a sound. He immediately knows he has found the right cabin by the smell. He claps a hand over his nose and takes a step back.

For two years Werner's brother has apprenticed at the Hof Hotel in Frankfurt as a waiter. The stories that Günter has brought home are equal parts hilarious and informative. High-maintenance diners. Aristocrats. Travelers. Gestapo. Americans—those stories are always the best. But what Werner enjoys the most about Günter's adventures are the impersonations, usually of drunk men. There are fewer of drunk women—whether because that gender is naturally more restrained or is better at holding their liquor, Werner isn't sure. Regardless, his brother staggers around the living room, alternately shouting and mumbling and causing the rest of the family to collapse in hysterics. He tells Werner what the patrons have been drinking and how it makes them act. He has also told a good many stories about how excess booze makes a man smell. And, to tell the truth, Werner has always thought that Günter was embellishing his stories for dramatic effect. Until now. Max Zabel smells like he's been dragged through a swamp, then left to marinate in a rum barrel filled with donkey sweat. Unpleasant does not begin to describe it.

Werner readies himself to begin the task and steps into the room. He shuts the door gently behind him and gets to work. Werner sets the flashlight on the small dressing table and points the beam toward the ceiling. A soft, warm light fills the room, but Max doesn't notice. He's lying facedown on the bunk, spread eagle, still wearing his uniform, with one arm draped over the side. An empty bottle lies on the floor beneath his hand. Werner can see that Max has drooled on the pillow and sweated through his jacket. Now, to wake him without causing a ruckus.

Werner is quite familiar with officers' uniforms at this point in his job and finds all the necessary items of clothing in the small closet beside the sink. Trousers. Shoes. Shirt and jacket and cap. He sets them in a tidy pile on top of the counter and turns back to the navigator. Werner doesn't think Max's underwear is any of his business, but the navigator can't very well go without it, so the boy digs around in a canvas bag at the bottom of the closet until he finds a pair, along with socks, then adds them to the pile.

“Wake up, Max.” Werner puts a hand to the navigator's shoulder and shakes him but gets no response. Another shake, much rougher than the first. “Max. Please.”

Nothing.

Werner can think of a dozen scenarios he anticipated prior to his first flight. There are so many things that can go wrong on an airship after all. But it never occurred to him that he would find himself in this position. Max looks to be similar in size to Werner's father, and this gives the boy an idea. Ever since his father fell sick, Werner has taken on much of his care. Including getting him to the bathroom. Thankfully his assistance isn't needed once the door is closed, but Werner does have some idea how to get a grown man to his feet. Max will need to be awake first, however. The answer is simple enough, though the navigator will find it highly unpleasant.

Werner fills the brandy bottle with water from the sink and then leans over Max's prone form. He makes sure that most of his body is out of arms' reach should Max strike out, but there's only so much he can do. He tips the bottle over and controls the flow of water so that a thin stream dribbles into Max's ear. It takes a few seconds before the nuisance registers. First Max's head jerks to the side. Werner increases the flow. Max turns his head over completely and exposes his other ear. He mumbles something crass in his sleep. Werner pours the water again, drenching Max's ear and the pillow. And now the best part—the part that Werner has always enjoyed most when he plays this trick on Günter—Max slaps himself. A hard, wet smack against his cheek. Water splats around the berth as Max jerks into a sitting position. Werner can't help but laugh.

The cabin boy isn't sure if he would describe what comes out of Max's mouth as speech exactly, more like a bastard language resembling illiterate German and stuttering laced with profanity. Werner backs away the moment he suspects Max is in control of his limbs. He speaks very quietly.

“You need to wake up, Herr Zabel.”

“What?”

“It's Werner and it's really important that you wake up. Right now.”

Max follows the sound of the boy's voice, but it's clear that he doesn't see Werner. His eyes are swollen and clenched tight.

“You woke me up.”

“I'm trying to, yes.”

Max lowers himself onto one elbow and pulls his feet back into the bed. He has every appearance of a man intent on going back to sleep.

“I can't let you do that,” Werner says, and throws the bottle at Max.

It glances off the navigator's forehead but has the desired effect of bringing him into a more heightened state of awareness. Rage, to be precise.

“What the
hell
was that?” He's trying to yell but his throat is too hoarse, so the sound comes out like a gurgle.

“A brandy bottle, I believe.”

“You hit me?”

“You tried to go back to sleep.”

“Wouldn't you?”

“Not if I wanted to keep my job. Which I do. As should you. So it would be really nice if you could stand up so I can help you to the shower.”

Werner has always known Max to be shrewd and intelligent and fiercely clever. So it's no surprise that a small light goes off in his mind. It's not enough to register the severity of the situation, but it's a move in the right direction. Max slaps his wrist, looking for his watch. “What time is it?”

“Almost five.”

Max slumps at the news, relaxed. “So I'm not late for my shift?”

“Not yet. But you can't go in looking like that. Shower. Coffee. Water. That's what I was told you needed. And in that order.”

“Who told you that?”

“Wilhelm Balla.”

Werner has never heard such creative insults as what comes out of Max's mouth at the sound of Balla's name.

“Will you let me help you up? I can't drag you all the way to the shower.”

Max considers this. Tries to stand. Wobbles badly. “I suppose so,” he says.

It's something of a vaudeville act the way that Werner gathers the clothes and flashlight with one hand while keeping his friend vertical with the other, and even more impressive that he is able to get Max out the door and down the hall without falling over. If he'd not had so much practice with his father he would never have been able to pull it off. As it is, however, they barely make it to the shower without toppling over one another or crashing through one of the thin foam board walls.

“In you go,” Werner says, with Max draped over his shoulder as if he were a crutch. He gets the navigator situated as upright as possible beneath the shower nozzle, sets the clean clothes in a pile on the other side of the curtain, and turns the water on.

Max yelps and curses and stumbles backwards. The wall stops him from going ass over teakettle, but he swats at his face like a man being attacked by a swarm of bees. He tries to swipe the water out of his eyes but only succeeds in hitting himself.