Flight of Dreams (31 page)

“B
reakfast! For the bitches!” Joseph Späh thrusts a plate into the American's face.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, come off it. You're not a prude. And that is a perfectly correct reference for female dogs. Dogs which, I might add, are waiting to be fed.”

“Ulla is female. Owens is not. Therefore your plural usage is
incorrect.
”

“Owens?”

“We have to call him something.”

“Not something stupid.” The American looks at him with disdain, so Späh feigns an expression of mock supplication and a bad English accent. “My good fellow, would you care to accompany me to feed the
hounds
?”

Werner Franz has most likely fed the dog already, but the American isn't about to tell Späh. “Might as well,” he finally says. “It's not like I have anything else to do.”

It's a familiar ritual by now. The American follows Späh through the security door and down the keel catwalk. The little acrobat looks wistfully at the cruciform bracing as they pass underneath. He tells the American that with a little practice he could make a real spectacle out of that climb. They are discussing the merits of such a display when a man moves toward them from the access walkway that leads to the first engine gondola.

“What are you doing here?”

The voice is hard and deep and commanding. It is the voice of Ludwig Knorr.

“The same thing I've done twice a day every day since this ship departed Frankfurt.” Späh takes a dramatic bow. “Feeding my dog.”

“Passengers aren't allowed in this part of the ship.” He looks at the American and receives a disinterested shrug in return.

“Tell that to every crewman who has seen me traverse this stretch of catwalk for the last three days.”

If Späh has been intercepted on his solo trips he has not mentioned it to the American. Most likely he's bluffing.

Knorr is unconvinced. “Names.”

“Joseph Späh and”—he looks at the American—“I don't know his name. No one does. But he answers to Asshole in a pinch.”

“Not your names, your—”

“Right. You meant the dogs. Ulla and Owens. The latter is the dumbest name I've ever heard for a dog. But it's what we've come to expect from Asshole here.”

“Listen,
Arschmade,
I meant the crewmen. I want the names of the men who let you back here.”

“I didn't ask. And I wouldn't remember anyway. There are so many of you. And you all look alike in your boring gray uniforms.”

The American does his best not to laugh. Späh is quick and clever. He has a rapier wit and the perfect timing of a man who is accustomed to heckling. He enjoys the game immensely. However, the banter is a nuisance to the chief rigger, and he raises a hand to silence the little man.

“I will take you to the cargo hold.” Knorr glares at each of them in turn. “And then escort you back to the passengers' quarters.”

Knorr leads the way with the air of a martyr, watching while the dogs are fed and their messes cleaned, standing apart from them, inconvenienced and determined to let them know. The American hadn't intended to actually participate in this ritual, and he finds it distasteful. Dogs are not hygienic creatures. The way they eat and the way they defecate and clean themselves repulses him—Owens in particular with the little clods of shit clumped around his ass. But the American is keenly aware of Ludwig Knorr's curious gaze, so he plays the part.

They are almost done when Werner Franz enters the cargo room door holding a paper bag filled with scraps. He eyes the men in turns—Späh and Knorr first, but upon seeing the American he cannot disguise his fear. The American gives him an almost imperceptible shake of the head.
Don't say a word,
the look commands.

“Why are you here?” Knorr demands.

He points an unsteady hand at the wicker cage. “To feed the dog.”

Owens sees Werner and begins to leap around, pushing his nose through the narrow slats, begging for attention.
Stupid, pathetic creature and his easily bought affections,
the American thinks. When Werner offers his hand the dog licks it with devotion.

Knorr watches this display of affection for a moment.
“Why?”

It's a direct question from a superior, and the American cannot blame the boy for answering truthfully.

“I was paid to do so.”

Knorr's voice drops lower. Curious. “By whom?”

There is no hesitancy in Werner's voice when he answers. He has chosen his course and committed to it. “Him.”

Knorr's full curiosity turns to the American now. “It seems you have a habit of being where you do not belong.”

The poker game. The cargo hold. Knorr's curiosity turns to suspicion in an instant.

“It is a long flight and I am easily bored.”

“Is that dog yours?” Knorr asks.

He pauses, just long enough to choose the lie. But he speaks it plainly and confidently when he does. “Yes.”

Knorr doesn't believe him. That much is clear. But he doesn't argue while Werner and Späh are staring at the two of them with open astonishment.

“It is ugly,” he says and then turns to the cabin boy. “Finish what you're doing and then escort these men back to the passengers' quarters. They are not to come back again while this ship is in the air. Understood?”

“Yes.”

And Knorr is gone, walking back into the belly of the ship. The American watches his retreating back until the cargo hold door swings shut again. He allows himself the brief fantasy of driving a knife between those shoulder blades.

“What was that?” Späh asks.

“That,” he answers, “is a complication.”

1:55 p.m.—five hours and thirty minutes until the explosion

M
ax fiddles with the key ring clipped to his belt. Making up his mind. Summoning courage. Fumbling for a plausible excuse should he be caught. And, he must admit, getting caught is the most likely scenario because Commander Pruss is standing ten feet away at the helm, arguing about the delay with Colonel Erdmann in barely hushed tones. They have not quite reached the point of gesticulation, but neither of them is happy. If Max is going to go through with this he must do it now.

Whatever fool decided that
Faint heart never won fair lady
clearly was not in possession of a pulse. Max can feel his blood pounding in his ears as he tucks the key to the officers' safe into his palm. He can feel the cool weight of it against his skin like an indictment, a flagrant violation of protocol.

Max leans over the chart table, his forearms on the polished wood surface, as though studying something. In the end it's easy. Max drops his right arm. He slides the key into the lock and turns it. The safe door swings outward a few inches without so much as a squeak, and Max only has to lean over a bit more to grab the manila envelope that Pruss took from Emilie's cabin. There is no digging around the safe to make sure he has picked up the right thing. It is empty apart from this, and his fingers fumble only a little as he pulls the packet from the safe and slides it beneath his logbook. Locking the safe is harder now that Max's hand is sweating. He holds his breath as he struggles to make sure the tumblers lock. He's trying too hard. Forcing the key. Applying too much pressure. He lets go and stands back. Flexes his hand. When he dares a glance into the bridge, he sees that Helmut Lau has taken Commander Pruss's place at the helm while Erdmann stares through the front windows as though willing the distance to lessen.

“Is something wrong?”

Pruss stands in the door between the bridge and the chart room looking at Max with narrowed eyes.

Everything is wrong. Every damn possible thing. Max doesn't break eye contact with Pruss, but in his peripheral vision he can see the key sticking out from the lock. It seems as obvious to him as a corpse lying in the middle of an empty room. A blinking arrow pointing to his guilt. And a corner of Emilie's envelope is visible beneath the black leather logbook. It may as well be blood on the table for all the attention it draws to itself.

Have I answered?
Max thinks. Shit. He's not sure.

“No,” he says. “There's nothing wrong.”

“Why are you holding your wrist?”

And so he is. Damn it. Max's left hand is clamped around his right wrist while he continues to flex his fingers self-consciously.

Again, he takes too long to respond. His answer is a single word, the only explanation he can summon under Pruss's intimidating stare. “Tendonitis.”

Whether or not Pruss believes him, Max can't tell.

“If it's giving you trouble, go to the kitchen and ice it when your shift is over. There won't be time to have it seen to when we land. We'll need to get in the air as soon as possible for the return flight.” Pruss lowers his eyes to Max's collar, and Max fears that there must be a sweat ring there because the commander adds, “We won't be staying for return laundry service either.”

Assuming that he actually had tendonitis, Max doubts that Xaver Maier would relinquish so much as one cube of his precious ice to aid him. He says none of this to Pruss, however. He simply nods and says, “I'll see to it.” Then he drops his hand to his side as though to prove it feels better already.

Pruss looks away briefly as another navigator descends the ladder into the utility room to take Max's place for the next shift. Max takes the opportunity to duck down and pull the key discreetly from the lock. Then he drops to his knee and tucks the key into the side of his shoe. He pulls the knot on an already loosened shoelace and ties it again. When he straightens, Pruss has moved back into the bridge.

Max never counted the money Emilie had stashed away, but it must be a decent sum because the envelope is thick and he has trouble tucking it between his dress shirt and the waistband at the small of his back. He pulls his jacket down to cover it, and feels as though everyone must notice the obvious bulk at his waist. He greets the officers who arrive for second shift and hopes the guilt isn't evident on his face. As Max climbs the ladder into the radio room he waits for the damning signal that he has been caught. A shout. A command. His name yelled loudly and sharply like the report of a rifle. But it does not come, and Max ascends the ladder as calmly as possible, up and out and down the corridor.

He goes immediately to his cabin and places Emilie's documents at the bottom of his closet, beneath his duffel bag. They will land in a few hours and he doesn't have long to finish this task. But first he needs to find Werner.

3:00 p.m.—four hours and twenty-five minutes until the explosion

W
erner Franz is in the officers' mess preparing for afternoon coffee break when the New York City skyline rises into view. It's such a sudden change in landscape that he is startled. For the last several hours they have been floating over fields and forests and small ambling towns that dwindle and melt into the countryside. Winding roads, often gravel, that loop and switch back and then disappear altogether into pine scrubs or sandy beaches.

The Big Apple. It's a puzzling nickname, but the boy likes the way it sounds when he says it in English.
The Big Apple.
A combination of hard letters and smooth syllables. However, based on what he can see from the window of the crew's mess, there couldn't be an actual apple tree in all of New York. Not with its ribbons of concrete and towers of steel. It is the largest, most dazzling thing that Werner has ever seen. There appears to be no end, and from this height it feels as though civilization is a great gaping maw that is ready to swallow everything whole.

They fly in along the coast and then up the Hudson River toward the docks. For three days they've flown over the Atlantic, but this is a different sort of ocean, no less formidable and teaming with life, but consisting entirely of skyscrapers as far as the eye can see. The entire horizon is filled with buildings that stretch to impossible heights, their plate-glass windows winking in the sporadic sunlight. It is as though New York is pushing the storm clouds away just for them, doing what it does best: putting on a show. Werner can see the elevated trains rattling along their tracks and the streetcars below guided by straight lines and electric cables. Buses. Vehicles. Taxicabs—a shocking yellow even from this height. And everywhere there are crowds of people moving in swarms as though by telepathy. To Werner they look like ants rushing from their hills, off to conquer a fallen crumb. Occasionally he sees a train rise from its hole beneath the ground and sprout to the surface like an earthworm tunneling toward the light.

On previous flights the
Hindenburg
has flown down the center of the city and made sure passengers could see the major landmarks. But it has never taken its time as it does now. Whether to make up for the frustrating delay or to give the passengers their money's worth, Werner isn't sure. Regardless, the airship turns and makes a great, lazy loop around the city. They fly so near and so low over the Empire State Building that he can wave to tourists on the observation deck. If anyone else were in the crew's mess he wouldn't risk the scolding, but he is alone and feeling brave, so Werner slides the window panel aside and presses his chest against the sill. He leans out and waves madly to the delighted little figures below, watching as a handful take pictures of the ship. The cabin boy wonders if he will be in those pictures. If they will make the paper. If he will ever see them. He doesn't have long to ponder the idea, however, because he hears voices in the corridor outside and snaps the window shut again.

Max enters the mess with Christian Nielsen and Kurt Bauer. They join him at the window. It is gratifying, this bit of company. Werner is glad that even seasoned airmen are compelled by the sight. It makes him feel less juvenile.

The
Hindenburg
turns again and glides to the very foot of Manhattan, and there, rising from her pedestal in the water, is the Statue of Liberty.

“It looks like a porcelain figure, don't you think?” he asks Max.

“I've never really noticed before, but yes, I suppose it does. To be honest, it's the green that has always confused me. I had imagined her to be white—like marble—before I saw her for the first time.”

This is not Werner's country nor his landmark, but there is something inspiring about the statue nonetheless. A sort of defiance that appeals to his adolescent mind. Werner idly wonders if he could pluck her up and take her home as a souvenir. Would liberty spread to his own homeland if he did? Would it be the peculiar American brand? So loud and brash and unapologetic? Would the Gestapo patrol the streets of Frankfurt and her citizens cower behind closed doors if she were standing on the shores of his country? How tempting to reach down and grasp her outstretched hand. How tempting to find out.

Christian Nielsen, however, appears entirely unimpressed with Lady Liberty. “The French are so sentimental. What a stupid gift.”

“He's only saying that because his ex-wife is French,” Max says to Werner. He's trying not to laugh. “She left him for a more
sentimental
man.”

The
Hindenburg
turns again, back up the East River this time, then away from the city. Werner looks up to find Max Zabel watching him with a peculiar expression.

“What?”

“It's different from the air. Most people will never get to experience it the way you just have. It's breathtaking. But you might not like it so much if you were down there in the crowds and noise and grime.”

“Maybe,” Werner says. “But I'd like the chance to find out for myself. One day.”

Nielsen and Bauer eventually get bored with the sight and leave the crew's mess. They are humming with expectant energy, eager to do something during these last hours on board the airship.

While Werner watches them go, Max holds up one finger. Wait, that finger says, and when the room is empty he sits at the booth and motions Werner to join him.

“I'm sorry about last night.”

“What happened?”

“I was talking to Kubis.”

“About what?”

“The dog.”

Werner is stricken at this admission. Every threat that Kubis has made returns to him now.

“Don't worry,” Max says. “I didn't tell him that you saw the manifest. I was just poking around, trying to figure out what he knows. I told him the crew has been complaining about the dogs. The noise and the smell. I asked if he knew whose they are. He was sure one belongs to the acrobat. But he didn't know about the other dog.”

“So why bother asking?”

“I wanted to make him curious. He'll check the manifest, and when he sees my name he'll know the paperwork has been tampered with. And then he'll come to me. It's his job on the line over this, not mine. And if I know Kubis at all, the first thing he will do is cover his ass.”

“Why do you think the dog is listed as yours?”

“I don't know. But I want to find out.” Max taps two fingernails on the table in rapid succession. They sound like castanets. He goes on like this for several moments but he doesn't share his thoughts with Werner.

The cabin boy knows that adults keep their secrets. And this airship abounds with them. The journalist had found him before lunch and interrogated him about the poker game the night before. He told her all that he could remember about the American and the questions he asked. He told her about getting caught, and she seemed contrite at the danger she placed him in. Werner doesn't understand what she's after, but he knows that all of these things are related somehow. He just can't piece them together. He doesn't understand the bigger picture.

The silence stretches on for so long that Werner finally says, “I didn't find it.”

The gun. He doesn't mention this out loud. And Max doesn't need him to clarify. It's simply understood.

“Did you look in any of the rooms?”

“No. Balla took the key back not long after I left your room.”

Werner is about to apologize, but Max holds up his hand. “Don't worry about it. It was wrong of me to let you try.”

“I did learn something yesterday, though.” Max waits for him to continue and Werner thinks for a minute, trying to get the order of events straight. “That woman, the journalist, made me go to the kitchen last night to spy for her—”

“Made?” Max interrupts.

“She blackmailed me.” He shrugs as though this should be obvious.

“How?” Max asks, his knuckles white as he grips the table. “Did she have something to blackmail you with?”

This is the second time in as many days that Werner has found himself dealing with the issue of blackmail, and he knows that Max has less patience for it now than he did the first time. Werner shrinks back several inches and forces himself not to cover his ears. He's afraid Max will box them at any moment.

“Irene Doehner kissed me yesterday, and the journalist saw, and she said she would tell Irene's father if I didn't do what she asked.” The words tumble out in one long string. Werner doesn't stop to catch his breath until he has dumped the entire confession right in front of Max.

The navigator raises one eyebrow in disbelief. “
She
kissed
you
?”

Werner crosses his arms over his chest and slouches against the booth. “Yes. Is it that much of a surprise?”

Max laughs. “Yes.”

So he's not angry, then, just surprised.

“For the record,” Max adds, “I would have done the same thing if I were you. But I am curious what she had you spy on.”

“The poker game in the crew's mess.”

“Why?”

“The American joined the game last night even though he's not supposed to. But they let him in because he had money and some expensive jewelry. She wanted me to listen to everything he said and did. She wanted all the details.”

“And did you tell her these details?”

“Yes.”

Max groans and sinks into his seat. “Good grief, Werner. You get into more trouble than any boy I've ever met.”

“Don't worry,” Werner says, and it's his turn to have a mischievous grin. “The American didn't find out why I was there.”

“Oh?”

“I go to the kitchen every night to fetch Kubis after I shine the shoes. I told the American they never let me join the game, but I wanted to listen anyway. He let me go.”

“Just like that?”

“Well, he walked me back to my cabin—no doubt to make sure I didn't run off and talk to anyone. But he didn't bother me after that.”

Max leans across the table, curious now. “What exactly did you learn, Werner?”

Just as he's about to tell Max about the American and the poker game, the conversations, betting, and the distinct interest in Ludwig Knorr, Commander Pruss walks into the crew's mess.

“Coffee,” the commander tells Werner. “Cream, no sugar.”

The cabin boy leaps up to obey this order, and Pruss takes his place at the table. He drops his cap onto the lacquered wood surface and says, “We have a problem.”

Werner thinks Max's face betrays a look of fear, but the expression is gone in a blink.

“How so?” Max asks.

Pruss cracks the knuckles on his left hand. “We're going to land much later than expected.”