Flight of Dreams Page 7

  “We’ll be approaching Cologne shortly,” the colonel says, looking at Leonhard. “You are from there, correct?”

  “Yes. My family moved from Dortmund to Cologne when I was seventeen.”

  “You make it sound so prosaic. Tell him why your family was forced to move.” When Leonhard grins but does not speak she turns to the colonel. “My husband tried his hand at writing at a young age. He published his first novel at seventeen, and it caused such a stir that he lost his apprenticeship as a bookseller in Kleve. What did you title your book, darling?”

  “Werden.”

  “That doesn’t sound so threatening,” the colonel says. “There’s nothing particularly obscene about willpower.”

  Gertrud laughs. “Perhaps it was the lack thereof that had the censors riled. Leonhard’s book was filled with teenage sexual experiences.” She whispers this last word as though imparting a juicy bit of gossip.

  Leonhard shrugs. “I was seventeen. And curious.”

  “Lucky for me you still are.”

  He pulls an ice cube from his glass and crushes it between his teeth. “It ended up being a good thing. I went to work for another bookseller once we got to Cologne, and then I started writing for the newspapers.”

  “A rather inauspicious beginning to a successful career,” the colonel notes.

  “And look at you.” Gertrud cannot disguise the pride in her smile. “Thirty years later and you’re still causing trouble.”

  The colonel settles into his chair and sets the rim of his glass against his lower lip. “Do you make it back to Cologne often?”

  “Not directly. I only visit in letters these days.”

  “Well, you’ll visit it tonight,” the colonel says. “At least from the air. There it is now.” He points out the window at the long, faint glow on the horizon.

  They all look out the window for a moment and then fall into conversation. Gertrud flirts with her husband and with the colonel. She tells stories of her childhood. She gives a passionate account of the last few months and how the Nazis revoked her press card after she began to write unflattering articles about the Ministry of Propaganda. And by the time other passengers begin filtering into the smoking room, Colonel Erdmann is finally talking freely. Of his wife. Of his children. Of this flight and how he’d rather be home.

  “And yet you’re here. With us,” she says.

  His grimace is one of resignation. “Duty calls.”

  At this point Gertrud is well into her second virgin Maybach 12 and is the only person at the table who is not slurring. She speaks slowly to make up for it. “And all because of a few stupid bomb threats.”

  Finally, finally Colonel Erdmann leans across the table and gives her what she wants. He pokes the polished wood surface with his finger for emphasis. “No, Frau Adelt, I’m not here because of the bomb threats. I’m here because the bomb threats are credible.”

  THE NAVIGATOR

  “Cologne?” Emilie tilts her chin to the side, curious. Her eyes are warm and brown and curious, so light they are almost the color of rust.

  “Trust me.” Max takes her hand, laces his fingers through hers, and leads her brazenly down the keel corridor in full view of anyone who cares to watch. The corridor is empty, of course, it always is this time of night, but Emilie whips her head around anyway.

  “No need to look so guilty, Fräulein Imhof.”

  She lifts their entwined hands. “This is against the rules.”

  “Which is exactly why it’s fun.”

  They are getting perilously close to the door that leads into the officers’ quarters when Max stops short at the mailroom door. He frees her hand to unlatch the key ring at his belt. The lock sticks and he has to jiggle the key several times before the tumblers catch and align.

  “Für’n Arsch!” Bloody useless!

  The room is dark and musty. He fumbles for the light switch. Everything should be just the way he left it, yet it seems wrong somehow. The smell and the shadows and the mailbags piled against the wall all seem out of place.

  “What’s that?” Emilie asks. She points at the lockbox.

  “A protective case.”

  “For the mail?”

  “For certified letters. Legal documents, mostly. Stuff that’s more valuable than a postcard to your cousin back home. Correspondence that people have paid extra to keep safe.”

  The mailroom is quiet. Still. There’s no sound except for the distant, faint hum of the exterior engines. This room, like most aboard the airship, is not heated or cooled, and there isn’t even the gentle whoosh of moving air. Emilie turns in a small circle in the middle of the room. “Safe from what?”

  “Prying eyes. No one is allowed in here but me.” And Kurt Schönherr of course. He has the other set of keys. But Kurt won’t interfere unless Max falls down on the job. And that won’t happen unless Emilie becomes an insurmountable distraction.

  She smiles at him as though able to read his mind. “Do your eyes pry, Max?”

  He likes it when she’s coy. “Depends on the company.”

  “Present company excluded?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Good.” The smile she offers is filled with encouragement. Max considers it a wild leap forward on her part. “I’m breaking the rules, being here. Right?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You’re a bad influence, Herr Zabel.”

  “I do my best.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. This is all very interesting, but it doesn’t look like Cologne to me.”

  “It wouldn’t. Not in here.” Max lifts a bag from the hook by the door and points at the label. The word is printed in white block letters on the green canvas bag. “Cologne is below us. We’re flying over it right now.”

  Max slides one arm through the strap and hoists the bag off the hook so that he can swing it around his shoulder. He scans the room once more, then leads Emilie back out into the corridor. The lock is even less cooperative this time, and he curses again, testing the knob several times before he’s sufficiently convinced that the door won’t swing back open. Max nods at the radio room door across the corridor. “Would you open that for me?”

  “They aren’t exactly fond of me in there, you know.”

  “You don’t mean to tell me that you’re intimidated by Willy Speck?”

  “I am intimidated by Commander Pruss who—”

  “Is currently in the lounge nursing his second gin and orange juice. I think the bartender calls it the LZ 129 or something equally pretentious. The glasses are frosted, and so is the drinker after downing a few.” Max gives her a gentle thump with the mailbag. “After you. I’d still like to show you the city.”

  He follows close behind as Emilie steps into the radio room. Willy Speck and Herbert Dowe take one look at her and turn back to their instruments without a word. Max drops the mail bag through the opening into the utility room below and then descends the ladder so he can help Emilie down.

  “Mail drop,” he announces to the skeleton crew in the control car. The car is crowded with officers and observers during the day but is almost vacant at this time of night, manned by those with the least seniority.

  No one seems to care that Max has brought Emilie with him, or if they do they’ll save their questions and complaints for later. She is still an anomaly on board, an ill omen. The leftover prejudice of old mariners who believe women to be bad luck on the open seas. No matter that they’ll be sailing over them, not in them. Superstitions die hard.

  Perhaps Emilie is ignoring the other officers, or maybe she really is enthralled by the sight below. Regardless, she stands at the portside windows, her palms and the tip of her nose pressed against the cool glass. A tiny cloud of fog gathers near her mouth each time she exhales and then fades away as she draws another breath. The baroque silhouette of Cologne’s cathedral is clearly visible beneath them, its two great spires reaching up to embrace the airship.

  Emilie’s mouth is round with wonder. “I’ve ne
ver seen anything like it.”

  The Hindenburg usually flies at an altitude of six hundred feet, but they have made a slow descent and now hover a mere two hundred feet above the city. The buildings and streets take on a different dimension from above. Boxed out and rimmed with pale light from streetlamps, they look like aerial drawings done in pen and ink. It is well into the evening and the respectable citizens of Cologne have gone to sleep. Only hardy souls wander these streets tonight, and they can be seen furtively drifting in and out of the pooled light. These are the ones who make their living by darkness. An occasional face turns upward as the mechanical roar of the airship passes overhead, but most move farther into the shadows.

  “How does it work?” Emilie nods at the mailbag that now rests on the floor at her feet. “The drop?”

  “Watch,” Max says.

  “Airfield ahead,” Christian Nielsen calls. He has replaced Max in the navigation room for third shift and already looks weary an hour into the job.

  Max opens the mailbag and pulls out what appears to be a checkered silk parachute from an inside pocket. He attaches it to the canvas with a series of elaborate knots, then secures it with two carabiners just to be sure.

  Max can feel the Hindenburg turn slightly starboard. It is amazing to him how this is the only place on ship where directional changes can be felt. Or perhaps he has become attuned to them over time. The Cologne airfield comes into view and is significantly better lit than most of the city itself. They begin a lazy circle toward the middle of the airfield.

  Once they approach the massive, illuminated X on the tarmac, he asks, “Would you do the honors?”

  “Of?”

  “Opening the window.”

  It takes her a few seconds to figure out the latch and to slide the heavy plate of glass to the side, but as soon as she has it open, cool air rushes into the control car and blows her hair away from her face, revealing the high angles of her cheekbones and the length of her neck. He’s grateful that her attention is on the ground below and that she does not notice him stare.

  “Will it catch?” Emilie lifts the edge of the silk parachute.

  “It usually does.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “I saw a mailbag split open on the tarmac once. The impact sent letters flying in a hundred different directions. I imagine it was a hassle to collect them all again, but other than a bit of wasted time and dirty paper, no harm done.”

  “Well, then.” Emilie grins. “Let’s see if this little bird can fly.”

  He knew this would delight her. Emilie has always seemed the sort of woman who is fascinated by new things. And, as it turns out, the bird does fly. It’s all in the technique, of course. Max drops the bag just right, allowing the parachute to catch and fill almost immediately. It floats to the ground and lands well within the perimeter of the X long before they have finished their orbit of the airfield and changed course. He and Emilie lean out the window together, shoulders pressed together for warmth, wind in their faces, as a military jeep drives out to collect the package.

  “No wonder you volunteered for this job,” she says as they finally pull back.

  He slides the window shut and turns to lean against it.

  “I knew you’d want to see this.”

  A wicked look crosses her face and she lifts one shoulder in an impish shrug. “Well, it doesn’t compare to seeing your Schwanz, but it’s a close second.”

  Emilie leaves Max in the control car, his fellow officers staring at him in astonishment, as she ascends the ladder back into the radio room.

  THE AMERICAN

  The American waits. He waits, buried under three canvas bags of international mail, as the navigator and his companion get the mail drop ready. He wonders at her identity. The American matches her voice against those he is already familiar with: the journalist, the heiress, the teenage girl, and a handful of other women he overheard at dinner. He has not heard this woman’s voice before. She speaks easily in German, though he notices she tosses in the random English word for good measure. And occasionally one in Spanish or Italian. She’s intelligent, clearly, and she doesn’t seem uneasy in this room. A crew member, then. But there’s only one of those that he has seen—a stewardess. Tall. Aloof. Pretty. So the navigator has himself a girl then? Yes. That will come in handy. By the time they leave the mailroom, the American is fully relaxed beneath his pile, quite content to have placed the stewardess in her slot.

  He waits, breathing through his mouth to remain silent. He can feel the vibration from the engine gondolas faintly through the floor beneath him. A gentle hum through his cheek, chest, belly, thighs, each part of his body pressed against the floor by the weight of the mailbags. Still he waits.

  Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

  Finally the navigator and the stewardess exit the door opposite the mailroom. They wander off down the hall toward the passengers’ quarters. Slowly, painfully, he pushes the mail aside to stand and stretch, allowing the circulation to return to his feet and to the tips of his fingers. The American is light-headed as the blood moves through his extremities again, but he does not lean against the wall or steady himself on anything. He simply closes his eyes, breathes evenly, and focuses on staying upright.

  There will not be another mail drop during the flight, and it’s a good thing. The navigator will likely have to get the doorknob replaced in New Jersey. Or at the very least after the return flight to Frankfurt. The lock is broken. That’s his own fault, of course, but he is not concerned. One ruined lock is a small price to pay for having accomplished the first of his goals. Let the love-stricken navigator worry about how to protect his precious letters in the future.

  The door closes behind him but barely latches. The tine has moved farther into the tumblers now. He does not hesitate in the hallway but moves off intently, as if he has every right to be here and will say so to anyone who questions him.

  He’s passing the dining room, on his way toward his cabin, when Joseph Späh steps in front of him holding a plate filled with dinner scraps. It’s fish, mostly, but there are a couple of half-eaten rolls and bits of potato as well. The American stops abruptly so he won’t run over the small man.

  Späh lifts the plate. “I have a dog,” he says matter-of-factly.

  The American blinks but does not answer.

  “You should come meet her.”

  “You mean the dog is on this ship?”

  Späh looks at him like he has sprouted a second head. “Well, you didn’t think this was for me?”

  “I hadn’t a clue what it was for.”

  “Good grief, man, where have you been? Didn’t you catch my arrival? It caused quite a stir.”

  “I’m afraid I was rather indisposed. I hardly noted my own arrival. You could say I was quickly taken to my cabin and put out of the way.”

  “Ah. Your hangover.”

  The American shrugs but does not apologize. He’s not the sort of man to apologize for anything.

  They stare at one another awkwardly for a moment before Späh says, “Well?”

  “What?”

  “Are you going to come meet my dog or not? She’s an honest-to-goodness European purebred Alsatian. Which is just a fancy way of saying German shepherd, but still, she’s impressive. Her name is Ulla. I trained her to perform with me onstage. She has been all over Europe. I’m bringing her home as a gift for my daughter. It won’t make up for missing her birthday, but at least she’ll have bragging rights at school, and that is damn near good enough.”

  “Where is this mutt of yours? Surely they aren’t letting you keep it in your cabin?”

  “Hell no. They’ve got the poor bitch stored back in the freight room.”

  “And you’re allowed back there?”

  Joseph Späh is odd. He’s the sort of man who is both insecure and absurdly arrogant. But he is also clever, manipulative, and fiercely intelligent. “It’s either they let me back there at my leisure or they’re the ones cleaning up dog
shit twice a day.”

  The American laughs. “I think I would very much like to meet the dog that has the Zeppelin-Reederei crew breaking their precious rules.” He looks at the plate, then around the empty corridor. “And we don’t need an escort?”

  Späh shrugs, sort of a hell-if-I-know movement, and heads off down the corridor to the steps leading to B-deck. The American follows quite happily behind.

  If the Zeppelin-Reederei has spared no expense in making the passenger quarters a statement of luxury, they have spared no expense in this part of the ship on their engineering marvel. He follows Joseph Späh out of the passenger area, through a heavy door, and onto the keel catwalk, feeling every bit as though he is traversing the spine of a Leviathan. Gone are the residential trappings. Once they pass through the access door at the end of B-deck, clearly marked CREW ONLY, they enter into a world of duralumin and pipes. Air shafts and gas tanks. Catwalks. Girders. Valves. Bracing wires. Above them are countless massive fabric bladders filled with hydrogen gas and covered with thick cell netting. To him they look like giant inflated lungs. It is like taking a tour through the skeletal system of an automaton. The subtle creaking of welded joints is audible here in the absence of walls and doors and ceilings. But most amazing to the American is the skin of the airship itself. While the outside of the Hindenburg is a dazzling silver, the inside had been coated in a deep crimson thermite paint, giving life to the feeling that they are indeed traipsing through the belly of a sentient beast. The lights along the catwalk are spaced at intervals of twenty feet and are in tightly secured glass globes, but nonetheless their dim illumination amplifies the eerie, lifelike quality of the space.

  They step around a massive T-shaped cruciform brace that must be one of the central supports, and then a short distance beyond that the spiral staircase that connects the keel catwalk to the axial catwalk eighty feet above them. The American has traveled aboard the Graf Zeppelin a number of times but has never been outside the passenger areas. This is to him a new and profound and disturbing experience.