Flight of Dreams

by Ariel Lawhon

  The steward’s cabin is identical to his with one exception: a small antechamber used to store shoes and polish. Beyond that there is a meticulously made bed and the usual accouterments of someone in the service profession: first-aid box, sewing kit, miscellaneous grooming paraphernalia. The American cares nothing about these things. He has come for the shipping manifest, and he finds it on the top shelf of Heinrich Kubis’s closet. The information he wants is hidden deep within the book, and his body is strained tight as he searches for it. If Kubis returns he will have to hide beneath the bed. And if he is discovered there? Well. That’s a choice he’d rather not make this early in the flight.

  The dog’s name is not shown on the manifest, only its owner’s: Edward Douglas. He reads it several times and curses so vehemently he has to wipe spittle from the page. The name is written in black ink, along with everything else, and it takes a bit of creative penmanship for the American to alter this record.

  THE NAVIGATOR

  It is freezing outside the airship. Not quite dawn. And the elevation, combined with the speed at which the Hindenburg travels, has turned the scattered clouds into little specks of ice that pelt against his cheeks. Max braces himself against the brisk rush of Atlantic air. It smells of ocean and frost and the oily hint of engine exhaust. The slipstream moves visibly along the structure like silver ribbons in the pre-dawn light. The sky is a perfect soft pewter gray, and the water beneath them matches as though one is reflecting the other—bands of stratus above, calm sea underneath. The ship glides elegantly between the two, its shadow a charcoal smudge on the gentle waves below.

  The barrage of sound coming from the engines is enough to split Max’s head wide open. His senses are at war with one another, sight and sound registering two different things: beauty and turbulence. To his left is the propeller, twenty feet long and spinning like a flywheel. One slip, one wrong move, and death will come in the most gruesome way.

  Perhaps Werner will think twice before dabbling in blackmail again. His face is strained with the effort not to look juvenile or afraid. And yet he pulls away from the hatch.

  “Too late for that now,” Max yells into the wind. “This was your idea. So come along. But mind your step. I’m the one who will have to write your mother if you go tumbling off. We’re six hundred feet up. So the fall will kill you. But we can’t turn back for your body. Understand?”

  Werner nods feebly, and his skin turns a sickly shade of puce.

  Max wants to laugh but doesn’t. No one has ever fallen from this airship. Or any other that he’s aware of. The zeppelins rarely travel fast enough to blow anyone off the ladders. Eighty miles an hour at most. But a bit of fear would do the boy good. He backs out of the hatch and takes one step onto the ladder that leads down into the engine car. “Crook your elbows around the windward edge like this. See?” He nods at his arm, the way it’s bent around the handrail. “It will keep you steady against the wind. Go slow. Watch your feet. And you’ll be fine.”

  Again Werner nods, skeptical.

  “Chin up, kid. It’s loud as Hölle down there.”

  Max descends the ladder without further instructions and stomps twice on the hatch door below to announce their arrival. It slides to the side and he drops into the engine room. He already has a certain fondness for the kid, but when Max sees Werner’s slender body turn and back out of the opening, he feels a pride that he can only describe as fatherly. Werner is afraid. And hesitant. That much is certain. But he has not said or done anything to give Max cause to regret bringing him along. The boy obeys without question. And he summons the courage when it counts.

  “What’s he doing here?” August Deutschle is one of three mechanics assigned to this engine and, thankfully, the friendliest of the lot. The look he gives Werner leans more toward curiosity than irritation.

  “The little bastard blackmailed me.”

  “I like him already.” August grins, quick and wide. “And I’d pay good money to know what he has on you.”

  “The day you have money for anything other than booze and gambling will be a miracle.”

  “I find it when I need it.” Already the wicked glint is growing in his eyes. “Ten marks says I can get the boy to tell me.”

  The last thing he needs is Werner developing a taste for gambling or extortion. Besides, the truth is harmless enough. “Let’s just say he caught me conversing off duty with a certain female crew member.”

  The mechanic slaps Max on the shoulder hard enough to rattle his teeth. “About damn time!”

  He’s about to explain that it wasn’t that sort of conversation when Werner shimmies down the ladder and onto the gondola with only a minor amount of terror. He’s sure-footed and well balanced. Once Werner’s rubber-soled boots land on the outer hatch ledge August gives an approving nod. “He’ll do.”

  Max moves aside to let Werner drop down beside him. He rewards the boy with a proud smile and a pat on the back, then returns his attention to August. “What’s this with the engine telegraph dial?”

  “So they finally figured it out? Good. I was afraid one of us would have to go in.”

  “I got here as quickly as I could.”

  “But why you? I thought they would send Ludwig Knorr or maybe German Zettel. He’s handy in a pinch.” August looks at his watch. “And on duty right now.”

  It’s a good question, and one he should have stopped to consider sooner. Max pulls the message from his pocket. Unfolds it. Rereads the hastily scribbled surname. Zettel. The chief mechanic. He turns slowly to Werner and gives him a withering glare.

  “Why?”

  There’s no point explaining the question. The boy clearly knows what Max is asking. “It was a mistake,” Werner says. His eyes have grown wide, his back rounded into a defensive posture as though he might bolt. Yet there’s nowhere to go but up, and he needs Max’s help for that.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I’m telling the truth. Honest! I thought it said Zabel. At first. And then, while I was waiting for you outside the err…you know, while I was waiting for you and uh, her to be…done, I reread the note and saw my mistake. But I’d already interrupted you. And you were mad enough. So I gave it to you anyway.”

  “And?” He knows there is more. With Werner there is always more. Layer upon layer of motive.

  “And German Zettel doesn’t like me. There’s no way he would have brought me along.”

  “I truly hope this”—he waves his arm around the thunderous engine gondola—“was worth it.”

  August laughs. “Clever little bastard, indeed. I’ll keep him around. Unless you decide to kill him. In which case I’ll help you throw the body overboard. He’s probably heavier than he looks.”

  It has been a long time since Max navigated the turbulent waters of adolescence, but he remembers his own wild mood swings and those of his parents as they tried, without much success, to keep him out of trouble. So he’s not entirely surprised that the pride he felt at Werner’s courage a few moments ago has taken a drastic left turn and has been transformed into anger at the boy’s idiocy. He says nothing but turns to the control panel and taps on a glass-covered dial. It sits toward the bottom, grouped with other similar meters. But this needle spins frenetically, never settling on a number.

  “Can you hear it?” August asks. “The engine. I can’t adjust it with that thing broken.”

  Max can hear the engine. And he can also feel a slight shudder in the floor beneath him. This engine is working out of sync with the others. The mechanics have the noisiest job aboard the airship, and Max has never quite known how they don’t lose their hearing within a week. The cacophonous roar of the diesel engines drowns out everything but the loudest yell. It’s an alarming sound and Werner has backed himself up against the wall, hands over his ears and face scrunched in concentration. Max suspects that this is a defensive position and that the boy is waiting for Max to cuff his ear. The thought is tempting.

  All of the mechanics wear thick
leather aviator caps and earplugs beneath the flaps, but he knows that they rely mostly on lip reading and a sign language of sorts—adapted shorthand for the temporarily deaf. Each of them is limited to short double shifts, two hours during the day and three hours at night. The downtime is supposed to provide a respite from the noise, but since their quarters are located near the stern, they never really escape the deafening clamor of the Daimler-Benz motors. Max knows that the mechanics often wake when the engines are shut down for midair repairs. The silence is startling to them. It’s an odd job, this, and few men are well suited for it. Given Werner’s response to the danger and the noise thus far, Max would guess the boy is not one of them. Not that Max can blame Werner. He would sooner quit aviation altogether than spend one full day in this engine gondola, dangling over the Atlantic Ocean, slowly going deaf, and—depending on their destination—either half-frozen or melting right out of his uniform. Max Zabel aspires to consistency, calmness, and, above all else, self-control. He is a man who avoids extremes at all costs.

  THE CABIN BOY

  Werner watches Max lean closer to the dial. Max thumps it with an index finger, and the glass case wobbles at his touch. “Oh,” he says. “That explains it.”

  The face of the dial is thick glass rimmed with metal. Max spreads his palm across the surface, fixing each finger at a point around the edge. He gently rotates it, and removes the dial face. The needle stops spinning altogether.

  “The face came loose,” he offers by way of explanation, holding it up. “The needle won’t read accurately unless it’s pressurized.”

  It would never have occurred to the cabin boy that he could simply pluck off the face of the dial, but Max has done it without the slightest hesitation. Max rubs the cuff of his sleeve against the glass to wipe away his fingerprints and then carefully holds it by the metal rim and pops the face back onto the dial. The needle wobbles uncertainly for a moment and then begins a lazy rotation around the numbers until it quivers to a stop, the arrows at each end pointing directly at nine and three.

  August Deutschle jumps into action, adjusting the engine speed to correspond with the dial reading. Within seconds the revving evens out around them. Less of a shudder and more of a hum. Werner drops his hands to his side and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

  “You,” Max pokes Werner in the breastbone, hard, with one finger, “are damn lucky I actually knew what to do.”

  The reprimand hurts the boy’s pride more than he would like to admit. Werner rubs the spot with his thumb, trying not to pout. It has been his experience that a pout can often lead to tears.

  “That’s it?” August asks.

  “Trust me. Much better a loose bit of glass than a blown engine. Yes?” Max glances at his watch. “I’d best get young Herr Franz back to his duties before someone figures out that he’s taken a stroll in midair.”

  Max hoists Werner upward so he can grab the first rung of the ladder, and then follows close behind. Max doesn’t crowd him, but Werner has the impression that the navigator is staying close enough to catch him should he stumble. He keeps his eyes forward and his feet steady and is halfway to the hatch above in no time.

  “You have good balance,” Max says.

  “It’s not so different than climbing a fire escape. Except for the wind.”

  Werner feels Max’s hand clamp onto his ankle like a vise. “Wait. Look,” he says.

  Below them is the long, sleek form of an ocean liner. Werner can make out clean white letters that read Europa just above the water line. The smokestacks puff like dragon lungs as the ship cuts a clean wake through the water. It looks like a horned, painted sea serpent.

  “That’s one of the nicer ones,” Max says.

  “Is it expensive to travel by boat?” Werner has never even paid cab fare. He cannot fathom what sort of riches it would take to buy passage on an ocean liner.

  “It’s not cheap. But not nearly as expensive as this—or as fun, if you want to know the truth. You could buy a car for the price of a ticket on the Hindenburg.”

  They’ve not quite come parallel with the ocean liner when the Europa sends out a friendly bellow of her horn, and they look down to see a handful of people on deck waving madly in greeting. Tiny faceless mites. From this height they look no bigger than grains of rice. Werner wonders what it’s like for them to look up and see this colossus overhead. How strange it must be. Beasts of this size should be in the ocean, not over it.

  They wait to finish climbing the ladder until the Europa has slipped a good distance behind, her massive bulk dutifully chugging along. The hatch door slides shut once they’ve made it safely back inside the main structure, and Max secures the interior fasteners and double-checks to make sure it is locked securely.

  “Satisfied?”

  Werner is flushed and windblown. He is so excited that his words turn into an unbroken stream of syllables. “That was incredible!”

  Werner flashes a grateful smile and marches back toward the security door. He is just as enraptured by the inner workings of the Hindenburg on the return trip, peppering Max with questions about this support beam or that aluminum shaft. Max can answer most of the questions easily, but there are a few that stump him. What coating covers the hydrogen cells to prevent the gas from leaking out? Who designed the diesel fuel tanks? The navigator grows impatient—Werner can tell by the clipped tone of his voice—but he humors him anyway, answering as best he can.

  After another five questions Max laughs. “Go ahead. Tell me again that you’re no good at sums.”

  Werner is ahead of Max now, and he lifts the sharp points of his shoulder blades in a shrug. He doesn’t look back. “I was top of my class.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  It is the truth. Technically. But the credit lies more with Werner’s mother than with him. She is the one who helped him study for every test; the one who patiently taught him to pick through words until he found their meaning. No longer being in school is irrelevant to Werner. But no longer being under his mother’s tutelage is starting to take its toll.

  Their shoes hang by the security door where they left them, and it takes only a moment to make the exchange. Werner stands straighter when back inside the passenger area. He’s about to say something to Max—to thank him—when they round a corner and nearly collide with Irene Doehner and her two little brothers. She is herding them toward the dining room but looks as though she’d rather still be in bed.

  Max catches him staring. The girl is pretty after all. Her hair is neither blond nor brown but one of those soft shades in between. Lips bright and soft like one of his mother’s potted roses. Blue eyes. They mumble apologies but do not make eye contact. It takes only a moment for her to glide around them in the corridor, and then she moves along after her brothers.

  Max nudges him with an elbow. “Five marks says you already know that girl’s name.”

  “Irene.” It’s a noble attempt at nonchalance, but his cheeks are hot.

  “Save yourself the trouble, kid.” Max straightens the collar of Werner’s white jacket. He assesses his appearance head to toe to make sure he’s not sporting grease stains or tears in his clothing. His voice betrays no hint of sadness, but he wears a melancholy expression that Werner has never seen before. “She’ll only break your heart.”

  He opens his mouth to defend himself, but Max interrupts. “You know what? Don’t tell me. I have my own troubles.”

  “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

  Werner turns to find the American waiting patiently a few steps away, sober, showered, and dressed in a clean, pressed suit. It takes Werner a moment to realize that he isn’t speaking to Max.

  “Might I have a word with you?” the American says.

  Werner looks at Max for approval.

  “Go on. You don’t need my permission.” Then he glances at the passenger and tips his hat. “Guten Morgen.”

  The American gives a disinterested nod, barely shift
ing his gaze to Max in greeting. Werner can’t help but feel that it’s not an altogether friendly gaze.

  THE AMERICAN

  The American leads Werner into the dining room before he speaks. But it becomes immediately apparent that the young Doehner girl is a distraction. The cabin boy is watching her situate her brothers at the table nearest the observation windows. And she must know it because her chin is lifted at a coy angle and there is an exaggerated awareness in her movements. Women do learn early.

  The American clears his throat. “What do you know about dogs?”

  Werner tries to mask his confusion. “They stink.”

  “Sometimes. But more to the point, do you like them?”

  “Well enough. My grandfather breeds Doberman pinschers.”

  “Are you afraid of them?”

  “They can be nasty dogs if treated poorly. Or trained to guard.”

  “Not pinschers. Dogs in general.”

  Werner hesitates a moment too long. “No. I don’t suppose so.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “It depends on the dog. I was bitten once. Right here.” Werner rolls back the cuff of his jacket to reveal four pale scars on his forearm.

  “You should be afraid of them. Dogs are animals after all.”

  “Why are you asking me this, Herr…?”

  The American doesn’t offer his surname, merely peers at the boy and waits for him to ask the obvious questions.

  After an awkward silence the cabin boy continues. “Why do you want to know if I like dogs? And if they scare me?”

  “Because there is a dog on this aircraft that I would like you to care for. I’ll pay you to do it. But if you’re lazy or a coward or cruel I need to know up front. I’d rather not waste my time or money.”

  “I’m none of those things.”