Flight of Dreams

by Ariel Lawhon

  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.”

  THE AMERICAN

  He squats in front of the cage, face twisted into a scowl. The dog has been left to sit in its own mess. Less than twelve hours since he was here with Joseph Späh, and the mutt has still not been fed or walked. It is pressed into one corner, tail wrapped around its hind legs to avoid lying in the puddle of concentrated urine. Ulla is stretched out in her crate opposite, curious but content, her large dark eyes alert and her chin resting on her paws. The other dog, however, is quivering with pent-up energy. It’s some odd mix of greyhound and Labrador and doesn’t seem to know what to do with its body in such a small space.

  The American sets his palm against the latch and the mutt rushes forward to sniff him. It is overeager. Spastic. Desperate for affection and exercise. Its small black nose is dry and rough against his palm. The dog is hungry and dirty and confused. The sight makes the American angry, and a small bead of heat gathers at the center of his chest.

  “What’s your name, mongrel?” he asks aloud.

  If it was capable of answering, he is certain it would. The dog leans into his hand with such enthusiasm he’s afraid it might bend the latch. There is no collar and no paperwork attached to the crate by which to identify it, and a cursory glance at its underbelly reveals no immediately distinguishing signs of gender. Only wet, matted clumps of hair. Given the mess, he isn’t inclined to investigate further.

  “Shit,” he says, “now I have to kill two people on this damned ship.”

  The American unlatches the crate, then steps aside quickly as the dog bolts out. It rushes around his legs in frantic circles, tail lashing and tongue hanging out. “Thirsty? You poor bastard. I have nothing for you.”

  He hasn’t come for the dog. And it’s a distraction now that he’s here. But he can’t very well ignore it. For one thing the crate is positioned right in front of the steamer trunk he has come to search. For another, he isn’t inclined to admit that the dog evokes his pity. That emotion is a weakness. One he cannot afford.

  “Sit,” he says, and it does.

  “Stay.” Again, it obeys, its tail whipping the floor with a single-minded desperation to please.

  He slides the crate out of the way and stands, hands on his hips, as he inspects the stacked pile of steamer trunks. He can see his own, halfway down the right-hand stack, toward the bottom. It’s rather battered and old and certainly not the nicest of the lot. Then again, he doesn’t usually travel via luxury liners of any sort. He is far more at home in wet trenches, dark bars, and back alleys.

  He doesn’t have much time. And the trunk he wants is a row back, halfway down the pile. He can see the iconic logo embossed on its leather exterior. It’s a bit scuffed now, after so much travel, but that only increases the charm. A woman who can afford such a trunk can also afford to travel. The trunk is holding together nicely, as is its owner. Expensive things always do. Margaret Mather is not the sort of woman who would settle for anything less than Louis Vuitton. To her credit, however, she has not indulged in excess. She has brought only the one trunk. Women in her position often bring ten.

  The American shifts the contents of the pile around until he’s able to slide out the designer trunk and wrestle it to the floor in front of him. There isn’t much space to work in the small cargo area, so he has to open the lid and pull out the compartments carefully. He feels certain Margaret Mather would approve of his delicate handling of her belongings if not the indecency of his digging through them. He finds what he’s looking for in the third drawer down. It’s cliché, really, the amount of jewels, but she is an heiress after all. Although, from the time he spent with her the evening before it seems as though she really doesn’t suit them. She’s too humble for this lifestyle.

  Three items catch his eye. He goes for the smaller, less obtrusive pieces, the things that won’t be immediately missed. A diamond solitaire ring. A delicate gold choker with a ruby pendant. A pair of simple pearl earrings. Anything gaudier than this and he won’t be able to trade them for the information he needs. If she misses them at all, it will take some time to detect their absence. He deposits the jewelry in his pocket, then restacks the freight exactly as it was before.

  The cargo room is small, square, and unheated. Apart from the dog crates and the steamer trunks, there are some heavy cardboard shipping boxes and a large, wrapped piece of furniture but nothing else. In one corner of the room is a pile of packing blankets, and in the other a stack of old newspapers. They’ll have to do. He cleans up the mess inside the crate as best he can using a handful of wadded papers, then lines the bottom of the crate with a few others. The American curses himself for the display of sympathy even as the dog throws itself at his feet in gratitude. He scratches between its ears and under its chin.

  “Stupid mutt,” he says as the dog submits itself completely and lies on its back, belly exposed, adoration pooling in its dark eyes. The American can’t remember the last time anyone or anything trusted him so quickly or so completely. “Well, no wonder. You’re a boy.”

  He has always maintained that female dogs are smarter. He wouldn’t pick a male dog from a litter to save his life. They destroy everything. They piss on themselves and on everything around them. And they escape at the first sign of a bitch in heat. Not so different from many of the soldiers he has known, now that he thinks about it. But still, given the choice, he would pick a female every time.

  “What are we going to do with you? Tragic little fucker. And unlucky too. No name. Shit owner.”

  He scoots the reluctant dog back into the crate with his foot, then wipes his fingers on his trousers. He doesn’t want to smell like a kennel for the rest of the day. He has already showered and changed his clothes and has no interest in repeating the process. The airship has only one shower, and it doesn’t offer much in the way of water pressure or warmth. It does feel good to be clean though, despite the fact that his hair is still damp and his scalp is starting to get cold in the unheated room.

  When he locks the crate the dog looks at him as though it’s being abandoned.

  “You’re not my problem,” he says. But the American knows better. He points an accusatory finger at the dog. “Damn it. Pathetic lazy owner. I don’t have time for this.”

  The dog presses its nose between the wicker slats and whines in response.

  “Well, I can’t look after a nameless mutt. What should I call you?” He mentally scrolls through every dog name he has ever heard, but they feel trite under the circumstances. So he studies the lean body. The narrow snout. The dappled gray coat. The huge floppy ears. Its keen, intelligent eyes. The way its muscles quiver with anticipation and the longing for freedom. “I bet you’re fast,” he mutters.

  And then he has it.

  “Owens,” he says. “Can’t do much better than that. Let’s just hope you give these fucking Nazis as much trouble as your namesake. Yes? Good.”

  The dog appraises him solemnly.

  “I’ll make sure you get something to eat soon.”

  The American closes the door to the cargo hold and tries to ignore the plaintive whimpering within. He turns away with a whispered oath and begins the trek back to the passenger area. It’s a straight shot, though dimly lit, and he can see the security door at the distant end of the keel catwalk, the light above it shining like a beacon. The next shift change won’t happen for another thirty minutes, so there’s a good chance he can get back to the passenger quarters without running into any of the midshipmen. But when he reaches the bank of crew quarters near the stern, he sees two figures maneuvering down the catwalk toward him. Dark shapes moving with purpose. One is clearly an officer—he can tell by the cap and the jacket and the confident stride—and the other is significantly shorter. Leaner. Gangly. A child maybe? No. That wouldn’t be logical. He filters all the possible options until his mind settles on the cabin boy. Yes. What is his name? Werner something. Franz. Werner Franz. Fourteen years old. A tooth
y boy with the look of perpetual curiosity about him.

  The American has two options. Continue forward and face the difficult task of explaining why he has been wandering around prohibited areas of the ship, or duck into one of the crew quarters and run the risk that it is occupied. He has stopped and is reaching his hand slowly toward the door of a cabin when the officer and cabin boy turn onto an access walkway and disappear behind a series of duralumin girders. He makes a quick decision and creeps forward along the catwalk. Closer now, he can see them approach a small exit hatch in the side of the ship. He recognizes the navigator, locates the name in his encyclopedic mind. Max Zabel.

  Surely not.

  Zabel pushes the lever upward, then pulls the door in. The air immediately shifts and grows colder. The American can hear the whistle of air and the roar of an engine. Slowly, steadily he creeps closer until he can almost hear their conversation, until he can see the look of poorly disguised terror on the cabin boy’s face. Then Zabel steps outside the airship, followed hesitantly a few moments later by Werner. The American glimpses a minuscule patch of cloud when he finally comes level to the access walkway. He’s fairly certain where the two have gone, though he can’t imagine what would have necessitated a trip to an outboard engine.

  His curiosity is too strong to let this chance pass. The American treads quickly down the walkway, then sticks his head out the open hatch. The engine gondola lies ten feet below. The access hatch into the gondola is shut. Zabel and Werner are somewhere within, doing God knows what inside the gondola. The American backs away from the hatch; even he is not bold enough to explore outside the ship.

  No one sees him as he slips back through the security door and into the passenger area. He makes a quick pass through the lounge to make sure the chief steward is tending passengers and is not in his stateroom. Sometimes fate cooperates in his machinations, and being placed in a cabin next to Heinrich Kubis is fortunate indeed. Not that he has to act drunk and confused when he picks the lock and sneaks into the room—there’s no one around to see him—but that is something he can fall back on should he be discovered.