Flight of Dreams

by Ariel Lawhon

  “Twenty dollars says you can’t do it.” The American stops and tilts his head back to stare at the cruciform bracing directly above them.

  “I was in jail once,” Joseph Späh says. “Some nameless town on the Austrian border. Spent three days in the cell for public intoxication. I didn’t much enjoy it, and if you don’t mind I’d rather not repeat the process. The food’s terrible in jail. So is the company.”

  The acrobat barely comes to his shoulder, so it’s impossible not to look down at him. The American drifts back a few steps so it’s not as obvious. Small men don’t tend to appreciate the reminder. “Who’s going to see you?” The American spreads his arms, spins on the empty walkway to illustrate the point.

  The keel catwalk is empty in both directions. Passengers and crew are at dinner. It’s the last night of the flight. Everyone is otherwise occupied. They are killing time. Waiting for bed. Because tomorrow they will be flying over New York City, and then things will finally get interesting. Everyone on board this ship is thinking about what they are going to do when they land. The American is thinking about what must happen in the next few precious hours.

  “Do you know what would happen if they caught me climbing that? Do you know what they would think?”

  “That the infamous Joseph Späh is worth the ticket price.”

  This is too much for the acrobat’s ego. Few men can withstand such blatant stroking. “I will tell them that you dared me,” he says. He points a finger but already it’s halfhearted. The idea is planted. “That you paid me.”

  “You’d have to be caught first, and that isn’t going to happen. Let me tell you a secret.” The American lowers his voice, makes it conspiratorial. “People don’t look up. Not at the clouds or the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. They don’t look at tree branches or gutters. Want to stay hidden? Start climbing.”

  This isn’t entirely true, of course. But it’s what Späh wants to hear. He’s experiencing withdrawal. He needs to perform. The man hasn’t heard applause in at least three days. He hasn’t been able to sit still for hours. It’s a wonder he hasn’t broken into song or started tap-dancing on the tables yet.

  “If I go to jail, you go to jail.” He slips out of his suit coat and hands it to the American.

  “Fear not, I’m good behind bars.” Good at getting what he wants. Good at making sure his throat doesn’t get cut in the middle of the night.

  Späh doesn’t stretch or roll up his shirtsleeves. He simply leaps. Had he not witnessed it himself, the American would never have believed that such a short man could get so far off the ground. But he squats, coils, and springs. He is four feet in the air before the American can blink. It’s like watching a monkey or a squirrel or a lemur—one of those creatures with a preternatural sense of balance. He bends, flips, swings up the cruciform bracing, leaping from beam to beam. He doesn’t make it look easy; he makes it look like destiny. As if humans ought to abandon their time as dirt dwellers and take to the sky. As if Späh might actually throw himself off, sprout wings, and fly.

  For the first time since meeting the strange little acrobat, the American feels a twinge of jealousy. Späh is halfway up now, just below the axial catwalk, and he slows, lifts his head up to make sure the way up is clear, then continues the ascent. The American assumed that Späh would do the minimum necessary to prove that he could climb the girders. But he has proven he can climb whatever the bloody hell he wants. The American concedes a begrudging respect.

  It is 135 feet from the base of the Hindenburg to its highest point. And Joseph Späh climbs all sixteen stories with such ease that he appears bored. And there, at the very top, he leans out at a near ninety-degree angle and waves. Then because he’s a damn showoff he reaches out and lays a hand on one of the hydrogen gas cells. Maybe to say, Here I am and I’ve conquered this bastard. Or, most likely, just because he can. But that single intimate touch gives the American an idea. He feels another piece of his plan snap into place.

  Späh comes down just as easily—perhaps more so—and the American steps aside to give him room to land. He takes a bow. “Well?”

  “Impressive.”

  “I was going for spectacular.”

  “Hungry for applause?” He hands Späh his jacket and the plate loaded with dinner scraps, then turns toward the cargo area where Ulla is waiting for her dinner.

  “Recognition. There’s a big difference.”

  No, the American thinks, there is only the matter of motive. The why behind our actions. He will make sure that Joseph Späh gets recognition for what he has just done. But it won’t be in a way the acrobat likes or will even be aware of. At some point tonight when he relaxes with the other passengers in the lounge or the bar, the American will mention this tremendous feat, that gentle touch on the gas cell, and they will remember these details later. They will repeat them. They just won’t remember how they came by this knowledge.

  The art of disinformation lies in placing suspicion elsewhere. Leave a trail of breadcrumbs that lead nowhere. Create a distraction. Provide reasonable doubt. Coerce a man into performing an acrobatic feat when he feels safe and unseen, and then make sure others know he is capable of the act. Slowly, subtly, constantly cast suspicion on everyone but yourself. Do this and there will be so many questions, so many possibilities, that no one will ever connect the dots.

  THE JOURNALIST

  As Leonhard sets the Maybach 12 onto the lacquered table in front of Captain Lehmann, the frosted glass immediately begins to sweat. He pulls out a chair for Gertrud first, directly across from the captain, then settles in beside her.

  Lehmann raises the glass in toast, takes a sip, and says, “To what do I owe this honor?”

  “We need to talk,” Leonhard says.

  Gertrud scrapes a bit of frost from her glass with a thumbnail. She listens. They agreed on this earlier. She will listen. Nothing more. Leonhard and the captain have known each other for over twenty years and have developed a legitimate friendship in the course of co-writing Lehmann’s biography. Lehmann does not know Gertrud at all, and he will not appreciate any contribution she could make to this particular conversation.

  Lehmann’s biography—simply titled Zeppelin—has done well in Germany, and all signs suggest it will be a hit in America as well when it is released next month. Leonhard has earned Lehmann’s trust the old-fashioned way, with time and consistency. Yet Gertrud itches to interrogate the captain anyway. She has questions and she wants answers, but she has promised Leonhard that she will chew on her tongue if necessary.

  “What do we need to talk about?” Lehmann asks.

  Leonhard rests his elbows on the table. “The American passenger on board this flight.”

  “Which one? There are many.”

  “Edward Douglas.” Leonhard says the name slowly and watches Lehmann’s face for any sign of duplicity.

  “Ah. That one. I suspected as much.”

  “Do explain.”

  “Edward Douglas is something of an anomaly.”

  “You know him?”

  “I know of him. He works for an American advertising company in Frankfurt. His paperwork checks out. According to our sources he is going home to visit family, a mother and four brothers, to be precise. We have no official reason to suspect his actions or his passage on board this trip.”

  Leonhard tries very hard not to pounce on this information. Gertrud can see him tensing beside her, putting pieces together in his mind.

  “And yet?” he asks.

  “We are monitoring him.”

  Leonhard laughs this off. “You’re monitoring everyone.”

  Lehmann doesn’t deny it. He simply glances at Gertrud, offers a patronizing smile, and turns back to Leonhard. So that’s how it is. Lehmann will not speak freely in her presence. Fine. Gertrud isn’t a fool. Leonhard can get the job done. He has been prying information out of sources since before she was born.

  Gertrud yawns and stretches, then lays a hand on Leonhard’s arm. “If
you don’t mind, I think I’ll join the ladies in the reading room. I’d like to finish my book.”

  Leonhard is not fooled by her doe-eyed look. A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. He winks at Lehmann and says, “Do excuse my wife.”

  Both men rise from the table, and Lehmann hands her the Maybach 12. “Good evening, Frau Adelt. Don’t forget your drink.”

  Gertrud walks from the smoking room with an exaggerated, feminine sway, but once she’s alone in the corridor she tips her glass back and drinks the Maybach 12 in two long gulps. Then she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and swears.

  THE CABIN BOY

  Werner watches the last of the crew finish dinner and stack their plates in the middle of the table. He pulls out his pocket watch. Frowns. He holds it to his ear to make sure it’s still working. Sure enough, the steady tick-tick-tick sounds within. The watch is correct. It’s only eight o’clock but everyone is done with dinner. They normally linger, dragging out each free moment until their duties resume. But tonight the crew’s mess has emptied early. He gathers the dishes and carries them into the kitchen. The sink is his for fifteen minutes—Xaver’s routine will only allow for a short interruption—so the cabin boy makes quick work of the delicate china. Werner returns to the crew’s mess to put the dishes away and wipe down the tables. He sweeps. Checks the chairs and banquettes for crumbs and sticky patches, then declares the job complete. This gives him a moment to pause as he does a quick calculation. He now has half an hour of free time. A rare luxury.

  Last year the Hindenburg carried a Blüthner baby grand piano in the lounge. It was custom-made to comply with flight requirements—weighing a mere 397 pounds—and instead of the standard wood shell was covered with yellow pig skin. While on break Werner would linger in the lounge listening to passengers play ragtime on the piano. He liked the raucous music and the gregarious singing that accompanied it. He misses it. Had it been up to him, he would have kept the piano. But the powers that be decided that the few hundred pounds of weight could be better used to store cargo. Freight brings a profit; pianos do not. So there is no music on this flight and, as a result, Werner thinks the atmosphere is too somber. He heads toward the lounge anyway. There’s no telling what the passengers will be up to, and there’s a good chance he’ll find some form of entertainment. A card game. Or perhaps a bit of storytelling. There are a number of Americans on board. They always seem to have the most outrageous stories. And a curious sense of humor.

  Later tonight, when he finally crawls into bed, he will wonder if Irene Doehner lingered on the stairs because she was waiting for him. But now he only thinks that he is pleased to see her. That the gangway stairs are his favorite spot on the ship because he has the habit of running into her here. She is sitting halfway up the steps, a mess of needlepoint on her lap. She looks frustrated. And then delighted when she sees him. Irene rises to her feet, and he notes that there is nothing awkward about the motion. She is simply standing where a moment before she was sitting.

  He offers a shy smile, and she returns it with one of her own.

  Werner nods, polite. “Pardon me, Fräulein.”

  He tries to step around her, but she says, “Wait.”

  He never expected a kiss. Werner would have been happy with smiles and a handful of flirtatious glances. Had he been particularly bold, he would have orchestrated a way for his hand to touch hers just once during the flight. So when Irene sets her mouth at the corner of his and presses in with her small, soft lips he nearly falls backward down the stairs. It doesn’t last more than a second or two, but to him time freezes and every bit of the sensation comes rushing into his mind. He records everything, as though taking notes for a paper at school. The way her hair brushes against his ear. The way she smells of soap—nice and clean and with the faintest tang of lye. The warmth of her mouth. The buzzing of his blood as it rushes through his ears. He has been kissed. It is a shock and a wonder.

  One of Irene’s front teeth is slightly crooked. He can see this when she pulls away and her smile grows wider. She is delighted by his surprise.

  “Thank you,” she says, “for the flower. I kept it. I have it pressed inside a book.”

  Werner is dumbfounded. He has lost all capacity for speech. Say something, you Dummkopf, he thinks. Finally, after an aching silence, he says, “I will bring you another one tomorrow.”

  He isn’t sure if his voice cracks or squeaks or if he has even said this out loud until Irene laughs.

  “I will look for it.”

  The poor boy has no idea what to do next. Is he supposed to stay and talk to her? Should he return the kiss? Should he jump and whoop and holler and run around like he has scored the winning kick in Fußball? He has spent a lot of time talking with his brother about girls. He has even had a few conversations with his father. But no one has bothered to tell him what happens after a moment like this. And when he realizes that he is staring at Irene, mute and dumb, he does the only thing he can think to do: he laughs as well—high and bright and too close to a giggle for his liking—then runs up the stairs.

  Werner takes them two at a time and arrives at the top with a wild bound. The wattage on my face must be blinding, he thinks. And he is half-blinded himself because it takes him a second or two to see Gertrud Adelt studying him. She has witnessed the entire thing.

  THE JOURNALIST

  The cabin boy looks as though he has been struck by lightning. But the second he sees her, his expression of delight drains away and is replaced by terror. Werner freezes at the top of the stairs, mouth open. It takes Gertrud only a moment to realize that she can play this to her advantage. She holds up one finger—silence—until Irene’s retreating back disappears below. It’s not fair, but what’s the point of being intimidating if she doesn’t exercise the skill every once in a while? And it’s not like he will be permanently harmed by what she’s about to do. Just startled. And really, when dealing with teenage boys, it’s best to keep them off balance.

  “Are you trying to get that girl in trouble?” she demands.

  Werner flinches, and she has to stuff her guilt behind an impassive expression.

  “No.”

  “So what are you playing at, then?”

  “Nothing! I…she kissed me.”

  “You’ve been flirting with her. You gave her a flower.”

  The circulatory system of the adolescent male is superior to that of all other humans. There is no other explanation for the ferocious color that fills his cheeks. Adults simply cannot get that red. Gertrud isn’t sure if the boy is going to cry or faint, so as an act of mercy she places one calming hand on his shoulder. Gives him a gentle pat.

  “Please don’t—”

  “I won’t tell—”

  “Oh, thank God!”

  “I won’t tell,” she repeats, slower this time, “if you will do me one small favor.”

  He may only be fourteen, but he is smart and cautious, and he frowns at her now, suspicious. “What sort of favor?”

  “The kind where you do what I tell you, no questions asked.”

  “I don’t—”

  “The alternative,” she says, “is that I go to Irene Doehner’s father—he’s just around that corner, on the promenade—and tell him that his daughter is kissing cabin boys in the corridors. That she is keeping and pressing flowers that have been given to her. That young boys can’t be trusted, and that he ought to keep a better eye on his daughter so she doesn’t get taken advantage of. What do you think a man like Hermann Doehner would think of such things?”

  Werner is quick and shrewd and thinks well on his feet. “So you would have me exchange one trouble for another?”

  “If I wanted to get you in trouble I wouldn’t bother trying to negotiate. If you are as clever as I suspect you are, you will find no danger in this task.”

  “And if not?”

  Gertrud ponders this for a moment. “Then we will both find ourselves in a very difficult predicament. Does that sound fair enou
gh to you?”

  “It all depends on the task, I suppose.”

  THE STEWARDESS

  When Emilie was hired by the Deutsche Zeppelin-Reederei in September of 1936, the company sent out a press release and a number of photographs, one of which showed Emilie bathing a young girl in a child-size tub. At first glance it appears that both Emilie and her young charge are on the Hindenburg and that the picture is a candid snapshot of her work life. Germany was fascinated by the world’s first airship stewardess, after all. And her employment on this ship is a milestone for women. Emilie thinks of that photo at some point during every flight. Not because she accomplished something no other woman ever has, but because she badly wishes there was a bathtub on the Hindenburg. The photo was staged, of course. There is only the one shower, and it’s not the most practical place for bathing children. Yet the Doehner boys have gone from smelling rangy to smelling ripe, and their mother has ordered them to shower. She has brought Emilie along to assist. Once they’re inside the small room, and the boys are shrieking and splashing beneath the spray, Emilie realizes that Matilde is also creating space for them to speak without being heard.

  “You have questions, I suppose?” Matilde crosses her arms over her chest—how she does this with such large breasts Emilie can’t fathom—and looks at her expectantly.

  “I wouldn’t call them questions.”

  “Doubts?”

  “Fears.” Emilie collects Walter’s trousers from the floor and folds them neatly. She sets them on the bench and then does the same with Werner’s. “How did you know about my situation?”

  She shrugs. “It didn’t take much sleuthing, I’m afraid. We overheard something at dinner last night. They were speaking English at the table next to us. Hermann is better at it than I am, but it comes with the territory. We travel a lot. We speak a number of languages, though not so many as you, I suspect.”