Flight of Dreams by Ariel Lawhon
For my husband, Ashley, who has taught me the meaning of sacrificial love.
Also for Marybeth. We’re even now.
And in loving memory of my grandmother, Mary Ellen Storrs. I never thought to ask her if she remembered the Hindenburg until it was too late.
To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken.
—C. S. LEWIS, THE FOUR LOVES
U.S. COMMERCE DEPARTMENT BOARD OF INQUIRY
HINDENBURG ACCIDENT HEARINGS
May 10, 1937
Naval Air Station, Main Hangar, Lakehurst, New Jersey
Please inform the Zeppelin company in Frankfurt that they should open and search all mail before it is put on board prior to every flight of the Zeppelin Hindenburg. The Zeppelin is going to be destroyed by a time bomb during its flight to another country.
—Letter from Kathie Rusch of Milwaukee to the German embassy in Washington, D.C., dated April 8, 1937
“This was not the first bomb threat, correct?” The man in the black glasses lifts the letter and waves it before the crowd. “Did anyone bother to count how many there were? Or, for God’s sake, to believe them?”
Max thinks the man’s last name is Schroeder, but he can’t remember, and in truth he doesn’t care. He’s a fool if he believes that crazy woman from Milwaukee and her letter. Not that anyone else in the room is concerned with Max’s quiet derision. People whisper and nod their heads like mindless puppets at the idea of sabotage. Search the mail, she said. There’s a bomb on board, she said. It’s a popular theory, especially now, with the wreckage still sprawled in the field outside. But no one cares about the truth. They prefer theatrics and conspiracy theories. And Schroeder is happy to provide them. He is ringmaster of this circus. He will make sure the mob is entertained.
Wilhelm Balla limps his way through the crowded hangar to stand next to Max. He escaped the crash with little more than a sprained ankle, but Max suspects he’s exaggerating even that. He leans a bit hard to the left with each step, showing off. Letting the world know he’s injured.
Balla searches Max’s face for clues to his emotional state. “Emilie?” he asks.
“What about her?”
“She’s prepared for the trip back to Germany?”
Max turns his attention to the spectacle at the front of the room. “I haven’t asked.”
“Let me know when she is. I’d like to say good-bye.” Balla clears his throat. “They have me booked on the Europa with Werner on the fifteenth. How is she going home?”
“On the Hamburg. With the others. It sails in three days.”
Wilhelm Balla is not a man who often displays emotion. It is up for debate whether he actually has a pulse. But this surprises him. “You aren’t traveling with her?”
Max leans his head against the window. The cool glass feels good against his throbbing temple. He hasn’t been able to shake this headache since the crash. No surprise, really, all things considered. “There are many things outside of my control, not the least of which is travel.” He taps the envelope in his pocket with the pad of one finger and then draws his hand away. “I don’t testify until the nineteenth. I’ll take the Bremen the following day.”
Balla gives him the long, appraising look that Max finds so aggravating. “How many times have you read Emilie’s letter?”
“Once was enough.” It’s a lie. But he has no interest in confiding in Balla. Not after the trouble he caused.