The assumption is simple. Na?ve. Entitled. And from the corner of her eye Emilie sees Matilde shake her head. Irene is quite intelligent, but clearly her education has been lacking.
“There are things that money cannot buy, young lady. A forward-thinking father is one of them.” Margaret sets a gentle hand on Irene’s shoulder. “Having one is a privilege you should not take for granted.”
“How do you know so much about Princeton if you didn’t go there?”
“My brother is one of their art and architecture professors.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I’ve come home to visit him for the summer.”
Emilie watches Irene’s face change. She sees the resolve drop like a curtain falling across a window. “I will go to university,” she declares, then turns to her mother. “Can I go, Mama?”
There is humor in Matilde’s voice. But there is also pride. “It’s a bit early for that, don’t you think?”
Irene shifts those imperious blue eyes back to Margaret Mather. “How do I get into university?”
Margaret stifles a grin. “Learning English would be a good place to start. As a matter of fact, learn as many languages as you can. Study. Observe. Learn to communicate intelligently—both with your voice and in print.”
Matilde gives Emilie a pointed look as if to say: See, my daughter’s dreams depend on you.
Emilie sighs. Irene is pointing at things on the ground below and having Margaret tell her the English names. She repeats the words carefully, her mind already set on learning this strange new language. It seems possible, this life she’s being offered. Appealing even. There is no threat to her life and very little to her heart. Why shouldn’t she leave? Why shouldn’t she build a life for herself apart from ghosts and dictators? Emilie watches Irene Doehner make her first stubborn attempts to learn a new language, and she pushes the thought of Max from her mind.
Emilie looks at Matilde and nods. “Very well, then.”
THE NAVIGATOR
4:00 p.m.—three hours and twenty-five minutes until the explosion
The light at four o’clock in the afternoon is different from that of any other time of day. Max feels that this is true even now, with the sun blotted out by storm clouds. He would prefer a cobalt sky filled with golden light, of course. This never-ending gray-upon-gray does nothing to lighten his mood, and yet he must admit the sky is oddly beautiful. But it’s a savage beauty, and it makes him uneasy. The clouds are heavy-bottomed, dark and churning, with the low roll of thunder threatening violence.
The crew is restless. They want this ship on the ground. The passengers are restless. They want to be off the Hindenburg and on their way. But six hundred feet is a long way to descend safely when the weather turns unstable. His shift ended two hours ago, but he has come back to the control car to assist with landing.
Max can see the struggle play out on Commander Pruss’s face. His gaze is on neither the sky nor the soil, but straight ahead at that midpoint on the horizon where the two meet. They all hope the path is clearer ahead and that by some miracle they will be able to land, but things are not looking good. Pruss leans forward, tense. His jaw is clenched. His eyes, not tight but wide and round, are unblinking.
The airship glides over the New Jersey Pine Barrens, dotted by the occasional flat scrub oak, and begins its initial approach toward Lakehurst. The enormous bulk of Hangar No. 1 dwarfs everything else in the vicinity. Max notes that the landing crew has not assembled on the field. A bad sign. There are spectators and a handful of reporters—he can see the tiny pop of flashbulbs—but the great hangar doors are closed. And then the telegraph machine sends out a series of abrasive little chirps in the radio room above. Max doesn’t wait for the order. He goes to retrieve the message and then understands why the landing crew has not assembled.
He hands it to Commander Pruss, who reads it aloud: “Wind gusts now twenty-five knots.”
Max can feel the faintest drag of the ship as the crew struggles to keep it from bearing port side. It has not begun to rain. And though the sky threatens lightning, it has yet to manifest. But Pruss will not be able to land the ship. Not now, at any rate. Not with this wind.
The commander’s shoulders drop, just an inch, and his body uncoils from the strain of determination. A sigh. A muttered curse. “Head southeastward,” he finally says, “toward the coast. We will wait out the storm.”
THE AMERICAN
4:15 p.m.—three hours and ten minutes until the explosion
“Where are we going? Why aren’t we landing?” What little hair Moritz Feibusch has sits on the top of his scalp in an unruly pile that he has twisted into something resembling a Brillo pad.
It is an odd camaraderie the American has formed with the two Jewish businessmen. They seek him out whenever the passengers congregate in groups. They join him at meals. They speak with him, as though speaking with a friend. The American is not used to being liked. It makes him uncomfortable.