Max has decided on his lie, but in the end it doesn’t matter. The Board of Inquiry is not interested in the people who traveled on board the Hindenburg—the quarrels and plans, the passions or the duplicities. They are interested in gas valves and bracing wires and stub keels. They are interested in technicalities. The Board of Inquiry wants to know if the tight turns the airship took in its second approach toward Lakehurst resulted in structural damage that punctured the gas cells. They want to know if everyone on board followed protocol. The committee of experts gathered to investigate the disaster is focused on mechanics. They spend a good bit of time talking about lightning strikes and static electricity. An hour is spent discussing wind speeds. Another twenty minutes on mooring lines.
Max Zabel sits in his wooden chair before a room full of people and carefully explains how he lowered the forward landing wheel. He tells them how strong headwinds delayed the trip by twelve hours over the journey of three and a half days, how the first landing attempt was thwarted by storms.
He is never asked about tensions between the passengers or secrets kept. He is never probed about his relationship with Emilie or the confiscation of her travel papers. He is not called on to account for his missing pistol or why his name was listed on the manifest as the owner of the second dog. Nor does he volunteer any of this information.
The German and American aviation experts gathered at Lakehurst are here to absolve themselves of blame. They are concerned only with things that do not matter. They are each determined to acquit their own countries. The one great success of the Board of Inquiry is that they agree on a single thing: they agree that they do not know why the airship crashed, only that it did. Only that its massive, combustible stores of hydrogen are at fault.
Sabotage is mentioned, of course. It has to be. But there is no proof. And while this might not be a court of law, they still require an eyewitness. A weapon. A motive. And none of these things is readily available, so the possibility of malicious intent is cast aside before it can be seriously considered. The results of this great raucous investigation are inconclusive. And that answer is more than good enough for both countries.
THE CABIN BOY
May 22, 1937, aboard the steamship Europa, 6:05 a.m.
Werner Franz has forgotten that today is his fifteenth birthday. He sees this reminder written on a cardboard sign in the hands of Xaver Maier when he enters the steamship’s elegant dining hall. He stands in the doorway as a small group of surviving stewards and kitchen crew members let out a chorus of raucous shouts and whistles. Most of his fellow crew members cluster near the chef, but a handful linger at the door, waiting for him to enter. Waiting to slap him on the back. Xaver steps away from the small round table to reveal a birthday cake.
The chef shrugs when he sees Werner’s stunned expression. “They let me use the kitchen.”
“You made that?” Werner asks.
There is something mischievous in Xaver’s smirk. He tries to hide it by drawing on the lit cigarette in his hand. “It’s a big day.”
Even though they are on board the Europa as passengers, Werner cannot shake the habit of rising early and reporting for duty. The others have teased him about this for days, but Werner can’t help it. He doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore. He doesn’t know how to let others serve his meals or make his bed. Nor does he enjoy this languid rocking pace at sea. It makes him nauseous. He is restless and out of sorts. So he sticks with the comfort of long-established routine. Yet this is the first time any of the crew has joined him in the dining room so early. He has gotten used to eating alone. Werner finds that he is so grateful for the company that he has to twist his face so they won’t see him cry. The sight of his friends and this gift is so overwhelming that he can allow only one delighted smile, a small nod, and then he stares at his shoes. It is too much.
He is wondering how to get control of these erratic feelings when suddenly there is a frigid torrent rushing down his shirt and into his trousers, followed by the sound of splashing water. Werner gasps, eyes squeezed shut, arms out, mouth open. When he tries to yelp he chokes on ice water. The water keeps coming, and he can hear laughter and cheering. He tries to speak but coughs instead. He stands there, before his fellow crew members, dripping wet. Werner shakes his floppy hair and water splatters across the plush carpet.
The cabin boy is frozen in place, dripping from head to toe, staring at Xaver Maier, who laughs so hard he has to steady himself against the table. “You look like a drowned cat.”