Werner spits a mouthful of water into his hand. “What did you do that for?”
“It was my idea.” The boy turns slowly at the stern voice of Heinrich Kubis. The chief steward holds an empty bucket in one hand and a towel in the other. “Congratulations, Herr Franz, you have just crossed the line.”
A sailor’s baptism can take many forms—most of them far more cruel than what Werner experienced—but they all have one thing in common: a new sailor is initiated upon crossing the equator for the first time. It’s a sign that he can handle a long journey, that he is accepted by his peers. Werner has heard the stories often enough, but he never thought that he would experience the ritual.
“But we didn’t cross the equator,” Werner argues.
He has never seen the chief steward smile before. Under different circumstances he might mistake it for a wince.
“Perhaps not,” Kubis says. “But today we land in Bremershaven and this voyage will be complete. You have carried yourself like a man. You deserve to be recognized.” He looks directly at Werner and when he speaks again his voice is filled with sincerity. “You have passed your probationary period, Werner. Would you like a permanent position with the Zeppelin-Reederei?”
He is confused. “But the ship is gone.”
Kubis appears unconcerned. “They will find a place for you.”
“You mean I still have a job?”
“Not just any job.” Kubis pulls a telegram from his pocket and hands it to Werner. “You have been invited to become a steward on the Graf Zeppelin. By Captain Hans von Schiller himself.”
Hope, that small fluttering thing, beats against his rib cage. Werner has been mourning the loss of his job as deeply as he has mourned his friends. He did not know how much he loved flying until he set foot on the damp, rocking deck of the Europa. Every day on board the steamship has been a small, acute death for him.
Werner takes the telegram from Kubis and reads it for himself. Slowly. Carefully. If he struggles over a word or two he does not let on. He stands there for a moment letting the invitation sink in. Werner is no longer a cabin boy. He is a steward.
Heinrich Kubis grabs Werner’s hand and shakes it with a firm, confident grip. Man to man. “They are expecting your response this morning. But first you should have some cake.”
THE NAVIGATOR
July 24, 1937, Hauptfriedhof cemetery, Frankfurt, 7:25 p.m.
This is not a place where people linger. The cemetery is so filled with shadows and sorrow that Max finds himself alone, as he has every other evening he has come to visit Emilie’s grave. This is a place that whispers of loss if you listen closely. And if you linger beneath the sprawling branches or walk among the worn headstones, you will be lured into an otherworldly trance. This frightens most people and they hasten away the moment their tears and flowers have been laid upon the ground. But Max knows that if you resist the instinct to run you will find something lovely here. You will find peace. And he craves that more than company these days.
Max sits beside Emilie, his shoulder pressed against the smooth granite of her headstone, watching the sun sink above a copse of spruce trees that have turned beryl and fragrant in the summer heat. In this gathering dusk the light has a spectral quality, a shimmering goldenness that is breathtaking. Humbling, even. The beauty of this silent, reverent place lifts the shell of numbness that Max has carried since the wreck. His body aches, desperate for Emilie’s phantom touch, the way she tugged his earlobe between thumb and forefinger when they kissed. Her cool hand at the base of his neck. Her laughter. Anything. Everything. Max misses the entirety of her. So he participates in this aching, visceral ritual. It is a cruelty he inflicts upon himself, the pulling of a scab from an aging wound, one he picks constantly to keep her near.
Her memory returns, hovers at his side as he prepares to read the letter again. Max can almost see her gliding through this verdant place, the beautiful woman who could have been his wife, now nothing more than ghost and memory. He can almost hear the sound of her laughter, can almost feel the warmth of her hand. This vision of Emilie evaporates as quickly as it came, but emotions follow immediately in its wake. They come first as pain—there are so many and they are so intense—but he closes his eyes and lets them wash over him. Soon they turn to other things. Sadness. Joy. Loneliness. Anger. Hope. Regret. Guilt. Love—this is the hardest to bear, and he bends beneath its weight. Max receives the emotions one by one, and when the wave has subsided he looks to the sky again. He breathes.