“Eat.”
Ulla rushes forward at the command and inhales her dinner. When observed coldly, the act is almost violent. She does not bite or chew but rather consumes with bared teeth and wild gulps. Alsatians are nearly indistinguishable from German shepherds, their temperaments fierce and protective, but Ulla has one great distinction. Instead of the traditional brown and black markings, she is completely white. Albino? he wonders. But no, her eyes are a deep black. In the scant light they look like bits of obsidian, reflecting his curiosity back at him. Joseph Sp?h has her well in hand, but the American does not doubt for a moment that this animal is intelligent. She is not to be trifled with.
“Shut up,” Sp?h says to the mutt in the other cage as it throws itself against the slats, whining.
“It’s hungry.”
Sp?h frowns. “It is not my responsibility.” But there is no hardness in his voice. Rather a faint thread of compassion.
Ulla licks the plate until it rattles against the floor. There isn’t so much as a breadcrumb or ribbon of fish left when she’s done. The expensive Nazi plate is delicate, with silver edging, and it’s being licked by a dog. The American finds this very apropos, and the sight puts him in an inexplicably good mood.
As it turns out, Ulla proves to be worth whatever Sp?h has paid to transport her across the Atlantic. The tricks he has taught her are quite spectacular. She can stand on her hind legs or forelegs at a single command. She can do a back flip and speak her name. Ulla is almost human in the way she anticipates her master’s needs, and the American quite enjoys the show Sp?h performs on his behalf.
“Good night, girl,” Sp?h whispers as he rubs behind her ears and under her chin. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Until now the airship has felt incomplete to the American, as though he has seen only part of a map. But now, having walked the Hindenburg from one end to the other, he feels a greater sense of certainty in his mission. There are still closed doors, places he has not been, things he hasn’t seen, but he will rectify that. He has been on board for a little over five hours, and the shape of the great airship is forming in his mind.
He bids Sp?h good night and thanks him for the chance to meet Ulla as they re-enter the passenger area.
“You should come with me again tomorrow. I think she likes you.”
Foolish dog, the American thinks.
Sp?h claps him on the back. “I’ll come get you in the morning.”
“Not too early.”
He peers at the ceiling as though trying to decide the time of day. “Don’t worry, when I get home my days of sleeping in are over. I have three children. They wake up at the most ungodly hour every single day.”
“Anytime after seven.” He parts ways with Sp?h, who turns at the stairs to head up toward A-deck, and returns to his room.
The pistol is still there. He moved it to the bottom of his suitcase when he went to dinner. The American feels the reassuring weight of it in his hands. The cartridge is still loaded. His room has not been entered. He can tell this by the little clues he set in place before leaving: one corner of the pillowcase tucked underneath. The closet door closed but not latched. The sink set to a faint drip. The shirts folded at the top of his suitcase. He takes a deep, satisfied breath and begins to undress for bed. It will take some time to quiet his mind. It will take much longer to fall asleep.
He has just stretched out on the berth when the door to the next cabin opens. Laughter. A man’s voice, and then a woman’s. Whispers. The door closes with a loud click.
It is well past midnight now and the airship is eerily quiet. Too quiet for the woman to be speaking as loudly as she does.
“Do you think he’s right?” she asks.
“Ssshhhh,” her partner says, and then lower, “About what, Liebchen?”
“About the bomb.”
The American sits up straight, every muscle tense, breath held, listening for whatever it is they will say next.
THE JOURNALIST
“Ssshhhh.” Leonhard stands behind her, his lips close to her ear. Warm. And his voice is little more than a whisper. “It’s Colonel Erdmann’s job to worry, not yours.”
“But—”
“Quiet, Liebchen.”
“He said—”
“I know what he said.”
Gertrud loves Leonhard’s hands. He is bright and educated and easily the funniest man she has ever met, but his hands are not the soft, indolent hands of an academic. They are broad and strong and calloused. They are the hands of a man who has never known a sedentary day. And right now those hands snake around her waist, stroking, massaging until they find the top button of her skirt. He flicks it open with two fingers and the fabric at her waist relaxes. Gertrud is never more aware of how much older Leonhard is than when he touches her. It is startling how much skill he has acquired in those two extra decades.
“I know what you’re doing,” she says.