Werner sets the tray down beside the hatch that leads to the control car and yells, “Coffee!”
Usually before returning to the kitchen he waits beside the opening until one of the officers climbs the ladder to collect the tray. But this morning when Christian Nielsen pops his head out of the hatch he motions Werner forward. “Commander Pruss wants to see you,” he says. There’s less than an hour until Max replaces Nielsen at the navigation table, and he looks like a man eager to see his bed. Pallid skin. Tired eyes. And his breath isn’t much to speak of either.
Werner blinks, startled. The commander has never summoned him before. Though it isn’t uncommon for him to be called to help with the passengers occasionally, he is on this ship to serve the needs of the officers and crew. Werner joins Xaver Maier in the kitchen at 6:00 a.m. to clean any dishes used by the crew on the late shift. Plates and bowls and mugs are always strewn around the kitchen and mess areas, covered in bits of dried food. Xaver leaves out a variety of meats and cheeses and breads for them, and he is enraged every morning when he finds that none of the crew has gone to the trouble of rinsing their dishes in the sink. For his part, Werner doesn’t know why the chef throws such a fit. He’s not the one who has to wash them. It’s part of the cabin boy’s job, and he always does it without complaint. Once the kitchen is clean and prepped for breakfast, Werner takes coffee to the control car. A large silver carafe and six mugs. No cream. No sugar. No spoons. Werner has noticed that all of them sweeten their coffee when they have it in the officers’ mess but they drink it black while on duty. For a long time he thought it had to do with wanting to stay alert. But he has known the men long enough now to realize they are simply competing with one another. It’s stupid, he thinks, and when he’s a man he’ll drink his coffee however he wants and won’t care if anyone thinks less of him for adding cream and sugar.
After an uncertain pause, Werner hands the tray to Nielsen and shimmies down the ladder after him. The control car is cold, at least a good ten to fifteen degrees colder than the rest of the airship, and all of these warm bodies in the chilly room have created a layer of condensation on the windows. They’re foggy. Not that it would matter. Everything outside of them is gray mist anyway. He follows Nielsen through the utility area, into the navigation room, then to the bridge. Pruss stands at the rudder wheel, staring into the gloom.
“You need me, Commander?”
Pruss nods a greeting, then hands Werner a piece of paper folded in half. One word is scrawled on the outside in black ink, a surname. “I need you to deliver this right away,” he says. He turns back to the rudder wheel without another word, but Werner can see his profile and he is struck, as he always is in the presence of the commander, that Pruss has the perpetual frown of a man lost in thought. The twin lines of concentration etched in his forehead are coupled with a determined mouth and a long, straight nose. This combination of features makes him appear formidable to Werner, almost unapproachable.
Werner waits until he has climbed the ladder and left the radio room to look at the name written on the paper. He doesn’t want the other men to see him struggling to sound it out. He doesn’t want them to know how difficult it is for him to read the simplest things. To him, reading is a lesson in frustration. A reason to throw books and stomp his feet. Even though he has learned to control those childish urges, he still approaches the written word with dismay. Sometimes a page will blur around the edges, but most often the words will double when he tries to focus. He sees two Rs where there should be only one. But he is making progress, or at least that’s what his mother says. She is the one who sits with him in the evenings and patiently, consistently teaches him to see the words through the pile of letters and symbols. Had she left it to the school he would never have learned to read at all. But there are things that even his mother cannot fix. She can’t stop the letters from dancing or flipping over; a d becomes a b in the time it takes him to blink. Werner doesn’t know whether that’s the letter on the page or whether his mind has swapped it for something similar. He doesn’t know whether he’s reading about a ditch or a bitch.