“It’s not cheap. But not nearly as expensive as this—or as fun, if you want to know the truth. You could buy a car for the price of a ticket on the Hindenburg.”
They’ve not quite come parallel with the ocean liner when the Europa sends out a friendly bellow of her horn, and they look down to see a handful of people on deck waving madly in greeting. Tiny faceless mites. From this height they look no bigger than grains of rice. Werner wonders what it’s like for them to look up and see this colossus overhead. How strange it must be. Beasts of this size should be in the ocean, not over it.
They wait to finish climbing the ladder until the Europa has slipped a good distance behind, her massive bulk dutifully chugging along. The hatch door slides shut once they’ve made it safely back inside the main structure, and Max secures the interior fasteners and double-checks to make sure it is locked securely.
“Satisfied?”
Werner is flushed and windblown. He is so excited that his words turn into an unbroken stream of syllables. “That was incredible!”
Werner flashes a grateful smile and marches back toward the security door. He is just as enraptured by the inner workings of the Hindenburg on the return trip, peppering Max with questions about this support beam or that aluminum shaft. Max can answer most of the questions easily, but there are a few that stump him. What coating covers the hydrogen cells to prevent the gas from leaking out? Who designed the diesel fuel tanks? The navigator grows impatient—Werner can tell by the clipped tone of his voice—but he humors him anyway, answering as best he can.
After another five questions Max laughs. “Go ahead. Tell me again that you’re no good at sums.”
Werner is ahead of Max now, and he lifts the sharp points of his shoulder blades in a shrug. He doesn’t look back. “I was top of my class.”
“That’s what I thought.”
It is the truth. Technically. But the credit lies more with Werner’s mother than with him. She is the one who helped him study for every test; the one who patiently taught him to pick through words until he found their meaning. No longer being in school is irrelevant to Werner. But no longer being under his mother’s tutelage is starting to take its toll.
Their shoes hang by the security door where they left them, and it takes only a moment to make the exchange. Werner stands straighter when back inside the passenger area. He’s about to say something to Max—to thank him—when they round a corner and nearly collide with Irene Doehner and her two little brothers. She is herding them toward the dining room but looks as though she’d rather still be in bed.
Max catches him staring. The girl is pretty after all. Her hair is neither blond nor brown but one of those soft shades in between. Lips bright and soft like one of his mother’s potted roses. Blue eyes. They mumble apologies but do not make eye contact. It takes only a moment for her to glide around them in the corridor, and then she moves along after her brothers.
Max nudges him with an elbow. “Five marks says you already know that girl’s name.”
“Irene.” It’s a noble attempt at nonchalance, but his cheeks are hot.
“Save yourself the trouble, kid.” Max straightens the collar of Werner’s white jacket. He assesses his appearance head to toe to make sure he’s not sporting grease stains or tears in his clothing. His voice betrays no hint of sadness, but he wears a melancholy expression that Werner has never seen before. “She’ll only break your heart.”
He opens his mouth to defend himself, but Max interrupts. “You know what? Don’t tell me. I have my own troubles.”
“There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”
Werner turns to find the American waiting patiently a few steps away, sober, showered, and dressed in a clean, pressed suit. It takes Werner a moment to realize that he isn’t speaking to Max.
“Might I have a word with you?” the American says.
Werner looks at Max for approval.
“Go on. You don’t need my permission.” Then he glances at the passenger and tips his hat. “Guten Morgen.”
The American gives a disinterested nod, barely shifting his gaze to Max in greeting. Werner can’t help but feel that it’s not an altogether friendly gaze.
THE AMERICAN
The American leads Werner into the dining room before he speaks. But it becomes immediately apparent that the young Doehner girl is a distraction. The cabin boy is watching her situate her brothers at the table nearest the observation windows. And she must know it because her chin is lifted at a coy angle and there is an exaggerated awareness in her movements. Women do learn early.
The American clears his throat. “What do you know about dogs?”
Werner tries to mask his confusion. “They stink.”
“Sometimes. But more to the point, do you like them?”
“Well enough. My grandfather breeds Doberman pinschers.”
“Are you afraid of them?”
“They can be nasty dogs if treated poorly. Or trained to guard.”
“Not pinschers. Dogs in general.”
Werner hesitates a moment too long. “No. I don’t suppose so.”