With gray clouds above and gray sea below, and the Hindenburg floating smoothly between them, it feels very much as though they are trapped in the space between lid and pan. The few passengers who wander over to the observation window seem greatly disheartened by the sight. They want scenery. Excitement. Perhaps a breaching whale or a passing steamship. Instead they have stillness and conformity. They are restless, and the American will exploit this.
He notes that the Jewish men seated beside the Adelts make quick work of their meal. No coffee refills. No extra toast or marmalade. Slices of cold bacon are pushed to the edge of their plates. He suspects that their steward, Severin Klein, added it to the order out of spite. In less than ten minutes the two men are standing casually beside him at the observation windows. Heads bent. Eyes fixed, but unseeing, on the ocean below. After a moment they introduce themselves as Moritz Feibusch, a food broker from San Francisco, and William Leuchtenberg, an executive in New York City. Clearly they’ve been talking about what the American has said.
“The Olympic rings are gone now,” Moritz says. “I didn’t see them when we boarded.”
“Of course. Hitler wouldn’t very well keep them painted on the side of his airship next to his swastikas after a black man took home four gold medals, would he?”
William is pensive, eyebrows drawn, lips pursed. “Seems a risk to do it in the first place.”
“Oh, it makes perfect sense. Picture it if you can. An open arena. Tens of thousands of spectators. The best athletes from every nation on earth. And the Führer standing glorious on the field as the greatest airship in history flies overhead. What do you think he was trying to say?”
“That he couldn’t lose,” Mortiz says, nodding slowly.
“Except he did,” William whispers.
“Some would argue it was his prerogative after all. The Nazis supplied the money to finish construction on the airship. So it became their symbol. Their means of propaganda. And once the rings had outlived their usefulness they were removed.”
“Hitler is good at removing things that outlive their usefulness,” William mutters darkly.
The American seizes this. Manipulates it. He looks around the dining room, his gaze stopping at strategic points, as though fascinated. “And yet here we all are, funding his cause.”
“This is travel. Not politics,” Moritz says. Clearly the thought makes him uncomfortable.
“No. This,” he spins a finger in the air to indicate the entire ship, “is about luxury. And luxury and politics are always bedfellows. Money is power. And power is courted by politics. Why do you think so much time and press went into the Millionaires Flight last year?” He pauses to let his point sink in. “Take the wealthiest men in the world on a ten-hour flight to garner support for a unique aviation dream. Invite Winthrop Aldrich, Nelson Rockefeller, and executives from TWA and Pan American Airways. Convince Standard Oil to supply the diesel and hydrogen. Make sure key portions are broadcast live on NBC radio so millions of listeners can join them vicariously. It was orchestrated. It was political. You know what a flight like that says?” he asks William Leuchtenberg. “That they are willing to support a tyrant financially. You can call it luxury or convenience, if you like. But it’s politics nonetheless.”
“If what you say is true, then we are all guilty.”
“Ah, my friend, therein lies the rub. We’re all willing to justify our actions when we need to.”
The American looks up to find Gertrud Adelt glaring at him over the rim of her steaming coffee cup. In a different world he might consider the woman an ally. Perhaps if he were on a different mission. Or if her damned curiosity didn’t keep getting in the way of his plans. As it stands, however, the American does not want friends or partners. He wants revenge, and he will not allow this brassy troublemaker to distract him from his job.
“So what’s the point of this little lecture, then? Guilt?” William Leuchtenberg asks.
After a moment’s thought the American finally says, “Enlightenment.”
THE STEWARDESS
The cabin boy has a flower in his hand. It’s a carnation. Small and pink and nothing special, but he’s fiddling with the stem and shifting from foot to foot as though his privates itch. He has the look of a boy who is winding up his courage for some difficult task. And then Emilie understands why. Werner Franz is staring at Irene Doehner, and the girl is pretending not to notice.
As far as children go, the Doehners are not difficult to care for. Irene has her brothers well in hand most of the time, and even when they drift beyond the boundaries of what she can control, a firm word from Emilie reins them in. They are not picky eaters and haven’t rejected anything set before them this morning. They have, however, eaten copious amounts of food, mostly bacon, toast, and cheese. They wanted coffee as well, but Emilie put her foot down. No point in asking for trouble. There is only so much energy they can expend in such close quarters, and she has little interest in picking up the pieces of whatever they may break along the way.