“Joseph Sp?h!” he announces to no one in particular, and this time he does give a theatrical bow. He motions toward the dog. “And this is Ulla. We are so pleased to join everyone on this voyage.”
The ground crew searches his bags, and Sp?h hangs back to watch, quietly mocking their curiosity. One of the soldiers finds a brightly wrapped package and tears off the paper. He lifts a doll from the pile of tissue and appears somewhat disappointed at the find.
“It’s a girl, Dummkopf,” Sp?h says when the officer turns it over to check beneath the ruffled skirt.
It takes no small amount of time to verify that Joseph Sp?h is a legitimate passenger on board the Hindenburg, that Ulla’s presence and freight have been approved and paid for in advance, and to locate his cabin—which, as it turns out, is on A-deck near the dining room, much to Sp?h’s satisfaction. He seems delighted at the prospect of maintaining his role as entertainer.
Max and Emilie watch the entire spectacle in bemused silence, and he takes immense pleasure in the fact that she does not draw her arm away from his hand. He can feel the warmth of her skin through the thin sleeve of her dress. Max soaks it in. He has never given her more than a glancing touch before. This is progress.
Max’s reverie is broken by the guttural clearing of a throat. He turns to find Heinrich Kubis staring at his hand on Emilie’s arm. The chief steward drops two bulging mailbags at Max’s feet. “These are yours, I believe?”
He releases Emilie and lifts the bags. They are surprisingly heavy, but he’s determined not to show it. “So there’s the last of it. Commander Pruss said two more loads were coming on the bus.”
Emilie nods at the bags. “What’s this?”
“Max is our new postmaster,” Kubis says. He glances at Max and Emilie as though an idea has just occurred to him. “He will attend to those duties in his off hours.”
“His off hours? Meaning he won’t have any hours off?”
“You will have precious few yourself, Fr?ulein Imhof. And I’d highly suggest that you not spend them fraternizing with an officer in full view of the passengers.” He tips his head toward the control car. “Or the commander.”
Max is absurdly pleased that Emilie looks disappointed at this news. Perhaps she had imagined ways of filling his spare time? He takes a step back and clicks his heels sharply. Nods. “If you will excuse me, I need to get these stored in the mailroom before we cast off.”
Emilie is not pleased that their conversations seem to end on his terms, and he enjoys the lines of frustration that appear between her eyes. “Don’t you want my answer?” she calls after him.
“Send it by post!”
She may have something left to say, but he doesn’t wait to hear it. Max turns, a mailbag gripped tightly in each hand, and walks up the gangway. Instead of taking a sharp right and going up another set of stairs to A-deck, he turns left into the keel corridor and heads toward the front of the airship.
Max neatly sidesteps Wilhelm Balla. He has his hand on the elbow of a staggering American who is mumbling the words to some lewd drinking song, but the man slurs so badly Max catches only every other word.
“No. Your cabin is this way,” Balla says. “Nothing to see down there.”
Max offers the steward a cheerful smile. “Good luck with that.”
Balla expertly holds up the American with one arm while checking his manifest with the other. “The good news is that this Arschloch’s room isn’t on A-deck. I probably couldn’t get him up the stairs. The better news is that his cabin is right next to Kubis.”
The chief steward is a teetotaler and not generally fond of anything originating from America, whether people or products. Watching these two interact over the next few days should be interesting. Balla, at least, is smiling at the prospect. He shuffles off with the American, wearing the impish grin of a schoolboy anticipating some minor disaster.
The mailroom is down the corridor, on the left, just before the officers’ quarters, and Max has to drop the mailbags so he can unlock the door. All 17,000 pieces of mail were inspected by hand earlier that day in Frankfurt. The cutoff for letters to make this flight was three o’clock, and based on the weight of the last two bags, there was quite a last-minute rush. This is Max’s first flight as postmaster, having inherited the position from Kurt Sch?nherr for this year’s flight season, and he inspects the room carefully to make sure everything is in order.