But he likes Max and feels beholden to him, so he slides the key into the lock and turns it slowly, listening as the tumblers connect with a sharp metallic click. Werner turns the knob and pushes the door inward without a sound. He immediately knows he has found the right cabin by the smell. He claps a hand over his nose and takes a step back.
For two years Werner’s brother has apprenticed at the Hof Hotel in Frankfurt as a waiter. The stories that Günter has brought home are equal parts hilarious and informative. High-maintenance diners. Aristocrats. Travelers. Gestapo. Americans—those stories are always the best. But what Werner enjoys the most about Günter’s adventures are the impersonations, usually of drunk men. There are fewer of drunk women—whether because that gender is naturally more restrained or is better at holding their liquor, Werner isn’t sure. Regardless, his brother staggers around the living room, alternately shouting and mumbling and causing the rest of the family to collapse in hysterics. He tells Werner what the patrons have been drinking and how it makes them act. He has also told a good many stories about how excess booze makes a man smell. And, to tell the truth, Werner has always thought that Günter was embellishing his stories for dramatic effect. Until now. Max Zabel smells like he’s been dragged through a swamp, then left to marinate in a rum barrel filled with donkey sweat. Unpleasant does not begin to describe it.
Werner readies himself to begin the task and steps into the room. He shuts the door gently behind him and gets to work. Werner sets the flashlight on the small dressing table and points the beam toward the ceiling. A soft, warm light fills the room, but Max doesn’t notice. He’s lying facedown on the bunk, spread eagle, still wearing his uniform, with one arm draped over the side. An empty bottle lies on the floor beneath his hand. Werner can see that Max has drooled on the pillow and sweated through his jacket. Now, to wake him without causing a ruckus.
Werner is quite familiar with officers’ uniforms at this point in his job and finds all the necessary items of clothing in the small closet beside the sink. Trousers. Shoes. Shirt and jacket and cap. He sets them in a tidy pile on top of the counter and turns back to the navigator. Werner doesn’t think Max’s underwear is any of his business, but the navigator can’t very well go without it, so the boy digs around in a canvas bag at the bottom of the closet until he finds a pair, along with socks, then adds them to the pile.
“Wake up, Max.” Werner puts a hand to the navigator’s shoulder and shakes him but gets no response. Another shake, much rougher than the first. “Max. Please.”
Nothing.
Werner can think of a dozen scenarios he anticipated prior to his first flight. There are so many things that can go wrong on an airship after all. But it never occurred to him that he would find himself in this position. Max looks to be similar in size to Werner’s father, and this gives the boy an idea. Ever since his father fell sick, Werner has taken on much of his care. Including getting him to the bathroom. Thankfully his assistance isn’t needed once the door is closed, but Werner does have some idea how to get a grown man to his feet. Max will need to be awake first, however. The answer is simple enough, though the navigator will find it highly unpleasant.
Werner fills the brandy bottle with water from the sink and then leans over Max’s prone form. He makes sure that most of his body is out of arms’ reach should Max strike out, but there’s only so much he can do. He tips the bottle over and controls the flow of water so that a thin stream dribbles into Max’s ear. It takes a few seconds before the nuisance registers. First Max’s head jerks to the side. Werner increases the flow. Max turns his head over completely and exposes his other ear. He mumbles something crass in his sleep. Werner pours the water again, drenching Max’s ear and the pillow. And now the best part—the part that Werner has always enjoyed most when he plays this trick on Günter—Max slaps himself. A hard, wet smack against his cheek. Water splats around the berth as Max jerks into a sitting position. Werner can’t help but laugh.
The cabin boy isn’t sure if he would describe what comes out of Max’s mouth as speech exactly, more like a bastard language resembling illiterate German and stuttering laced with profanity. Werner backs away the moment he suspects Max is in control of his limbs. He speaks very quietly.
“You need to wake up, Herr Zabel.”
“What?”
“It’s Werner and it’s really important that you wake up. Right now.”
Max follows the sound of the boy’s voice, but it’s clear that he doesn’t see Werner. His eyes are swollen and clenched tight.
“You woke me up.”
“I’m trying to, yes.”
Max lowers himself onto one elbow and pulls his feet back into the bed. He has every appearance of a man intent on going back to sleep.
“I can’t let you do that,” Werner says, and throws the bottle at Max.
It glances off the navigator’s forehead but has the desired effect of bringing him into a more heightened state of awareness. Rage, to be precise.