Page 13 of Flight of Dreams

She waves a hand dismissively. “Whoever.”

“There are two answers to that question, Frau…” Pruss searches for her name.

“Fräulein.”

Interesting that, the American notes, her clarification of the German designation of an unmarried woman. He wonders if perhaps the heiress is lonely. If she is looking for companionship on this voyage. Advertising her availability.

“Fräulein…Mather. First and most important is that we would not let anyone destroy this great airship. Every conceivable precaution has been taken. But speaking to the possibility?” And here he becomes the storyteller the American has heard him to be. “The Hindenburg has only one great weakness.”

Margaret Mather and Joseph Späh lower their forks and lean forward, expectantly.

“Hydrogen.” The American pre-empts.

Pruss nods. “It’s flammable.”

“It’s combustible, you mean.”

“Only when mixed with oxygen.” Pruss tilts his head a few degrees to the side. Takes in the American now that he has been challenged twice. “You are American?”

He nods at the others. “We all are.”

“I see,” Pruss says, “then you might want to ask your government why they are hoarding the world’s largest supplies of helium.” He gives Margaret Mather a look that could be mistaken for an apology but is actually defensiveness. “This ship was designed to be lifted by helium. Which is not flammable.”

“Combustible.” The American corrects him again quietly.

“But your government,” Pruss continues, “refused to sell us the gas. Regardless of our arguments and our generous offers. So we were forced to use hydrogen.”

“But why wouldn’t they sell Germany the helium?”

The American smiles. Oh, Margaret, he thinks, you pretty fool. “Our government,” he says, “is not in the business of furthering Germany’s military goals.”

Pruss snorts. “This is a passenger ship.”

“With swastikas emblazoned on the side. Flown by Luftwaffe pilots. And fitted for artillery. It may look like a floating luxury hotel, Miss Mather, but you are, in reality, traveling on a Nazi warship.”

“That is a gross misrepresentation,” Pruss says. The angrier he gets, the heavier his accent becomes, the more he fumbles with what is usually clear and precise English.

The American draws back now that he has brought the commander to the edge of rage. He puts his hands up—a show of surrender. “I do not mean to offend. I simply meant to help Miss Mather understand the politics at play. The underlying tensions, so to speak.”

It’s a cheap trick, using her as a shield, and Pruss is not fooled. “There is no tension.” He smiles at Margaret, then looks at the American. His eyes tighten at the corners, but the anger slips from his face. Pruss makes a jab of his own. “You purchased a ticket for this flight. Why financially support this airship when you claim to be so offended by it?”

“I didn’t pay for my ticket. The McCann Erickson company did.” The American deflects the blow easily, then circles back to his point. “Regardless, a Nazi warship that flies over New York City fifteen times a year creates more than enough tension. Especially when safety is not always the primary concern of Zeppelin-Reederei.”

“Do explain what you mean by that.” Pruss leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, scowling.

The American takes a long sip of his wine, swishing it around his mouth before answering. “The propaganda flight last year on behalf of Herr Goebbels? Didn’t this airship sustain damage during takeoff? And all so you could drop election pamphlets for the Nazis in adverse weather conditions?” He looks at Margaret and gives her a grin. Easy. Jovial. Uncomplicated. “Whatever else this airship might be, it was first funded by the Nazis and used for their purposes.”

While Pruss is formulating his answer, the American rises from the table and wipes his mouth with a linen napkin. “If you will excuse me, I need to use the restroom.” Seeds are planted and germinating within the minds of the two most social passengers on board this airship. Joseph and Margaret will spread this message from person to person, meal to meal, over the next three days. And by the time they land, every one of them will look at this ship and its parent company with the appropriate level of misgiving. The American is certain of this, determined even, that it will be so.

The American leaves Commander Pruss behind to deal with his rhetoric. As he weaves his way through the dining room, he can hear Pruss dismissing the accusations offhand, the commander’s accent growing heavier with each word. It is as he passes the lovely young journalist and her husband that he remembers where he has seen them.

Neue Mainzer Strasse 56. The Frankfurt branch of the Ministry of Propaganda. Fourth floor. Three months ago.

Yes, it is all coming back to him now, confirmed in the curious glance Gertrud Adelt—for that is her name, he’s certain of it now—directs at him as he passes. He remembers her bellow of rage as she stood in the fourth-floor hallway before the Kulturstaatssekretär. It was loud enough to draw the American from his desk on the floor below and up the stairs into the hall. She handed over her press card with a shaking hand, but her voice was calm and firm as she uttered such a string of profanities that every man present stood with mouth agape. It had certainly made an impression on the American. He’s quite certain that he had witnessed her inventing a new obscenity on the spot. And then her husband had deftly removed her from the building before she could be arrested. Had Leonhard Adelt not been a man of some import himself, the American is certain things would have gone quite differently for them that day.

The American debates whether to classify Gertrud as a threat or a hindrance as he leaves the dining room. She clearly has no love for the Nazis, but she is too curious for her own good. In the end he decides to label her as unknown. It will have to do until he can make a better assessment.

All of the passengers are either seated at the tables or in the promenade as he slips into the keel corridor. Most of the crew is either serving dinner or in the midst of flight operations, so he goes down the stairs, away from the restrooms, and into the corridor on B-deck without being seen. The American pulls the pilfered salad fork from his pocket and tucks it into his palm, the handle hidden in his sleeve, as he approaches the mailroom door.