Page 20 of Flight of Dreams

The American answers this observation with a grunt. He will have nightmares tonight as well, but they will be about different things. His nightmares will tap into the most basic, primal fear he has: losing control. Behind his closed eyes he will see things falling apart. He will grasp after missed opportunities and misinformation. He will hear whispers in languages he does not know, and he will see faceless shapes slipping around corners and ducking through doors while he is exposed, frozen, unable to follow. His dreams will be all shadow and no substance.

The American shudders. Clears his mind. Marches behind Joseph Späh with a new determination.

Finally the small man points to a metal door marked FREIGHT. “She’s in there.”

At the sound of his voice a high, keening whine comes from the other side, followed by a bark. Then a second, deeper bark.

The freight room is cold and dark and smells of stale air and dog piss.

“Shit,” Späh says. “I’m too late. Poor girl is probably scared stupid. Dogs piss on everything when they’re scared.”

So do men, the American thinks, but he does not say this out loud. He just stands back, watching.

Späh finds the light switch on the wall and a tepid glow fills the room. The cargo hold isn’t very large. And apart from two dog crates it contains a number of steamer trunks, boxes, and what looks to be a large piece of furniture wrapped in a blanket.

Ulla sees her master and barks. She spins in a tight circle inside her crate, her tail thrashing against the wicker slats with a thwap, thwap, thwap.

“Who does that one belong to?” The American points at a second crate that holds a large, shivering mutt. It might be the half-breed bastard of something resembling a greyhound.

“I don’t know.” The American moves closer but Späh says, “Watch your step.”

Three streams of urine trickle from a puddle in one corner of the mutt’s crate. Späh gently lifts the latch on Ulla’s crate. She pants. Presses her nose into the gap. Tries to force her way out.

“No,” Späh says. “Sit.”

The dog is reluctant and hungry but well trained. She drops her rump to the floor but cannot contain the frenzied thrashing of her tail. He sets the plate at his feet.

“Stay,” he says.

The mutt whimpers, eyes locked on the plate of food.

Joseph Späh pulls the crate door open and steps backward. Ulla stays where she is, though with a great effort. The American can see her training wrestling with her instinct. The muscles in her forelegs spasm with little jerks as she forces herself to obey.

“Eat.”

Ulla rushes forward at the command and inhales her dinner. When observed coldly, the act is almost violent. She does not bite or chew but rather consumes with bared teeth and wild gulps. Alsatians are nearly indistinguishable from German shepherds, their temperaments fierce and protective, but Ulla has one great distinction. Instead of the traditional brown and black markings, she is completely white. Albino? he wonders. But no, her eyes are a deep black. In the scant light they look like bits of obsidian, reflecting his curiosity back at him. Joseph Späh has her well in hand, but the American does not doubt for a moment that this animal is intelligent. She is not to be trifled with.

“Shut up,” Späh says to the mutt in the other cage as it throws itself against the slats, whining.

“It’s hungry.”

Späh frowns. “It is not my responsibility.” But there is no hardness in his voice. Rather a faint thread of compassion.

Ulla licks the plate until it rattles against the floor. There isn’t so much as a breadcrumb or ribbon of fish left when she’s done. The expensive Nazi plate is delicate, with silver edging, and it’s being licked by a dog. The American finds this very apropos, and the sight puts him in an inexplicably good mood.

As it turns out, Ulla proves to be worth whatever Späh has paid to transport her across the Atlantic. The tricks he has taught her are quite spectacular. She can stand on her hind legs or forelegs at a single command. She can do a back flip and speak her name. Ulla is almost human in the way she anticipates her master’s needs, and the American quite enjoys the show Späh performs on his behalf.

“Good night, girl,” Späh whispers as he rubs behind her ears and under her chin. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Until now the airship has felt incomplete to the American, as though he has seen only part of a map. But now, having walked the Hindenburg from one end to the other, he feels a greater sense of certainty in his mission. There are still closed doors, places he has not been, things he hasn’t seen, but he will rectify that. He has been on board for a little over five hours, and the shape of the great airship is forming in his mind.

He bids Späh good night and thanks him for the chance to meet Ulla as they re-enter the passenger area.

“You should come with me again tomorrow. I think she likes you.”

Foolish dog, the American thinks.

Späh claps him on the back. “I’ll come get you in the morning.”