Page 95 of Flight of Dreams

Have I answered? Max thinks. Shit. He’s not sure.

“No,” he says. “There’s nothing wrong.”

“Why are you holding your wrist?”

And so he is. Damn it. Max’s left hand is clamped around his right wrist while he continues to flex his fingers self-consciously.

Again, he takes too long to respond. His answer is a single word, the only explanation he can summon under Pruss’s intimidating stare. “Tendonitis.”

Whether or not Pruss believes him, Max can’t tell.

“If it’s giving you trouble, go to the kitchen and ice it when your shift is over. There won’t be time to have it seen to when we land. We’ll need to get in the air as soon as possible for the return flight.” Pruss lowers his eyes to Max’s collar, and Max fears that there must be a sweat ring there because the commander adds, “We won’t be staying for return laundry service either.”

Assuming that he actually had tendonitis, Max doubts that Xaver Maier would relinquish so much as one cube of his precious ice to aid him. He says none of this to Pruss, however. He simply nods and says, “I’ll see to it.” Then he drops his hand to his side as though to prove it feels better already.

Pruss looks away briefly as another navigator descends the ladder into the utility room to take Max’s place for the next shift. Max takes the opportunity to duck down and pull the key discreetly from the lock. Then he drops to his knee and tucks the key into the side of his shoe. He pulls the knot on an already loosened shoelace and ties it again. When he straightens, Pruss has moved back into the bridge.

Max never counted the money Emilie had stashed away, but it must be a decent sum because the envelope is thick and he has trouble tucking it between his dress shirt and the waistband at the small of his back. He pulls his jacket down to cover it, and feels as though everyone must notice the obvious bulk at his waist. He greets the officers who arrive for second shift and hopes the guilt isn’t evident on his face. As Max climbs the ladder into the radio room he waits for the damning signal that he has been caught. A shout. A command. His name yelled loudly and sharply like the report of a rifle. But it does not come, and Max ascends the ladder as calmly as possible, up and out and down the corridor.

He goes immediately to his cabin and places Emilie’s documents at the bottom of his closet, beneath his duffel bag. They will land in a few hours and he doesn’t have long to finish this task. But first he needs to find Werner.

THE CABIN BOY

3:00 p.m.—four hours and twenty-five minutes until the explosion

Werner Franz is in the officers’ mess preparing for afternoon coffee break when the New York City skyline rises into view. It’s such a sudden change in landscape that he is startled. For the last several hours they have been floating over fields and forests and small ambling towns that dwindle and melt into the countryside. Winding roads, often gravel, that loop and switch back and then disappear altogether into pine scrubs or sandy beaches.

The Big Apple. It’s a puzzling nickname, but the boy likes the way it sounds when he says it in English. The Big Apple. A combination of hard letters and smooth syllables. However, based on what he can see from the window of the crew’s mess, there couldn’t be an actual apple tree in all of New York. Not with its ribbons of concrete and towers of steel. It is the largest, most dazzling thing that Werner has ever seen. There appears to be no end, and from this height it feels as though civilization is a great gaping maw that is ready to swallow everything whole.

They fly in along the coast and then up the Hudson River toward the docks. For three days they’ve flown over the Atlantic, but this is a different sort of ocean, no less formidable and teaming with life, but consisting entirely of skyscrapers as far as the eye can see. The entire horizon is filled with buildings that stretch to impossible heights, their plate-glass windows winking in the sporadic sunlight. It is as though New York is pushing the storm clouds away just for them, doing what it does best: putting on a show. Werner can see the elevated trains rattling along their tracks and the streetcars below guided by straight lines and electric cables. Buses. Vehicles. Taxicabs—a shocking yellow even from this height. And everywhere there are crowds of people moving in swarms as though by telepathy. To Werner they look like ants rushing from their hills, off to conquer a fallen crumb. Occasionally he sees a train rise from its hole beneath the ground and sprout to the surface like an earthworm tunneling toward the light.

On previous flights the Hindenburg has flown down the center of the city and made sure passengers could see the major landmarks. But it has never taken its time as it does now. Whether to make up for the frustrating delay or to give the passengers their money’s worth, Werner isn’t sure. Regardless, the airship turns and makes a great, lazy loop around the city. They fly so near and so low over the Empire State Building that he can wave to tourists on the observation deck. If anyone else were in the crew’s mess he wouldn’t risk the scolding, but he is alone and feeling brave, so Werner slides the window panel aside and presses his chest against the sill. He leans out and waves madly to the delighted little figures below, watching as a handful take pictures of the ship. The cabin boy wonders if he will be in those pictures. If they will make the paper. If he will ever see them. He doesn’t have long to ponder the idea, however, because he hears voices in the corridor outside and snaps the window shut again.

Max enters the mess with Christian Nielsen and Kurt Bauer. They join him at the window. It is gratifying, this bit of company. Werner is glad that even seasoned airmen are compelled by the sight. It makes him feel less juvenile.

The Hindenburg turns again and glides to the very foot of Manhattan, and there, rising from her pedestal in the water, is the Statue of Liberty.

“It looks like a porcelain figure, don’t you think?” he asks Max.

“I’ve never really noticed before, but yes, I suppose it does. To be honest, it’s the green that has always confused me. I had imagined her to be white—like marble—before I saw her for the first time.”

This is not Werner’s country nor his landmark, but there is something inspiring about the statue nonetheless. A sort of defiance that appeals to his adolescent mind. Werner idly wonders if he could pluck her up and take her home as a souvenir. Would liberty spread to his own homeland if he did? Would it be the peculiar American brand? So loud and brash and unapologetic? Would the Gestapo patrol the streets of Frankfurt and her citizens cower behind closed doors if she were standing on the shores of his country? How tempting to reach down and grasp her outstretched hand. How tempting to find out.

Christian Nielsen, however, appears entirely unimpressed with Lady Liberty. “The French are so sentimental. What a stupid gift.”

“He’s only saying that because his ex-wife is French,” Max says to Werner. He’s trying not to laugh. “She left him for a more sentimental man.”

The Hindenburg turns again, back up the East River this time, then away from the city. Werner looks up to find Max Zabel watching him with a peculiar expression.

“What?”

“It’s different from the air. Most people will never get to experience it the way you just have. It’s breathtaking. But you might not like it so much if you were down there in the crowds and noise and grime.”

“Maybe,” Werner says. “But I’d like the chance to find out for myself. One day.”

Nielsen and Bauer eventually get bored with the sight and leave the crew’s mess. They are humming with expectant energy, eager to do something during these last hours on board the airship.

While Werner watches them go, Max holds up one finger. Wait, that finger says, and when the room is empty he sits at the booth and motions Werner to join him.