Page 112 of Flight of Dreams

“Yes. Are you in pain?”

Gertrud swallows. Clears her throat. “I am. But it’s not for me.”

She leads the young medic to Captain Lehmann and watches from the door as he receives the ghastly needle with gratitude.

THE NAVIGATOR

It is hours after the crash. Night has fallen. Portions of the ship still glow in the field even though the ground crew has tried their best to douse it with water hoses. Lights blare across the airfield. Jeeps race back and forth as military personnel gather and disperse and respond to orders. Max has circled the hangar at least four times, but he can’t be certain if he has been to every bed. People won’t stay still. They keep moving. They wander off. Even the patients stand and walk away. They sit. They move from a blanket on the floor to a cot against the wall, and hell if he knows whom he has spoken to and whom he hasn’t.

Max knows it’s a flawed search method, but it’s the only one he has. He would continue with it straight until dawn if he didn’t feel the firm grip of Xaver Maier’s hand on his jacket sleeve.

Max looks at the chef in wonder. “You’re alive.”

He grins sadly. “I’m not so easy to get rid of.”

“What do you want?”

Maier pulls at his sleeve. “You need to come with me.”

“I can’t. I have to find Emilie.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. We found her.”

The chef has turned before Max can search his face for clues. He doesn’t know whether Maier’s eyes are filled with relief or sadness or pity. He knows nothing. He simply follows him through Hangar No. 1 and out into the night.

THE JOURNALIST

Gertrud Adelt turns in her seat to take one last look at the Hindenburg. It is well after dark, but the airfield is lit up like a macabre circus. Floodlights illuminate the wreckage, and parts of the ship still glow menacing and red. The fabric covering has burned completely away, leaving the gruesome skeleton. As men pick through the rubble their shadows are cast long across the field by the harsh lights. They look like carrion birds picking at a carcass.

The driver glances at Gertrud in the rearview mirror. He does not bother to hide his concern. “Where should I take you?”

Leonhard has laid himself across the backseat, his head in her lap, and she rests her good hand upon his forehead. He hasn’t breathed easily since the wreck, but the wheezing started to grow worse an hour ago and the coughing began shortly afterward. A slow, pained gurgle emanates from his chest now.

“To a hospital,” Gertrud says. “Quickly.”

The car maneuvers its way across the airfield and then through the cordon, bouncing through every rut and track and pothole along the way. Gertrud holds Leonhard’s head steady on her lap. She listens to his shallow breathing. Within minutes they are on the highway heading toward Toms River and Lakehurst is nothing but a strange and lurid glow behind them.

THE CABIN BOY

The sun has been up for hours when Werner finally wakes. He hasn’t moved all night, hasn’t even rolled out of fetal position, and his right arm is rubbery and asleep. The strange clothes he’s wearing are clean and dry—it takes him a moment to remember where they came from—but he can smell smoke in his hair and on his skin. Everything comes back to Werner. He drops his face into his hands and takes a few deep, shuddering breaths between his splayed fingers.

When he lifts his head again he sees that the barracks are empty. Every bunk but his has been made, the blankets are stretched smooth and tucked tightly beneath the mattress. The air is still and warm, but he can hear muted shouts and the rumble of machinery outside. He doesn’t want to leave his bunk a mess, so he pulls the covers as snug as he can.

The cabin boy steps blinking into the sunlight. The airfield looks different during the day. The clouds are gone, the sky is crisp, and the wreckage sprawls before him, unavoidable. Werner does not understand why the airship looks larger than it ever did, now that it is burned and broken. But it does, lying there stretched beside the mooring mast.

He is still standing there staring at the Hindenburg sometime later when a hand rests on his shoulders. Wilhelm Balla passes him a newspaper and says, “Telegram your parents. Tell them you’re not dead.”

The front page shows the airship falling and consumed by flames. The headline screams: HINDENBURG BURNS IN LAKEHURST CRASH: 21 KNOWN DEAD, 12 MISSING; 64 ESCAPE. All eight columns are devoted to the tragedy, and one of them lists the names of known fatalities. The last name reads: Werner Franz, cabin boy.

It is a strange thing to see yourself pronounced dead while you are still in possession of a beating heart.

“Where?” Werner asks, but his voice cracks so he clears his throat and tries again. “Where can I send a telegram?”

“The office in Hangar No. 1.”

The boy doesn’t move immediately. He’s staring at the paper still grasped in his hands—hands, he notes, that do not tremble at all.

“Why do they think I’m dead?”