Page 45 of Flight of Dreams

A carefully worded version, no doubt. That particular event went down in history but not in the way the Führer intended. At the mention of the Olympics several more people wander into the promenade. The results of one particular competition are well-known in Germany, but little publicized. Curious citizens have to get their gossip where they can.

“It was all rather symbolic for him,” the American says. “Prophetic even. It was meant to be the event in which his people showed their superiority. All carefully orchestrated, of course. The very motto of the Olympics, the hendiatris: Citius, Altius, Fortius. Higher, Faster, Stronger. It was a sign to him. And the rings, of course. Well, that bit took on a religious significance that we will spend decades debating. Mark my words. But what can you expect from a man who bases his worldview on an opera about Norse mythology?”

They are completely lost at this bit of information, and he doesn’t bother to enlighten them. All of these people, these sheep, will understand their leader soon enough, and they will wish that they didn’t. Let them regret it later. Let them wish they had taken a moment to know who Adolf Hitler really is and what he believes. An old prophecy. A burning of the world. Renewal. Perfection. They put the psychopath in power. Let them live with the consequences. He takes a deep breath to control his own trembling fanaticism. The irony isn’t lost on him. It takes a zealot to know a zealot. And sometimes it takes one to stop one. He will do what he can. Even if it means the only thing he stops is Hitler’s favorite airship.

“The Führer,” he says, “didn’t just expect a great German sweep of those games; he was certain of it. Hitler’s designs were clear—in his mind, at least, if not in the minds of most people who sat in those stands. Germany was superior. Jessie Owens put an end to that, of course.”

He finds Werner Franz in the crowd of faces staring at him and acknowledges the unspoken question in his eyes with a nod. The boy’s mouth forms into a circle. Oh. The dog.

The serving pantry door swings wide and three stewards step out holding large trays loaded down with steaming plates. Much of the crowd dissipates. The American can’t compete with food. Doesn’t intend to. Another seed has been planted. He’ll let it germinate before he pokes this soil again. Let them eat. Let them revel in their petty luxuries for a moment. He can live with that. Because something is growing beneath the surface. He can see it in the uneasy shift of their eyes while he speaks. Subversion dressed up as storytelling, as entertainment, as gossip. It’s easier to swallow that way. He turns to the window, letting the stragglers come to him if they will.

With gray clouds above and gray sea below, and the Hindenburg floating smoothly between them, it feels very much as though they are trapped in the space between lid and pan. The few passengers who wander over to the observation window seem greatly disheartened by the sight. They want scenery. Excitement. Perhaps a breaching whale or a passing steamship. Instead they have stillness and conformity. They are restless, and the American will exploit this.

He notes that the Jewish men seated beside the Adelts make quick work of their meal. No coffee refills. No extra toast or marmalade. Slices of cold bacon are pushed to the edge of their plates. He suspects that their steward, Severin Klein, added it to the order out of spite. In less than ten minutes the two men are standing casually beside him at the observation windows. Heads bent. Eyes fixed, but unseeing, on the ocean below. After a moment they introduce themselves as Moritz Feibusch, a food broker from San Francisco, and William Leuchtenberg, an executive in New York City. Clearly they’ve been talking about what the American has said.

“The Olympic rings are gone now,” Moritz says. “I didn’t see them when we boarded.”

“Of course. Hitler wouldn’t very well keep them painted on the side of his airship next to his swastikas after a black man took home four gold medals, would he?”

William is pensive, eyebrows drawn, lips pursed. “Seems a risk to do it in the first place.”

“Oh, it makes perfect sense. Picture it if you can. An open arena. Tens of thousands of spectators. The best athletes from every nation on earth. And the Führer standing glorious on the field as the greatest airship in history flies overhead. What do you think he was trying to say?”

“That he couldn’t lose,” Mortiz says, nodding slowly.

“Except he did,” William whispers.

“Some would argue it was his prerogative after all. The Nazis supplied the money to finish construction on the airship. So it became their symbol. Their means of propaganda. And once the rings had outlived their usefulness they were removed.”

“Hitler is good at removing things that outlive their usefulness,” William mutters darkly.

The American seizes this. Manipulates it. He looks around the dining room, his gaze stopping at strategic points, as though fascinated. “And yet here we all are, funding his cause.”

“This is travel. Not politics,” Moritz says. Clearly the thought makes him uncomfortable.

“No. This,” he spins a finger in the air to indicate the entire ship, “is about luxury. And luxury and politics are always bedfellows. Money is power. And power is courted by politics. Why do you think so much time and press went into the Millionaires Flight last year?” He pauses to let his point sink in. “Take the wealthiest men in the world on a ten-hour flight to garner support for a unique aviation dream. Invite Winthrop Aldrich, Nelson Rockefeller, and executives from TWA and Pan American Airways. Convince Standard Oil to supply the diesel and hydrogen. Make sure key portions are broadcast live on NBC radio so millions of listeners can join them vicariously. It was orchestrated. It was political. You know what a flight like that says?” he asks William Leuchtenberg. “That they are willing to support a tyrant financially. You can call it luxury or convenience, if you like. But it’s politics nonetheless.”

“If what you say is true, then we are all guilty.”

“Ah, my friend, therein lies the rub. We’re all willing to justify our actions when we need to.”

The American looks up to find Gertrud Adelt glaring at him over the rim of her steaming coffee cup. In a different world he might consider the woman an ally. Perhaps if he were on a different mission. Or if her damned curiosity didn’t keep getting in the way of his plans. As it stands, however, the American does not want friends or partners. He wants revenge, and he will not allow this brassy troublemaker to distract him from his job.

“So what’s the point of this little lecture, then? Guilt?” William Leuchtenberg asks.

After a moment’s thought the American finally says, “Enlightenment.”

THE STEWARDESS

The cabin boy has a flower in his hand. It’s a carnation. Small and pink and nothing special, but he’s fiddling with the stem and shifting from foot to foot as though his privates itch. He has the look of a boy who is winding up his courage for some difficult task. And then Emilie understands why. Werner Franz is staring at Irene Doehner, and the girl is pretending not to notice.

As far as children go, the Doehners are not difficult to care for. Irene has her brothers well in hand most of the time, and even when they drift beyond the boundaries of what she can control, a firm word from Emilie reins them in. They are not picky eaters and haven’t rejected anything set before them this morning. They have, however, eaten copious amounts of food, mostly bacon, toast, and cheese. They wanted coffee as well, but Emilie put her foot down. No point in asking for trouble. There is only so much energy they can expend in such close quarters, and she has little interest in picking up the pieces of whatever they may break along the way.

Irene looks flushed; the apples of her cheeks are tinged a warm pink against her pale skin. She glances at the cabin boy and then away. Only the most careful observer would notice the wordless flirting between the two.

“You’re a kind girl,” Emilie says, pulling Irene’s attention away from Werner. “Letting your parents sleep in like this.”

“Kindness has little to do with it, Fräulein. My brothers stayed in my cabin last night. I didn’t think it would be right to wake my parents just because they wanted breakfast.”