THE CABIN BOY

Werner watches Max lean closer to the dial. Max thumps it with an index finger, and the glass case wobbles at his touch. “Oh,” he says. “That explains it.”

The face of the dial is thick glass rimmed with metal. Max spreads his palm across the surface, fixing each finger at a point around the edge. He gently rotates it, and removes the dial face. The needle stops spinning altogether.

“The face came loose,” he offers by way of explanation, holding it up. “The needle won’t read accurately unless it’s pressurized.”

It would never have occurred to the cabin boy that he could simply pluck off the face of the dial, but Max has done it without the slightest hesitation. Max rubs the cuff of his sleeve against the glass to wipe away his fingerprints and then carefully holds it by the metal rim and pops the face back onto the dial. The needle wobbles uncertainly for a moment and then begins a lazy rotation around the numbers until it quivers to a stop, the arrows at each end pointing directly at nine and three.

August Deutschle jumps into action, adjusting the engine speed to correspond with the dial reading. Within seconds the revving evens out around them. Less of a shudder and more of a hum. Werner drops his hands to his side and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“You,” Max pokes Werner in the breastbone, hard, with one finger, “are damn lucky I actually knew what to do.”

The reprimand hurts the boy’s pride more than he would like to admit. Werner rubs the spot with his thumb, trying not to pout. It has been his experience that a pout can often lead to tears.

“That’s it?” August asks.

“Trust me. Much better a loose bit of glass than a blown engine. Yes?” Max glances at his watch. “I’d best get young Herr Franz back to his duties before someone figures out that he’s taken a stroll in midair.”

Max hoists Werner upward so he can grab the first rung of the ladder, and then follows close behind. Max doesn’t crowd him, but Werner has the impression that the navigator is staying close enough to catch him should he stumble. He keeps his eyes forward and his feet steady and is halfway to the hatch above in no time.

“You have good balance,” Max says.

“It’s not so different than climbing a fire escape. Except for the wind.”

Werner feels Max’s hand clamp onto his ankle like a vise. “Wait. Look,” he says.

Below them is the long, sleek form of an ocean liner. Werner can make out clean white letters that read Europa just above the water line. The smokestacks puff like dragon lungs as the ship cuts a clean wake through the water. It looks like a horned, painted sea serpent.

“That’s one of the nicer ones,” Max says.

“Is it expensive to travel by boat?” Werner has never even paid cab fare. He cannot fathom what sort of riches it would take to buy passage on an ocean liner.

“It’s not cheap. But not nearly as expensive as this—or as fun, if you want to know the truth. You could buy a car for the price of a ticket on the Hindenburg.”

They’ve not quite come parallel with the ocean liner when the Europa sends out a friendly bellow of her horn, and they look down to see a handful of people on deck waving madly in greeting. Tiny faceless mites. From this height they look no bigger than grains of rice. Werner wonders what it’s like for them to look up and see this colossus overhead. How strange it must be. Beasts of this size should be in the ocean, not over it.

They wait to finish climbing the ladder until the Europa has slipped a good distance behind, her massive bulk dutifully chugging along. The hatch door slides shut once they’ve made it safely back inside the main structure, and Max secures the interior fasteners and double-checks to make sure it is locked securely.

“Satisfied?”

Werner is flushed and windblown. He is so excited that his words turn into an unbroken stream of syllables. “That was incredible!”

Werner flashes a grateful smile and marches back toward the security door. He is just as enraptured by the inner workings of the Hindenburg on the return trip, peppering Max with questions about this support beam or that aluminum shaft. Max can answer most of the questions easily, but there are a few that stump him. What coating covers the hydrogen cells to prevent the gas from leaking out? Who designed the diesel fuel tanks? The navigator grows impatient—Werner can tell by the clipped tone of his voice—but he humors him anyway, answering as best he can.

After another five questions Max laughs. “Go ahead. Tell me again that you’re no good at sums.”

Werner is ahead of Max now, and he lifts the sharp points of his shoulder blades in a shrug. He doesn’t look back. “I was top of my class.”

“That’s what I thought.”

It is the truth. Technically. But the credit lies more with Werner’s mother than with him. She is the one who helped him study for every test; the one who patiently taught him to pick through words until he found their meaning. No longer being in school is irrelevant to Werner. But no longer being under his mother’s tutelage is starting to take its toll.

Their shoes hang by the security door where they left them, and it takes only a moment to make the exchange. Werner stands straighter when back inside the passenger area. He’s about to say something to Max—to thank him—when they round a corner and nearly collide with Irene Doehner and her two little brothers. She is herding them toward the dining room but looks as though she’d rather still be in bed.

Max catches him staring. The girl is pretty after all. Her hair is neither blond nor brown but one of those soft shades in between. Lips bright and soft like one of his mother’s potted roses. Blue eyes. They mumble apologies but do not make eye contact. It takes only a moment for her to glide around them in the corridor, and then she moves along after her brothers.

Max nudges him with an elbow. “Five marks says you already know that girl’s name.”

“Irene.” It’s a noble attempt at nonchalance, but his cheeks are hot.

“Save yourself the trouble, kid.” Max straightens the collar of Werner’s white jacket. He assesses his appearance head to toe to make sure he’s not sporting grease stains or tears in his clothing. His voice betrays no hint of sadness, but he wears a melancholy expression that Werner has never seen before. “She’ll only break your heart.”

He opens his mouth to defend himself, but Max interrupts. “You know what? Don’t tell me. I have my own troubles.”

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

Werner turns to find the American waiting patiently a few steps away, sober, showered, and dressed in a clean, pressed suit. It takes Werner a moment to realize that he isn’t speaking to Max.

“Might I have a word with you?” the American says.

Werner looks at Max for approval.

“Go on. You don’t need my permission.” Then he glances at the passenger and tips his hat. “Guten Morgen.”

The American gives a disinterested nod, barely shifting his gaze to Max in greeting. Werner can’t help but feel that it’s not an altogether friendly gaze.