THE CABIN BOY
Werner watches the last of the crew finish dinner and stack their plates in the middle of the table. He pulls out his pocket watch. Frowns. He holds it to his ear to make sure it’s still working. Sure enough, the steady tick-tick-tick sounds within. The watch is correct. It’s only eight o’clock but everyone is done with dinner. They normally linger, dragging out each free moment until their duties resume. But tonight the crew’s mess has emptied early. He gathers the dishes and carries them into the kitchen. The sink is his for fifteen minutes—Xaver’s routine will only allow for a short interruption—so the cabin boy makes quick work of the delicate china. Werner returns to the crew’s mess to put the dishes away and wipe down the tables. He sweeps. Checks the chairs and banquettes for crumbs and sticky patches, then declares the job complete. This gives him a moment to pause as he does a quick calculation. He now has half an hour of free time. A rare luxury.
Last year the Hindenburg carried a Blüthner baby grand piano in the lounge. It was custom-made to comply with flight requirements—weighing a mere 397 pounds—and instead of the standard wood shell was covered with yellow pig skin. While on break Werner would linger in the lounge listening to passengers play ragtime on the piano. He liked the raucous music and the gregarious singing that accompanied it. He misses it. Had it been up to him, he would have kept the piano. But the powers that be decided that the few hundred pounds of weight could be better used to store cargo. Freight brings a profit; pianos do not. So there is no music on this flight and, as a result, Werner thinks the atmosphere is too somber. He heads toward the lounge anyway. There’s no telling what the passengers will be up to, and there’s a good chance he’ll find some form of entertainment. A card game. Or perhaps a bit of storytelling. There are a number of Americans on board. They always seem to have the most outrageous stories. And a curious sense of humor.
Later tonight, when he finally crawls into bed, he will wonder if Irene Doehner lingered on the stairs because she was waiting for him. But now he only thinks that he is pleased to see her. That the gangway stairs are his favorite spot on the ship because he has the habit of running into her here. She is sitting halfway up the steps, a mess of needlepoint on her lap. She looks frustrated. And then delighted when she sees him. Irene rises to her feet, and he notes that there is nothing awkward about the motion. She is simply standing where a moment before she was sitting.
He offers a shy smile, and she returns it with one of her own.
Werner nods, polite. “Pardon me, Fräulein.”
He tries to step around her, but she says, “Wait.”
He never expected a kiss. Werner would have been happy with smiles and a handful of flirtatious glances. Had he been particularly bold, he would have orchestrated a way for his hand to touch hers just once during the flight. So when Irene sets her mouth at the corner of his and presses in with her small, soft lips he nearly falls backward down the stairs. It doesn’t last more than a second or two, but to him time freezes and every bit of the sensation comes rushing into his mind. He records everything, as though taking notes for a paper at school. The way her hair brushes against his ear. The way she smells of soap—nice and clean and with the faintest tang of lye. The warmth of her mouth. The buzzing of his blood as it rushes through his ears. He has been kissed. It is a shock and a wonder.
One of Irene’s front teeth is slightly crooked. He can see this when she pulls away and her smile grows wider. She is delighted by his surprise.
“Thank you,” she says, “for the flower. I kept it. I have it pressed inside a book.”
Werner is dumbfounded. He has lost all capacity for speech. Say something, you Dummkopf, he thinks. Finally, after an aching silence, he says, “I will bring you another one tomorrow.”
He isn’t sure if his voice cracks or squeaks or if he has even said this out loud until Irene laughs.
“I will look for it.”
The poor boy has no idea what to do next. Is he supposed to stay and talk to her? Should he return the kiss? Should he jump and whoop and holler and run around like he has scored the winning kick in Fußball? He has spent a lot of time talking with his brother about girls. He has even had a few conversations with his father. But no one has bothered to tell him what happens after a moment like this. And when he realizes that he is staring at Irene, mute and dumb, he does the only thing he can think to do: he laughs as well—high and bright and too close to a giggle for his liking—then runs up the stairs.
Werner takes them two at a time and arrives at the top with a wild bound. The wattage on my face must be blinding, he thinks. And he is half-blinded himself because it takes him a second or two to see Gertrud Adelt studying him. She has witnessed the entire thing.