THE CABIN BOY
May 22, 1937, aboard the steamship Europa, 6:05 a.m.
Werner Franz has forgotten that today is his fifteenth birthday. He sees this reminder written on a cardboard sign in the hands of Xaver Maier when he enters the steamship’s elegant dining hall. He stands in the doorway as a small group of surviving stewards and kitchen crew members let out a chorus of raucous shouts and whistles. Most of his fellow crew members cluster near the chef, but a handful linger at the door, waiting for him to enter. Waiting to slap him on the back. Xaver steps away from the small round table to reveal a birthday cake.
The chef shrugs when he sees Werner’s stunned expression. “They let me use the kitchen.”
“You made that?” Werner asks.
There is something mischievous in Xaver’s smirk. He tries to hide it by drawing on the lit cigarette in his hand. “It’s a big day.”
Even though they are on board the Europa as passengers, Werner cannot shake the habit of rising early and reporting for duty. The others have teased him about this for days, but Werner can’t help it. He doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore. He doesn’t know how to let others serve his meals or make his bed. Nor does he enjoy this languid rocking pace at sea. It makes him nauseous. He is restless and out of sorts. So he sticks with the comfort of long-established routine. Yet this is the first time any of the crew has joined him in the dining room so early. He has gotten used to eating alone. Werner finds that he is so grateful for the company that he has to twist his face so they won’t see him cry. The sight of his friends and this gift is so overwhelming that he can allow only one delighted smile, a small nod, and then he stares at his shoes. It is too much.
He is wondering how to get control of these erratic feelings when suddenly there is a frigid torrent rushing down his shirt and into his trousers, followed by the sound of splashing water. Werner gasps, eyes squeezed shut, arms out, mouth open. When he tries to yelp he chokes on ice water. The water keeps coming, and he can hear laughter and cheering. He tries to speak but coughs instead. He stands there, before his fellow crew members, dripping wet. Werner shakes his floppy hair and water splatters across the plush carpet.
The cabin boy is frozen in place, dripping from head to toe, staring at Xaver Maier, who laughs so hard he has to steady himself against the table. “You look like a drowned cat.”
Werner spits a mouthful of water into his hand. “What did you do that for?”
“It was my idea.” The boy turns slowly at the stern voice of Heinrich Kubis. The chief steward holds an empty bucket in one hand and a towel in the other. “Congratulations, Herr Franz, you have just crossed the line.”
A sailor’s baptism can take many forms—most of them far more cruel than what Werner experienced—but they all have one thing in common: a new sailor is initiated upon crossing the equator for the first time. It’s a sign that he can handle a long journey, that he is accepted by his peers. Werner has heard the stories often enough, but he never thought that he would experience the ritual.
“But we didn’t cross the equator,” Werner argues.
He has never seen the chief steward smile before. Under different circumstances he might mistake it for a wince.
“Perhaps not,” Kubis says. “But today we land in Bremershaven and this voyage will be complete. You have carried yourself like a man. You deserve to be recognized.” He looks directly at Werner and when he speaks again his voice is filled with sincerity. “You have passed your probationary period, Werner. Would you like a permanent position with the Zeppelin-Reederei?”
He is confused. “But the ship is gone.”
Kubis appears unconcerned. “They will find a place for you.”
“You mean I still have a job?”
“Not just any job.” Kubis pulls a telegram from his pocket and hands it to Werner. “You have been invited to become a steward on the Graf Zeppelin. By Captain Hans von Schiller himself.”
Hope, that small fluttering thing, beats against his rib cage. Werner has been mourning the loss of his job as deeply as he has mourned his friends. He did not know how much he loved flying until he set foot on the damp, rocking deck of the Europa. Every day on board the steamship has been a small, acute death for him.
Werner takes the telegram from Kubis and reads it for himself. Slowly. Carefully. If he struggles over a word or two he does not let on. He stands there for a moment letting the invitation sink in. Werner is no longer a cabin boy. He is a steward.
Heinrich Kubis grabs Werner’s hand and shakes it with a firm, confident grip. Man to man. “They are expecting your response this morning. But first you should have some cake.”