body has settled into that one stretch of bone. When he makes such complaints to his mother she laughs and says he is afflicted with a galloping pain. “Today your wrist, tomorrow your leg,” she says, but she always brings him warm milk with sugar and vanilla and rubs his back until his eyes are heavy and his muscles have relaxed. Werner is usually so caught up in this grand adventure—the travel and the work—that he does not miss his family. But he has such an acute longing to be back home with them at this moment that he has to compose himself by wiping tears and snot on the sleeve of his pajamas.
Werner looks at the watch and thinks of his father, sick and bedridden in their shabby one-bedroom flat in Frankfurt, a man who would give anything to be
able
to work, and reprimands himself for acting like a child. So what if the task costs him an hour or two of sleep? He’s making a wage and he can help his family. His mother and father are sleeping all the better tonight because of this job. Werner shakes his head, growls a bit to clear his mind, then gets to work. Best to get the task over with.
Ten minutes later he has settled into something of a rhythm and is working on the second shoe in a pair of black cap-toed loafers—this one tagged for a passenger in cabin A4—when someone comes around the corner at a fast clip. It’s that obnoxious American passenger. Werner pulls himself into the shadows because the last thing he needs is to be noticed and sent on some other random errand in the middle of the night. He sits perfectly still and absolutely quiet, waiting for the man to pass, when Max Zabel comes around the gangway stairs from the other direction. For a moment he is certain the American sees Max and that he will sidestep him, but then Werner notices something flash across the American’s face—he can’t exactly tell from this distance what sort of expression it is—and they collide. The force knocks Max sideways.
Werner is wondering where they are off to at this hour when Heinrich Kubis appears before him with a second basket. This time Werner cannot prevent a small complaint. “There’s
more
?”
“I will be in the crew’s mess if you need me.”
Oh. Werner understands now. He has tried, and failed, on more than one occasion to join the late-night card game that takes place among the crew.
“Poker?”
Kubis sets this basket down beside the other. He shrugs. “You’re a lucky boy,” he says, “to have a job like this. You can help your family. See the world. It would be such a pity if you didn’t pass your probationary period.” He gives Werner a cold smile. “Come get me when you’re finished.”
THE AMERICAN
I t is an awkward thing to listen to someone else’s lovemaking. Even when you are alone. Even when they are trying to be quiet. The rustling and moans, the terms of endearment mingled with profanity, the occasional thump of a head against the wall, and the muffled laughter are enough to make a grown man lose his mind. This has happened to the American only twice before—both times during the First World War—and he’s no better at dealing with it now than he was then. Perhaps worse. He was twenty and a virgin then and has since figured out what the fuss is all about. The American has been alone for many years now, and his lovers have been few and far between. And, based on what he hears on the other side of the thin fabric wall, his experiences have been completely unsatisfactory.
When, after ten minutes, the couple shows no signs of slowing down, he dresses and pulls a clean pair of shoes from his suitcase. While he has no love for the Zeppelin-Reederei overall, he cannot begrudge the world-class treatment of their passengers. Shoes left outside the cabins are collected at night, polished by the stewards, and returned before morning. They’re offering the service, so he may as well take advantage of it. The American carefully opens the door so as not to be heard by his
Werner looks at the watch and thinks of his father, sick and bedridden in their shabby one-bedroom flat in Frankfurt, a man who would give anything to be
able
to work, and reprimands himself for acting like a child. So what if the task costs him an hour or two of sleep? He’s making a wage and he can help his family. His mother and father are sleeping all the better tonight because of this job. Werner shakes his head, growls a bit to clear his mind, then gets to work. Best to get the task over with.
Ten minutes later he has settled into something of a rhythm and is working on the second shoe in a pair of black cap-toed loafers—this one tagged for a passenger in cabin A4—when someone comes around the corner at a fast clip. It’s that obnoxious American passenger. Werner pulls himself into the shadows because the last thing he needs is to be noticed and sent on some other random errand in the middle of the night. He sits perfectly still and absolutely quiet, waiting for the man to pass, when Max Zabel comes around the gangway stairs from the other direction. For a moment he is certain the American sees Max and that he will sidestep him, but then Werner notices something flash across the American’s face—he can’t exactly tell from this distance what sort of expression it is—and they collide. The force knocks Max sideways.
Werner is wondering where they are off to at this hour when Heinrich Kubis appears before him with a second basket. This time Werner cannot prevent a small complaint. “There’s
more
?”
“I will be in the crew’s mess if you need me.”
Oh. Werner understands now. He has tried, and failed, on more than one occasion to join the late-night card game that takes place among the crew.
“Poker?”
Kubis sets this basket down beside the other. He shrugs. “You’re a lucky boy,” he says, “to have a job like this. You can help your family. See the world. It would be such a pity if you didn’t pass your probationary period.” He gives Werner a cold smile. “Come get me when you’re finished.”
THE AMERICAN
I t is an awkward thing to listen to someone else’s lovemaking. Even when you are alone. Even when they are trying to be quiet. The rustling and moans, the terms of endearment mingled with profanity, the occasional thump of a head against the wall, and the muffled laughter are enough to make a grown man lose his mind. This has happened to the American only twice before—both times during the First World War—and he’s no better at dealing with it now than he was then. Perhaps worse. He was twenty and a virgin then and has since figured out what the fuss is all about. The American has been alone for many years now, and his lovers have been few and far between. And, based on what he hears on the other side of the thin fabric wall, his experiences have been completely unsatisfactory.
When, after ten minutes, the couple shows no signs of slowing down, he dresses and pulls a clean pair of shoes from his suitcase. While he has no love for the Zeppelin-Reederei overall, he cannot begrudge the world-class treatment of their passengers. Shoes left outside the cabins are collected at night, polished by the stewards, and returned before morning. They’re offering the service, so he may as well take advantage of it. The American carefully opens the door so as not to be heard by his
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