Read Online Flight from Berlin by David John - Free Book Online Page A

furnished with modern, comfortable armchairs. On the wall a large mural map of the world traced the routes of the great expeditions, from the voyages of Magellan to the globe-trotting flight of the Graf Zeppelin.
    The lounge was separated by a low rail from a long promenade, where wide windows slanting outwards offered panoramic views. Most improbable of all in a craft where everything was designed to save weight, a baby grand piano built of aluminium stood at the far side of the lounge. Above it hung the obligatory portrait of the dictator, whose hyperthyroid glare followed Denham across the room. The soft red carpet deadened his footsteps. The area was deserted.
    The Hindenburg was truly an airborne hotel, and a luxurious hotel at that. It was the mother lode of his fantasies, and even greater than he’d imagined—more beautiful, more spacious. He touched the Plexiglas window, almost expecting it to dissolve as he woke from a dream.
    ‘Zeppelin marsch! ’
    Outside, Eckener shouted the order to move, and the hundreds of ground crew picked up the ropes and pulled, walking the giant craft out through the hangar doors like Lilliputians heaving Gulliver into the sun.
    In the open, as the men waited for the signal from the control car, Denham caught himself wondering whether a thing so large was really going to fly.
    ‘Schiff hoch!’
    The mooring ropes were thrown off, and together the men gave a mighty upward shove, pushing the ship into the air. He heard laughter and a smatter of applause from a crowd of bystanders as water ballast was released from the prow, dousing some of the men.
    Within seconds the ground was receding at an alarming speed. At about three hundred feet the ship slowly stopped rising and drifted in silence for a few moments, over the Zeppelin field and towards Lake Constance. Sunlight danced among the sailboats, and rippled like satin over the distant foothills of the Alps. Among the gabled roofs of Friedrichshafen, cars seemed like toys moving among matchbox houses.
    Suddenly the four diesel engines sputtered into action; the propellers churned the air and pushed the great ship forwards.
    Denham swept his hat off and laughed, holding his arms wide. He was charged with an electrifying freedom, as though he were slipping the world’s chains, floating free of all its fear. How sublime, he thought, how miraculous, how—
    ‘Hello, Richard,’ said a voice in English.
    He turned, embarrassed, as if he’d been caught pulling faces in the shaving mirror.
    ‘Ah. Hello there.’
    The young man he’d met at the bar, Friedl something, stood at the entrance to the lounge in knickerbockers and a sleeveless cricket sweater over a white shirt. His mop of black hair was swept under a Basque cap, as though he were a weekend guest of the Great Gatsby.
    ‘We’ve almost got the ship to ourselves,’ he said with that hustler grin. ‘Just a few guests, my colleagues in the movie crew—and you.’
    ‘Yes, it’s rather a privilege.’
    ‘Tell me something . . . do you listen to swing?’
    Surprised, Denham said, ‘I do.’
    ‘Good. I want to know what grooves these days’—he raised a hand to the side of his mouth in a mock whisper—‘and about all the other things that are banned here . . .’
    Again, he was struck by the man’s candid nature. It seemed hard to believe that it hadn’t got him into trouble. And he listened to swing. If there were two things utterly anathema to National Socialism, they were Jews and hot jazz.
    ‘We’ll do an exchange,’ Denham said. ‘I’ll tell you what’s hot and you can tell me any gossip you’ve heard about the Games—and I mean real news, not official stuff.’
    On the port side of the airship a long dining room filled the length of the space, separated by a low railing from another promenade, also with panoramic views.
    Tables were laid with white linen, fresh-cut flowers, and silver cutlery; the china plates bore a Zeppelin motif. White-jacketed stewards