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 were arranging ice buckets and dishes of cured ham and roast venison for a buffet lunch. Halfway along the promenade Friedl’s crew was adjusting a rig holding a telephoto-lens movie camera pointed through an open promenade window. Denham recognised the men from the bar at the Kurgarten. The two Party big shots Eckener had mentioned-for whose enjoyment the sumptuous lunch was provided-were admiring the view with their wives and two young children, a boy and a girl. Both were colourless men in their late thirties, complacent in their light brown tunics, gold-trimmed swastika armbands, and booted legs, set wide apart. In any normal society they’d be town clerks or farm inspectors, Denham supposed, but in Germany the Party could elevate the most humdrum official into a Caesar, free to build an empire from which to draw homage and fealty.
‘A pair of golden pheasants,’ Friedl said.
They walked to the windows at the opposite end of the promenade from the Party men and watched the Rhine wind its way into the horizon through steep, wooded valleys. The castle tower of Meersburg passed below. As it gained height, the ship tilted gently, and a broad patchwork of cabbage fields and hamlets filled the view for as far as the eye could see. Horses pulling a hay cart reared their heads at the sight of the giant ship looming above; a farm dog chased its shadow across a field, barking.
Corks popped and champagne was poured, and shortly after, lunch was announced. Denham joined Friedl at a table for two.
‘That’s our director of photography, Jaworsky,’ Friedl said, pointing at an older man talking to the captain. ‘The best cameramen in Germany today-made his name shooting Alpine movies, our equivalent of the western, you could say. And over there is Gerhard, our gaffer.’ He nodded with a flash of shyness towards a tanned lad in shirtsleeves who was lifting reels. The lad smiled back at them.
‘He’s your boyfriend?’ Denham asked, before he could stop himself.
A change of pitch in the propeller engines and the ship picked up speed.
Friedl stared at his plate, reddening, as though he’d been slapped across the face. When he looked up, his fine features hardened.
‘No, he is not.’ After another pause, he said, ‘As you yourself might have said, is it that obvious?’
Denham wanted to kick himself.
‘Please forgive me. It’s a reporter’s bad habit. I spend too much time with hard-nosed hacks. I hope you’ll excuse it.’
Friedl was about to speak when his eyes froze on something over Denham’s shoulder. He turned to see a dull-eyed, freckled boy of about ten, the son of one of the Party men, standing near their table, watching them. The type of boy who’d stone birds for fun. He wore the Jungvolk uniform. The belt around his shorts had a dagger hanging from it.
‘It’s rude to stare,’ Denham said in German.
‘Why are you speaking English?’
‘We’re American gangsters planning a bank robbery in Berlin.’
The boy looked from him to Friedl. ‘He doesn’t look like a gangster,’ he said, then ran off to report this observation to his father.
‘You wait,’ Denham said. ‘He’ll be telling them he’s discovered a spy ring on board.’
Friedl didn’t seem to be listening. For a few moments his eyes were naked, and Denham saw the truth of his existence: a secret life, of courage poisoned by fear. Fear of whisperers and informers. Of midnight knocks on the door.
‘You must miss the old republic,’ Denham said, still trying to atone for his gaffe. ‘I mean, no one in Berlin cared who was a warm boy then, did they? What happened to the old El Dorado on Motzstrasse?’
‘Closed down,’ Friedl said, his face sullen. After a long silence, he spoke in a distracted voice, as though his mind was riffling through banks of old memories. ‘Berlin was the centre of the world, you know. Jazz to rival Harlem’s, great movies, new things happening in art every week. Nightlife, atmosphere, freedom. I had work at the UFA studios; friends I’d meet in the cafes on the Ku’damm. It was a great life. Look at the city now… The only atmosphere left is fear. Everyone’s afraid. Even those golden pheasants over there will worry over what their children say about them on Jungvolk evenings
… There is a shadow over everything.’
He looked at Denham, his face suddenly animated. Speaking in German, he said, ‘Didn’t we meet at a poetry reading in Mainz last year?’
Denham waited for him to elaborate, but he said nothing more. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, pulling a dubious face. ‘Not sure I’ve ever been to Mainz.’ He knocked back his champagne.
Friedl continued to watch him for a moment, but a light seemed to go out in his face, and his eyes drifted to the windows.
They waited until the Party men and their families had heaped their plates; then he and Denham helped themselves to smoked ham, black bread, pate, and pickles, and Friedl asked him what was new in Harlem and who was recording on which label, revealing an obsessive’s knowledge of jazz that petered out after about 1934. He listened keenly as Denham told him of Count Basie’s new tenor sax, and Benny Goodman’s move to Chicago.
‘Believe it or not,’ Friedl said, ‘something like the old life may return to Berlin for the duration of the Games. All part of this relaxed image they want to present while the city is full of foreigners. The police will tolerate jazz, and the Jews will get a break.’
A waiter refilled their glasses. They toasted each other, and Denham regarded his new friend with a mixture
