Vango (12 page)

The intimidation hadn’t stopped there.

Two months later, on a very hot day, Eckener had been summoned by Chancellor Hitler to his house in Berchtesgaden in the mountains.

During the nights that followed, Eckener had been tormented by nightmares about that little man sitting behind his desk, the tip of his foot stroking a black dog, in that small florid chalet overhanging a valley. For the first time in his life, as he was accompanied to the door by Göring, the air minister, who detested Eckener as much as he did his zeppelin, the commander had felt both of his hands trembling.

And from that day on, behind his provocative behavior and his bad temper, Hugo Eckener hid something in the folds of his neck, a tiny bug that clung to his skin: fear.

Something in him had given way. Part of his pride had deserted him.

All of a sudden, Hugo Eckener stood up.

He knew what to do about that misplaced bug: hold his head up high and crush it.

A few seconds later, as he was walking across the zeppelin’s grassy esplanade, Vango heard a shout behind him.

He turned around.

Hugo Eckener was approaching. He was out of breath.

“I do remember a stowaway who hid inside the zeppelin. These things sometimes happen on voyages. Once the balloon has taken off, there’s nothing we can do about a stowaway. We’re hardly going to throw him overboard. . . .”

Vango was waiting to hear what came next.

“That’s all,” puffed Eckener. “I just wanted to tell you that. Now I’m going to get some sleep at home. My wife is expecting me.”

Eckener buttoned up his coat collar and turned his back on Vango. The boy hadn’t reacted at all. After a few paces, Eckener turned around.

“One other thing, Jonah: I haven’t seen you this evening. I haven’t seen you for four years. I can barely remember you. Right?”

Vango agreed. Eckener headed off into the darkness. He walked tall. The lights from the hangar blended in with his white hair.

At three o’clock in the morning, when it was still dark, the hive of the zeppelin started to stir.

Cleaners were clearing the ground, picking up debris right, left, and center. The crew members appeared one by one. Pilots, officers, mechanics all arrived in their black leather coats, concentrating on the task ahead.

These flights had been a regular event for several years now, but no one ever got used to the adventure of it: they still had to pinch themselves. They got ready as if they were going on a date. They all smelled of cologne and soap. The hair beneath their caps was well oiled, and their shoes were shiny.

Coffee was being served off to one side, in one of the workshops, to avoid lighting the portable stoves close to the flammable gas that filled the zeppelin. But the men couldn’t help going back into the hangar, a steaming cup clasped in both hands, to stare wide-eyed at this sleeping giant they were tasked with waking. They smiled as they looked on, full of emotion that they were part of this small group that, in less than a decade, had made the impossible happen: an ocean liner of the air, linking Europe with Brazil or any other destination, in three days and two nights, simply but in luxury.

That night, one heavyset man didn’t share this sense of joy.

He was Otto Manz. He was the chef on board the airship.

He was sitting on the first step of the wooden staircase that led up to the zeppelin. An army of porters, standing in front of him with crates and bags, awaited his orders.

“You can wait all you like! The
Graf Zeppelin
doesn’t have a chef anymore.”

“Doesn’t have a chef?” echoed one of the men, who was balancing three heavy crates of carrots and cabbages.

“I quit.”

Otto Manz declared that he was quitting before every flight, and one hour later, he would be making pastries high above the mountains for the passengers’ breakfasts.

“I’m not leaving without my kitchen help.”

His kitchen help was Ernst Fischbach. He had just been promoted to the post of navigator on board the airship. This had been his dream for a long time, ever since he had been employed as a ship’s boy at the age of fourteen.

And so Otto found himself without his kitchen boy.

“Boss, what do you want us to do with these vegetables?”

“I’m not anybody’s boss. Go and sort it out with Captain Lehmann.”

They went to find the captain, who got them to store the provisions in the pantry and iceboxes located in the keel of the balloon. Lehmann was one of Eckener’s top men. And during crossings, he was never without his accordion.

Lehmann was as fine a diplomat as he was a navigator. He went to sit next to Otto. He remained there in silence, despite all the frenzy in the hangar.

“She’ll be disappointed,” sighed the captain.

“Sorry?”

Otto had turned to face him.

“I really do believe she’s going to be very disappointed,” said Lehmann.

“Who?”

The captain took off his cap.

“She was so fond of your little turnips swimming in cream.”

“My God, who are you talking about?”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“About what, Captain?”

“Lady Drummond-Hay arrived at the Kurgarten Hotel yesterday evening.”

The chef stood up and, puffing out his chest, smoothed the wrinkles in his apron.

“Lady?”

“She’s on the passenger list.”

“Lady!”

Otto called her Lady, as if it were her first name.

“Lady . . .”

She was an English aristocrat, a famous journalist, a correspondent for the most important American newspapers, a widow at thirty-one, an adventurer with fur coats and velvet eyes. She had been a passenger on board some of the zeppelin’s most famous voyages.

“Lady, my God!” Otto exclaimed again.

He was madly in love with her. And she took advantage of this crush, even going into the kitchen to eat cookies. Otto saw all the signs of a love shared. He was already making plans for the future.

The poor man didn’t know anything about the woman’s life outside the balloon, about her hundreds of suitors, her friends in Hollywood, Buenos Aires, Madrid, and Montparnasse in Paris.

All he knew was that one day he had held her hand, above Tokyo, as he taught her how to beat a béarnaise sauce. And that delicate white hand in his, whisking up the scent of tarragon and chervil, was his most tender memory.

“My God, Lady!” Otto Manz exclaimed one last time before disappearing into the zeppelin.

Hugo Eckener arrived a little after five in the morning. The captain immediately welcomed him.

“Commander, we need a replacement for Ernst Fischbach, the chef’s assistant.”

“We’ll find one.”

“I fear we won’t find one in the clouds, Commander.”

“Who knows, Captain!”

“Do you have someone in mind?”

“Perhaps.”

Lehmann didn’t push the point. Eckener seemed sure of himself.

“The front right engine has been repaired,” the captain continued.

“Perfect. Anything else?”

“Yes . . . I took the liberty of ensuring that a few urgent jobs were carried out at the rear.”

“I’ll trust your judgment. The weather?”

“The radio telegrapher has received the weather forecast from Hamburg. The wind will be in our favor, and the Rhone corridor is clear.”

“Excellent. Captain, kindly join the headwaiter and wait for the passengers in front of the hangar. Please offer my apologies. Tell them I will see them on board.”

Lehmann obeyed. Standing still, Eckener took his time observing the zeppelin. Then he headed for the stairs. He wanted to check something inside. The mechanics, crew members, and officers all slowed down and tilted their heads as he went by. Distracted, he didn’t respond to their salutes.

But as he walked through the door of the airship’s gondola, Eckener could hear that he was being called for.

“Commander!”

It was Kubis, the headwaiter. He looked concerned.

“Customs and police are here, Commander. Lehmann is asking them to wait outside.”

“Very good. Customs can check the passengers shortly. If the police officer wants a crew list, provide him with one.”

“There isn’t just one police officer, if I counted correctly.”

“Are there two of them?” asked Eckener, unsurprised by an excessive police presence.

“No, Commander, there are thirty-five. I think we’ve got a problem.”

Sure enough, standing at the door was every policeman in uniform they’d been able to find within a ten-kilometer radius. But as soon as he arrived, all Eckener saw were the two Gestapo raincoats. Captain Lehmann, who was talking to them, his face covered in beads of sweat, was relieved to see the commander approaching.

“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Commander Eckener. He’ll be able to answer your questions.”

Eckener gave a broad smile. And in his powerful voice, pointing to the army of police officers, he said, “I hadn’t seen the passenger list. We’re going to feel nice and safe: a proper flying barracks! I’m only sorry we’ll be arriving in Rio too late for carnival.”

One of the men from the Gestapo smiled weakly.

“You’re very amusing, Commander, for first thing in the morning. I tend to be witty at night. Perhaps I’ll have occasion to make you laugh one of these evenings.”

“With pleasure, Officer.”

“Max Grund. I’m the chief of the Geheime Staatspolizei for the province of Lake Constance.”

The commander noticed that Grund had given the full name of the Gestapo, as if, one year after its creation, the affectionate diminutive already froze the blood, and it was better to dilute this effect with a long and complicated name.

With excessively cold cordiality, the officer introduced his colleague, Franz Heiner, whom Eckener had never seen before.

“There are lots of new faces in the police at the moment,” remarked the commander.

“You can’t do anything clean with old tools,” came the reply.

As a fine craftsman, Eckener thought the opposite. A tool takes a long time before it’s really good. But he remained quiet.

“I don’t want to make you late,” said Grund. “But there is a rumor circulating that we need to put a stop to. I have been led to understand that some paintwork has been carried out here recently.”

“Rumor?” echoed Eckener.

Max Grund took a deep breath. There was a persistent whiff of turpentine.

“Yes. Paintwork that calls the honor of our country into question.”

Eckener smiled.

“What remains of that honor is very thin if it is endangered by a pot of paint.”

“You will allow me to verify this matter with my own eyes.”

Eckener didn’t move. He formed a human barrier.

“Excuse me.”

The man walked around him, together with policeman Heiner. They entered the hangar and strode in the direction of the zeppelin.

Commander Eckener followed them at a distance. The visitors had their eyes fixed on the back aileron of the balloon.

“It would seem that the rumor was not false, Commander.”

Eckener took his time before responding.

“Kindly tell the rumor that he forgot his hat.”

The commander picked up the cap that the
Kreisleiter
had dropped the previous evening in his panic to leave.

He held it out to Max Grund, who tossed it away with a flick of the hand.

“Follow me, Mr. Eckener.”

“You’ll forgive me, but I have a three-hundred-ton balloon due for takeoff in thirty minutes. I don’t have a second to spare.”

The two men from the Gestapo sniggered as they looked at each other.

“I don’t think you quite understand, Commander. The years are passing. You’re a man from another era. It’s rather touching . . . but it’s over. Follow us.”

Eckener glanced at the balloon. For the first time, he really did feel as if it were all over. The adventure would stop right there. He didn’t even notice Captain Lehmann coming toward them.

“Is there a problem, Commander?”

The commander didn’t hear him.

“A problem?” Captain Lehnmann repeated.

Max Grund showed Lehmann the aileron covered in silver paint.

Lehmann pretended not to understand.

“Isn’t there something missing?” inquired the police officer.

“No.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Be very careful, Captain.”

“I can assure you that . . .”

Suddenly his face lit up. Lehmann turned toward the Gestapo officers.

“Hold on, gentlemen. I think I know what you’re looking for! You’re looking for . . .”

He traced the swastika in the air. He made the Nazi salute by raising his arm.

“Is that what you’re looking for?”

The two men could sense their anger rising.

“I understand that you are new to your work, gentlemen,” Lehmann continued. “Your mistake is crass but excusable. The . . .”

He repeated his large arm movements.

“The . . . can be found specifically . . .”

He paused for a moment. Eckener had returned to his senses and was listening to him anxiously.

“On the other side.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Grund thought he must be dreaming.

“I repeat: it’s really rather amusing, and entirely natural that you should be uninformed on this matter, but the ruling from the air ministry is very strict. The big crooked drawing you’re looking for must be painted on the left-hand side of the aileron.”