might weaken the Reich at home or abroad.”
“What exactly is on the list?” Hilda asked.
“Let us just say it’s ever-expanding,” Adelt said.
“The contents of the list aren’t public knowledge,” Knoecher said. “And any reporter who reveals anything on the list is considered to have committed treason. And the penalty for treason… well, not while we’re eating.”
“Beheading,” Gertrude said.
“Fortunately you both seem to have retained your heads,” Charteris said. “In your case, Gertrude, quite a lovely one.”
“Thank you, Leslie. I have my head, but not my press card. Like my husband’s, it was lifted.”
“I lost mine because I’m a Catholic,” Adelt said.
“I lost mine,” his wife said, “because I had the bad form to point out to my editor that banning mentions of the ‘Jew’ George M. Cohan was nonsensical, due to ‘Cohan’ being an Irish name.”
The silliness of that made them all laugh—but just a little; it was the kind of laughter that caught in the throat.
Smiling, Knoecher asked the Adelts, “Aren’t you friends with Stefan Zweig?”
“Close friends,” Adelt said. “Brilliant writer.”
“Brilliant writer,” Knoecher echoed.
“The universities threw his books on the fire,” Gertrude said. “He’s a Jew, so his words must be burned.”
Charteris was quietly burning, too. This fellow Knoecher was as smooth as he was sinister—getting into the good graces of the Adelts, and prying from them admissions of continuing contact with a banned, Jewish writer.
“These biscuits are delicious,” Charteris said, nibbling one, changing the subject innocuously.
“I understand they’re a specialité de la maison,” Gertrude said, spreading grape jam on another.
“I think you’ll find the cuisine on this ship,” Lehmann said, quietly proud, “comparable to that of any first-class hotel or restaurant.”
“Well, nevertheless, I do have a complaint,” Charteris said, lifting one of the numerous cups, goblets, and glasses provided for coffee, wine, cola, and what have you.
“Yes?” Lehmann asked.
“Can’t we rid ourselves of a few of these glasses? What is in this one, anyway—water? What are you trying to do, Captain, poison us?”
Light laughter followed, and Charteris then did his best to steer the little group away from overtly political topics, at least not dangerously political ones—the upcoming wedding of the Duke of Windsor and Mrs. Wallis Simpson, and the coronation of King George VI, seemed a safe subject. Captain Lehmann mentioned that the Hindenburg’s return trip was fully booked, many of the passengers prominent Americans who would be guests at the coronation.
But Knoecher, from time to time, would try to shift onto the sort of political topic that seemed to Charteris designed to reveal any anti-Nazi tendencies among those at the table.
“Perhaps Captain Lehmann will disagree with me,” Knoecher said, “but I find this business of the Luftwaffe obliterating that little town in Spain… what’s it called?”
“Guernica,” Gertrude said, frowning, nodding.
“Thank you, my dear,” Knoecher said, nodding back. “I find this bombing attack most disturbing.”
Hilda seemed to be trembling, Charteris noticed; though she said nothing, he felt sure this line of conversation was bothering her. Her eyes seemed to be tearing up….
“Strafing civilians, blowing up buildings,” Adelt said, shaking his head, “it’s shameful.”
Spah was nodding. Between sips of wine, he put in his two cents: “The English say the Luftwaffe destroyed that town for practice. Barbarians!”
“I think the English should concentrate on their own problems,” Charteris said easily. “This bus and tram strike, for instance—the Lambeth Walk will be more than a dance step if they don’t settle it soon.”
“Shall we have dessert?” Captain Lehmann asked, rising. “The stewards have added some awfully sweet surprises to the buffet table, I notice.”
Lehmann traded the barest glance with Charteris; the Zeppelin Company director knew very well what Knoecher was up to, and seemed eager to conspire with Charteris to keep off any dangerous political course.
As the table was being cleared, the chief steward came through and loudly announced, in both German and English, that the smoking room was now open. Many of the men in the dining room practically bolted from their tables, and Charteris would have killed for a cigarette, himself.
Hilda seemed to sense this, saying, “I am afraid all of this food has made me sleepy. Leslie, would you walk me to my cabin?”
“Of course,” Charteris said.
Gertrude was making a similar request of her husband, and the men had soon agreed to meet up in the smoking room.
As they passed the promenade windows, the view froze Charteris and the lovely blonde, and around them other passengers were reacting the same way.
While they had dined and talked, the Hindenburg had turned in a wide northwesterly arc, flying over