Vango

  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 t
hem 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.”

  Eckener was trying to get Captain Lehmann’s attention. There was no point in making things worse. Clearly, Lehmann had no idea about what his commander had undertaken the evening before with a five-inch paintbrush.

  “Follow me, gentlemen,” said the captain, who was taking no notice of Hugo Eckener’s frantic signaling. “Follow me — you’ll be amazed.”

  Unfortunately, I’m not sure who’s going to be the most amazed out of those three, reflected Eckener with a sinking heart as he watched them heading off. They went around to the other side, where, looking up, they scrutinized the left flank of the airship.

  Eckener turned away. He could hear hurried steps rushing over to him.

  “Herr Doctor Eckener.”

  “Yes?”

  Agent Max Grund was standing before him, more in disarray than ever. He didn’t say a word, but summoned his colleague.

  “Heil Hitler!” they chanted in unison, their arms raised in front of them.

  There was no point in putting up a fight. Eckener took a step forward.

  “I’m ready to follow you, gentlemen.”

  “We will overlook your sarcasm, Commander. Rest assured that our informer will be hanged.”

  Eckener was taken aback.

  “Good-bye, Commander,” said Grund.

  “Good-bye.”

  They headed off through the hangar. Hugo Eckener turned toward Lehmann, utterly bewildered.

  “Captain?”

  The captain’s embarrassed smile was the first giveaway sign. Hugo Eckener watched him closely. He was beginning to understand. Frowning, Captain Lehmann said, as if to excuse himself, “I told you this morning that I undertook some improvement jobs on the rear before your arrival.”

  Eckener looked down at the ground and then straight into the captain’s eyes.

  “Yes. You did. I’d forgotten. Thank you, Captain. You can return to the passengers now. The bus from Kurgarten should have arrived.”

  The captain nodded before walking off.

  “Captain Lehmann!”

  “Yes?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Twenty-five past five.”

  “Twenty-five?”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “Captain . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t see any reason to refer to what’s just happened.”

  Lehmann frowned.

  “To what’s just happened? I’m sorry, you’ll have to tell me. . . . What has just happened, Commander?”

  Eckener felt overwhelmed. This was the humanity he loved.

  Embarkation for the Graf Zeppelin flight looked like something straight out of the society pages of a major newspaper in Berlin, Paris, or New York. In a few seconds, you could see an extraordinary array of characters climbing the steps, each worthy of a few juicy lines in the gossip columns because they were so important, or appeared to be so important.

  The felt hats were made by Christys’ of London, the dresses were by Jean Patou, the suitcases came from Oshkosh in Wisconsin, and the smiles were straight out of Pathé films.

  Diplomats, industrialists, writers, flamboyant characters, politicians, scientists, people of enormous fortunes, and diminutive actresses: what they all had in common was the drive to set foot in this dream and in History. That particular morning, there were seventeen of them. Each person was weighed with their luggage to check they didn’t exceed the weight allowance. It was a sort of joyous cattle market that smelled of May roses and patent leather.

  A well-fed German businessman with a small canvas bag stood on tiptoes in his slippers, as if that way he would weigh less on the scales. He talked a lot, saying that he lived in Paris, that he’d caught the plane from the airfield at Le Bourget, then a three-engine Lufthansa aircraft between Sarrebruck and Friedrichshafen. He was alarmed at the prospect of being too heavy and listed all the dishes he’d been offered in the course of his long journey by plane to the zeppelin: “Stuffed cabbage, cheeses rolled in bread crumbs, petits fours, vol-au-vents; I refused everything. Everything.”

  He was almost in tears at the mention of this diet.

  The customs officers laughed. They let him embark.

  Needless to say, no sooner was he on board than he fell into the arms of Otto the chef, begging that a whole leg of lamb be sourced for his breakfast. In order to get rid of him, Otto made a heap of promises, but the chef’s mind was on other things: he put on his toque and headed for the dining area.

  Lady Drummond-Hay was already seated at her table.

  Otto walked up from behind, overcome with emotion, trying to do up the last button on his kitchen jacket. Time for a reunion.

  In a small notebook, the young woman was starting to write down her account of the voyage, as requested by her newspaper in Chicago for a forthcoming edition.

  “Lady?”

  She swiveled a little on her chair and saw the chef.

  “Thank you. I don’t need anything for now. I had a coffee at the hotel.”

  “Lady . . .”

  “No, really. You’re very kind, sir. But please don’t insist.”

  Otto was about to say something when the zeppelin started moving as it was winched toward the outside of the hangar. Grace Drummond-Hay stood up to look out the window. Hundreds of men wer
e assisting the departure of the airship, holding its ropes.

  Otto couldn’t find the strength to walk to his kitchen.

  She hadn’t recognized him.

  The passengers had left their cabins and were all flowing into the dining area. They rushed over to the windows without so much as a glance at the chef, who had turned into a pillar of salt in the middle of all the tables.

  At the front of the zeppelin’s gondola, Eckener unfolded the message that the telegraph boy had just received.

  For D-LZ 127 Graf Zeppelin

  Flying over France strictly forbidden until further orders

  With both hands at the helm, one of the pilots called Eckener over. The zeppelin was now fully out of its lair.

  “I’m releasing us from the winch, Commander. Takeoff in two minutes.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Eckener signaled to Lehmann.

  “Captain, come with me.”

  They went into the map room. Two officers were working at a table.

  “Gentlemen,” said the commander, “the program has just changed. We no longer have the right to fly over France.”

  “I’ll halt operations,” said Ernst Lehmann calmly.

  “No. Nobody has forbidden our flight, so we will fly. Draw up a new itinerary. We’ll need to go via Switzerland and Italy. Look in the archives: the same flight as three years ago, when our destination was Cairo. April 1931. Once we’re level with Sardinia, you’ll head west to reconnect with our route for Brazil.”

  “We don’t know about the weather in the Alps.”

  “Find out. And warn the ground that we’re leaving in spite of everything.”

  Twenty-five meters above them, in the middle of a forest of girders and lying on a metal platform, Vango waited.

  The zeppelin was late taking off. Vango intended to let a few hours of flying time go by before revealing himself. A large part of the crew had known him five years earlier. All Hugo Eckener had to do was pretend to scold him and then find him a role on board. The passengers wouldn’t even notice the presence of a new crew member.

  Vango had remembered this hiding place near the wine cellar, just below the zeppelin’s canvas ceiling. He was unlikely to get any visitors. No operation required climbing all the way up there via a labyrinth of ladders and walkways. The tiniest noise, the slightest smell reminded him of his wonderful year on board, and of young Ethel’s face when he’d met her for the first time in the skies above Manhattan.