Max Collins - The Hindenburg Murders

“If it were me, I don’t think I’d do business there anymore.”

“In my business, I have to travel, and I have to do business with all kinds; hell, Lester, my partner is Irish!”

“You are open-minded.”

Feibusch sighed. “What is a man to do? Business in Germany remains good. What would the Christians of Europe do without Jews to sell them Christmas and Easter goodies? Ah, but the hotels in Germany, many of them won’t give lodgings to someone like me, anymore. I come to towns and the sign that used to say, ‘Welcome To,’ says, ‘Jews Strictly Forbidden,’ now-or worse, ‘Jews Enter at Your Own Risk.’”

“I’ve seen it myself. Do you know I saw a sign outside Cologne that said, ‘Drive Carefully! Sharp Curve! Jews 75 Miles an Hour.’”

“I believe it, I believe it. The radio, they don’t play Mendelssohn anymore!”

Charteris nodded. “The best film directors in Germany are going to Hollywood, you know-Max Reinhardt, Fritz Lang….”

“The owners of the Frankfurter Zeitung were forced to sell! The result? A dull paper, unreadable.”

Charteris shook his head. “Bad movies.”

“Wagner on the radio, all day, all night.”

“Not exactly music to fall asleep by, is it?”

Feibusch sighed. “So my friend Leuchtenburg chooses to stay drunk.”

“What do you do, Moritz? Besides fill out postcards?”

“I enjoy life, Lester. So this is a German ship? Does that mean Chef Maier’s food is any less tasty? Make the best of life, I say.”

“I guess that’s possible, when you can go back to San Francisco, at the end of the day.”

Feibusch paused in his postcard assembly. “You make a good point.” In a hushed voice, he said, “I still have many relatives in Germany. I help as I can.”

“How?”

“I’m bringing my two nephews over, to work in a canning plant. My mother, in October, when I come for the Easter selling, I will bring home with me. My wife and I have no children; Mama will be no burden.”

“Aren’t there restrictions…?”

“The papers are difficult to come by, yes.” Feibusch looked side to side. Very quietly, he said, “A little money here, a little money there. German palms grease up like anybody’s. My biggest problem is Mama herself.”

“How so?”

“She doesn’t want to leave ‘her Germany’-even though it has not been her Germany for a long time. Did you know that there was a law passed recently, in the glorious fatherland? No Jewish old people allowed in German old folks’ homes; no Jewish orphans in the orphanages, either. Takes up too much valuable space.”

“Criminal.”

Feibusch shrugged elaborately, and returned to his postcards. “It will be Germany’s loss, America’s gain. The Nazis deprive Jews of their very citizenship-they cannot hold public office or enter the civil service, many fields are closed to them, teaching, farming, journalism, radio, even the stock exchange. Next it will be medicine, law….”

“It’s difficult to imagine where it will end.”

“Difficult and terrible, Lester. The real tragedy is, the German people themselves, they are not bad. It’s these leaders, these mad leaders.”

“But a people are only as good as their leaders.”

“I know, I know. Still, as individuals-I’ve met so many nice people on this trip. Like you, Mr. Charteris. What, if I may ask, is your heritage?”

“British subject-my mother was English, my father Chinese, a surgeon. I spend more time in America, these days. I plan to naturalize.”

“Good. Nothing against Britain, but America-that’s the place.”

A wry smile tickled Charteris’s lips. “No prejudice there?”

“Plenty. A Jew like me-a man of mixed blood like you, we will always meet stupidity, in a free land like America. Just, thank God, not this madness.”

Charteris nodded. “Well, as you say, on an individual basis, the Germans are a fine people. My cabin mate is German-poor blighter’s under the weather, though. Cooped up in our cabin with shakes and sniffles.”

“Too bad. Even with this rain, this voyage is a delight.”

“Well, Eric’s in no condition to enjoy. Eric Knoecher is his name, my cabin mate.”

“Oh, I’ve met him! The importer.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Feibusch paused again, at his postcards. “He looked me up, first night. He seemed healthy enough, then. Compared notes, tricks of the trade. We’re in the same business, right?”

“Right.”

“Fine fellow, friendly fellow. Do give him my best, my sympathy. You see, there’s an example for you. Like you said.”

“Pardon?”

“Your cabin mate! As individuals, the Germans can be wonderful people.”

“Yes.” Charteris rose. “Eric would seem to be a shining example, at that…. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Certainly, Lester. Pleasure meeting you, nice chatting with you.”

“Likewise, Moritz. Can I post those for you?”

“Please!” Feibusch handed a batch of cards to Charteris, who dropped them down the pneumatic tube to the ship’s post office, while the seller of fancy goods returned his full attention to his stamping and signing.

Summoned by the ship’s gong, Charteris and Hilda had a delicious if uneventful lunch with the Adelts. Several casual mentions of his bedridden cabin mate created no reaction whatever from either husband or wife, though Gertrude made an interesting observation about the undercover Luftwaffe colonel.

“That man whose wife came aboard to see him off,” she said, “Colonel Erdmann… what do you suppose he’s a colonel of?”

“Beats me,” Charteris said.

“Military of some kind,” her husband said dismissively, dipping a spoon into his soup.

“He has such a sad face.” Gertrude’s pretty face was sad, itself. “So often he just sits near one of the observation windows, staring out at nothing with such a… profound look of sadness. Have you noticed, Leslie?”

“No,” he lied.

“It all but makes me cry.”

Her husband patted Gertrude’s hand. “You’re just tired. There’s nothing like boredom to wear a person out.”

Gertrude could only agree, and, after dessert, the man and wife disappeared for a postluncheon nap-such snoozes having become de rigueur on this voyage, which-though so much quicker than travel by steamer-seemed every bit as leisurely.

“You wouldn’t like to go to your cabin for a nap, dear, would you?” Charteris asked Hilda, as they strolled over toward the starboard lounge.

She almost smiled, her eyes wide and amused. “Alone or together?”

“I was thinking, together.” He yawned, not very convincingly.

“Do you think the Adelts are… napping?”

“If I had a wife that beautiful, I wouldn’t be.”

She nudged him with an elbow, but the faint amusement on her lips had fully blossomed into that wonderful kiss of a smile.

At the starboard promenade, he and Hilda saw more evidence of passengers lost in ocean-liner mode-an old couple sat in the lounge, blankets covering their legs, staring out at the grayness, as if on a steamer deck. (It was chilly today, and the stewards were rushing around closing the fresh-air vents.) Those two little boys were on the floor of the lounge, playing dominoes while at the adjacent table their mother wrote a letter and their father read a book-reading and letter writing not being restricted to the library. Around the lounge, and on the upholstered benches by the windows, other passengers were similarly occupied, jotting messages to friends or engrossed in some novel, unfortunately none of them having the courtesy of being wrapped up in anything of Charteris’s.