Z is for – Zeppelin

…

Appearances were everything.

In a country where underlying suspicion and fear prevailed in a way that was far more terrifying than the manner in which the German authorities made everyone appear welcome in the so-called ‘New Germany’, I had a secret.

And I only had to maintain it until I was on the Hindenburg and on my way home.

We were lucky, or perhaps not, that the Olympic Games were on, and the regime was on its best behaviour.

Or seemingly so.

I’ll be honest, I always wanted to do a grand tour, but just never got there, confining my visits to my work.  France, Greece, Italy, if only to exercise my curiosity in archaeological artefacts and digs, and then an opportunity arrived on my doorstep in a rather unique manner.

Stanley Davis Jackson, a member of the United States State Department, came to see me.

Perhaps that was the polite way of putting it, because he was sitting in my favourite chair in my folks’ old house, they’d left me in a will, the same day I arrived home from their funeral.

It was mid-July 1936, and the world was in a crazy state, with all manner of strange, at least to me, things happening.

An end to a war, a period of prosperity, a depression, and who knows really what it could be called.  Someone said it was going to be another war, but maybe if we just ignored everything going on over the seas…

Or not.

Stanley Davis Jackson had other ideas.

In what he may have believed it to be in a personable manner, he explained how a few people were working towards making the world a safer place for everyone.

Why did I get the feeling that exactly the opposite was happening, and of course, the most important question: what did it have to do with me?

Easy…

I had a working relationship with a museum and an archaeological organisation in Germany, a range of German contacts who were well placed in the ‘New Germany’ government, and I was able to travel and move about the country relatively freely.

First thought after his introductory spiel, they needed a spy.  I was not going to be a spy.  A university acquaintance had also been approached, told it was simple, just keep your eyes and ears open, anything out of the ordinary.

Until he was ‘detained’.

So I asked Stanley Davis Jackson the question.

“Why exactly are you here?”

The way he shifted nervously in his chair was as telling as the grave expression on his face.

“We have a favour to ask you.”

..

Herr Doctor Hans Kneissl and I had just arrived at the Hamburg Hof hotel, the assembly place for the 50 or so passengers of the Hindenburg zeppelin airliner, after a productive week of investigations, one of which was his candid view of the ‘New Germany’.

Stanley Davis Jackson’s parting comment had been that if the opportunity was there, to ask for the doctor’s opinion.  There didn’t seem to be one until, on the drive into Frankfurt, we had been stopped briefly by a road incident.

A truck was on the side of the road, and two vehicles were stopped, and the occupants of the cars were lined up, and men in brown uniforms were standing in front of them.

“Identity checks,” Hans said.  “It is called vigilance for troublemakers from alien countries, using the Olympic Games as a cover for illegal activities.”

“They don’t look like foreigners?”

“More likely Jewish.  It does not bode well for you if you are Jewish.”

We drove past slowly, several of the soldiers, if they could be called that, waving us on, yelling in German, “Move along, nothing to see here”.  Or words to that effect.

“Are they members of the army?”

“No, though I believe they are now being trained to become soldiers.  They wander the streets, looking for trouble, though not as much as they used to.  Still, avoid them when you see them.  I believe they have been replaced by the Gestapo and SS, the intelligence arm of the Army.  I’m never sure who is whom these days, except you never know who’s watching, listening, waiting.  You keep your head down and mind your own business.”

I was going to ask a few more questions, but I got the sense things were not quite as they seemed.

And a lot different to the picture Stanley Davis Jackson painted for me.  In and out.  Keep your eyes and ears open.  Discreet observation.

Enjoy the flight on the Hindenburg, a once-in-a-lifetime treat.

I hadn’t realised at the time, but it was like selling your soul to the devil.  There was always a price to pay.

…

There was little else to say, that sighting of what Hans muttered later as arrests in plain sight, though I had not seen that happening, I suspect he knew more than he was telling.

The rest of the drive was uneventful, and we reached the Frankfurter Hof hotel, the last stop before the new airport, [name].  It was the home to the hangars and two zeppelin balloons, one of which I would be travelling on, the Hindenburg.

The hotel was also referred to as the Grand Hotel, and I could see why.  Frankfurt’s elite were in attendance, and it was not surprised this was the starting point of an experience of a lifetime.

I felt remarkably out of place, and had it not been for Stanley Davis Jackson, I would not be here.

Security, Hans said, would be tight, which was why they did the pre-boarding for passengers at the hotel before being taken to the hangar and airship, directly by bus.

We arrived at 4pm.  Immigration and ticketing would start at 6pm. We had two hours, and Hans had decided to stay with me.

It was obvious who the passengers were.  Although there was a handful when we arrived, by five thirty, nearly all had arrived, and groups were forming.  Americans, English, European, German.

The Americans were noisy, some brash.  It was not cheap flying, so most of the passengers were wealthy, and you could tell. 

Stanley Davis Jackson had given me a role to play.  What interested me was how much he knew about me, what I had done, where I’d been, and who I knew.

And how that could be woven into a story that had already been created.  Had they assumed some time in the past that I would be working for them?

My role was that of a reclusive archaeologist and philanthropist who financed and attended digs.  Anyone digging into my past would see that my wealth came from parents who made a fortune from oil, discovered on their ranch

If only that were true.

I was also engaged to be married, which I certainly was not, to a rather equally reclusive daughter of bankers, who was ‘somewhere’ in Europe on a pre-wedding hike with friends.

Whoever wrote the script for this was a master storyteller.  He gave me a few days to read the novella and then burn it.  There was so much to the story, I hoped I could remember it all.

The key piece of information, my fiancé might or might not turn up at Frankfurt, so the happy couple could return to America on a pre-honeymoon.  Stanley Davis Jackson thought he had made a joke, but sadly, I didn’t laugh.

I was the only time I saw him feel ill at ease, realising suddenly that I might not be able to pull off a so-called simple task.

I had mentioned Eloise Matilda Bainborough to him several times, particularly when Mrs Hans asked if I’d met anyone, and seemed surprised when I said I had. 

It was all the questions she asked about her, and I felt in the end I was dodging and weaving because they were the sort of intimate details I should know.

So much so, I did wonder if she was not just a Hausfrau, but a Gestapo interrogator.

We did the rounds of the room, making myself known to the other passengers, navigating introductions which I hated, and questions which, because of the underlying nature of why I was there, always made me wary of everyone and everything.

Especially when Hans pointed out the possible Gestapo, Air police and security officials, some overt, some not, because, he said, the government could not allow anyone to sabotage such a valuable asset, and propaganda tool.

It was the first time he used that word, and for me, a lot of things I’d seen and heard made perfect sense.  Adolf Hitler, the Chancellor, and his team were ‘selling’ a product, not only to his people, but to the rest of the world.

And, to me, it seemed like everyone was buying it.

…

The moment of truth came at 5;42.  That time will stay in my memory forever, not because it was a heart-stopping, horrendous moment when everything could fall apart…

It was when Eloise Matilda Bainborough arrived.

It was supposed to be low-key, almost invisible.

It was anything but.

“Darling…”

It came from the doorway and travelled across the floor in such a riveting tone that no one could miss it.

Timed stopped.

Everyone, including me, looked.

I gasped.

And seconds later, I was hugging and kissing the most beautiful girl I had never seen or spoken to before.

And going weak at the knees.

Literally.

Ten maybe fifteen seconds, or perhaps a week, my mind was so boggled she stepped back, both my hands in hers, looking at me with what someone later told me were the most adoring eyes.

“My God, Ethan, you have missed me.  I sure as hell missed you.”

And kissed me again, in a way that pushed my heart rate way beyond the recommended limit.

The rest of the room sighed, and the murmurs of conversations started up again, and I was positive I knew what they would be talking about.

A hotel staffer brought her backpack over from where she had dropped it.

I could see Hans grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“Oh, sorry, Eloise, Hans, my archaeological nemesis and very good friend.”

“Doctor Kniessel.  It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.  Ethan is always telling me all this stuff, and you know us girls.  It’s fashion, marriage, children and not rocks, artefacts and relics.  The only relics I know about are my grandparents, which I shouldn’t be sounding so awful…”

All of which tumbled out in a mish-mash of breathlessness, the sort of babble a rich girl might indulge in.

I was almost madly in love with her myself, because now she was here, people gave us just enough time to reacquaint ourselves before turning her into the centre of attention.

Then, a few minutes later, a tap on my shoulder, a whispered, ‘doorway’, I saw what Hans was referring to.  Uniformed officers, plain-clothed Gestapo, conferring and looking in our direction.  Then in the next, they were gone.

I knew they would be back.

Eloise had her back to them, but I had seen her briefly just as she arrived, look back as she reached the door.  Had they been in pursuit?  Was that why we had the attention-grabbing entrance?

Plain sailing, Stanley Davis Jackson said. 

We were about to go side-on to a tidal wave in a dinghy.

…

©  Charles Heath 2025-2026