Hydrogen

Philip Brebner

Description

Hydrogen: the lightest element, the lifting gas of airships-and highly inflammable.1982. Lakehurst New Jersey, crash site of the Hindenburg. Alone in a motel room Peter Miller recalls how, as a German ten year old, he stowed away on a Zeppelin, shot down in a bombing raid on London in 1916. The only survivor, he is raised as an English orphan at a school for destitute boys founded by the eccentric Dr Hatropp. As a Fleet Street journalist, dispatched to Berlin in the Golden Twenties, Peter interviews luminaries such as Einstein and Brecht, and is drawn to two women, Frankie, an unconventional reporter from America, and Anneliese, a German widow. Invited to cover the Graf Zeppelin's luxury passenger flights to Cairo, an accident leaves him convalescing in Egypt. On his return, he finds a different and frightening Germany. Blown between politics, loyalties and love in the inter-war years, and entangled in the paranormal events, triumphs and disasters of British and German airships of the time, Peter realizes that he overlooked a simple incident that could have grounded and fulfilled his life. But is it too late?

Informations

• Publié par: eBook Versions
• Date de parution: 29 mai 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781843962779
• Langue: English

Extrait

HYDROGEN



Philip Brebner





THAMES STREET PRESS
Published by
Thames Street Press

Copyright © 2014 Philip Brebner

Author s website
www.philipbrebnerbooks.com

Philip Brebner has asserted his
right under the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act 1988 to be identified
as the author of this work.

ISBN-13 978-1-84396-277-9

A CIP catalogue record for
this ebook edition is available
from the British Library.

Cover design by Andy Fielding
www.andyfielding.co.uk

ePub ebook production
www.ebookversions.com

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or
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or transmitted in any form
or by any means electronic,
photomechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise without
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of the publisher. Any person who
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liable to criminal prosecution.
Contents


Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright Credits
Dedication
Title Page
Epigraph

Chapter One
New Jersey, 1982
Chapter Two
Tondern, Germany, August 1916
Chapter Three
In flight on the L-84 Zeppelin
Chapter Four
England, August 1916
Chapter Five
London
Chapter Six
London, June 1919
Chapter Seven
Margate
Chapter Eight
London, November 1920
Chapter Nine
Lakehurst, June 1982
Chapter Ten
Berlin, February 1929
Chapter Eleven
Nuremberg, March 1929
Chapter Twelve
Friedrichshafen
Chapter Thirteen
In flight on the LZ-127 Graf Zeppelin
Chapter Fourteen
Lakehurst, June 1982
Chapter Fifteen
London, October 1929
Chapter Sixteen
Bedford
Chapter Seventeen
Dusseldorf, May 1930
Chapter Eighteen
Berlin, August 1930
Chapter Nineteen
Paris, October 1930
Chapter Twenty
Beauvais
Chapter Twenty-One
Bedford
Chapter Twenty-Two
London
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lakehurst, June 1982
Chapter Twenty-Four
Friedrichshafen, April 1931
Chapter Twenty-Five
London, October 1929
Chapter Twenty-Six
Cairo, April 1931
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Aswan, July 1931
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cairo
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Lakehurst, June 1982
Chapter Thirty
Berlin, February 1936
Chapter Thirty-One
Denmark, April 1936
Chapter Thirty-Two
Tondern
Chapter Thirty-Three
Lakehurst, June 1982
Chapter Thirty-Four
Nuremberg, September 1936
Chapter Thirty-Five
Berlin, February 1937
Chapter Thirty-Six
Kew, London, March 1937
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Berlin
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Berlin
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Frankfurt, May 1937
Chapter Forty
In flight on the LZ-130 Hindenburg
Chapter Forty-One
Lakehurst, June 1982
Also by Philip Brebner
To Philipa
It s burst into flames! Get out of the way! Get out of the way! Get this Charlie! Get this Charlie! It s fire and it s crashing! It s crashing terrible! Oh, my! Get out of the way please! It s burning, bursting into flames and is falling on the mooring mast, and all the folks agree this is terrible. This is the worst of the worst catastrophes in the world! Oh, it s crashing... oh, four or five hundred feet into the sky, and it s a terrific crash, ladies and gentlemen. There s smoke, and there s flames, now, and the frame is crashing to the ground, not quite to the mooring mast... Oh, the humanity, and all the passengers screaming around here! I told you... I can t even talk to people... around here. It s... I can t talk, ladies and gentlemen. Honest, it s just laying there, a mass of smoking wreckage...
Herbert Morisson, broadcasting live for Chicago s WLS, along with his sound engineer, Charlie Nehlson, May 6, 1937
New Jersey, 1982


The sign is so unexpected; I have to pull up the car. I m returning from Princeton, where I received an honorary degree, a Doctor of Laws, at their annual Commencement. There s an irony to this: in my early life, on that ill-fated trip to Egypt, I resented the young man who d been to Princeton, and here I am, an alumnus of sorts.
Our neighbours son in Silver Spring put my name forward. Many years ago, shortly after Anneliese and I settled in America, I realized the boy was suffering with Tourette syndrome, named for the French neuropsychiatric who identified the disorder late last century. The series of tics the boy displayed were characteristic: for instance, he sniffed and yelped like a dog, or weeks later, he meowed, touching you in a very feline way. However, to my horror, our neighbours were being advised to send their son to an institution. I battled for understanding, and finally won; the boy, whose symptoms became less and less frequent during his teens, went on to Princeton, where he ended up, a tenured professor.
In the circumstances, I almost declined the honour. The doctorate, for a lifetime s work in the field of human rights, cited me as, a defender of the helpless, the dread of tyrannical governments; the bringer of aid to the needy, of voice to the silent and of hope to those in despair. Yet, if truth were told, it had not always been like that. And at my age, seventy-five, the gesture seemed senseless. I say this not from ingratitude, but loneliness, for I have no loved one left to share this honour with.
Unwilling to return to Washington DC to an empty house, I had the idea to idle away a few days by driving down the Atlantic coast, so turned east from Trenton. All things considered, I shouldn t have been surprised at the sign, for perhaps the detour was a subconscious decision: after all, the young woman who interviewed me at Princeton for the New York Times resurrected the fact I m a survivor of the Hindenburg disaster. But still, seeing the town s name makes me brake.
LAKEHURST
I consider whether to go on. Anneliese and I hadn t returned since 1937, despite the Navy Lakehurst Historical Society s annual invitation to attend the memorial service at the Airbase, on May 6 at 7.25pm, to commemorate those killed in the Hindenburg crash and all airship crashes throughout history . Anneliese refused to relive the horror, and I couldn t cope with the guilt.
LAKEHURST
Yes, now I m alone, it s time to face ghosts.
Tondern, Germany, August 1916


It s the day my life changes forever.
I m chewing a slice of wartime bread, so grey and sticky it s called cement cake, all the while watching Mutti sitting against the window with the lace pillow on her belly, a fantail of bobbins fluttering as her fingers twist and plait thread around a pattern of pins, summoning strange white flowers and butterflies, which fill me with longing for the marsh land nearby, where all that summer I d played. The alchemy of light turns my mother s hair from straw to gold, the dancing bobbins engrossing enough to detract me from the bread s nauseous taste. As I drain a cup of milk Mutti gasps, rises to her feet, a puddle spreading from the hem of her skirt. Thinking she s peed herself, my surprise triggers a laugh.
It s time, Mutti says. Peter, fetch the midwife, Dorete Finsen, then come back and ask Frau H tchen to come. You might have to play with her girls.
Not dolls or dressing up!
No, Mutti smiles.
I stuff four tin soldiers into my trouser pockets, and run.
Dorete Finsen lives in Tondern itself, not too far from our quarters on the Zeppelin base. Cutting obliquely to the police-station, I stand outside and strain my neck to read the army bulletin posted daily, but this morning it s a let down, revealing only strategic manoeuvres on the Western Front according to plan. No ships sunk, no territory seized, no prisoners taken.
Reminded of my own mission, I find Dorete Finsen snipping roses off the bush trained against the bricks of her house. Recognising me, she hurries inside; I follow on her heels. Stuffing the roses into a jug of water, she picks up a black leather bag, snaps the door behind us, walking briskly towards the military base.

Frau H tchen lives three doors up from us. The door s open and she s packing possessions. As I tell her about my mother, she abandons everything and hurries away, leaving me in charge of the girls.
My father s dead, the youngest says. We re leaving.
I know, I reply, lingering at the front door. Karl and Friedrich, my chums appear, but I sidestep too late.
Coming to the marshes?
No. I ve got to stay here.
Oh I see now, Karl says. You married Frau H tchen. You re her old man. Bet you ve seen her bare bottom.
One of the girls starts crying. No he hasn t.
So you re not coming then? Friedrich says.
No. He s staying here, playing dollies with the girls, Karl says. Milksop!
I dive towards them with my fist, but they turn tail, laughing.

It s early afternoon.
Draw the curtains.
Shall I tell you the story of when my mother saw a Doppelgänger?
What s a Doppelgänger?
It s like you see someone, but it s not really that person, it s the double of that person.
Like looking in a mirror?
Yes, but you only see someone who is going to die or is in serious danger.
Like our father?
He s dead already, silly.
Be quiet. Listen. When Mutti was eleven, she was out collecting wild flowers, when she noticed an old woman in the distance, clothed in white, walking towards her. Mutti arranged some flowers to give her, but when she looked again the woman had vanished. Later, she arrived home to find her family in mourning. Her grandmother was lying in a coffin dressed exactly like the woman she d seen that morning, all in white.
I m scared.
Don t be silly.
 Nipping into the next room, I throw on one of the petticoats, and run back in, hands in the air. The girls fly screaming out into the street. I race after them.
I can t see inside our house, the panes are misted, but cries draw me to the door, I reckon the H tchen girls fled inside, squealing. I tug off the petticoat, ready to shoo them away, but find Mutti has deteriorated into a wild beast, her face is deformed, her arms thrash out, she insults Papi, she shouts to God. Yes, to God. Frau H tchen struggles with a pan of seething water wh