A Day When the Hindenburg Fell Out of the Sky, 1937
You Are There: A Graphic History Series
You Are There… Graphic History Series.
Historical Backdrop
The LZ 129 Hindenburg was the largest aircraft ever to fly — longer than three Boeing 747s parked end to end, and lifted by seven million cubic feet of flammable hydrogen. On May 3, 1937, it left Frankfurt, Germany, on its first North American trip of the season, bound for the U.S. Naval Air Station at Lakehurst, New Jersey. Our subject is Werner Franz, age 14, the youngest crew member — a cabin boy from Frankfurt who had taken the job to help support his family after his father lost work. Werner polished silver, served coffee, and ran messages between officers.
May 6, 1937 — 6:42 AM — Crew Quarters, B-Deck, LZ 129 Hindenburg, approx. 400 miles east of Newfoundland, 650 ft altitude
You wake up in a narrow crew bunk above the Atlantic to the soft, steady hum of the four Daimler-Benz diesel engines. The cabin smells of lubricating oil, stale tobacco, and sweat from six men sleeping in a room meant for four. You dress quickly in the half-light — cold water from the tiny basin stings your face awake. A bell rings twice down the corridor. Breakfast service begins in eighteen minutes. You tie your bow tie by feel, the way Chief Steward Kubis taught you.
May 6, 1937 — 7:20 AM — Officers’ Mess, B-Deck
You carry a silver coffee pot between white-linen tables, careful not to spill as the ship gently banks. Captain Pruss nods at you without smiling. The officers speak in clipped German about a headwind that is costing them hours. You refill cups, then retreat to the pantry to polish the next round of silverware with a chamois cloth. Your hands smell of metal polish and coffee grounds. Someone is smoking a cigarette in the designated smoking room down the corridor — the only open flame allowed aboard seven million cubic feet of hydrogen.
May 6, 1937 — 10:15 AM — Port Promenade Deck, A-Deck
You are sent up to A-deck to collect empty ashtrays from the promenade. The slanted windows are cranked open and the cold Atlantic wind hits your face. Far below, you see three fishing schooners trailing wakes like tiny pencil marks. A woman in a fur collar points her camera at the sea. A boy not much younger than you presses his nose against the angled glass. You think of your older brother Günter, who also works the ships, and wonder where he is right now.
May 6, 1937 — 1:10 PM — Main Dining Room, A-Deck
