Fine, they’re proud of their new government, but this is overkill, Billie thought.
She turned into a park. Again, the flags of the Nazi Party were on display. What should have been a peaceful green space was now a blaze of angry red. She sighed and tried to look past the flags. It was a lovely little park with a band shell, picnic shelter, and a gazebo built in Greco-Roman style with white columns and stone arches. The grounds were spotless and buzzing with people enjoying the sunny afternoon. Well-dressed mothers were pushing baby buggies, children were playing, and older people were visiting. A large group holding cameras passed Billie. They were tourists. As she strolled around the park, she heard many languages, from French to Russian to Chinese. Berlin was host to the world for two weeks, yet their hospitality seemed self-serving. She believed it was to convince the world of German superiority.
Seeing the tourists with cameras reminded her that she should start getting ready for her assignment, so she started back to the hotel. At the desk, she asked in German, “Are there any messages for Wilhelmina Bassett, room 617?”
The clerk shook his head. Thanking him, she turned to go then noticed a dish of mints on the counter. When she reached for one, she stopped. Stamped on each candy was a tiny Nazi swastika. Billie’s eyes grew wide.
They really cram it down your throat, she thought, quite literally, and she returned upstairs.
* * *
After inspecting her cameras and equipment, Billie’s next stop was the Press Center. After showing her pass at the door, she stepped inside. Whereas the lobby had been filled with a wide variety of guests from families to businessmen, the massive ballroom housing the Press Center was crammed with nothing but reporters. And it was chaos. Everywhere Billie looked, there were men rushing about chattering, talking on phones, or wiring information. There were rows and rows of desks filled with typewriters, where foreign correspondents banged out stories. Telephones were lined up at long library tables, and as Billie walked past, she could hear a multitude of languages being spoken, many of which she did not recognize.
So, this is where I will send the information.
Looking one way and the other, she sat down and gingerly picked up one of the phones. Immediately, an operator answered, asking what number she was calling. Billie told her the number from Irene, and just as the woman was connecting her call, Billie said it was a mistake. She thanked her in German and hung up. She found it miraculous that she could be connected across the ocean. Mr. Canfield had explained that it was via radio transmission and that someday they would actually put telephone cables across the water.
Billie stood up and continued to look around. The ballroom was glorious. The ceiling was opulently decorated with murals and gold embellishments, and the walls were lined with floor to ceiling mirrors. This time, the Germans had been gracious enough to display flags from around the world; the swastikas were kept at a minimum.
Seeing the Olympic Press Center had eased Billie’s mind. It was such a loud and busy place no one would look twice at her when she communicated her information, and she felt relieved. Nevertheless, she knew the National Socialists would be listening, so all she could do was pray they could not translate.
That evening, she dined with a few of the journalists and retired early. Tomorrow was the Opening Ceremony of the XI Olympiad, and it was imperative that she was well-rested. She checked and rechecked her camera and laid out her clothes, so when her wake-call came early, she was ready.
Dressed in blue cotton culottes with a double button sailor front and a crisp plaid blouse, she started downstairs. Culottes were the perfect compromise when she had to work. They allowed her to bend and twist, without showing too much skin, and at the same time, they looked professional. She stopped at a hall mirror to check her hair and frowned. Billie didn’t like going out without a hat, but it got in the way of her shots. Shrugging, she stepped onto the elevator and started downstairs. Buses left regularly from the hotel to the Olympic Park, and in no time, Billie was out at the stadium. The Germans were the epitome of organization and efficiency.
She stepped off the bus and looked around. The grounds were jammed with spectators from around the world. They rushed past her, streaming into the main entrance, chattering excitedly in every language. The stadium, a huge brick structure, loomed large overhead. Blazing red National Socialist banners encircled the walls, each crowned with a stately bronze eagle. A massive blimp christened The Hindenburg sailed lazily overhead.
Billie had instructions from Mr. Canfield to be aggressive getting her pictures. Competition would be fierce. She knew there was a place for that kind of photojournalism, but it was not what she liked. The pace was too fast, and the photographs lacked emotion and interest. To her, it was merely record-keeping.
Slinging her camera bag over her shoulder, Billie looked at the schedule of events given to the press corps by the Olympic Committee. It said that Chancellor Hitler was having lunch at the Royal Palace at noon and would then travel with his entourage down the Via Triumphalis to the Olympic Stadium.
Billie turned and looked down the boulevard. It was already crammed with people, almost ten rows deep on either side of the street. They were all waiting to catch a glimpse of the Chancellor and his motorcade. She cursed under her breath. It wasn’t even 8 a.m., and the crowds were already thick. They must have camped out here. She chuckled. Good thing Max wasn’t here. She would be listening to a tirade right now.
Billie knew The Times would want shots of this procession, but she wasn’t willing to stand and wait for four hours. A light mist was starting to fall. A day in damp clothing was not appealing, so she headed inside the stadium to find the Press Lounge.
With throngs of spectators, she walked down a broad stone staircase almost half a city block wide. When she caught sight of the arena, she was stunned. Billie had been to ball games in the past, but she had never seen an amphitheater this size. The sweeping expanse had a full-size track, staging for field events, a huge balcony with microphones for the Chancellor and his guests, a press box, and thousands of spectator seats. Multicolored flags from around the world were waving in the breeze. The highest pole held the Olympic flag. It was at rest, waiting to be raised at the ceremony.
Billie ran her eyes over the arena. There was no door for a Press Lounge, so she walked back outside to search for it. The crowds were building, and there were so many people Billie doubted if she would ever see Felix. She assumed the athletes did not mix with the spectators, so a chance meeting was unlikely. Maybe she should send him a message. It certainly was part of her mission to be reporting on the Indian athlete, so contacting him would be reasonable.
At last, she found the Press Lounge. Showing her pass once more, she stepped inside. The front was similar to the Adlon Press Room, with desks, phones, and typewriters, but in the back were doors leading into a lounge area.
When Billie walked inside, the room was almost full. She recognized several reporters from the ship with cocktails in hand, laughing and razzing one another. Not ready for snappy chatter, she ducked past them to find coffee. Near the bar, there was a long table filled with breakfast food, including sausages, hard-boiled eggs, cheese, and pumpernickel bread. Billie poured herself a cup of coffee and picked up a piece of apple strudel.
“Hey, there, toots,” someone said.
A short, husky man with black curly hair and a flat, pock-marked face was standing next to her, grinning. He was wearing jodhpurs with plaid socks, a beige suit coat, and a flat cap, which he had on backward.
“Not too many dolls workin’ this circuit,” he said.
“No, not too many of us,” she murmured, stepping around him.
He followed her to a club chair and sat down next to her while she ate.
“The names Romano. Howard Romano,” he announced and thrust his hand out.
Billie put her fork down and shook his hand. “Billie Bassett.”
“I’m from Chicago originally,” he said, lighting a cigarette.
“But lately, I been shacked up in L.A., workin’ for old man Hearst. You know, Metrotone News?”
“Oh yes,” Billie said, nodding and wiping her mouth. “The newsreel organization.”
“That’s right, doll. Jesus, she’s smart too.”
Billie rolled her eyes.
He took a pull on his beer and nodded toward her camera bag. “Photojournalist?”
“That’s right.”
“Who ya with?”
“The New York Times.”
He whistled. “A big shot, huh? I do movin’ pictures.” He cranked an invisible camera. He pointed to his hat. “That’s why the cap’s on backward. The bill hits the camera.”
“I see,” Billie replied, wishing he would lose interest in her and move on.
But Howard Romano found Billie delightful. He found her so appealing, he stayed by her side the entire morning, following her wherever she went.
“You know a looker like you should be careful,” he said as they walked. “I can tell this is your first time traveling alone.”
Billie chuckled. “Yes, the first time away from the farm.”
“I knew it,” he said, running along behind her as she dodged through the throngs of spectators.
Suddenly, a large man looking down at his ice cream cone slammed right into her. Billie staggered backward. “Ach, entschuldigung!” the man exclaimed, catching her from falling. In the process, he spilled his cone all over her culottes.
Continuing to apologize, he took out his hankie and started to wipe the chocolate ice cream from her garment.
“I’m fine, just fine,” she replied in German. “Nothing to worry about.”
The man apologized once more, tipped his hat, and walked on.
“You see?” Howard said. “A girl like you has to be careful.”
Billie headed for the restroom to clean up.
When she returned, Howard exclaimed, “Say that was some quick German you spoke back there. I’m a fast-talker myself, you know.”
“No,” Billie said sarcastically.
“Stick with me, doll face, and you’ll have all the best shots. I can get us in anywhere.”
They wove their way down the Via Triumphalis, pushing through swarms of people. Between military march songs blasting over a loudspeaker, someone was counting down the time left until the arrival of Chancellor Hitler. Between the crowds and the endless noise, Billie wanted to scream. She was starting to lose hope of ever getting a decent photo. Howard tried several doors to see if they could get up to a second story to get their shots, but everything was locked. At last, the man on the loudspeaker exclaimed that Chancellor Hitler had left the palace and was starting his drive down the boulevard.
The crowd tightened, pressing hard into the row of police blocking the street. Billie and Howard tried to push to the front, but no one would move.
“We’ll never get through,” she moaned, “especially with equipment.”
“Never fear, Romano is here! Start screaming in German that I’m about to lose my lunch. You’ll see them step aside tout suite.” He bent over, clapped his hand over his mouth, and started to make retching sounds.
Billie stifled a laugh then shouted, “Er wird sich übergeben!”
People turned in horror. Like magic, the crowd parted, allowing them to get to the street. Once there, Howard coughed a few times into the gutter for effect, wiped his mouth, and smiled.
Opening his tripod, he asked, “What’d I tell ya, doll?”
“You’re a real shyster, Howard,” she replied.
“Is that more German?”
“Maybe.” She laughed, opening her camera.
The crowd started to cheer as the Chancellor approached. Women waved hankies as men gave the Nazi salute. Everyone was shouting, “Heil, mein Furher! Heil!”
Billie took shots, ducking around the row of police lined up in front of everyone. Howard had better luck. The soldiers did not stand in front of his tripod. Hitler rode by at the front of the procession, standing in his automobile, waving to the crowd, followed by his staff.
The athlete bearing the Olympic torch was next, running behind the motorcade, as well as the German track team in jerseys and shorts. The moment they passed, Howard grabbed his camera, snapped his tripod shut, and shouted, “Come on!”
They dashed into the stadium, pushing and shoving their way past spectators. After flashing their press passes, they rushed down some stairs. “Where are we going?” Billie shouted.
“While you were sleeping last night, I made some friends,” Howard replied as they ran down a dark hall.
“Howdy, boys,” he said to two guards standing at the field entrance. After slapping some thick wads of currency into their hands, they searched Billie and Howard for weapons then let them pass.
Billie was stunned as she stepped out onto the field. The sea of spectators from below was awe inspiring. Only a few photographers were out here, and most of them were German. Some were taking photos; others were visiting nonchalantly.
Just to her right, athletes from every corner of the globe were lined up for the procession. She walked past them inside the hall to have a look. Walking down the long row that encircled around the stadium, she saw that everyone was in Western dress. Men’s trousers were usually white, and the women were always in skirts. Everyone wore dark blazers, but each country added their own twist. The Italians had short belted black jackets, the Germans all white. The Finns were one of the few exceptions in sweater vests. Hats were varied as well. Indian athletes wore turbans, and the Turks wore fezzes.
With a wildly beating heart, Billie brought up her camera and started taking pictures. Once outside again, she saw that Howard had set up his tripod and started filming.
After a few moments, Hitler entered the stadium, walking down the wide flight of steps Billie had been on earlier. She watched and listened as the crowd roared wildly. She realized then the danger. The National Socialist Party was a quasi-religious movement.
A little girl in a puffy dress and anklets waddled out to give De Führer flowers. He bent down and kissed the child. Billie stifled a cynical smile.
The ceremony was mostly a blur for Billie. She spent most of her time behind the camera getting shots of the Parade of Nations as they filed past the Chancellor’s box. Each country acknowledged the leader in some way. Many nations used a standard military salute, and others employed the Olympic greeting, which strongly resembled the Nazi gesture with the arm extended.
Billie really burst into action when the Americans marched by. The men looked crisp in white trousers and blue blazers. The women were dressed in white skirts with hats cocked smartly to the side. Much to everyone’s surprise, the Americans did not salute the Chancellor. Instead, the men removed their straw hats and held them over their hearts.
Billie exchanged a look with Howard. This gesture would not be well received by the Nazis.
The last of the procession were the German athletes. The cheer from the crowd was deafening.
After the parade, Chancellor Hitler declared the Games of the XI Olympiad officially open. The flag was raised and a flock of pigeons released. Just as the birds careened overhead encircling the stadium, someone shot a cannon. It added to the grandeur of the ceremony, but the noise startled the pigeons, and they showered the spectators with a plethora of droppings. Everyone laughed and brushed themselves off.
Moments later, to the strains of Richard Strauss’ Olympic Hymn, a single runner entered the stadium bearing the Olympic torch. It was the first time in the history of the Modern Games that the eternal flame had been carried all the way from Greece, and an awed hush spread over the crowd. When the blond-haired young man dipped the torch into the basin and lit the beacon, everyone cheered.
The ceremony came to a close as a veteran German athlete took the Olympic Oath on behalf of all the competitors. To upbeat military music, the crowd filed out of the stadium. Everyone agreed the Opening Ceremony was a great success.
Billie and H
oward returned to the Press Lounge to celebrate. It was packed with reporters, but true to form, Howard weaseled his way through the crowd and got them drinks.
“Cheers, toots!” he said, tapping her glass. “We done good today.”
“Howard, my hat goes off to you. You really know your business,” she said, sipping her old fashioned. It tasted wonderful. She could feel the warmth of the liquor spread through her body.
“Speaking of my business, how about you come up to my room tonight?”
She laughed. “No Howard, I will not be coming to your room tonight.”
“Aw, shucks.”
They finished their drinks and Billie said, “See you here tomorrow?”
“You betcha, doll,” he replied.
Back at the hotel, she grabbed a bite to eat and went straight up to her room. She couldn’t wait to take a bath. She felt filthy. Peeling off her sticky culottes, Billie checked the pockets before putting them in the laundry bag. There was a tube of lipstick, her hankie, and a piece of paper she didn’t recognize. On it was written, “Bring to a standstill. Commit control by compliant.”
Billie’s jaw dropped. It was a coded message. She turned it over incredulously. How had it gotten into her pocket? Then she remembered the man who had bumped into her. He must have slipped it into her pocket when he was wiping off the ice cream.
Billie slumped down into a chair. So, it had begun.
Chapter 24
Billie translated the message, pulled on a clean blouse and skirt, and went immediately to the Press Room. She knew there would be no sleep if she didn’t send the information at once. As predicted, the Press Room was packed with reporters phoning and wiring information about the Opening Ceremony. But it was as she would have it; she wanted it loud, so no one could hear her. Being one of the few women, the men would have ordinarily noticed her, but tonight they were too busy typing up stories and contacting their editors.
Billie sat down in front of one of the telephones and took a deep breath. There was a gentleman sitting next to her speaking on the phone in Portuguese and a reporter across the table speaking Japanese.
The Image Seeker Page 23