“Oh, that’s easy.” She waved a hand dismissively. “You can join us in the embassy box, but the competition will be an international scandal, in my opinion. The Olympic Games are supposed to bring together the greatest athletes in the world. It’s pathetic that some of Germany’s best won’t be allowed to compete because they’re not Aryan.”
He straightened, eyebrows rising. “Hitler would deny Germany a chance at a medal just to keep the Jews out?”
“Of course. How can he argue that Aryans are the master race if a Jew trounces them in a boxing match or what have you?”
“He can’t exclude all non-Aryans. The American team is full of ’em.”
Martha raised an imaginary champagne glass. “Then here’s to the American non-Aryans. May they leave the master race in the dust.”
Thomas grinned and mimed clinking his own glass against hers. “Hear, hear.”
She regarded him, amused. “You’re certainly singing a different tune. The last time you were in Berlin, you weren’t exactly rushing to the Jews’ defense.”
“I’m no antisemite,” he protested. “I have lots of Jewish friends. Don’t lump me in with these blasted Nazis over a few careless remarks. That’s not fair.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” She took his arm. “Let’s debate it as we spend your hard-earned royalties.”
They began with a late lunch at the Taverne, an Italian bistro run by a gruff German and his shy Belgian wife, a favorite gathering spot for American journalists and their spouses. Martha always found a place at the Stammtisch, the table reserved for regulars, and during his previous visit Thomas had been welcomed even more heartily. They moved on from there to his favorite watering holes, one after another, enjoying reunions with old acquaintances, drinking and dancing until the early hours of the morning when they declared themselves incapable of downing a single drop more.
Staggering out of the Kakadu and onto Joachimstalerstrasse, Thomas hailed a cab to take them to Tiergartenstrasse 27a. “You must stay the night,” Martha said as they helped each other stumble to the front door. “No, for your entire visit. I insist. We have plenty of room.”
“I’m delighted to accept,” said Thomas, his breath thick with the scent of whiskey. “Especially since I can’t recall the name of my hotel.”
She burst out laughing and sank down upon the doorstep. Choking back laughter, Thomas took her key and attempted to fit it in the lock, but before he could, the door swung open. “Kaffee, Fraulein Dodd?” Fritz said, eyeing them dourly as Thomas hauled Martha to her feet and helped her inside. “Aspirin?”
“No to the former, yes to the latter.” Head spinning, Martha seized Thomas’s hand and tugged to compel him to follow her to the kitchen. “Never mind. I’ll get it myself. We’re going to need a whole bottle.”
“Apiece,” Thomas added, and she exploded with laughter again.
When she woke the next morning, bleary-eyed and aching, she discovered that however many aspirin she had taken, it had not been enough. Her head throbbed and she had no memory of finding her way to her room and collapsing on her bed, fully clothed. And yet it must have happened, for there she was.
With a groan she sat up, judging by the harsh light streaming through the windows that it was almost noon. She hoped Thomas had found his way to a guest room and was not passed out in the hallway outside her door.
After a soothing shower, a change of clothes, and fresh makeup, she descended to the kitchen to find Thomas seated with a cup of steaming coffee and a plate of fried eggs and buttered toast. “You must have a liver made of steel,” she remarked, envious.
“I’m twice your size and I’ve built up a tolerance.” He gestured to an adjacent chair, and as she sank into it, he gallantly rose and poured her a cup of coffee. “Anything to eat?”
“God, no.” She closed her hands around the cup and took a deep, restorative drink. “Maybe in a bit. How much of last night do you remember?”
“All of it. You?”
“Nearly all.” She sipped her coffee. “I seem to recall you holding many whispered conferences in dark corners. Plotting something?”
“Not yet.” His grin faded. “I lost count of how many friends took me aside to confide the Nazi horrors that haunt their nightmares.”
“Ah, yes.” She set down her cup with a sigh, willing her headache to recede. “Reality encroaches upon our fun despite our attempts to drown it.”
“I once thought the rise of the Nazis was about politics. I don’t anymore.” Thomas rubbed at his jaw, his gaze distant. “It’s something deeper, more sinister, going well beyond mere racial prejudice. The German people are desperately ill with some dread malady of the soul.” He leaned forward and folded his arms on the table. “Think of it. An entire nation has become infected with an ever-present hatred and fear, twisting and blighting all human relations.”
Martha wished she could deny it with a careless laugh, but he was right. It was little wonder her mother’s anxiety increased with each passing month, that her father spoke wistfully of resigning and returning to Chicago and his beloved farm in Virginia. But as long as President Roosevelt wanted him to stay on as ambassador, Martha’s father would do his duty. And as long as her parents remained in Berlin, Martha would too.
After a piece of dry toast and some hair of the dog, Martha felt much better, so they decided to join the opening ceremonies in progress. They had slept through numerous official events—religious services, a wreath laying at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, synchronized athletic displays by thousands of German schoolchildren, Goebbels’s speech at the Old Museum for International Olympic Committee guests and thirty thousand members of the Hitler Youth—but Martha and Thomas agreed they were quite happy to have avoided those. The more compelling events were yet to come.
Thomas had arranged for a driver, but they made it only a few miles down the Via Triumphalis before they were forced to divert to a side street to clear the way for the official procession. From what Martha had seen, it appeared that the entire route was guarded by vast numbers of SS, SA, officers of the Berlin police force, and members of the National Socialist Motor Corps. Filling the sidewalks behind them, tens of thousands of citizens awaited the parade of dignitaries, shifting about and craning their necks in hope of finding an unimpeded view.
At the Reichssportfeld, guards were posted at every stadium entrance, vending booths were shuttered, and nearby restaurants and bars were closed. “I hear they put the international press corps near the Honor Loge to discourage protestors from planting a bomb beneath Hitler’s chair,” Martha remarked as they made their way to their seats in the embassy box a few rows behind the Führer’s.
Hitler’s state box was empty, she noted as she exchanged greetings with friends and embassy officials, some of whom had been there since one o’clock, when the gates had opened so that spectators could be seated well before the Führer made his grand entrance. To keep the crowd entertained in the meantime, the Berlin Philharmonic, the National Orchestra, and the Bayreuth Wagner Festival choir were presenting a joint concert. “Wagner, of course,” said Thomas, cocking an ear, giving Martha a little nudge as they settled into their seats.
“What’s a Nazi spectacle without a bit of Wagner?” Shading her eyes with her hand, Martha turned her gaze skyward, marveling at the giant zeppelin Hindenburg as it cruised back and forth, an Olympic banner trailing from the gondola. The airship was a symbol of German engineering genius and a source of considerable national pride, and she was not at all surprised to see it on display, impressing the international audience with every graceful pass over the stadium.
A few minutes before four o’clock, a trumpet fanfare and the raising of the Führerstandarte, a red swastika on a purple field, announced Hitler’s arrival. Upon spotting their Führer entering the stadium through the Marathon Gate with a few IOC executives, the vast majority of the hundred thousand spectators leapt to their feet, thrust out their right arms, and roared thunderous approval. Instinctively Mart
ha covered her ears, but she still felt the prolonged wave of frenzied cheering as a rattle in her spine.
As the roar subsided from its peak, the combined Olympic Symphony Orchestra struck up Wagner’s “March of Honor” as Hitler and his entourage strode across the field. They paused halfway across so that Hitler could accept a Hitlergruss, a bouquet of flowers, and a pretty curtsey from an adorable young girl, blond-haired and probably blue-eyed. Martha rolled her eyes when Hitler took the child’s hand and briefly knelt to speak with her, all paternal warmth and kindness, melting the heart of every Aryan mother present.
Thomas leaned close so she could hear him beneath the din. “Aren’t you sorry now that your first date didn’t lead to more?”
“Not one bit,” she retorted.
When Hitler and the other dignitaries finally took their places, Martha was pleased by Thomas’s sardonic delight that for the rest of the Games they would enjoy an excellent view of the back of the Führer’s head. Immediately thereafter, the orchestra struck up the German national anthem and the flags of the participating nations were slowly raised up fifty-two flagpoles. Next the solemn, deep tolling of the Olympic bell heralded the traditional march of the national teams into the stadium. Leading the procession was Greece, the birthplace of the Olympiad, followed by the other nations in alphabetical order, except for the host nation, which customarily entered last. Hitler and the dignitaries stood throughout to receive the salute of each nation as its athletes passed before the Honor Loge.
It quickly became apparent to Martha that the predominantly German audience applauded each country not only according to long-standing sentimental ties, but also commensurate with the degree of deference they appeared to show the Führer. The Austrians received resounding cheers for offering the Hitlergruss as their flag bearer dipped their standard to Hitler when they passed in review. So too did the Italians, whose Hitlergruss may also have come in tribute to Hitler’s burgeoning friendship with Mussolini. The Turks, who held the Nazi salute for the entire procession, received a roar of approval, as did the Bulgarians, who added a goose-step to their fascist salute for good measure.
To Martha’s surprise, the French also received hearty applause, even though they acknowledged the Honor Loge not with the Hitlergruss, with the arm raised to the front, but with the traditional Olympic salute, with the right arm lifted to the side.
“It’s unfortunate the two salutes look so much alike,” Martha said to Thomas. “The Nazis will interpret it as they please.”
The United Kingdom avoided any misunderstanding. Their athletes kept their arms at their sides, swinging in time with the march, and when they passed before the Führer, in union they acknowledged him with a crisp “eyes right.” A faint smattering of applause was nearly drowned out by jeers, but as far as Mildred could tell Hitler betrayed no reaction.
Then came the United States, the penultimate team before the host country. The Americans eschewed the traditional salute and did not dip their flag to Hitler in passing, but rather removed their boater hats, held them over their hearts, and kept their eyes fixed on the Stars and Stripes. A harsh roar of protests and catcalls rained down from the stands, but the American athletes strode on without flinching, proud and purposeful.
Martha clapped until her hands stung, as did everyone else in the embassy box, ignoring the grumbles and sidelong looks of those seated around them.
“What did the Nazis expect?” said Thomas. “If the Yanks didn’t dip the flag to the British king at the London Games in 1908, they certainly weren’t going to do it for Herr Hitler today.”
The crowd’s disgruntlement quickly gave way to exultation as the German team marched in behind a large swastika banner. The orchestra played the German national anthem again, followed immediately by the “Horst Wessel Lied,” to thunderous applause and ecstatic cheers from the home crowd.
“Sport as political theater,” Thomas drawled as the ceremonies continued, through a lengthy speech by the president of the German Olympic Committee to the swift and triumphant entrance of the last Olympic torchbearer. “When the Games are through, everyone will carry home the impression that Germany is the most hospitable, peace-loving nation on earth, if you can overlook all the martial flourishes.”
Martha shared his wary disgust, but in the days that followed, that was not enough to keep either of them away from the competitions. She invited several other friends to join them in the embassy box, and Mildred often accepted. The recent publication of her translation of Irving Stone’s Lust for Life had taken some of the sting out of the closing of the Abendgymnasium, but Martha knew she worried about finding a new job. Martha hoped the Olympics would provide a restorative distraction.
Mildred was very glad to see Thomas again, and he seemed even more delighted to reunite with her—as he should be, Martha thought, given the glowing articles Mildred had written about him. As the days passed, the three friends observed and quietly discussed Hitler at least as much as the sporting events. Hitler evidently enjoyed track and field, for he attended nearly every day. Whenever a German athlete won, he beamed, slapped his thighs, and applauded with great enthusiasm. When the gold medalists approached his box to be congratulated, as was the custom, he sprang to his feet and received them with warmth and good humor.
Not so when athletes from other nations took the gold.
On one particularly successful day for the United States, the Stars and Stripes were raised at least five times, almost in succession, and everyone in the stadium was obliged to stand for “The Star-Spangled Banner”—including the Führer, who saluted with his arm outstretched and a surly expression that worsened with each repetition, even more so if the victor was colored. Day after day Hitler was subjected to marvelous performances by American athletes, including thrilling races won by Jesse Owens, the Alabama native who had broken three world records and tied a fourth as a student at Ohio State. His astonishing speed and physical prowess quickly won over the crowd, but whenever Owens or another colored American athlete won, the Führer conveniently managed to be away from his box when they came to receive his congratulations.
This had not escaped the notice of Martha and her friends, and they fixed the Führer with hard, indignant looks as he left his box soon after Owens won the gold medal in the 100 meters. “The Americans should be ashamed of themselves, letting Negroes win their medals for them,” Hitler remarked to his Gruppenführer Baldur von Schirach, leader of the Hitler Youth, as they strode past the embassy box, or so Mildred translated for her friends. “I shall not shake hands with this Negro. Do you really think that I will allow myself to be photographed shaking hands with a Negro?”
Later, after Jesse Owens took his third gold medal, Hitler suddenly hastened away on what Martha acidly assumed was another invented errand. Along the way, he spoke earnestly to his companion, whom Martha recognized from an embassy dinner as Albert Speer, the architect.
As Hitler passed their box, Mildred drew in a breath sharply.
“What’s wrong?” Martha asked.
Mildred hesitated. “Hitler is . . . very annoyed by Owens’s victories.”
“Obviously, but what did he say?”
“I’d rather not repeat it.”
“Come on,” Martha implored. “Don’t I deserve to know, if only for getting you that great seat?”
“He said—” Mildred hesitated, pained. “He said that people whose ancestors came from the jungle are primitive. He says that their physiques are stronger than those of civilized whites, and therefore they should be excluded from future Games.”
“That’s damn foolishness,” said Thomas. “I wish Jesse Owens could win a fourth gold medal just to spite him.”
Later, he seemed poised to do exactly that.
As the runners for the first heat of the men’s 4-by-100 meter relay took their places on the track, Martha gasped. “Isn’t that Owens in the lead leg?”
“That’s him all right,” said Thomas. A faint roar surged through the crowd a
s if everyone else had simultaneously made the same observation. “And that’s Ralph Metcalfe lining up to run second.”
Martha checked the program. “They weren’t originally in this relay. The coach must have made a last-minute substitution.”
“They’re replacing Marty Glickman and Sam Stoller,” said Mildred, studying her program. “They’re Jews. Do you suppose the Nazis pressured the U.S. Olympic Committee to replace them? Or perhaps the coach wanted to avoid offending Hitler?”
“I certainly hope not,” said Martha. “However, as much as Hitler hates Negroes, he hates Jews more.”
“That probably has nothing to do with it,” said Thomas. “Owens took the gold and Metcalfe the silver in the hundred meters. It’s a strategic decision.”
“The original team was already heavily favored to win,” Mildred pointed out. “Why fix what wasn’t broken?”
“Well, now the odds have improved even more,” said Thomas, but he frowned slightly as if he too wondered about ulterior motives.
Martha leaned forward as the runners settled in their lanes. She jumped at the sharp crack of the starter’s pistol, her heart beating faster and faster as Jesse Owens pulled away from the other runners and flew around the first curve, his feet seeming barely to touch the ground. A blink of an eye, a flawless baton exchange, and suddenly Owens was gradually slowing as Metcalfe sped away, down the straightaway to Foy Draper, who took the second curve with the Italian runner on his heels. As the roar of the crowd rose, louder and louder, Frank Wyckoff carried the baton down the final stretch with an Italian barely a second behind him. And then it was over. The United States and Italy, first and second, would advance to the finals.
Exultant, Thomas leapt to his feet, cupped his hands around his mouth, and let out an earsplitting war whoop. Hitler twisted in his seat, fixed him with a furious gaze, glaring with stark hatred. If looks could kill, Thomas would have been finished. Martha seized his left arm and Mildred his right, and they pulled him back into his seat.
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