by David John
Flight from Berlin
A Novel
David John
Dedication
For Claudia
Epigraph
He, the blind one, always had a map before him in spirit, and created or destroyed kingdoms by a single word.
—Ernst Weiss, The Eyewitness
Disclaimer
A number of historical figures appear as characters in this story. Some background information on them is provided in the Notes on Characters section.
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Disclaimer
Prologue
Part I
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Part II
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Part III
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Epilogue
Author's Note
Notes on the Characters
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
He landed hands first on the wet, sandy soil and rolled over on his side. Wind roared inwards towards the blaze, sucking the air from his mouth. His skin was paper; his hair tinder.
Run, for God’s sake.
Richard Denham moved to get up, but the next blast flattened him, sending a huge jet of flame over his head.
He crawled forwards through showers of brilliant white stars. Some fifty feet away a man in a sailor’s cap was beckoning, shouting through the rippling glow.
‘Over here, buddy, come on.’
I’m coming, friend, he thought, seeing in his mind that first day on the Somme twenty years ago. Which way are the Jerry lines, pal?
He staggered up and began to run, but a roll of burning diesel smoke engulfed him. Stumbling, he hit his head against something metal.
The next thing he knew he was being carried away at a run, jiggled over the sailor’s shoulder like a sack of oats, the man’s lungs heaving under the load.
The sailor swore as he lowered Denham to the ground.
A light drizzle was falling. He touched the swelling lump where he’d hit his head.
People were moving, dark figures silhouetted against the glare of the fire. He caught the obscene reek of roasted flesh.
Suddenly he thought, Where is it?
‘Can’t hear what you’re saying, buddy. We’re giving you morphine, you understand? You’re burned.’
Bundles of paper, he knew, had a knack of surviving blazes. He remembered that from crime reporting. Eleanor would have made it safe.
A needle pricked his arm. He felt the cool flow of the injection.
Where was Eleanor?
How strange, how small the things that change history, turn it from its darkened course, send it eddying off down new, sunlit streams.
He lay back on the wet grass, feeling the ropes that tied him to consciousness begin to loosen. In the blackness above, embers traced the air like fireflies.
How strange.
Part I
Chapter One
New York City, July 1936
Eleanor Emerson arched her body through the air and broke the surface with barely a splash. In the world below she glided through the veils of sunlight, the bubbles of her breath rumbling past her ears. She surfaced, and air, sound, and light burst over her again. Her muscles were taut, ready for speed.
Weekday afternoons were quiet at Randall’s Island, the periods when only the dedicated furrowed the lanes, marking lengths as mechanically as electric looms. But today the pool seemed far from the world. She was the only swimmer in the water.
At each fifty-yard length she tumble-turned back into her wake, cleaving the water, faster, beginning to warm up. After all the training was she close to her peak? Lungs filled; legs thrust. Steadily she was rising through her gears, reaching for full steam, when something tapped the top of her bathing cap, causing her to stall and choke.
For a second she hoped it was Herb, coming to surprise her, but a lady with a rolled parasol stood at the pool’s edge, the sun behind her, so that all Eleanor could see was the light shining through a floral-print dress and a pair of Ferragamo shoes.
‘Jesus, Mother. What are you doing here?’
‘It came, sweetheart,’ the woman said.
Eleanor stood, dripping, shielding her eyes, and saw that her mother was holding out a Western Union envelope. Only now did her heart start to race.
‘Oh no, Mother dear. Read it to me.’
Mrs Taylor began an exploration through her handbag for a pair of reading glasses, ignoring the mounting agitation in the pool. Finally: ‘On behalf of AOC am pleased to confirm your selection for US team congratulations Brundage . . .’
Eleanor had started screaming before her mother had finished, her wet hands fanning her face as if there weren’t air enough.
‘Really, sweetheart . . .’
She screamed again as she did riding the chute at Luna Park, breaking into a high, girlish laugh and smacking the water with both hands, splashing and kicking with her feet, so that her mother opened the parasol.
‘You’re soaking me.’
‘Mom, I made it!’
‘Well, did you think you wouldn’t? You’d better break the news to your father. I’m certainly not going to.’
Joe Taylor handed the telegram back to her and looked out of the open window. It had turned sultry. The breeze moving the flag next to his desk carried the smell of traffic fumes, coffee, and a promise of rain. Below, a fire engine wailed up Madison Avenue.
‘I see,’ he said eventually. He
stood still, his shoulders rising in a sigh. His back towards her, he said, ‘Do you intend going?’
The question filled the room.
‘I’m going,’ Eleanor said.
‘Well, my girl, I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed.’
‘Dad, please—’
‘It’s all right.’
He looked tired. With a pang of sadness she noticed that his hair had completed its change to white, making him seem much older. And there was a lack of vitality about him, an incipient infirmity. He turned to face her and smiled in the worried way he had with her, hands in his waistcoat pockets with his thumbs sticking out, a posture she knew usually signalled a speech. If only he’d lose his temper, shake his fist, and rave like a Baptist. Then at least she could shout back. This was the worst thing about the whole business. His tolerance. His disappointment.
‘I know I should congratulate you. Any father would be proud of a daughter who’s made the Olympic team, and of course you must follow your own star . . .’
Here we go.
‘Your mother and I have given our blessing to whatever choices you’ve made. We welcomed Herb into the family . . . We supported your singing career. But Germany?’ He shook his head vaguely. ‘We send our athletes there and we will be condoning, lending respectability to the most iniquitous . . .’
‘Dad.’
‘ . . . the most unconscionable regime ever to—’
‘Dad.’
Exasperation flared in her eyes. ‘Quit the speech. It’s about competing. That’s all.’
They held each other’s gaze.
He said, ‘I fought hard to stop Brundage winning that vote. I lost. And now I’m entrusting you to his care?’
‘I can handle him.’
‘Can you?’ He sat slowly down at his desk, his shoulders slumped. ‘Everything’s a game, isn’t it? A high school dare, a challenge. Rules are to be broken; advice to be ignored.’ Thunder rolled and a splash of rain hit the windowsill with a thump. ‘One day, my dear, you’ll see the world for what it is. And that’ll be the day you quit being a Park Avenue playgirl and grow up—’
His desk intercom buzzed.
‘Yes?’
‘Senator Taylor, sir, I have the New York Times on the line.’
‘Well, well,’ he said, looking up at her. ‘News travels fast in this town.’
Her cab made a right at West Twentieth Street, and Eleanor braced herself for the barrage of flashbulbs. One enterprising reporter waiting on the corner had already spotted her and was running alongside her window, trying to jump onto the running board.
‘Eleanor, how’s it feel to be going to Berlin? How’s it—’
She put her sunglasses on and ignored him.
‘Hey, lady, don’t be a snob.’
It was just after rush hour on a humid July morning. The ship wasn’t sailing until eleven, but the boardwalk was already filling up with hundreds of well-wishers and passengers preparing to embark. Her cab inched past a sidewalk crowded with athletic teams in club sweatshirts, some laughing, some chanting a college yell, all heading towards the pier, holding Olympic flags and banners with good-luck messages. Hot dog vendors had set up stalls.
Directly ahead, the bow of the SS Manhattan towered above the crowd like a sheer rock promontory, shimmering in the haze of heat. Cranes lifted cargo to the top deck, where the United States Lines had painted the liner’s two funnels red, white, and blue, and festooned the rails with bunting in honour of the team.
The cab pulled up as close to the boardwalk as it could get and was mobbed.
‘Will you break the world record for backstroke again, Eleanor?’
‘I’m going to Berlin with no other aim,’ she said, stepping into the fray, long legs first, and posing briefly in the bias-cut skirt and tilted cream hat she’d chosen with this moment in mind. Flashbulbs popped.
‘Is Senator Taylor mad at you for going?’
‘My father wishes me well in whatever I do.’
‘Will your husband be joining you?’
‘No, my husband will be on tour with his orchestra.’ She pointed in the direction she wished to go, and the reporters moved aside. ‘Take it easy, boys.’
‘Say, if you meet Hitler what’re you going to say to him?’
‘Change your barber.’
The reporters laughed, and scribbled.
She pushed her way into the crowd, swatting aside an autograph book. Will your husband be joining you? They sure knew how to ask a sore question. She was still raw from her fight with Herb last night. Since she’d qualified for the team he’d acted like he’d lost his top dog status in life, one minute spilling her the sob stuff, the next, a real asshole. Same story every time she achieved something. Then this morning he’d claimed some phoney engagement as an excuse not to wave her off. Hadn’t her dad been enough to handle? What was it with men?
Nearer the barrier to the pier a group of her teammates were sitting on steamer trunks and talking in high, excited voices. Some had never been out of their home state, let alone on board an ocean liner. A few veterans, like Eleanor, had competed at Los Angeles in ’32, but most were doe-eyed college kids, plucked from the boondocks. All wore their USA team straw boaters, white trousers or skirts, and navy blazers embroidered with the Olympic shield.
‘Hey, you guys,’ she said. ‘Who’s up for a little first-night party on board later?’
Just then, the sound of screams was carried on a wave of applause from near the entry to the pier, where another cab was inching its way into the dense mass of people. Jesse Owens’s coach jumped out, followed by the man himself in a pinstriped navy suit, and the press jostled to get a word from America’s star athlete. Photographers shouted his name.
‘Make way for the golden boy,’ she said. Her teammates stood on their steamer trunks to wave and whistle.
Eleanor and Owens were the same age, twenty-three, and both were world-record holders. She’d never figured him out. The less winning seemed to concern him, the more effortlessly he won. The more courtesy he showed, the farther he left his rivals behind. For her, winning required a dedicated mean streak—and a desire above all else that the others should lose. She watched him ponder each reporter’s question, brow furrowed, and answer as though to his father-in-law, nodding and grinning modestly.
The heat on the pier was rising, and the noise and the wafts of diesel oil and dead fish were making her feel nauseated. She decided to board and made her way up the gangway. So long, New York, she thought. When I set foot here again it’ll be with shame or glory.
At the entry to the deck stood a stout, middle-aged matron wearing the team uniform and hat. She was holding a clipboard.
‘Welcome aboard, Mrs Emerson,’ the woman said with a faint, whiskery smile. ‘You’re on D deck, sharing with Marjorie Gestring and Olive McNamee. Your trunk’s in your cabin.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Hacker. D deck sounds delightful.’
‘If it’s luxury and glamour you were after, you should have booked your own first-class fare.’
‘You think I didn’t try?’
The woman ticked her list. ‘Count yourself lucky, my girl. The Negroes are sleeping below the waterline. You’ll wear your uniform at dinner, please. Bed is at ten o’clock.’
Eleanor walked on before her irritation showed. She’d had enough evenings ruined by chaperones.
‘Old drizzle puss,’ she muttered.
‘I heard that, young lady.’
She found her two cabinmates unpacking to shrieks of laughter and felt herself tensing slightly. At school she’d stood out from the other girls in so many ways that she’d learned to endure their frequent unkindnesses. Swimming had often been her way of escaping them.
‘Hi there,’ said the nearer, a broad-shouldered blonde chewing gum. ‘I’m Marjorie, and this is Olive.’ The second girl, who wore oyster-thick eyeglasses, grinned at her. ‘It’s a privilege to dorm with you.’
‘Likewise.’ Eleanor smiled, embracing
them both in turn, and suddenly realised that she recognised them from the trials. ‘Jesus, you can rely on old Hacker to put swimming rivals in the same cabin.’
‘I’m a diver,’ Marjorie said, a little crestfallen. She looked about fourteen.
Eleanor didn’t want to be a bad sport. She’d been green, too, before her Olympic debut at age nineteen. Her gold medal at Los Angeles had made her the belle of the press corps, celebrated on the covers of magazines as an all-American beauty. ‘Your body’s a head turner,’ Sam Goldwyn had told her, ‘and you’ve got a lot of class.’
She wanted to say something friendly, but Olive spoke first.
‘I heard your husband’s band at the Harlem Opera House.’
‘You’re from New York?’
‘Queens,’ said Olive.
‘Los Angeles,’ said Marjorie, chewing.
‘Town girls, thank God,’ Eleanor said, sitting on the bed and testing the springs. ‘I was worried I’d be with some of our sisters from Ass-End, Nowhere.’
Olive’s laugh sounded like an old windscreen wiper. ‘So what’s it like singing?’ the girl asked. ‘With a dance orchestra, I mean.’
‘As a career I wouldn’t recommend it,’ Eleanor said, taking a Chesterfield from a tortoiseshell case and lighting it. ‘Late nights, loose ladies giving your husband the eye, and the perpetual disappointment of your father . . . But I guess it’s taught me to hold my liquor.’
Marjorie tittered behind her hand.
‘Your father opened my school,’ said Olive. ‘He doesn’t like the band?’
‘Senators tend not to get along with bandleaders. Especially when a daughter marries one and gets talked into playing nightclubs wearing a one-piece bathing suit and a pair of high heels.’ She exhaled a long plume of smoke, remembering the dismay on her dad’s face when she’d sung him her version of ‘Whoopee Ti-Yi-Yo.’
Whatever the excesses of her second career, she’d never let it interfere with her training. She recalled a night at the Century Club in Chicago, the place smoke filled and reeking of scotch. A hoodlum crowd if ever she’d seen one. After the show she’d stood drinks for the boys, but Herb went to bed, licked. And at two in the morning she was at the Lakeshore Pool, lap swimming, ploughing up the lanes as a mist billowed over the water. Her nose and throat were raw from the cold air, her every muscle honed to its purpose—not just to win, but to win spectacularly, with all the speed in her power.