by Terry Frei
“He is from Russia,” he said, gesturing with an open hand at the boy. “I am very sorry, it’s not my best language. His family fled here. Something political.”
“What is his name?”
The driver asked.
“Anatol,” the boy said. He smiled at Leni and added to her, “Anatol Dobriansky.”
Anatol knew more French than Greek, and the driver more French than Russian, so that became the language. Leni could follow it. Between her gestures and the relayed words, she was able to get it across that she wanted Anatol to serve as the torch carrier in her reenactment of the lighting and the early stages of the relay. In a film. Her film. Not here. At Delphi. They would go to Athens, spend the night, then all head to Delphi. And in case she wanted to take him back to Germany for more filming, did he have a passport? No, he said, again bewildered. Leni said they’d figure that out, that she might be able to have one sent to the border. Finally, Anatol got it across that he needed to at least go to his home in Pyrgos to pick up clothes and inform his parents.
An hour later, Anatol walked out of his family’s tiny home with a small suitcase—and his father. Lean and graying and in his late forties, Anatol’s father made his wariness clear through gestures, but when Leni handed him a stack of Drachma notes, he turned more enthusiastic. Leni assured him, or thought she did, that Anatol would return home soon. At their Athens hotel, Leni showily announced that Anatol would stay with Jäger in his room.
The next day she discovered that her advance scouts had been right: The ruins at Delphi were perfect supplemental settings for her Prologue. The official torch relay was scheduled to pass through the next day, doubling back from Athens, and Leni’s crew would remain behind to shoot it just in case, although she was all but certain she wouldn’t use any of that film, either. On this day, Delphi was deserted and the late-afternoon and early evening provided perfect backdrops. Anatol proved to be an eager actor, wearing only a loincloth and lighting the torch at a raised hearth. It took several takes to satisfy Leni, but he eventually got it perfect, turning slowly to his left, looking into the flame, as if he was marveling at what he was holding and what he was about to do. Then Leni had the cameras set up farther away, and they shot several takes of Anatol stepping down two stone stairs to begin his run down the slope, and through the ruins.
Anatol seemed to be enjoying himself more with each step.
8
Most Handsome
Surprising himself, Glenn didn’t get seasick during the storm on the second night out, when Walter Wood threw up twice and complained that he thought the Greek gods behind all this Olympics business were supposed to be protecting them.
As the voyage continued, running on the deck got old, and the rain and cold made even that limited work difficult. Glenn felt sluggish. His pre-trip rough outline of a training regimen, designed in consultation with Harry Hughes, proved unrealistic. He picked up and fooled around with the javelin, shot put, discus, and vaulting pole, handling them and hoping not to completely lose the feel for them.
When the weather was tolerable, the group running continued. Also on the deck, the Olympians organized bowling games, using Coke bottles for pins and oranges for balls. Glenn gave up when his orange curved more than a Carl Hubbell screwball and he couldn’t even hit the Coke bottles, much less knock any of them down. He and Glenn Cunningham also got into golf putting duels on the deck, trying—only occasionally successfully—to control the balls on the shuffleboard deck. There were also a volleyball net and table tennis table, but they were constantly in use, and Glenn only was a spectator. In table tennis, the best mixed doubles team—hands down—was Jesse Owens and a tiny swimmer, Mary Lou Petty. Happenstance threw them together, and they were such fun to watch, all demanded they remain partners. In shuffleboard, Owens’s partner was javelin and discus thrower Gertrude Wilhemsen, and they were formidable, too.
Beyond the recreational games, there were temptations. Glenn heard the rumors, too, of the lifeboats being turned into the nighttime rendezvous points, whether for Olympic team couples—in most cases, the athletes in different sports had just met and attractions were common—or a male athlete and a “civilian” female passenger.
The fourth day out, Avery Brundage called another U.S. squad meeting—in shifts—in the social hall/dining room. His message: He and other officials weren’t deaf, dumb, and blind. They were seeing and hearing of athletes drinking and partying, and often cavorting on the first-class level, at the bar, or even in private cabins. He said nothing about lifeboats, though.
“This is no joyride!” Brundage declared. “If President Roosevelt was on this ship and he invited you to have a highball or two in the first-class lounge, you’d still be subject to the rules in the handbook. We’ve warned some of you who aren’t paying any attention to them. There will be no second chances from here on. None. Don’t test us. If we have to drop any of you off in Ireland at the first stop and send you home, we’ll do it.”
Referring to a sheet of paper, he added, “I remind you, you all signed the forms agreeing to, and I quote, ‘maintain strict training during the voyage and until my competition in Berlin is completed,’ unquote. And that you would, quote, ‘refrain from smoking and the use of intoxicating drinks and other forms of dissipation while in training,’ unquote.”
Marty Glickman, standing behind Glenn, raised his hand.
“Yes, son,” Brundage said.
“Are you saying we can’t go to the first-class level, even if we’re invited? I know I’ve met some nice people—older couples—who’ve invited us up there. They’re not parties. You must know that. You and all the Badg . . . and all the officials . . . are in first class, right?”
Brundage glared.
“I’m saying don’t abuse our trust,” he said. “We’re not monitoring you twenty-four hours a day. If you go up there, that’s your business. But don’t make fools of yourselves and, by extension, of us.”
After Brundage left, Jack Torrance smiled wryly at Glickman. “Marty, I think you’re on his list now.”
“I already was,” Glickman said darkly.
Glenn asked Torrance, “What was that all about? Who’s been out of line?”
“The weird thing is, it’s mostly the girls,” Torrance said. “Eleanor Holm has been up there, drinking and playing dice with the sportswriters and a bunch of the upper crust. Like William Randolph Hearst Junior.”
Runner Archie San Romani, the 1,500-meter man who had become notorious among his teammates for spending most of his time in his room playing his cornet, grinned. “Maybe she won too much money from those boys and somebody complained.”
“Hell, the way I look at it,” said Bob Clark, “playing dice is a lot better than blasting away on a horn!”
The way he said it, though, made it clear he was teasing. San Romani hadn’t played more than three hours a day and no later than 9 at night.
The next day, Glenn was on the deck, catching his breath after a few laps when he heard a woman’s voice behind him.
“Glenn?”
He turned and was looking at Eleanor Holm Jarrett, in an opened robe over a wet swimsuit. She reached out and, smiling, introduced herself.
“Glenn Morris,” Glenn responded as he lightly shook her hand.
“I’d figured that out,” she said, giggling.
They really are gold medalists, Glenn decided, and he could tell she noticed his appraisal.
“How’s your training going?” Eleanor asked.
“Just trying not to get too out of shape. How about you? I hear the pool isn’t that great.”
“That’s putting it nicely,” she said. “It’s too short, the water shifts with the boat rocking, and really the best thing to do is have someone tie a rope to you and try to swim in place.” She laughed. “I know there are some people who think I’m not training at all, though. Okay, so I’m not sitting in my room and knitting. I’m not apologizing. But speaking of that . . . there are a lot of folks in first c
lass who say they’d like to meet you.”
“I’m out here every day,” Glenn said.
“No, they mean up there, in first class on ‘A’ Deck . . . at night. You don’t have to get wild, just show up, shake hands, have a beer and make some friends. Why are you such a loner?”
“A beer? You know the handbook says we’re not supposed to have any alcohol.”
“Shit, Glenn, half your team runs laps and then goes right over to that window.”
She pointed at the little window where a man in a bowtie served beer. And Eleanor was right: Many of Glenn’s teammates replenished fluids with a visit to that window. “So come up with me to first class tonight.”
Noticing his reluctance, she added, “You look like a movie star . . .”
He started to raise a hand.
“Oh, don’t even try to give me that humble bullshit,” she said sharply. “You know you do. But I’m not jumping your bones, all right? I’m not going to drag you into a lifeboat and tear your clothes off.” She laughed and added, “We’d have to chase Jesse out of there, anyway.”
He didn’t react to that. He’d also heard the rumor that morning that when she hadn’t been able to sleep, Helen Stephens had taken a walk in the middle of the night, heard noises coming from a lifeboat, and seen Jesse Owens and then a woman non-Olympian lift the canvas and emerge. Of course, Helen had confided in another runner and sworn her to secrecy, meaning it took at least an hour for the story to reach all corners of the Olympians’ tourist-class quarters.
Eleanor said, “Look, just meet me up there on the ‘A’ deck. If nothing else, you’ll have fun. You might even meet a rich widow or an heiress!”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Glenn, trust me, and now I’m being serious, so help me God, these are the people who can make you after you win.”
“If I win, you mean.”
“There you go again. You’re going to win and you know it. They can help you turn a gold medal into real gold!”
“I’ve talked to the sportswriters plenty.”
“It’s not just them. I’m talking about people like Hearst’s son, actors, actresses, tycoons . . .”
“But Brundage warned us.”
“Hell, he gave me the speech personally, too,” she said. “He’s lecturing me, but I also could tell if I’d said, ‘Avery, why don’t we just go back to your cabin and talk this over for a few hours in bed,’ he would have led the way—and then said all was forgiven. He’s a creep. Trust me, I know. One ‘yes’ from me and none of this bullshit would have happened the last four years. He wouldn’t have tried to take my amateur standing away after Los Angeles because I was trying to be an actress and he certainly wouldn’t be giving me shit now.”
Glenn was getting self-conscious, and not only over embarrassment over what she said about Brundage. Several of his track teammates had walked by and leered, even giving him the high sign.
“Eleanor, I just don’t think it’s a good idea. The Badgers are mad and I can’t take that risk.” He paused. “Don’t you think you should be a little more careful, too?”
“Brundage is just bluffing,” she said disdainfully. “He knows I know too much, including about him and his zipper. Besides, he wants to win so he comes off as this organizational genius and inspiration and all that bullshit.”
“Okay, but I think I better stay out of first class, just the same.”
“Your loss.”
“No hard feelings?” Glenn asked.
Eleanor made a show of staring at his crotch.
“Doesn’t look like it,” she said, raising her eyebrows.
Noting his embarrassment, she reached out and lightly slapped his arm. “Look at you blush! They told me you’re still a country boy. They were right. You really are!”
She started to walk away, then turned. Looking him directly in the eyes, she said, “The offer’s always open.”
As the voyage entered its final days, Badgers handed out paper ballots at lunch. The men got to vote for women in a “Beauty Contest” and for “Most Popular” among their male teammates. The women’s ballots listed a “Most Handsome” category for men and “Most Popular” among the women. They were asked to list first, second, and third choices for each.
At another team “ball” in the social room, Brundage went to the microphone to award little cups to the winners. With a handful of other track athletes, Glenn was at the back of the room, near the doors. Tiny Katherine Rawls, who competed in both swimming and diving, was most popular among the women. The behemoth shot-putter, Jack Torrance, brought down the house by picking her up with one arm and carrying her to the stage to receive her award.
“No trophy for this, sorry,” Brundage said, “but for the record, the runner-up was Betty Robinson.”
Glenn clapped loudly at that one, knowing—as everyone who voted for her likely did—that the sprinter, a gold medalist in the 100 meters way back in 1928 in Amsterdam, had recovered from a near-fatal plane crash to make the Olympic team for the third time as a member of the 400-meter relay team.
Glenn Cunningham won for most popular among his teammates. No surprise there, and Morris and his teammates responded with a long ovation.
“Second was Jesse Owens,” Brundage announced.
That got a nice hand, too, and Owens waved.
“Now, the beauty contest,” Brundage said. “The winner is . . . Joanna de Tuscan.” The pretty fencer, who like Eleanor Holm Jarrett, was married, accepted the cup and held it overhead, but otherwise seemed to ignore Brundage, who was rebuffed in his attempt to deliver a congratulatory kiss on the cheek.
“No trophies again,” Brundage said, plowing on, “but the runners-up are Betty Robinson, again, and Alice Arden, both track and field.”
As had many of his teammates, Glenn had developed a bit of a crush on the cute and curly-haired Arden, the high jumper from New York, and voted for her as the runner-up to Eleanor, so he joined in that ovation with extra enthusiasm, too. But it also hit him as he heard the comments around him: How could Eleanor not win? Then Eleanor was storming toward Glenn and the doors.
“The bastard rigged the voting,” she said to another swimmer trying to stay with her. Eleanor spotted Glenn. “See?” she asked angrily. “This is the only real way he can get back at me!”
And she was gone.
“All right,” Brundage said, “the award for most handsome, voted on by the women . . . Glenn Hardin, track.”
Amid the cheers, plus a few shrieks from the women, Brundage peered out, looking for Hardin. “No Hardin? Going once, going twice. . . . All right, then the runner-up moves up. That makes the winner . . . another Glenn! Glenn Morris.”
Others patted him on the back and shook his hand as he made his way to the stage.
“Congratulations, Morris,” Brundage said, handing him the cup and gesturing at the microphone.
Geez, what to say?
“I’m accepting this for Glenn Hardin,” he said. “Not for me.”
A voice came from among the women. “And he’s modest, too!”
When he was back with the trackmen, he tried to turn it into a joke. “Besides, I don’t like finishing second!”
9
Queen of the Castle
Back in Berlin, Leni confronted another logistical challenge. She needed to place cameras, at least one large enough to be capable of recording sound, in Adolf Hitler’s loge box at the opening ceremonies in the Olympic Stadium. From close up, she had to get footage of him stepping to the microphones at the temporary rostrum, pronouncing the Games open.
She called his adjutant, Wilhelm Brückner, at the Chancellery, and made an appointment. A sign of her status was that she had to wait only ten minutes. Hitler greeted her by grasping one of her hands in both of his. With no additional preamble, he said, “Let me ask you first, now that we’re so close, do you still think this is going to be worthwhile for the Third Reich?”
“My film?”
“The Olympic
Games themselves!”
“Oh, I think so,” Leni assured him. “My mind hasn’t changed. We will show the world the wherewithal and the hospitality of the German nation . . . and what we can do when challenged. That is what I’m going to get on film.”
Hitler said, “I told Speer cost was no object, that we wanted the biggest and best stadium and other facilities the world had ever seen! We inherited this, but we need to stage the best Games ever. The display of our resolve and strength is worthwhile. But I find it repulsive that we are stepping away, however briefly, from the reordering of our society.”
As had most Berliners, Leni had noticed the disappearance of the signs declaring, “no jews” or “jews: your entry is forbidden.” She understood why: Among those coming to Berlin were high-profile and influential figures from around the world, including journalists. They would form independent judgments rather than allow themselves to be manipulated by the British and American correspondents based in Berlin turning out censored, but still untrustworthy, dispatches about Hitler’s Germany. For the visitors’ benefit, temporary subtlety in the Reich was appropriate. She also had heard of the jailing of petty criminals—or actually, those who even looked like petty criminals—to lessen the chance of street hustlers victimizing foreign visitors. Also, Gypsies were rounded up and removed to Marzahn. So while one aspect of the reordering was delayed, she thought, others were accelerated. Yet Hitler wouldn’t care about the side issues. For him, it was about the Jews.
“It is unfortunate—disgraceful!—that we are allowing our visitors to dilute our determination, ever so briefly,” he growled. “Once the boycott movements were quashed, they could not have withdrawn the Games from Berlin even if we had remained completely on track in our treatment of the Jews. Roosevelt would have paid lip service to the Jews and bluffed about ordering the Americans not to come, but they would have been here, too. I am afraid I have let Goebbels brainwash me.”