by Terry Frei
That triggered applause and cheers.
Glickman and Stoller sat behind Glenn and Wood on a charabanc. As they headed to the Unter den Linden, the Germans waved and cheered from balconies, sidewalks, and windows. Swastika and Olympic flags were attached to light poles and flagpoles.
Glenn spotted the English-speaking German army man—introduced to them as Colonel Hauptmann—assigned to escort them to the Village.
“What does Unter den Linden mean?” he asked.
“Under the Linden,” the man said. “Under the Linden trees.”
Glenn waved. “Where are they?”
Earnestly, the German explained, “They had to be removed for the subway construction. Others will be planted to replace them later. But our visitors will thank us as they travel around during the Games.”
As the Americans walked from the buses to the city hall, thousands of cheering and chanting Germans lined the now-treeless boulevard. Hammer thrower Donald Favor drew cheers when he traded hats with a Berlin policeman. Paul Gallico found Glenn. They had to holler to be heard.
“So, Morris, what do you think of the receptions today?” the writer asked.
“Very impressive,” Glenn said.
“Have you heard about Sievert?”
“Hans Sievert? What do you mean?”
“The Germans say he’s hurt and if he competes at all, it might just be in the shot put—but not the decathlon. So your stiffest competition is out. I need to get a comment from you.”
“Well, if what you say is true . . .”
“It’s true,” said Gallico.
“If what they tell you is true,” Glenn said, amending, “that’s too bad. It’s never good when someone isn’t able to compete. I know how I’d feel if I couldn’t. But it’s still the same. Jack, Bob and I hope that one of us wins the gold for America.”
“You know how to say all the right things!” Gallico said, teasing.
“I believe ’em!” Glenn declared. He paused. “Let me ask you something. Did you hear anything more about Eleanor Holm?”
“They turned down her appeal,” Gallico said. “She said she’d never drink again if they gave her another chance, and I think that might have hurt her cause more than it helped because nobody believed her. I’ll tell you one more thing if it’s between just us for now.”
“Okay.”
“She’s blasting all the Olympic Committee folks, saying they were partying all the way over, too, so they have little right to look down on her. She said at least a hundred other of you athletes drank, too.”
“That’s nice of her,” Glenn said dryly.
“No, she said there’s nothing wrong with that. She’s saying she was treated differently, and I have to say I agree with her. That’s going to hit all the papers back home. And she’s already been signed up to do a column for Hearst—for the International News Service—from over here, so they’re not going to be able to shut her up.”
“She’s writing?” Glenn asked.
“Well, her name’s going to be on top of it,” Gallico said. “A bunch of the guys will take turns ghosting it. Writing it for her.”
“Tough work!”
“Hearst’s boy helped get her drunk every night, so it’s the least he can do.”
11
The First Looks
The women’s Olympic living quarters, the Friesenhaus, was on the grounds of the Reich Sports Field. In addition to being close to the competition venues, the American women—including the sixteen track and field competitors—also had the advantage of being within walking distance of a temporary train station and the huge Strength Through Joy Village, built for the Games, with restaurants and cavernous beer halls. They were about eighteen kilometers, or about eleven miles, west of Central Berlin.
The men’s Olympic Village, in Döberitz, was another fifteen kilometers to the west. The Badgers asked Glenn Cunningham and some of the other veterans in the other sports if they wanted to visit the Reich Sports Field, with its various venues, on the way to the Village, or wait until the next day, and the answer was decisive: It’s on the way, isn’t it? Let’s do it now.
The buses pulled into the Glockenturm Plaza, next to the tall, brick Great Bell Tower. The American teams from different sports separated, with the trackmen heading across the vast May Field to the Olympic Stadium. Badgers kept hollering that the buses would be leaving again in an hour.
Glenn and his teammates filed past the security guards and walked through the gap—the so-called marathon gate—in the west end of the cavernous bowl. The lower bowl and the field were carved out below ground level, so the stadium looked far bigger from the inside than it did from the outside. The Americans looked down wide stone stairs to the track and its infield. Directly below them, a tunnel opened onto the track.
Glenn Cunningham was in front, and when he stopped part of the way down, it created a brief logjam.
“I didn’t think anything could be better than the Los Angeles Coliseum,” Cunningham said, awed. “This is.”
The sheer magnitude of everything stunned Glenn Morris, too. “Wow, it’s huge,” he marveled.
Jesse Owens and several of the Negroes caught up with them. “And it makes the track look tiny,” Jesse said. “Like it’s about two hundred meters around!” Glenn had to smile. Jesse had his track shoes, with the laces tied together, hanging around his neck.
About fifteen workers were mowing and trimming the grass, tinkering with runways and pits, and lining the lanes.
High jumper Cornelius Johnson waved an open hand, palm-up. “But what’s with the holes?”
Now they all noticed the trenches. About four feet deep, they were reinforced with metal rails on the outside. Cunningham waved down the English-speaking man from the German Organizing Committee who had met them and followed them in. He asked the German what the holes were for.
“They are for the cameras,” the man said. “Motion picture cameras.”
Owens asked, “We’re going to be in the movies?”
“Yes, Mr. Owens. Leni Riefenstahl is making a film of the Games.”
Bob Clark blurted, “A whole movie on just the Olympics?”
“That’s the plan,” the German said. “The German Organizing Committee and the International Olympic Committee picked her. She and her people have been here quite often, making arrangements and setting up. I don’t see them now, though.”
Wait. That name . . .
“Did you say Leni Riefenstahl?” Glenn Morris asked.
“Yes,” the German said. “Fraulein Riefenstahl has stated she will shoot perhaps a million meters of film at the Games for her movie.”
Jack Torrance was incredulous. “Fraulein? She?”
He was startled when the answer came from Glenn Morris.
“Leni Riefenstahl . . . their Katharine Hepburn and John Ford rolled into one. She was an actress. Now she’s a director. But she’s still real young, under thirty.”
“How do you know all that?” Torrance challenged.
“She was on the cover of Time a few months ago,” Glenn said, shrugging.
“She a hot number?”
“I guess you could say that.”
When they arrived on the track, Glenn kneeled and felt the cinders. The surface seemed fast and, at least if dry, conducive to top-flight performances. As soon as he had decided that, Owens trotted past him, with his track shoes on. He at least had placed his blazer on the barrier between the track and the seats.
“What you think, Jesse?” Glenn called out.
“A-okay!” Owens responded, not turning.
Standing again, in the corner of the track, Glenn looked at the upper deck and imagined a spectator in that far corner, looking down on him as he ran the 400 meters. He wondered how small he would look from way up there, and he wondered what he would look like in Leni Riefenstahl’s film. He knew it would seem different when the seats were filled and the noise was deafening. Then he noticed the distinctly different seating area in the l
ower bowl, at mid-track. The area was cordoned off from the general seating sections, and was divided into boxes, as at a racetrack or a ballgame. At the top, between the façade of the upper deck and the boxes, a seating ledge—almost a mini-plaza—protruded.
The man from the German Organizing Committee got Glenn’s attention. He was with a well-dressed older man, introduced to Glenn as Ernst Jäger. He was a writer, the German explained, who now was working with Fraulein Riefenstahl as a publicity aide on her Olympic film and needed to take Glenn to another part of the stadium.
Strange. Glenn was wary, even before checking his watch. “But the buses are leaving in forty minutes . . . from way over there,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the May Field.
“We will get you to the Village in a car, if that is necessary,” the German committeeman said. “Fraulein Riefenstahl would like to meet you.”
“Wow,” Glenn blurted. “Me and who else?”
Jäger, whose English was excellent, also said, “Only you. She believes the decathlon will be an important part of her film and she has been told that you are the likely champion.”
Glenn thought: I wish everyone would stop talking like that . . . it might jinx me.
“But why now?”
“Fraulein Riefenstahl is thorough. On anything, drama or documentary. This is the way she works. We were having meetings here, they told us the Americans had arrived, and she said, ‘I must meet the decathlon man.’”
Halfway down the front stretch, Glenn and Jäger walked off the outside of the track, down a couple of stairs through a small plaza-type area and through one of the several doors in a wall mostly made of glass below the dignitaries’ boxes. There was a small lobby and another set of double doors on the far side, and Jäger explained that the room beyond the doors was the lounge for dignitaries to gather before heading to their seats in the loge. The double doors opened and about ten men filed out, several of them carrying hand-held cameras. Several of them took in Glenn’s Olympic wardrobe and nodded; others took no notice as they left. Jäger led him into the doorway, gestured to go ahead and then walked away.
At a long table on one side, a woman sat, scribbling furiously in a notebook. She was smartly dressed, in a white jacket and blouse, and a small jaunty hat that still allowed her hair to show. Frozen in the doorway, Glenn was transfixed. Sensing his presence, Leni Riefenstahl turned and, seeing him, stood. She was wearing baggy trousers, but her movement was so graceful, it made it even easier for him to imagine her great legs. From underneath her notebook and stack of papers, she pulled out the Olympic program. Holding it up, with his picture on the cover, she smiled and said, in English, “You are Glenn Morris.”
“Yes . . . and you are Leni Riefenstahl.”
Leni felt strange. This was not how it worked for her, and she wasn’t quite sure how to handle it. She was often attracted, but that could be cold and clinical. She was rarely excited at the same time. This time, she was excited, even—and for the first time in years—a bit nervous.
The silence lasted only seconds, but seemed minutes to Glenn. Leni left her paperwork on the table, approached him and offered her hand held straight out, her palm parallel to the floor. Glenn reached out, too, and placed his hands above and below hers. The touch was electric, her look intoxicating. She wasn’t flirting, yet that was more alluring than if she had been. She seemed not at all self-conscious about her obvious attraction. Glenn was used to women flirting; what made this different was Leni’s lack of coyness. Or could he be imagining things? He released her hand; she didn’t move.
“I’ve wanted to meet you ever since I saw the program,” Leni said. “And read that you’ll be our gold medalist. As perhaps Ernst told you, I am doing a film on the Games.”
“The man from the organizing committee told us first. He told us what the trenches were for.”
“Do you know who I am? What I do?”
Glenn didn’t know how uncharacteristic it was for Leni to ask that in this tone. For once, she wasn’t demanding. She really needed to know if he knew.
“Sure,” Glenn said. “I saw you in Time magazine . . . on the cover, too. And I’ve heard about your films. Even seen some posters.”
“Have you watched any of the films? They’ve been shown in a few of your cities.”
“No, I’m sorry, I haven’t.” He smiled. “Where I’m from, we’re lucky to see many American films. We’re just now getting to the ‘talkies.’”
“We might have to take care of that,” she said suggestively. “And I mean the films I’m in, not the documentaries I was ordered to do. Despite what your magazine said.”
He caught the “ordered.”
Glenn pointed at the program, on top of the stack. He teased, “That the first you had heard of me?”
He was amazed at how easy that had come out, how quickly he had lowered his guard.
“I have to admit, yes, it was,” she replied. “You dislike me for that?”
“Not at all,” Glenn said. “Nobody in American knew who I was until a month ago.”
“My film will make you famous, around the world,” she declared. “It is about the dignity of the human body and the beauty of competition, and the decathlon will be a key passage.”
Glenn asked, “What were you doing here today?”
“We were here early to check our camera placements and sightlines. We are trying to be different. This will not be newsreel.” Pointing up, she added ominously, “And we also wanted to check the Führer’s box.”
“Hitler will be here?” Glenn asked.
“If he comes to the competition, his box is at the top of this area.”
Glenn thought: That ledge.
Leni continued, “All we are sure about is the opening ceremony. He definitely will be here for that.” She gave him a little wave. “Here, follow me.”
They walked up a long, wide stone stairway, with hand railings on each side. At the top, after they passed through a small reception room, Glenn discovered that Hitler’s small open-air box didn’t have chairs or seats in it. A clear barrier about three feet high was at the front, with a rail across the top, but Glenn was shocked to see the box was otherwise open. At most, Glenn estimated, a dozen men could sit here, if they bunched into two rows.
“There will be a temporary rostrum and microphones there at the rail,” Leni said, gesturing. Then she pointed to the sections below. “The dignitaries from the other nations will be down there. The Führer and his guests will be here.” She smiled, letting him in on the joke. “I assume someone will bring them chairs.”
Two men, one of them young, the other older, were in the box, looking down at the Americans on the field. Glenn’s teammates were moving toward the marathon gate to leave, so he realized he didn’t have much time.
Leni ignored the men. The young one was Anatol Dobriansky. Glenn didn’t notice his glare.
“Wow,” Glenn marveled. “This is where Hitler will be. I assume you know him?”
“I do,” she said matter-of-factly.
“And? What’s he like?”
Leni seemed to weigh her answer, taking a quick look at the other two men in the box.
Glenn said, “I’m sorry, that was a stupid question.”
“No, that’s all right,” Leni assured him. After a few seconds, she added, “He is a complicated man.”
A whistle sounded down on the field. Halfway up the marathon gate steps, Lawson Robertson waved at the athletes lingering on the field. He blew the whistle again and turned his back, walking up the stairs.
“I have to go,” Glenn announced.
“Let me show you one other thing first,” suggested Leni. She led him into the little room behind the box. They were alone, but Leni lowered her voice. “You Americans are accustomed to saying whatever you want. That can be a problem here. Even in English.”
“For me or you?”
“For me, certainly. For you?” She shrugged. “I can’t say.”
After a few seco
nds, as the two men entered the room, she brightened and spoke louder.
“We have drivers if you want to stay longer,” Leni said. “We could get you to the Village.”
“We haven’t been there yet, so I probably need to go in with the team,” Glenn said.
She accepted that. Ernst Jäger suddenly appeared in the room, too. Leni turned to him and spoke German. Jäger nodded.
Leni said to Glenn, “Ernst will get you back to the field. I myself haven’t learned where all the tunnels are in this place and where they go.”
As Glenn started to follow Jäger, Leni called out. “One more thing. I will have a crew at the Village tomorrow to film some training. Will you be there?”
“I think so. But why film training?”
“So I have a better idea of what each event looks like, for planning,” she said. “Also, so my photographers can acquaint themselves with the competitions, too. There might be close-up-type shots I can cut into the actual Olympic competition later, if need be.”
Leni held out her hand again. Glenn’s hold was tighter this time. “I probably won’t be able to be there with the crew, though,” she said. She smiled. “Administrative details, you understand. I will look forward to seeing you again . . . very soon. We will talk more.”
Reluctantly, Glenn broke away.
12
Max Schmeling, Center
Their long white building was one of one hundred and forty identical dormitories for the athletes on the Village grounds. Thirteen rooms were in each. Walter Wood and Glenn’s double room was at one end, nearest the bathroom area and the showers, and farthest from the large sitting room at the other end. The morning after their arrival, Glenn stepped on the scale in the bathroom area—he was shocked to see it registered in pounds, not kilos—and discovered he had gained eight pounds since leaving New York.
Starting today . . . eat light and train hard!
At the crowded Village practice track, along with Japanese, French, and British athletes, among others, Glenn ran several laps with Bob Clark and Jack Parker to warm up, with Brutus Hamilton watching. Then Hamilton called the three decathlon men together and asked each, in turn, their practice plans for the day. Since Clark also was competing in the regular broad jump, his routine was slightly different. “That all sounds fine to me,” Hamilton told the three athletes. “I’m here if you need me from now on, and if you need anything, ask. But I’m not going to be in your hair, either.” He paused. “As near as I can tell, you’ve got a real shot at finishing one, two, three. I want all three of you walking away thinking you did as well as you could. My goal is to let the medals fall where they may, as long as all three of you are on that stand. So you need to be helping each other out, too. Right?”