by Terry Frei
“You sure?”
“Checked it three times.”
“So I don’t have a chance at 8,000?” Glenn asked.
“Sure you do,” Wood said, straight-faced. “If you run like Glenn Cunningham . . . not Glenn Morris.”
Brutus Hamilton approached with an update, too, and the coach’s differed in one important way: He said Glenn would need to run 4:32—or two seconds better than Wood’s estimate—to break his own world record. “So if you want my advice . . . play it safe, nice easy pace, come in at five minutes—and you win,” Hamilton said.
After the coach left, Glenn placed a hand on Wood’s shoulder. “Walter, my best time in this is 4:48. . . . So what you think?”
Wood thought for a second. “Logically, I should tell you Hamilton’s right.”
“That’s the Cornell in you. What do you really think?”
“Don’t do anything really stupid, like sprinting the first 300 meters . . . but go for it!”
“If I play it safe, I might foul it up,” Glenn said, nodding. “And besides . . . what if the math’s wrong?”
Wood feigned outrage. “It’s right, you dumb Aggie! But I say win it in style!”
Thinking, Glenn leaned over to retie his right shoe tighter. When he stood up, he announced: “It’s a deal!”
Wood shook his hand and headed back to the stands.
In his heat, Glenn was with Huber and Klein again, plus Maurice Boulanger of Belgium and Lyuben Doychev of Bulgaria. As they got ready to start, Huber tried to make it clear to the other competitors that because Glenn had so much at stake, the one thing they should all avoid was tripping him. Glenn winced, because as well-meaning as Huber was, and as appreciative as he was, he wondered if the one way to guarantee a collision was to make everyone conscious of trying to avoid it.
On the field, Leni checked her watch. It was shortly after eight o’clock, and the sun had been down about an hour. This wouldn’t go as late as the pole vault, and she believed the stadium floodlights—plus the single light she had received permission to erect near the finish line—would be good enough to leave her with some usable footage of this final race. This race would confirm Glenn Morris’s stardom—in both her film and her life.
26
1,500 Meters
Glenn was in lane two, and he caught the grins from the other runners when he dug holes for his toes and went into a sprinter’s stance. But he wanted to get out fast to avoid that traffic. He got to the lead about thirty yards into the race and settled into what he thought was a pace he could maintain until going all out in the final 150 meters or so, and perhaps even better his best time in the event by a few seconds. Judging from the times Brutus Hamilton called out each time he crossed the finish line, he was on track. In the last lap, as he tried to push himself toward a “kick,” he thought his lungs were about to collapse and his legs were about to stop moving.
Boulanger did him a huge favor on the final backstretch. The Belgian passed Glenn and quickly opened up a short lead. There was something about winning the decathlon, but not crossing the finish line first in the final event, that bothered Glenn. That had happened at Milwaukee, and he didn’t want it to happen again.
He also heard the crowd. The roar was for him; he just knew it. He was 200 meters from a gold medal, and those on the scene—mostly Germans, a few Americans, others from around the world, including athletes in the competitors’ section and on the infield—were pulling for him, exhorting him, cheering him. He owed them, and he owed himself, a heroic finish worthy of the international roar. He didn’t ignore the pain in his legs and his stomach; he fought through it. He pushed harder, overtaking the Belgian coming out of the final turn.
Leni alternated between watching Glenn running and watching Adolf Hitler rock back and forth in his chair. As the American came into the homestretch, the Führer stood and rooted on the American down the stretch as if Glenn had a swastika on his chest. In Glenn’s final strides, the Führer pounded a fist into his other open palm. Huber, the game German, was about ten yards back in third, also behind Boulanger. For a second, Leni wondered if Hitler was cheering on Huber, but she realized he was cheering for a man he would consider an Aryan champion.
The finish tape loomed. Glenn’s legs and lungs tightened even more. He drove on. Finally, he brushed the tape aside. Everyone seemed to be coming at once, and he cut over and to the infield and dropped onto the grass. A race official, bending over, told him his time—4:33.2. Other teammates had joined Walter Wood on the field, and the pack congratulating Glenn included Clark, Parker, Ken Carpenter, and Gordon Dunn. Huber, the good sport, said it had been a pleasure to compete with him.
Within a minute, Brutus Hamilton said that Glenn had indeed barely beaten his own world record and finished with 7,900 points. Should have known that Wood had the math right! For an instant, Glenn was disappointed that he hadn’t reached 8,000, but then thought: It’s just a number!
As the public address announcers said the same thing in a succession of languages, United Press sports editor Stuart Cameron rushed through a “bulletin” that would be on the wire, coming across teletypes in newspaper offices, in minutes.
Berlin (UP)—Glenn Morris, 24-year-old automobile salesman from Fort Collins, Colo., Saturday was crowned the world’s greatest all-around athlete when he smashed all records in winning the Olympic decathlon on the next to last day of track and field competition.
The Colorado boy even had Adolf Hitler excitedly rocking back and forth like a coxswain coaching a crew as he led the throng of 90,000 in cheering the American down the stretch of the 1,500 meters.
A Badger explained to Glenn, Clark, and Parker—the three medalists—that because of the late hour, the medal ceremony would be held at the start of the session the next afternoon. The events in the stadium would be the women’s high jump, plus three relay finals—men’s and women’s 400 meters and men’s 1,600 meters—and the start and end of the marathon. “By the time they’d be ready for the ceremony now, the stadium would be all but empty, so we think this is the right decision,” he explained. “So you’ll have to come back one more time. But the stadium will be full.”
The three American decathlon men looked at each other in turn. Each nodded. They were disappointed, but understood. Walter Wood announced the Americans were headed for the Essen Haus. “You guys won’t buy a beer all night!” he said. “But get your asses there as soon as you can!”
A Badger stepped up to claim Glenn. “Okay, Morris,” he said, “you’ll have the radio interview first and then you meet with the writers. Some of them are rushing to get their stories in afternoon papers back home, so we need to hurry a bit.”
Twenty minutes later, as he got up from the table in the radio room, he congratulated himself on remembering the right people to thank. Including Karen.
“Okay, now the writers,” the Badger said.
Perhaps thirty writers, most of them American, gathered around him. He answered the predictable questions—“How do you feel?” “When did you know you had it won?” “Did you know Hitler was cheering for you?”—with grace.
Paul Gallico was on the fringe. When the gathering was breaking up, he congratulated Glenn, too, then said, “But I do have to say you have to liven up your comments to us scribes. You didn’t give us stuff as good as Marty Glickman’s today!”
“The relay?”
Gallico nodded.
“What’d Marty say?” Glenn asked.
“Said it was all politics,” Gallico said.
“Did he explain what he meant?”
“He said Dean Cromwell wanted Draper and Wykoff on there because they’re all from USC.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
Glenn stopped. He decided he’d better say, “We’re just talking now, right?”
“Absolutely,” Gallico said.
Glenn said, “Sure looked to me today that any team we put together, even minus Jesse, would win. As long as they get the handoffs right. They knew that.
They kept Sam and Marty off, anyway.”
“Because they’re Jews?”
“That’s my guess,” Glenn said.
With furrowed brow, Gallico responded, “Might be something to that. But there’s something else here, too. Jesse Owens is a very fine young man, but I’m pretty sure he’s played both sides of the fence on this one.”
“How so?”
“Robertson said Owens was all for it when they told him last night, but he supposedly acted at the meeting this morning like this was the first he’d heard of it and they should leave Sam and Marty in it. I think that was for show. Jesse wants that fourth gold medal. There’s nothing wrong with that. I wish he’d just say it, though. It’ll make him more money when he turns pro . . . like ten seconds after the Olympics are over.”
“Interesting theory,” Glenn said.
As he walked away, he was thinking: Jesse and Ralph should have said nope, they weren’t running. We supported those guys; they should have supported Sam and Marty.
An older man was waiting at the press box door, and he waved as Glenn and the Badger approached. It took a second for Glenn to recognize him. Leni’s press agent. Ernst Jäger reintroduced himself and explained his connection to “the Olympic film” to the Badger.
“Congratulations, Mister Morris,” he said. He turned to the Badger. “May Miss Riefenstahl and her crew please have Morris now for an on-camera interview downstairs?”
The Badger, looking at his watch, clearly didn’t want any part of this.
Glenn thought: He must be missing a party!
“It’s okay,” Glenn said. “I can get back to the dressing room.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Badger appeared relieved and Jäger led Glenn away.
“I didn’t know you did interviews on camera,” Glenn said.
“We don’t,” Jäger said with a dark laugh. “I’m told we have a matter that requires some diplomacy we have to discuss with you. Something your man didn’t need to know.”
Glenn didn’t know whether to be excited or worried.
“Do you know what it’s about?”
As they walked, Jäger looked at him, calculating. Making a decision, he said, “It’s about the Führer wanting to meet you.”
“Now?”
“Oh, no,” Jäger said. “He’s gone now. It was too late and everyone realized it would take too long to arrange . . . even if it could be arranged. Leni has been asked to schedule something else.”
Great.
Jäger led Glenn back to track level, to the dignitaries’ lounge behind the box seats—the same room he had brought Glenn to meet Leni on the day the Americans arrived in Berlin. He knocked, opened the door and said something in German, then translated: “I just told her the world’s greatest athlete had arrived!” That still sounded strange to Glenn. Mel Ott, Lou Gehrig, Bronko Nagurski . . . now those were athletes. But you’d better get used to that!
“Thank you Ernst,” Leni said in German. She was alone, reading from a notebook, with several pencils on the table to its side.
Jäger waved Glenn in, said congratulations again, and asked Leni, “You’re good now?”
“Yes,” Leni said with a smile. “Go home to that beautiful wife of yours.”
A second after the door was closed, Leni rushed into his arms and kissed him ravenously.
“You were marvelous,” she whispered.
“Thanks,” Glenn said.
She guided his hands inside her blouse. A minute later, their hands and mouths still wandering, he managed to wedge in whispers. “Leni . . . We can’t . . . I mean . . . They’re going to be looking for me . . . and here?”
“I know,” Leni whispered back. “I know.” She stepped back.
“Wow,” Glenn said, shaking his head in wonder, “you turn me into a lunatic!”
“What’s that? ‘Lunatic’?”
“I was saying you make me crazy.”
Holding both his hands in hers, Leni said, “Lunatic is a good word . . . better than crazy. I’ll have to remember that one!”
Glenn took a deep breath. He decided it would be better to bring it up as a question than to suddenly dig in his heels.
“So what’s this about me and Hitler?”
“He wants to meet you, perhaps tomorrow after your medal ceremony or later in the week—here at the stadium or elsewhere, away from the crowds. Perhaps even at the Chancellery.”
Glenn’s words were measured, his tone careful, yet decisive. “Leni, I can’t meet him. I’m sorry if that’s a problem for you, but I can’t. I just can’t. Not tomorrow. Not another day. Not at all.”
Leni seemed genuinely shocked. “Why not? You would shake his hand and nod your head when he says nice things about you. That’s all. No more than what you did with Max Schmeling! Or Erwin Huber!”
“Leni, they’re not Hitler! Our team agreed that we wouldn’t meet with him after he wouldn’t meet with our Negroes when they won. It’s a team thing. Plus, I still don’t know when I’m leaving. They’re still not telling us who’s in the meet at London Saturday, and where guys are being sent after that. There might even be other meets sooner than that.”
Suddenly, she looked vulnerable, reminding Glenn of his high school dance date, looking down and speaking softly.
“So you’re saying you could leave any day now?”
“Unfortunately, yeah.”
“You’re not going to sneak off, are you?”
“I’ll sure try not to.”
“Please don’t.” Leni sighed. “Now I need to get back to the crews and then the Castle.” She paused and obviously trying to brighten the mood again, asked, “And what are you doing to celebrate?”
“It’s just the relays and marathon tomorrow, so everyone else is done,” Glenn said. Leni nodded. She knew all that, of course. “So there’s a pretty big group going to the beer hall again,” Glenn said. “They’re probably already there! Same place we went before the competition started. The Essen Haus. Should be fun . . . and I really need to go. And go back with them to the Village.”
Glenn tried to read Leni’s smile. The tension hadn’t disappeared, but had lessened.
“Why, Mister Morris,” she began, “you say that like I was going to insist on you spending the night with me tonight.”
“Well . . .” Glenn began tentatively. Part of him very much wanted to do just that. Part of him wanted to avoid her—because of the issues that would come up.
She held up a hand. “I understand,” she said. “I have to be at Ruhwald. There is a lot of work to do and things to go over for tomorrow. We’ll be all over the marathon course, and that’s going to be quite a challenge.”
“Those guys are crazy!” Glenn marveled.
“Perhaps,” Leni said, “but I know others who say men who do ten events in two days are the crazy ones!”
“They might be right,” Glenn conceded.
“I hope I can be at your ceremony. If I can’t be, though, I know some people who will film it for me . . . and the world.”
“I’ll be sure to smile,” Glenn said.
“Now don’t get so drunk tonight you miss it,” she said with a laugh.
She leaned closer and said softly, “I’m proud of you. We’ll work out the other things. We’ll get through them. Now go!”
When Glenn entered the Essen Haus, it was jammed, and he was shocked to see Luz Long with the Americans. The German broad jumper was with a huge man Glenn didn’t recognize, and within moments, Glenn knew he was German shot-putter Hans Woellke, the gold medalist.
Soon, Glenn was on his second beer, and he was beginning to wonder if it might be a good idea to take a nap on the table. Mostly, the Americans stood. They started with toasts to not just Glenn, but also to all the other American track and field gold medalists—present or otherwise. Then Glenn toasted Bob Clark and Jack Parker—“as good of teammates as you can have in the decathlon!” Next, the vanquished Jack Torrance led the toa
st to Woellke and also paid tribute to Long as “a silver-medalist broad jumper, but a gold-medal sportsman!”
Glenn felt a tap on his shoulder.
It was Erwin Huber.
“Can I join this party?” he asked, yelling.
Glenn ended up sitting down with Huber. It was hard to hear, but Glenn still found the conversation pleasant. They joked that they both nearly died in the 1,500 meters. Soon, Long joined them. The broad jumper toasted Glenn’s triumph, too, then said: “You’re so well-known now, you have company.”
“Lots of it,” said Huber, gesturing at the other Americans.
“That’s not what I mean,” Long said, looking at Huber. “I mean . . . Gestapo.”
For a second, Glenn was worried that Long was going to mention Leni. For an instant, he was relieved that he didn’t. Then it hit him: Gestapo?
“Secret police, right?” he asked Long.
Long nodded.
“There’s a man at the second table over in the gray jacket . . . Gestapo,” Long said conspiratorially.
Glenn tried to look without advertising it. The man was nondescript, perhaps a qualification for the job.
Long added, “And the man over there by the wall, black jacket . . . Gestapo. That’s the one who was following me.”
“Following you? Why? Because you were so nice to Jesse Owens?”
Long laughed, pretending to be involved in a lighthearted story. “I might have two following me after that,” he said. “That wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done—being so open about it. But they’ve been following me off and on for about a year.”
“Why?” Glenn asked.
“Too complicated, Herr Morris. But now, at least for the rest of your stay here, it looks like you will have the same honor! The one in the gray coat followed you in. And he even went to the lavatory once at the same time, am I not right, trying to make sure you weren’t escaping?”