Flight from Berlin

by David John

  ‘Try to smile at him this time, dear,’ said Mrs Dodd.

  ‘You know what they say, Daddy,’ Martha said. ‘If you’re not at the table, you’re on the menu.’

  Ambassador Dodd’s friendship with Eleanor’s father made him a dear, if somewhat forbidding, figure to her. The two men were colleagues years ago at the University of Chicago, where Dodd had been a professor of history. He was given the ambassadorship, Martha told her, for being a Jeffersonian Democrat and a liberal—qualities the president said would be powerful charms against Nazi sorcery.

  ‘Now, where is Eleanor seated? I can’t see her table,’ continued Martha, turning the pages. ‘Oh, ha-ha, here it is. They’ve seated you with the athletes. Lord, what a gaffe.’

  ‘That suits me just dandy, thank you, Martha,’ said Eleanor. She was ready to staple that booklet to Martha’s head.

  Again her stomach knotted at the thought of what she had to do. If there was any hope of being reinstated she would have to face Brundage this evening and say something. Show her repentance. Anything. She wasn’t sure how. She doubted her pride would allow her to plead.

  A steward in a powdered wig and knee breeches escorted them over the bridge, past an honour guard of naval cadets who snapped to attention and presented their oars.

  The ambassador, hunched in his tailcoat, walked in front, mustering all his forbearance for the handshake ahead, while Eleanor, Martha, and her mother glided behind him in a whishing of taffeta and silk.

  Eleanor felt the eyes of the cadets passing over her figure and decided she’d chosen well this evening: a midnight blue cocktail gown of light silk with transparent sleeves and a narrowed waist. It was set off with a corsage of white orchids and the pearl necklace she’d been given for her twenty-first. In heels she towered over the two other women. Martha teetered along just in front of her, her tight satin dress riding up her hips. Satin’s such an unforgiving fabric, Eleanor thought.

  They entered a grove of trees glowing with coloured lanterns in the shapes of butterflies. Page girls in plaits and dirndl skirts lined the way, beckoning them along a bend in the path as though into an enchanted wood. A sound of violins mingled with the breeze in the trees.

  At the top of a small rise, the wooded path gave onto a broad lawn where the Reichsminister’s guests were mingling in front of a Gothic folly—a fantastical medieval keep, all white turrets and machicolations.

  Barring their way, however, was the welcoming party.

  While the ambassador presented his wife and daughter, Eleanor gaped at their host with wonder. He was a diminutive, club-footed man with a large head, rodent ears, and eyes she thought far from benign. In white tie and tails he looked bang out of place. It was like seeing Al Capone in a mortarboard and college gown.

  Beside him stood his wife, Magda, a handsome, fearless-looking blonde, who, Mrs Dodd whispered, was effectively Germany’s First Lady, as Hitler was unmarried.

  Ambassador Dodd introduced Eleanor last, and Dr Goebbels bowed to kiss her hand. He said a few words of welcome in German, and the depth of his voice surprised her. As he looked up, his dark eyes flared and the tip of a red tongue flicked across his lower lip.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Eleanor, when they’d moved onto the lawn. ‘His wife saw that.’

  About two dozen groups of people were talking in the rich evening light, with more guests arriving. A fine roasting smell was coming from a kitchen marquee on the far right of the lawn, mingling oddly with the colognes concocted by the barbershops of the Savoy and the Hôtel Ritz.

  Eleanor was offered champagne by a footman. Then, with irritating whispers and tugs on her elbow, Martha directed her eyes towards dozens of people she had never heard of: Himmler, the chief of police, waddling among groups like a country curate out of his depth; Lída Baarová, a stunning Czech movie siren and the current object of their host’s affections; a conceited knucklehead called von Ribbentrop, whom Hitler had just appointed ambassador to Britain; and the Mitford sisters Diana and Unity. ‘They’re a pair of English roses who’ve caught the Nazi bug real bad.’

  ‘Like blackfly,’ suggested Eleanor.

  Eventually dinner was announced by a bugle. Eleanor excused herself and went in search of her table, which she found beneath an oak tree hung with lanterns. It was seated with young women athletes, all in team uniforms of different nations, and she realised then that only the females had been invited, which, given her brief experience of their host, kind of figured. The girls eyed her gown, perhaps thinking she had the wrong table.

  ‘Eleanor, over here,’ came a husky voice she knew, and the gentle, giant figure of Helen Stephens unfolded to its full height, beckoning her over. ‘Sit with me.’ They hugged, and for a precarious moment Eleanor felt all the raw hurt that had made her weep in the stadium.

  ‘You won’t believe my day,’ Helen said, banging the table so that the cutlery bounced. A childhood operation on her throat had left her sounding like a longshoreman with a hundred-a-day cigarette habit. ‘I won. I won the hundred metre. I beat that damned Polack, Stella Walsh . . .’

  ‘Sis, that’s wonderful. You were the only woman man enough to beat Stella the Fella.’

  Waiters placed a selection of wines in the centre of the table and served panini and small Italian delicacies as a tenor serenaded the tables with a tub-thumping aria. None of the girls touched the wines, and for once Eleanor decided she’d enjoy herself sober.

  The surface of the Wannsee reflected a crimson sky. Soon, candles were placed on the table and tiny electric lights turned the trees into sparkling candelabra.

  Later as the plates were cleared away couples got up to dance on the terrace in front of the Gothic folly. The string orchestra had withdrawn and was replaced with a large, black-tie dance band that immediately swung into a foxtrot.

  ‘Oh, ha-ha, there you are.’

  Martha was gliding towards her through the crowd, her eyes lit with champagne. Once again, Eleanor got the faint impression that she’d been made the butt of some joke and noticed, not without some satisfaction, that the shorter woman had lipstick on her teeth, giving a carnivorous leer to her smile.

  ‘Lord, what a head we’ll have tomorrow,’ Martha trilled, taking Eleanor’s arm. ‘Over here, there’s a fascinating man I know you’ll be dying to meet.’

  ‘Okay, but I’m married, remember?’ Eleanor muttered.

  She was led between clusters of people until they reached a group of men with their backs towards them. With an instant dread she recognised the broad shoulders and bolt-upright posture of the man addressing the group. He was winding up some story with booming emphases and hand gestures.

  ‘Some joke, Martha.’

  ‘You said you had to talk to him.’

  Martha tapped his elbow. He swung around, and Eleanor was faced with Avery Brundage.

  The man’s nostrils flared.

  ‘Mr Brundage,’ Martha cooed, sliding a glance at Eleanor. ‘Look who I’ve found.’

  ‘Hello, sir,’ Eleanor said, trying her best smile.

  For two seconds his indignation visibly battled self-control.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Emerson,’ he managed. There was perspiration on his brow.

  ‘There, ha-ha, you’ve made up. A diplomatic coup on my part, I think. Mr Brundage, Eleanor is our guest during the Games.’

  ‘Sir,’ Eleanor continued, ‘would you be kind enough to spare me a minute of your—’

  But before she could finish, a British voice was saying, ‘My word, who have we here?’

  Brundage stepped aside to allow the women into the circle. A short, dapper gentleman with a monocle and a pencil moustache was observing Eleanor with a poker face. His chest was heavy with medals and decorations.

  Martha said, ‘Eleanor, dear, this is Sir Eric Phipps, the British ambassador.’

  ‘Delighted,’ he said, his face giving n
othing away, but she noticed his monocle casting a miniature spotlight up and down her body.

  He, too, kissed her hand, and something about his courtly manner charmed her.

  ‘Eleanor won the hundred-metre backstroke at the last Olympics, Sir Eric,’ Martha said.

  ‘The backstroke? How very interesting.’

  ‘And you, sir,’ Martha continued, turning to the third man, ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’

  ‘Richard Denham, madam. I’m a journalist.’

  ‘At last, a colleague,’ Eleanor said.

  He offered his hand, and their eyes met.

  She’d held the gaze of umpteen people this evening, so why this one was different she wasn’t sure, but she felt an instant quickening of her heart, a tightening in her chest. Her hand lingered in his before he released it. He had cool, greenish eyes that seemed a little sad. His tailcoat was an obsolete cut, but it revealed a pleasing figure, even if he was a tad shorter than she was. He was in his late thirties, she guessed. He wore no ring.

  ‘Mr Denham here has been very sporting in not jotting down my indiscretions,’ said the ambassador, ‘and Mr Brundage has been delighting us with a thoroughly comprehensive account of the American Olympic training regimen.’

  Denham caught Eleanor’s eye, and she turned to hide a smile.

  Brundage seemed to bristle at the women’s intrusion. He gave a curt nod to each of them. ‘Ladies. Your Excellency. Sir.’ And stomped away.

  ‘You’re a Brit?’ Eleanor said to Denham.

  ‘I am, but I live in Berlin.’

  ‘Been in the wars, huh?’ she said, looking at the bruise on his cheek. ‘Say, didn’t I see you leaving the Adlon yesterday?’

  There was a reticence about this man. She wondered what his story was. Martha was already making eyes at him and had begun to pout her lips out in a way she seemed to think attractive.

  Sir Eric was smiling at them and was about to speak, when a young woman appeared at his side and slipped her arm in his.

  ‘Dear, I think Sir Robert and Sarita need rescuing from the Ribbentrops.’

  ‘Ah. Please do excuse me.’ He bowed and left.

  ‘So, Mr Denham,’ Martha simpered as she accepted yet another glass from a passing tray, ‘are you for the Games, or are you one of these Olympic spoilsports, too?’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ Denham said, looking at Eleanor, ‘that I’m one of those spoilsports. Simply by coming here you’re helping them.’

  ‘Helping who?’ said Eleanor, grinning, thinking there was a punchline coming.

  ‘You’re helping the Nazis muscle into the fold of decent nations. They’re using you.’

  Eleanor laughed with dismay. ‘I am not—we are not—anyone’s pawns.’

  Martha had already drained most of her glass and seemed to have lost the thread of the conversation. ‘Exactly, everyone should just get along . . .’

  Eleanor held his gaze. The last thing she wanted was an argument at a party. All the same, she couldn’t let this pass.

  ‘Can’t some things in life be above sordid politics?’ she said, conscious that she was sounding just like Brundage. ‘I think the Olympic ideal is one of the few things that is.’

  Denham’s brow furrowed with understanding. It was the same mannerism her father had when arguing with her, and it drove her nuts.

  ‘The Olympic ideal is being twisted by some very unscrupulous people. The racial discrimination on the German team, for instance—’

  ‘Race?’ said Eleanor with a little shake of her head. ‘We’ve got the fastest man on the planet competing in these Games, and he’s a Negro. Doesn’t that give the lie to race theories? Who cares about race?’

  He chose not to take the baton and seemed to wait for her to cool down. Martha had given up on the lip pouting and was trying to lock eyes with him.

  In a conciliatory tone he said, ‘Look, for the Germans these Games have little to do with sport. This fortnight is a huge show of power, a propaganda display. The whole country is in training, but not for sport . . .’

  Eleanor had had enough.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said coolly, ‘but it sounds like total garbage.’

  ‘Madam, I am sorry, but you are naive.’

  ‘You want to know something?’ she said, pointing her finger at him. ‘You’re one of the most annoying people I’ve met.’ And with that she turned on her heels.

  As she walked away she heard Martha slurring, ‘Say, now she’s gone how about a dance?’

  Eleanor slipped among clusters of people, trying to find a way out of the crowd. Voices were talking freely now, lubricated by champagne.

  She made it to the edge of the lawn without anyone buttonholing her and went in search of a place where she could be alone. A garden path circled the lawn and led back towards the grove they’d entered earlier. The chattering groups of guests petered out; just a few couples were strolling. She followed the path along a garden wall.

  Damn that guy, she thought, wishing she was home in New York.

  Turning a corner she suddenly spotted Brundage striding away down the path some distance ahead of her. Last chance, she thought. Feeling that she had nothing to lose, she was hurrying to catch up with him when he turned sharply right and entered a low pergola set into a dense beech hedge. Where on earth was he going? She followed him into a darkened tunnel of vines that emerged into a circular arbour. Roses burgeoned over trellises, and small, intimate benches were set into secluded nooks.

  She’d lost him. His black tailcoat had vanished in the shadows beneath the trellises. Treading with caution she moved along the arbour path. Crickets chirped, and a keening cry from one of the island’s peacocks made her jump. A scent of roses was heavy in the air; the noise of the party a background murmur.

  Then she heard men’s voices only a few feet away, and quickly stepped into a nook where she couldn’t be seen.

  ‘ . . . I’m grateful for an opportunity to speak with you,’ came a voice with a mild German accent. ‘May I call you Avery? Please, let’s sit. There’s no one here.’

  The men sat in a recessed bench about twenty feet away, separated from her only by vines and rosebushes. The voice continued in impeccable English.

  ‘Your friendly attitude towards German sport has been noted in the highest circles here. As such I am emboldened to broach with you a matter of some considerable delicacy . . .’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  Chapter Twelve

  There was a pause as the speaker seemed to gather his thoughts. In the stillness beneath the trellis, Eleanor could hear her heart beating.

  ‘The United States is a new power in the world, Avery,’ the voice began, ‘a power that, happily, does not feel threatened by enemies. Perhaps because it feels so assured, so safe, it has not seen the need to strengthen its national fibre through policy . . .’

  ‘I’m not sure that I follow.’

  ‘You are a loose body of amateur sports organisations, are you not? What you need is training through a national organisation on the German model . . .’

  ‘I wholeheartedly agree, sir. That is exactly what I’ve been advocating—’

  ‘ . . . and that means a more scientific approach to athletics, and to the—how shall I put it?—the biology of your athletes.’

  Brundage fell silent. She heard a match being struck and the German inhale.

  ‘Success in the Olympic Games reflects the moral and racial quality of the competing nations, Avery—nations whose help Germany may one day need in fighting the threat of Judeo-Bolshevism. Communism.’

  Eleanor leaned her head farther into the roses.

  Brundage seemed to hesitate. ‘It’s true that I believe the United States must take steps to stamp out communism, but—’

  ‘I knew we would see, how do you say, “eye to
eye.”’ The voice sounded pleased. ‘So perhaps as a small token of your solidarity with me on this matter . . . you might reconsider the selection of certain athletes—on your relay team, for example.’

  The man’s voice had dropped so low that Eleanor strained to hear.

  There was a baffled silence from Brundage before he spoke. ‘On our relay team?’

  ‘Yes. Let’s say it may not be helpful to our cause if your two Jewish athletes should win.’

  Brundage was silent, at an apparent loss. ‘Marty Glickman and Sam Stoller?’

  ‘We Germans have had to allow one Jew on the German team, of course, to show the world we’re being fair, but with the pressure she’s under I doubt she’ll win. Your two Jews on the relay team, however, seem certain to win. We’ve been watching them train at the Olympic village.’

  Eleanor winced. Was he being serious?

  ‘Mr von Halt—Karl—I don’t understand. We have Negroes running on our team. Why object to the Jewish athletes?’

  ‘Oh-ho, the niggers, yes. I watched your Jesse Owens win today. Quite a spectacle, and he had the crowd with him. But there you are cheating.’

  ‘Cheating?’

  ‘Of course! The blacks have an enlarged heel bone, like jungle animals. They have an unfair advantage. You may as well enter racehorses.’

  ‘Sir—’

  ‘But the Führer does not care about the blacks, Avery.’ Again the voice lowered to a hush, like a supplicant in a confessional box. ‘It is the Jews that concern him.’

  Eleanor felt the nape of her neck crawl. Another long pause, and she pictured this man, this von Halt, looking straight into Brundage’s eyes.

  ‘To him the threat of the Jews to our lifeblood, to all that is vital in our folk community, has a . . . spiritual significance. You understand that the prospect of Jews winning races, breaking records, receiving medals on the podium in front of the German people, has a most unfortunate symbolism . . .’

  ‘Karl, I want to help but I don’t see how I can simply—’

  ‘He has spoken lately of his vision for the Olympiad. We will send our athletes in Zeppelins to Tokyo for the 1940 Games, but thereafter it is his desire that the Games should take place in Germany for all time to come. Germany is the only nation willing to give the resources the Games are due . . . the only nation with the strength to lead the world’s struggle against Judeo-Bolshevism. It is a vision of the future, Avery. Think about it. The British Empire grows old and weakens. It is America’s help that Germany will need to stop the Jews from Bolshevising the earth, and the fight starts here’—there was a smack as a fist hit a palm—‘with the selection and training of our finest men and women. In this fight I foresee that you, my friend, will have an important role to play . . . To begin with, I can tell you in confidence that you are our preferred candidate for the presidency of the IOC.’