by Frank Deford
“As people?”
Well, I wouldn’t go that far, Teddy. That’s giving you men a bit too much credit. But the second type, which was clearly Herr Gerhardt, does deign to accept us for what we are and not just for what we can deliver. It’s a fine line, I know, but I’ve always put you on the right side of the line, so be thankful for small favors.
“I appreciate your giving me the benefit of the doubt, Mother.”
Of course, you’ll probably slip back now that you’re long enough in the tooth to be a dirty old man. But let’s get back on track:
Frau Gerhardt served tea, which, as you know, I’ve never much liked. It’s just so thin, tea is. It’s not that I dislike it. Some drinks are simply unpalatable. Scotch, for example. How does anyone like Scotch well enough to become an alcoholic? Beats me. And Dr. Pepper. Yuck.
She even made a face and stuck out her tongue some. “That’s an interesting pair,” I observed.
Well, they just happened to come to mind in tandem. I haven’t touched either of them in eons, but some distasteful memories stay with you in perpetuity. Or I can honestly say: I will take those memories to the grave, the grave being imminent enough for me nowadays.
But certainly, Teddy, I don’t find tea abhorrent, and I sipped it politely with the Gerhardts while we chitchatted about where the hell the Eastern Shore was and how I came to swim and what-have-you. Then Herr Gerhardt leaned in a bit—
“Still giving you the old once-over?”
No, he had another target in his sights. “Now Sydney,” he began nicely enough. Like Frau Gerhardt, he had only a bit of an accent, and his English was more British than American. “Stringfellow,” he went on. “That’s an interesting name.”
I said, “Well, it’s certainly a long name.” He nodded, smiling. The subject of my name invariably came up whenever I’d meet people, so I’d developed a pat routine about it. “My father told me that it probably derived from the craftsmen in the middle ages who prepared the strings that fit in bows. The fellow made strings to shoot arrows with. String-fellow.” That was the second part of my schtick on my maiden name, Teddy, and that usually was enough to satisfy anybody. But Herr Gerhardt wasn’t finished.
“And what sort of name is it, exactly?”
“You mean, its heritage—that sort of thing?”
“Precisely.”
“My father told me it was British. It’s an odd name, I know, Herr Gerhardt, but there’s more Stringfellows around than you might imagine. Especially in the South. I guess you could say we’re more the Yankee end of the Stringfellow clan, although no one would ever call the Eastern Shore Yankee territory.”
I don’t know if he followed all that inside American stuff, but he said, “I see,” and then he went on: “And your mother’s side?”
“Oh, that’s easy. Mom’s a DeHavenon. That’s French Huguenot.”
“Ach.”
“Of course, sir, you have to understand that it’s been a coon’s age since any of our crowd came over from France. I don’t think I’ve ever met a DeHavenon who knew a single word of French. Not even merci beaucoup.”
At that point I noticed that Horst had a disagreeable expression on his face, and I thought perhaps I’d said something out of line, but both his parents chuckled politely. Herr Gerhardt sat back comfortably in his chair, and Frau Gerhardt said, “That’s very charming,” and she held up the teapot to see if I wanted more, which I didn’t, of course. Quite frankly, Teddy, at this point, this would’ve been one time when I would’ve been delighted to have had a shot of Scotch.
Horst seemed to come back to life then, speaking up to explain how I’d come to be in Berlin because of Eleanor’s expulsion. Naturally, the Gerhardts had heard all about Eleanor Holm. Everyone had. So that produced a fertile conversational gambit, especially since I could provide some humorous anecdotes and explain how Horst had met her too. Then I added: “So you see, it’s really something of a fluke that I’m here. I think my Olympics will be in Tokyo.”
“Indeed,” Frau Gerhardt said.
“Yes, and, of course, Horst has told me . . .” I paused and looked over at him at this point, because I was teasing him, making him think I was about to spill the beans about how I knew Herr Gerhardt might be going to Tokyo as ambassador. But then I quickly added: “. . . that you all lived in Tokyo for several years.”
And Horst gave me one of those you-got-me looks, and I winked at him, but right away, Herr Gerhardt said, “Well, Sydney, it appears that Mrs. Gerhardt and I will be going back to Tokyo very soon ourselves.”
“You got the job?” Horst asked.
“It should be announced as soon as the Olympics are over.”
Horst promptly rose, clapped his father on the shoulder and shook his hand. “Congratulations, Father. That’s wonderful.” It was quite a lovely moment to see between a father and son. You could tell there was both respect and rapport there.
“Danke, Horst.” Then Herr Gerhardt turned to me. “You see, Sydney, it seems I will become ambassador to Japan, so should I still be in Tokyo in ’40, I will be cheering for you”—and then he lowered his voice in mock conspiracy—“so long, of course, as there are no German girls in the race.”
“I understand, sir. And congratulations.”
Since Horst was on his feet now and we’d all shared a fine moment of camaraderie, I could see he was ready to try and pull the plug and gracefully usher me out. I was preparing to take his cue, when Herr Gerhardt said, “So, Sydney, will you Americans have your black auxiliary in Tokyo again to dominate the athletics?”
Well, I was lost, Teddy. On two counts. First of all, I hadn’t a clue that the Germans had been calling Jesse Owens and our other sprinters our “black auxiliary.” And second, I didn’t know that the Europeans called track and field “athletics.” So I was totally out to sea.
Horst jumped in. “Father,” he said, “I don’t believe that any Americans think of their colored athletes as a ‘black auxiliary.’ It’s just not so.” He spoke that rather evenly, but it was immediately crystal clear that Herr Gerhardt did not like being contradicted by his son.
He looked up at him and, I thought, speaking as if I weren’t even there, he said, “Perhaps it is good, though, for Sydney to know how others may feel about her country. God knows we have had to endure our share of criticism long enough.”
I wanted to say something, but I was still a bit unsure about the nature of the whole discussion. Horst looked over to me, his face pained, fearful that I’d been hurt. I tried to signal to him that I was all right, just a bit tossed. Happily, into this breach, Frau Gerhardt—ever the diplomat’s wife—tried to patch things over. “It’s only too bad, Sydney, that should you come to Tokyo, Horst shall not be there. Alas, we must be leaving my baby behind here to continue his studies.”
“Well,” I said, grinning, “he’s not a baby anymore.”
“My baby—always, I’m afraid,” she said, smiling at him. Our exchange was light. Her goal had been achieved, the brief squabble put past us.
Unfortunately, though, Horst then said, “Well, I may be seeing Sydney before that. I’m thinking of perhaps studying in the United States.”
As blithely, even cheerily, as he said this, both his parents looked as horrified as they were stunned. And believe me, Teddy—I was just as stunned myself. This was news to me.
Frau Gerhardt said, “You’ve never mentioned this before.”
“It’s just something I’ve been thinking about, Mother. After my naval service.”
More sternly, Herr Gerhardt said, “We have discussed, of course, some sort of apprenticeship with Albert Speer.”
“Yes, Father, of course, that certainly remains a possibility.”
This time, Herr Gerhardt turned to speak to me as if Horst were the one not present. “Albert Speer is the most influential architect in Germany, Sydney. The Führer himself has designated him the prime architect of the Third Reich. And I have personally spoken to Mr. Speer about Horst. To n
ot accept the golden opportunity of working with him would be as if someone in your country turned down a chance to apprentice for Frank Lloyd Wright.”
I nodded.
Horst tried to put a little oil on the waters. “Father, going to study in the United States is simply an idea I’ve had.”
Herr Gerhardt replied, “And one that seems to have sprung up only very recently.” With that, he turned and smiled at me, indicating very neatly from which bewitching wellspring this idea must have sprung. But it was a fond gesture in the way he managed it, so then, the diplomat again, he rose and, smiling upon me, continued: “Sydney, you are as beautiful and as bright as Horst promised us. And I see now, you must, as well, be just as influential.”
“But, Father—” Horst began.
Herr Gerhardt held up his hand. “No, no. We can discuss these matters at some future time. For now, you and Sydney should go enjoy this glorious time in Berlin.” And with a sly emphasis: “You have so few days left together.”
So that Horst couldn’t continue the conversation in any way, I quickly stood before Herr Gerhardt and thanked him. He took my hands and kissed me upon both cheeks, as did Frau Gerhardt. I made sure to take hold of Horst and cling to him, so he couldn’t step back and try to keep things going. Then, as sweetly—but emphatically—as I could, I said my auf Wiedersehens.
As soon as we stepped outside, Horst made a point of putting his arm about me, and he kissed me sweetly as he helped me into the car. He knew his parents were watching, and he wanted to make certain that they understood the way things were. I’ll tell you, Teddy: I sure would’ve liked to’ve been a fly on the wall back in the house at that moment, though. My ears were burning, I can guarantee you that.
We drove back into Berlin, to the great park called the Tiergarten, which used to be the royal hunting grounds. Horst didn’t say anything, which was unusual. I could see he was a little unnerved by the encounter with his father, so, for diversion, I just prattled on about Edith and Alice and their chances for medals. He responded only in a cursory fashion, so I was especially glad when he parked the car. Isn’t it awful being cooped up in a car when somebody isn’t being communicative—especially in those ancient days when cars didn’t have radios to turn on?
Now the Tiergarten, Teddy, is sort of the Berlin version of Central Park in New York, which I’d been to at the Trials. Only in Central Park, you hardly ever lose sight of the skyscrapers. In the Tiergarten, though, there were these tall sycamore trees that completely separated you from the city. Maybe it’s different now, and maybe Berlin has skyscrapers that loom all up, too, but back then there was a sense that we’d left the city completely behind and were far out in the country. It was downright sylvan, and we strolled along by a little lake, Horst still silently communing with his thoughts, me trying to figure out exactly what his thoughts were.
About then, we came round a bend in the path and were jarred somewhat because four or five stormtroopers—what they called “brownshirts”—were striding toward us. These were the Nazi thugs. I didn’t know it at the time, but Hitler had ordered them to lay low during the Olympics, to behave themselves for the benefit of the foreign visitors. But, you know, they just plain looked nasty, Teddy—perhaps especially because, simply by their martial presence, they soiled the serenity of the park. As we passed them, they smirked at us, and it certainly wasn’t lost on me that Horst didn’t acknowledge them in any way, shape or form.
No, I didn’t feel threatened at all, but there was just such an ugly impression about them. In fact, it stood out from all my other memories of that time. I would look back to when the war started and remember that one brief moment, and think, “Ah, that’s the Nazis.” All the good stuff when I was there, but I could never forget that one passing incident. Of course, at the time, in the Tiergarten, in this lovely haven, it seemed as if the brownshirts were the ones out of joint. But, of course, it wasn’t that way. Those SOBs were just lying in the weeds, biding their time.
Certainly, though, I could immediately sense that these creepy guys stirred up something in Horst, because right away, he gripped my hand harder and guided me over to a bench that overlooked the little lake. I sat down, but he only put his foot up on the bench and bit his lip for a moment. “Horst?” I said.
“I’m just so sorry,” he said.
Teddy, I still didn’t know what was eating at him. “What about?”
“You know. My father.”
I reached up to take his hand, but he wouldn’t let me. “Honey, he didn’t upset me. Really.”
He leaned forward then, on his knee. “You didn’t get what that name business was all about?”
“Oh, shoot, that’s nothing. People are always asking me about my name. It’s a funny name. They used to kid me in school.”
“No. You don’t understand, Sydney. The whole thing was just to find out if you might be Jewish.”
Only then, as the Bible says, did the scales fall from my eyes. “It was?”
“Yeah.” Horst took his foot down from the bench and knocked his one fist into his palm. “My father is getting so bad about that. It didn’t use to mean anything to him, but now that he’s in the party, and—” He stopped, and shifted about. “I mean, Dad doesn’t have to get involved with domestic stuff. He’s a diplomat. But now I see him losing some perspective. And he’s too smart for that.” He paused. “And too nice.”
“You love him a lot, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do, Sydney. I’m very proud of him, too.” Suddenly, he sat down next to me. “Look, I’ll tell you. There’s a certain amount of tension in the family because of Liesl. Well, not because of her, but because of her husband. Walter is an officer, a Standartenführer in the SS.”
I knew so little, Teddy. I’d never even heard of the SS. “What’s that?”
“SS—Schutzstaffel. Oh, never mind what it means. It’s Hitler’s own police force, sort of a second army. And Walter is a very . . . uh, dedicated Nazi. Very passionate. And I think it affects Dad—and, frankly, I haven’t had the courage to say anything. And, I’m sorry, it really got to me when he started on that name stuff with you.”
“Hey, please don’t get upset because of me.”
Horst took both my hands and looked right at me. It was so abrupt and so dramatic, it took me aback. “Could you live here, Sydney?” he asked. “Could you?”
“Remember? You asked me about that.”
“Yes, of course.” And at that he got up again and crossed his arms. He was so squirmy. He just couldn’t stay put. “No, no, I know it would be so much easier for me to come to the United States. I mean, just the language.”
“Yeah, the language.”
“That’s why I thought about going to school there.”
“That was kind of a surprise—for us all.” And boy, that was an understatement.
“Well, it’s a possibility.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s just, I don’t want to leave here. I don’t. It’s like it’s all coming together for Germany now. And, yeah, some of the stuff isn’t right, but we’ve come a long ways, and I know these Olympics have made such a difference. Everybody can see that. My father should see that.” He sat down next to me again, and for the first time in awhile, he smiled. He hadn’t smiled during any of this. “I’m just so excited, Sydney. It’s all happened so fast. The Olympics. And you just drop in from off the moon or somewhere, and all of a sudden I’m completely in love with you.”
“From the moon.”
“Yeah.”
And then, you know what, Teddy? You would have thought we’d’ve fallen into some passionate embrace at this point, but we didn’t. Not at all. We didn’t even look at each other. We both just stared out at the lake in front of us. And neither of us said anything for the longest time. I knew what he was thinking, because I was sure he was thinking exactly what I was, that we had found each other, and it was perfectly amazing, but, of course, I knew he was also thinking about Germany and how that affect
ed things.
Only after quite a while I started to cry. Very softly at first, and then harder and harder. It took him by surprise. Well, it took me by surprise. I mean, it was completely involuntary. “Sydney? Why?”
“Because I’m so happy,” I said, and I fell into his arms.
“Oh,” he said.
“But also because I’m sad.”
“You are?”
“Because I have to leave you next week.”
“Please don’t think about that.”
So I tried not to, but I didn’t succeed altogether. I kept crying because I was so happy and so sad at the same time, which sounds like a crazy thing, Teddy, but which was absolutely the case on this occasion when I was in the Tiergarten. We both stared out at the lake again, for the longest time.
The next night I took Mom out to dinner. She chose a different little restaurant nearby. It was French and very highly regarded, but I think Mom picked it largely for the name—it was either a le or a la. When it came to restaurants, Mom much preferred the ambiance to the cuisine. Names mattered. She made sure to get us a table by the window, because it offered a good view. Views mattered.
For September it was especially warm, as if summer had gone into an overtime, but it was our last evening together. Mom had plans, though. Helen would be visiting her in another week or so, and then she wanted to come back to Missoula to, as she put it, “see my old friends one last time . . . above ground.” She knew her days were running out, but she remained markedly calm and held to her good spirits.
We both ordered a gin and tonic, and Mom raised hers in toast: “To G and Ts,” she proclaimed. “Last one of the year. You can’t drink gin if it isn’t warm.”
“Why?”
“I really don’t know, Teddy. My father absolutely subscribed to that rule. He used to call tonic ‘quinine water,’ so maybe it has something to do with the tropics—heat. Don’t you drink quinine to ward off malaria?”