Bliss, Remembered

by Frank Deford

  Horst thought for a moment, then shrugged and said, “Oh, how about, ‘I’m holding all the cards.’”

  Leni liked that so much she repeated it. “Yah, yah. I am holding all ze cards.”

  Now that the track and field was finished, Leni had primarily moved her base of operations over to the pool. She was something to see, Teddy. She’d always come in gray slacks—reminiscent of Katharine Hepburn, if that rings any sort of fashion bell with you—and if the weather was bad, which invariably it was, she wore this white waterproof greatcoat, which was all the more impressive because her assistants all wore dark coats. Why, it was like a singing group with a lead singer. I don’t know what exactly the men around her did. Maybe they were her bodyguards. Maybe they were just there for show. That wouldn’t’ve surprised me. After all, Leni also had a personal photographer, some fellow named Rolf, who also followed her all around.

  “You mean, his job was not to photograph the Olympics, but to photograph the woman photographing the Olympics?”

  Exactly. Oh, Leni Riefenstahl was some piece of work. She’d run from camera to camera, barking orders, and if any of the still photographers—you know, the newspaper boys—got in her way, she’d dispatch one of her bully-boys over to the guy with a pink piece of paper—a real pink slip—which said essentially get out of my way, Buster, and one more time, you’re gone for good. And he would be. Yes, indeed, Hitler had given her all ze cards.

  He came back out to the pool one day to see the races, Hitler did. There was a German guy named Ernst something in the breaststroke he wanted to cheer for. Of course, it was a big deal when he arrived with his entourage. Everything ground to a halt, and they raised his special Führer’s flag above his box, and all the Germans gave him the Heil Hitler business, but once he got settled in, everything pretty much went back to normal. With Leni, though, normal was a constant circus. I mean, Teddy, you got an actress who thinks she’s a reincarnated Amazon queen running the show with thousands of people watching. Oh, she played it to the hilt.

  But Monday evening, after the day’s races were over, the pool was deserted, and, as promised, Leni came back. She brought Hans, the guy who’d filmed me from the dinghy. Horst was designated to pick up Eleanor and her husband, and since Horst had suggested that Eleanor might want some company in the pool, I grabbed my little travel bag with all my swimming gear in it and moseyed over to the pool.

  By the time I got there, Eleanor had already changed into her official U.S. bathing suit. Remember, she’d been given one of the team suits—and the nice blue team robe with white trim, as well—but by now she’d taken off her robe and was posing all around the pool for Hans. They were more what you’d call cheesecake shots than anything else, and Eleanor was really enjoying herself. “Wait’ll Avery sees this,” she kept saying. It gave her a small measure of satisfaction that she’d be on display in the official Olympic film, in her official U.S. suit at the sacred Olympic pool itself. Take that, Avery Brundage. It was a coup for Leni, too—exclusive photos of The Exile right there in the actual Olympic pool!

  I stood there awhile with Horst and Art Jarrett, watching as Leni barked orders to poor Hans, shooting Eleanor in various fetching poses. That wasn’t hard. Eleanor could do fetching very well. After awhile, though, Leni glanced up to the evening sky and decided she better get Eleanor into the pool itself. Action!

  So Eleanor jumped in, but first she called to me to go change. “Hey, Leni,” she said, “you gotta shoot some of Sydney, too. She’s gonna be the next Queen of the Backstroke.” I could tell, though, that this didn’t interest Leni one bit. All she wanted was the controversial Miss Holm, the incumbent queen. Still, something started turning over in Leni’s mind, because after I returned in my bathing suit, she said, “Vell, ve got two svimmers. Vhy don’t ve haf race?”

  I didn’t know what to expect from Eleanor, but she called out, “Sure. Whaddya say, Sydney?” So, I thought, why not? I jumped in, and Leni started screaming at Hans to get the camera where it had the most light. Eleanor really got into it. “Hey, Sydney, this’ll be the real Olympic final,” she said, and that reminded me that I’d brought the stopwatch, so I called to Horst to go get it out of my bag.

  “How many times you go?” Leni asked.

  “It’s a hundred meters,” Eleanor said. “One down and one back.”

  “Ve do two more,” Leni immediately declared, “so Hans ist sure to get better film.”

  Typical Leni. It had gotten a little cooler, so she’d put that big white coat on, which seemed to give her even more authority. But Eleanor wasn’t taking any bossing about svimming. “No, down and back. A hundred. Right, Sydney?”

  Naturally, I went along with Eleanor. Leni frowned, but she could see Eleanor was steering this ship. Myself, I took a little while longer to warm up, which PO’ed Leni even more—“Get your girl to hurry, Horst. Ze light, ist going!”—and then Eleanor and I took our places.

  “Hey, this is fun,” Eleanor said.

  Horst was the starter. He had the stopwatch. He held his hand up. Hans started filming. “On your marks,” Horst said. Then, just when he was about to say “Go,” he dropped his arm and said, “Wait a minute.”

  Leni went nuts. “Vhat ist zis quatsch, Horst?”

  “Just a second, Leni. I gotta talk to Sydney.” And he leaned down to me by the side of the pool.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Liebchen, are you sure about this? When Avery Brundage sees this, maybe he’ll get so mad he’ll ban you too.”

  That thought hadn’t occurred to me, but now Horst had put the bee in my bonnet. “You think so?”

  “I don’t know,” Horst said. “The man sounds pretty mean.”

  Instinctively, I turned back to Eleanor. Meanwhile, Leni was going nuts. She was crouched behind Hans, ready to direct him, and she had no idea what we were talking about. “Vhat ist dis, Horst? Schnell, schnell! Ze light! Ze light!”

  “Eleanor?” I asked.

  She’d relaxed her grip on the backstroke hand holds, so we were both just standing there. “Sydney,” she said, “if you think this could jeopardize your future, then don’t do it.”

  I mulled that over, then turned back to Horst. “No, look: I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m on the team. I swim here every day.” He just shrugged, helpless. I turned back to Eleanor. “I’m not doing anything wrong. He couldn’t—”

  “Yeah, well, he threw me off the team just because he felt like it, didn’t he?”

  “But that wasn’t right.”

  This time, Eleanor shrugged.

  I thought about it some more. If Avery Brundage was gonna bar me just for swimming innocently against somebody else he’d barred, if it was crime by association, then, dammit, Teddy, it was plain downright un-American, and if that was the case, well, I didn’t even want to race anymore. That’s what I thought. And so, Teddy, I turned back to Horst, and this is what I said: “Fuck him.”

  I couldn’t help but laughing. “You said that, Mother?” In all my life, I had never once heard my mother use that word. Not once.

  Yes, I did. To this day, I have no idea where that came from. Of course, I knew that word, and of course, I’d heard it enough (although not nearly so often as you hear it nowadays, when it’s replaced “damn” as your everyday adjective), and yes, I’d probably said it myself, tittering with Carter, but never, never in my life, Teddy, had I uttered that word emphatically, and in mixed company, to boot. But it came from somewhere, and that’s what I said, loud and clear. “Fuck him.” Quote. Unquote.

  Horst looked astonished, and Art Jarrett—well, I could see he was taken aback because he kinda ducked his head—but Eleanor. Eleanor just roared to beat the band. She brought her hands down, slapping the water hard, splashing it all over. “Sydney,” she said, “you really are gonna be my successor.” And we both began to laugh—which only made Leni scream some more. “Schnell, schnell! Ve are vasting light.”

  Finally, Eleanor and I composed ourselv
es, and Horst threw his arms up. “Okay, we’re ready now, Leni.” Hans started the camera up again. “On your marks,” Horst called out. “Go.” He clicked on the stopwatch.

  Well, Teddy, it was a completely different feeling than back in Astoria, Queens, at the Trials. I was so loose, it hardly felt like swimming. It felt like I was back, driftin’ down the Chester River. Easy, easy. Don’t press.

  Understand, though, for all that, from the first, Eleanor was in front, and she eased ahead bit by bit as we came to the pool’s end. I’d been monkeying around with my turns a lot since I got to Berlin, trying to improve them, and now, when it counted, I managed to flip back better than ever. Eleanor was the master at that, though, and she extended her lead. I’d say she was almost two body lengths ahead of me when we headed for home.

  It was sort of weird, too, because of course, no one was cheering. I mean, it would’ve been tacky for either Horst or Art to root, so it really was like being back home on the river. Here I am, racing alone against the most famous swimmer on the planet in the Olympic pool itself, and it’s dead silent.

  But suddenly, a few meters into the second lap, I realized I was catching up with Eleanor. Intellectually this shouldn’t have surprised me. She must’ve been so out of shape. Still, emotionally, it was shocking. I glanced over and saw that my head was even with her kick now. I’d cut her lead about in half. And I felt strong, Teddy. I wasn’t in the best condition myself, you understand, practicin’ a little with the team, but mostly doin’ the town with Horst. But I was flowin’. Another few meters and I wasn’t but a half-length behind. I was gonna beat Eleanor Holm!

  I could feel myself edge up some more. Each stroke, I drew closer. My head was about the level of her chest now, and there were still ten meters to go. I pushed it into my highest gear. And you know what? You know what?

  “Mom, come on, I’m all ears.”

  Well, Eleanor Holm whipped my ass. I don’t know where she got it from, Teddy, what reservoir of strength she drew from, but in those last few strokes, instead of me catchin’ her, she thrust herself forward. Her out of shape, partyin’ every night all over Berlin. There I was, at just about her chest and ready to fly past her, and a few seconds later she’s touchin’ the wall, and I’m back there around her knees. Close, but no cigar. That just shows you what a champion Eleanor was.

  “She had a big neck, huh?”

  A big brass neck, Teddy.

  It did take her a while to get her breath back, but as soon as she did, right away she hugged me. “Sydney,” she said, “that’s the best you ever swam. I really thought you had me.” She looked up at Horst. “What’d I do it in?”

  “One minute, seventeen and eight,” he said.

  “Way to go, honey,” Art called out.

  “Not even near my best,” Eleanor said. “But I’ll take it.” Then Eleanor looked straight at me. “But you, Sydney—you really are comin’ along. You must be doin’ all the right things.”

  I got a devilish smile on my face then, Teddy.

  I could see what was coming, but I didn’t say anything.

  And Eleanor saw something in that expression and said, “What, did the cat eat the canary?” So I leaned over to her and whispered how I’d followed her advice and made love with Horst the night before. And she just hooted and slapped the water again. “See, what’d I tell ya, Sydney? What’d I tell ya?”

  “What’s all that?” Art asked.

  “Just girl talk, Art. Just girl talk.”

  So then we started to climb out of the pool, but Leni came running over in her great white coat, screaming: “Von more time. Von more time. Vhile still haf golden light.”

  Eleanor just waved her off, though, and headed to the locker room. “Sorry, honey. Just one take. Art and I are goin’ to the Konigin Café tonight.” And off she went. The Konigin was a fancy dance place on Ku’damm.

  Leni just stood there, fuming. She was fit to be tied, Teddy, but she’d met her match. She couldn’t cry here and play the poor wounded woman put upon by men, because, well—Eleanor wasn’t a man. Takes one to know one, doesn’t it?

  That night, I fixed dinner for Mom. I make a mean spaghetti bolognese. Honesty compels me to admit that it is the only mean dish I make. In fact, it’s the only dish I can make, mean or otherwise. But Mom and I ate hearty and then watched the last night of the swimming. It was something of a letdown, though, because Michael Phelps gave up his place in the men’s relay so that one of his buddies could win a medal. Mom thought that was uncommonly generous, but, she said, it was rather like going to the theater and having to see the understudy replace the lead.

  “You wait, though, Teddy. In four years in Tokyo, Michael will do even better. He still hasn’t reached his peak.”

  “Beijing,” I said.

  “Beijing what?”

  “You said Tokyo, Mom. In 2008, the Olympics are in Beijing.”

  “Oh, my, yes—the wish was father of the thought. Tokyo was my Olympics. My alleged Olympics.” She shrugged then. “Well, that just shows you. So much can happen in four years. Maybe Michael will have quit swimming by then. Maybe some new superduper swimmer will have come along. Do me a favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  “If he does do even better in Beijing, put a rose on my tomb—in honor of me and the Tokyo Olympics of 1940.”

  “Okay, will do.” And I did. When Phelps won eight gold medals at Beijing, I put a whole bouquet on Mom’s grave. Well, I pulled one rose out and put it on Dad’s, next to her’s.

  So the swimming ended with a whimper, and in another day, I’d be flying back home to Montana. “I’m gonna miss having you to tell my story to,” she told me the next afternoon, when we repaired again to the garden.

  “It’s been really wonderful for me. You made it worth waiting for all these years.”

  “You’re not disappointed in me, Teddy?”

  “In what way?”

  “You know. Your dear, sainted old mother throwing her lustful self unconditionally at a boy she hardly knew.”

  “No, Mom, I think after, uh . . . let’s see . . . sixty-eight years, the statute of limitations on any of your libertine teen-age behavior has run out. I’d have to say: what happened in Berlin, stays in Berlin.”

  “Hmm. I’d call that a rather qualified dispensation, but I’ll take it. And I’ll try to finish up the rest of my memoirs today.”

  “This is the end?”

  “Of the oral part. I’ll give you the rest of what I’ve written to take home. Maybe you better read that after you leave. You may not be so forgiving of me then.”

  That took me aback. “Sounds rather ominous,” I said. Mom gazed away. Once again she seemed a little tired, a little older, a little sicker. Maybe looking forward to watching the swimming had buoyed her for a while, but now that that was over, her spirits had fallen and taken her body down a bit with them. I was almost prepared to say that perhaps we should postpone this final session till later on. Or that I could stay another day or two.

  But, instead, she glanced back at me, then beckoned imperiously at the tape recorder. With that, some of the sparkle came back into her eyes, and a bit more of zest returned to her voice, and she was off and running again.

  Well, Teddy, I’d have to say that the rest of the time in Berlin was more of the same. But remember now, I was grading on a curve. More of the same was more of heaven.

  She stopped and shook her head.

  I’m sorry. Excuse the hyperbole.

  “Forgiven.”

  Thank you. I’ll try to limit the overkill. But, my, it was wonderful. Horst’s parents returned home from the sailboat competition, so that took away our love nest, but Horst had some friends with bachelor apartments, so we never had any trouble rendezvousing for l’amour.

  I shook my head. She got the picture.

  Did I go over the top again?

  “Skirted it, anyhow.”

  All right, I’ll assume a less poetic tack, Teddy. I went to the swimming every day,
cheering on my teammates. It was very exciting—twenty thousand people screaming at a swimming meet. The first heats in the backstroke were Tuesday, with the semis on Wednesday, where Alice and Edith did well enough to make the finals for Thursday. There was a young Dutch girl named Nida Senff, and she had a sensational heat. She swam a 1:16.6, which was only three-tenths of a second off Eleanor’s world record. Nida was clearly the one to beat—she and another Dutch girl named Rie something.

  When the racing wasn’t on, Horst and I would just go off. You know, hither and yon. One day we drove up to Grünau, to the river where the Olympic sculls were racing, and one evening we went to watch the exhibition baseball game in the stadium. That was like something out of Alice in Wonderland, a hundred thousand Germans watching Americans play a game they didn’t understand a lick. Another afternoon we drove down to Potsdam, to the great castle there where the old Prussian kings had lived. They didn’t hold any Olympic events in Potsdam, and so it was more like just being a tourist somewhere. And you gotta remember, the little girl from the Shore had sure never seen a castle before.

  Tuesday evening, though, I had to meet Horst’s parents. Klaus and Inge. That was not something I would’ve voted for, but Horst had been a bit too effusive in talking about this strange American girl he’d been running around with, and so they’d grown curious. Also, between you and me and the lamppost, I think maybe I hadn’t hidden my tracks completely, and Frau Gerhardt had a pretty good inkling that somebody else had been sleeping in baby bear’s bed. Whether she shared these suspicions with her lord and master, I don’t know, but Horst’s father certainly went over me with a jeweler’s eye when we met.

  Now let me clarify that for the record, Teddy. Men can give you very admiring looks—very admiring, indeed—but there’s two types. The one is the salacious. Even when that guy is looking you in the face, you know where his mind’s eye is. But then there’s the other. You don’t mind him giving you the old once-over, because you can sense that he’s more of a connoisseur. Probably just as randy as the other fellow, but you can tell that he really does like women.