Flight from Berlin (15 page)

‘I don’t know . . .’ she said, her face contorted with strain. ‘It might only make things worse . . .’

‘They wouldn’t dare harm your family if the spotlight of the world’s press is on you.’

She rose and began pacing along the wooden bench, nervous, pulling at her fingers.

The footsteps were yards away.

Denham said quickly, ‘The new laws have taken away any future for the Jews. You must know that. The pressure we bring could help get your family out . . .’

The door handle turned.

‘How do I contact you?’ she whispered.

The coach stepped in, gave them each a fishy look, and held the door open for another visitor, whose footsteps approached. Two seconds later Willi Greiser entered, accompanied by an SS man in black uniform.

The press chief’s eyebrows shot up when he saw Denham but soon recovered an expression of urbane cynicism.

‘Denham, I might have guessed it was you.’

‘Hello, Greiser.’

The two men held each other’s stare. A slice of dark blond hair had come unstuck and hung down over Greiser’s left eye. He wore a pale linen suit and a tie patterned with the Olympic rings.

Greiser said, ‘Fräulein Liebermann is here as a special guest of Germany’s . . .’

‘That’s an odd thing to say about a German.’

‘ . . . under a unique arrangement that precludes her from giving any interviews to the press. Permission is refused.’ He turned to Hannah and the coach. ‘Would you excuse us while I have a word in private with Herr Denham?’

The SS man escorted them out to the squelch of the coach’s rubber soles.

The door closed, and Greiser dropped any pretence of conviviality.

‘If it weren’t for the Olympic fortnight, Denham, I’d kick you out of Germany today.’ He came closer, and Denham felt the warmth of his breath. ‘Last week you were in Friedrichshafen snooping around the
Hindenburg—
I should have you charged with espionage—and today I find you attempting to speak to Hannah Liebermann. I warned you—’

‘You warned me not to write any more damaging pieces, Greiser,’ Denham said calmly, ‘and I’ve taken your advice to heart. It’s not in my interests to be expelled.’

Greiser paused. The duelling scar on his right cheek was flushed a pale purple. ‘How much do you know about Liebermann?’

‘I know she’s the greatest woman fencer Germany’s ever produced, and she’s home after a long absence. That’s a story in itself. It’s the most natural thing in the world to want to interview her—’

Greiser exploded.

‘Listen to me, you piece of shit.’ He grabbed Denham’s lapels and rammed him against the changing room wall, his head narrowly missing a hook. ‘D’you think you can talk your way out of anything?’ he roared. ‘Stick your nose into this and you’ll be too risky for us to expel! We’ll make you vanish into night and fog. No one will ever hear of you again.’ His nose was almost touching Denham, into whose eyes he peppered flecks of spittle. ‘You—stay—away—from—Liebermann!’

Denham shoved him back, but Greiser made a grab for his neck. Denham tried to swing him into the wall, but Greiser’s grip was strong. They lost their balance and together crashed onto the bench, then to the floor, both now with their hands around each other’s throats.

‘Hey, what the hell’s going on in here?’

Eleanor was standing in the door. ‘Richard?’

The two men released each other, and Greiser looked away.

‘Who is this?’ he said, getting to his feet. His head was all gold, puce, and pink.

Denham sat up onto the bench. ‘Greiser, may I introduce Eleanor Emerson, a reporter with the Hearst Press; Eleanor, Willi Greiser is an old friend of mine. He’s the press chief. We were just catching up.’

‘You could have fooled me,’ she said.

Greiser straightened his tie and his sleeves, replaced the errant strands of hair, and walked out of the room without another word.

‘What happened? Why was that jerk mad at you?’

‘I think he was scared,’ said Denham.

‘Of what?’

Denham rubbed his throat, grimacing. It was the only explanation for that extraordinary outburst. He’d never seen the man lose his temper before. Greiser was always the suave operator. His masters must be acutely sensitive about Liebermann, and Greiser was under pressure. Plus he’d patently screwed up—by leaving her in the custody of that idiot coach. Not surprising that he panicked, perhaps.

‘Did you speak to her?’

‘A few words.’

‘Well?’

‘She wants to talk.’

He leaned over and picked up a small black leather ID pass of some sort from the floor under the bench. Two silver runes flashed in the light. Inside were Greiser’s mug shot and birth details, stamped with an eagle. It was a
Sippenbuch
, a racial record carried by all members of the SS. Greiser, it seemed, was an honorary SS-Standartenführer, the equivalent of a colonel.

‘It must have come out of his side pocket,’ Denham said.

He looked up and smiled at her. ‘I’m glad you turned up, cavalry. Think I may have got my marching orders if you hadn’t.’

‘No problem. I was just worried when I saw her leave and there was no sign of you.’

‘Hm. Well, anyway, thank you. I shouldn’t have told him your name, though . . . I really shouldn’t have done that.’

Chapter Fourteen

D
enham bought lunch from a stall and they joined the groups of fencing fans on the lawn outside the House of German Sport, picnicking next to a flowerbed droning with bees.

‘Your frankfurter looks nicer than my hamburger,’ Eleanor said.

‘Too bad.’

‘I think I’ll skip lunch.’

‘All right,’ Denham said. ‘Have mine. I’ll have your hamburger.’

The Reich Sports Field filled the horizon. Between rows of poplars, the new hockey and football fields were lurid with new grass. A quarter of a mile away the vast Olympic plaza led up to the stadium, which glared white in the sun. Every few minutes the breeze carried the roar of the crowd and the tinny strains of national anthems.

‘Are you going to tell me what happened in there?’ said Eleanor.

‘It’s tricky,’ he said, picking at some sauerkraut with a wooden fork.

He watched her slip out of her shoes, hitch her skirt unself-consciously, and sun her long legs on the grass.

‘No rush,’ she said, closing her eyes and facing the sun. ‘You can tell me later . . .’

The plodding chords of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ reached them from the stadium. She nodded her head towards the sound. ‘Mind if we go take a look?’

They walked across the playing fields towards the stadium. In the centre of the Olympic plaza were parked, bumper to bumper, a row of ten open-topped Mercedes-Benz touring cars, gleaming and ticking in the sun like a demonic coal train. Each was guarded by SS men in white gloves who stood about being photographed by tourists and answering questions from Jungvolk boys.

‘Adolf’s security,’ Denham said.

They showed their press cards at the gates and passed into the stadium’s forecourt. With the flags of the competing nations flapping from its rim, it resembled some vast vessel in sail.

The stadium was full and murmuring. The long jump finals were in progress as he and Eleanor squeezed along a row near the eastern gate. On the far side he spotted the gold flash of the pennant that flew when Hitler was in attendance, but the man himself, surrounded by his entourage, was a brown dot in the distance.

Carl ‘Luz’ Long, the German long jump favourite, was on the runway. The press had been idolising him for months, and it wasn’t hard to see why. Tall, graceful, and flaxen-haired, he was an Aryan poster boy. But such was the curiosity about Owens since Monday, when the hundred-metre win had made a black man the most famous figure in the Reich after Hitler, that the stadium’s energy seemed ambiguous to Denham. The members of the large American contingent were easy to spot with their straw boaters and sunglasses.

Denham tapped the shoulder of a man sitting with his young son in the row in front. ‘What’s happened?’

The boy answered. ‘Luz Long jumped seven point seven three metres, but Owens fouled again. This is the second jump out of three. Maffei of Italy and, um, Tajima of Japan are still in, but they’re not jumping as far as Owens and Long.’

The stadium fell into an electrified silence as Long prepared. He stood, frowning and rubbing his knees, his white shorts pulled up high around his waist, then launched himself, blond hair waving, with enormous strides. The leap was tremendous; his legs pedalled thin air as if to force him farther forwards, and his landing was so hard that it sent a shower of sand into the pit where a camera was filming. The crowd applauded generously. There was a few seconds’ wait, and the speakers announced the result.

‘Seven point eight seven metres. New Olympic record.
’

The stadium rose to its feet and began chanting Long’s name. Two German team members lifted him, beaming, up onto their shoulders and carried him around the pit. When they put him down, Owens walked over and shook his hand.

‘What a sportsman,’ said Eleanor.

Denham peered at the distant brown dot in the Führer box, picturing the man slapping his cotton gloves into his hand and muttering, ‘Beat that,
Neger
.’

The stadium waited as Tajima and Maffei took their jumps, both far shorter than Long’s. Finally a warm ‘aah’ surrounded Owens from all sides as he stepped onto the runway, his hands on his hips. He took a deep breath, tapped his heels on the ground and rocked his torso gently, as if moulding his muscles to the movement he had to make.

The Americans were on their feet.

‘Owens! Owens! Owens!
’

His body was supple, his limbs loose and lithe compared with the tension and power of Long’s.

The stadium fell into a tense silence. Some American girls in the next row were wringing their programmes in agony. If Owens fouled again, the gold was Long’s. Eleanor grabbed Denham’s hand.

Owens broke into a sprint.

‘Go on, Jesse, go on, go on,
go on
!’ Eleanor said under her breath.

With his final stride the American catapulted into the air and, as he flew, bent his head forwards and brought his legs up straight, reaching for his toes. When he landed there was a look of mild surprise on his face as the applause broke around him. The measure was taken.

‘Seven point nine four metres.
New Olympic record.’

A tremendous ‘ooh’ from the crowd.

Owens dusted off the sand and gave his modest grin, waving at the crowd and trotting back to a towel he’d laid on the grass, as if he’d been for a dip.

The murmuring intensified as the minutes passed and Long finally returned to the runway for the third and final jump.

The crowd chanted his name, but his face looked far from encouraged. He was pale and kept screwing his fingers into his palms, as though he had dirt on his hands. Far away in the Führer box the entourage was on its feet and watching through binoculars.

Carl ‘Luz’ Long broke into the run of his life, and the crowd screamed their support. With the final two strides he leapt. But somehow, once airborne, he seemed to lose his balance, as if hands unseen were nudging him off course. He strained but couldn’t recover as his body fell forwards and he landed badly on one foot.

The red flag went up, and the Führer’s entourage sat down. The gold medal was Owens’s, and he still had his third jump to make.

‘He’s won,’ Denham said. ‘He doesn’t need to try again.’

Eleanor was watching Owens intently as he walked back to the runway. ‘He’s going to jump clear out of Berlin.’

Owens touched his nose and lips, crouched, and rubbed his hands over his buttocks and down his shanks.

Then he rocketed down the runway and shot into the air. For two seconds he flew, and landed with such force that he sprang upwards again, diving into the sand.

The tape measure was brought up, and when the announcement was made there was a half second’s silence as the crowd took it in.

‘Eight point zero six metres. New Olympic record.
’

After the silence, the roar rolled across the stadium like an avalanche in the Tyrol, causing the seats to tremble and buzz. The crowd chanted,
‘Yes-sy Oh-vens, Yes-sy Oh-vens.’
To Denham’s surprise Eleanor threw her arms around him, laughing, so that he caught the white flower scent in her hair. When they parted, her face was close, her eyes on his. He felt her breath.

They turned back towards the field. Long, who’d won the silver, shook Owens’s hand and embraced him; then, to everyone’s delight, the pair set off arm in arm around the track, waving to the crowd, inspiring laughter, and even greater applause.

Denham looked up to the Führer box, but the man’s seat was empty. He’d left.

He and Eleanor made their way to the end of the row. On the steps, she slipped her arm in his, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and turned to look at Owens down on the track, so that Denham couldn’t read her face.

Still staring down at the athlete, who was surrounded by reporters, she said, ‘We still shouldn’t be here. Not even Jesse. The whole setup stinks . . .’

Denham was stunned. What had happened to her last night? He decided not to press her, though. Not now. Instead he said, ‘There’s a friend of mine down there I want you to meet.’

He led Eleanor down the steps to the edge of the track, pushing past the departing crowds. The movie crew were still at work, lifting cameras out of pits in the ground where they’d filmed the action. He spotted Friedl wheeling a camera dolly. Denham called out, and the young man waved, then ambled over, flicking his sleek black hair out of his eyes. He had a white band around his arm with the word
FILM.
When Denham introduced Eleanor, Friedl’s mouth gaped.

‘ “Seven Beautiful Girls from the USA,” ’ he said. ‘You’re the swimmer.’ She rolled her eyes, but Denham saw from her tight smile that she was pleased.

‘Think that long jump will make it into your movie?’ she said.

‘Of course . . . Unless someone says otherwise.’ He put a surreptitious two fingers under his nose to make a toothbrush moustache. ‘Tell me, Beautiful Girl from the USA, do you like hot music, too?’ He put his arms around them in a confidential huddle. ‘There’s a dance tonight, and I would love you both to come.’