by David John
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.’
Eleanor looked at Denham.
‘Be at the Nollendorfplatz Theatre by ten.’ He dropped his voice. ‘A band from Hamburg is playing some prohibited numbers in between the polkas and waltzes. American swing. If we’re lucky the police will leave us alone because of the Olympiad. Every hepcat in Berlin will be there . . .’
As they joined the throng leaving the stadium through the eastern gate Eleanor said to Denham, ‘What on God’s green earth is a hepcat?’
‘Shall I tell you over dinner?’
‘Oh,’ she said, smiling at the ground. ‘All right. But tonight’s my shout. You got my hamburger. My frankfurter.’
Outside in the forecourt, a large crowd, many of them young boys with autograph books, had gathered around the mobile radio car of the Deutscher Rundfunk, which was broadcasting live radio coverage of the Games.
‘Jesse must be in there now,’ said Eleanor. ‘The press boys told me that all gold medallists are interviewed on live radio after their competition. Imagine that. A black man’s voice is speaking to Germany right now. They wouldn’t put him on the radio back home unless he was singing “Dixie.”’
&
nbsp; Chapter Fifteen
Eleanor was late meeting him at the restaurant, which was in a tree-lined street off Golzstrasse, not far from Nollendorfplatz. Denham was reading a newspaper at a corner table and rose, smiling, as she entered.
That shyness as he met her eye. ‘No gown this evening?’
She was wearing a blue angora sweater, a red chequered skirt that came only to her knees, and short white socks.
‘Ever seen a girl dance swing in a gown?’ She pulled off her beret, so that her unwaved hair fell around her neck, and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I hate those downtown swells who go slumming in Harlem dressed for the Ritz.’ She sat down and looked around at the wood-panelled walls, the low lighting, and the couples murmuring over chilled bottles.
‘A favourite place of yours?’
‘Yes . . . it’s hard to find, and the food’s good. I hope you like French cuisine. To be honest I eat what the Germans eat only when I’m broke. I took the liberty of ordering this bottle.’
‘And what gave you a taste for French cooking?’ she said as he poured her a glass. He seemed younger in candlelight. The bruise on his cheek was healing darkly, giving an intensity to his face.
‘The war,’ he said.
For a moment the light focused in the stem of his glass reflected in his eyes.
‘I ended the war as a first lieutenant. For a few weeks after the armistice we were quartered in a château in Picardy. The villagers were kind to us. They taught me a little about food and wine.’
‘You had survived,’ she said without thinking.
‘After a fashion.’
Denham raised his glass in a silent toast, and she did the same, took a sip, and savoured the subtle vintage. ‘A 1913 Petit Verdot,’ he said. ‘A relic from a less troubled world.’
‘The year I was born.’
They were silent for a while, and then he said, carefully, ‘Must have been hard for you, what happened at the end of the voyage over. Your friend Martha told me.’
‘Sure, it hurt like hell. After four years of work it was a mighty blow to my pride. But it’s really not the end of the world. I’ve won a gold medal before . . .’ She smiled faintly and sighed. ‘The truth is, my behaviour was pretty awful.’
‘Sounds like you had quite a time on that ship. “Let’s Misbehave” is my favourite Cole Porter.’
Eleanor put her glass down. ‘Loyalty and discretion are the qualities I admire most in Martha.’
Denham’s laugh dispelled any tension. ‘So,’ he said, breaking off some bread. ‘I want to hear all about the Herb Emerson Orchestra.’
They drank more of the wine and ordered dinner: he a rainbow trout in a champagne sauce, she a simple ratatouille. For dessert they shared a tarte tatin with cream.
They continued talking long after the wine was finished and the waiter had brought them coffee and Armagnac. Eleanor relished the exquisite burn of the spirit on her tongue, took Denham’s cigarette to light her own, and leaned back in her chair.
She said, ‘Now, are you going to tell me what a hepcat is?’
‘A kid who dances to swing,’ said Denham. ‘Usually a well-off kid who can afford the imported records and the English fashions. They’ve been a big worry to the authorities since jazz music, or rather the wilder “hot jazz,” was banned from the radio last year. A stupid move if you ask me. Teenagers of every generation will rebel.’
‘Ban jazz?’ Eleanor’s face slumped into her palms. She was feeling nicely inebriated. ‘But why? That’s as insane as banning booze. It just makes you want to drink. We should know. We had a failed thirteen-year experiment.’
‘The Nazis are terrified of what wild jungle rhythms will provoke in the nation’s youth . . .’ He leaned towards her and lowered his voice. ‘Which of course means only one thing . . .’
‘And what is that?’
‘ . . . reckless, indiscriminate sex.’
The wine made Eleanor laugh freely, and she accidentally dropped her cigarette. He allowed her to light another one, for him this time.
They left the restaurant arm in arm into the humid night, and she remembered that she hadn’t even mentioned the revelation in the rose garden, or asked him about Liebermann.
‘Friedl’s party is a few blocks away,’ he said.
The sky was a deep cyan, flecked by the gold of the moths around the streetlamps. On the corner of the block a dozen or so people were gathered on the pavement, looking into the window of a café. Inside it was almost dark; there were no café tables but rows of seats packed with people watching a fuzzy square of light emitting from a large wooden box. Together they peered in at it. It wasn’t cinema but a small, ghostly picture showing Carl ‘Luz’ Long running into his jump, followed by a cut to the Führer rocking back and forth in his seat and slapping his knee. Every few seconds a man in a white coat adjusted a dial to focus the picture. Eleanor was as mesmerised as everyone else. Neither she nor Denham had seen a television before.
They turned onto Motzstrasse, and Eleanor was about to mention the rose garden, when Denham pulled her roughly into a darkened garage entrance.
‘Hey,’ she said, more surprised than anything. ‘There’s a time and a place . . .’
‘We’re being followed.’ He put his finger on her lips. ‘Someone was waiting outside the restaurant as we left. He’s been keeping pace behind us.’
Slowly, they craned their heads a fraction beyond the edge of the corner and saw, about twenty yards up the street, a man standing beneath a streetlamp, looking left and right. The moths cast tiny, fast-moving shadows across his dark coat and the trilby that obscured his face. Denham put his hands around Eleanor’s shoulders and gently pulled her back.
He checked again and waited, holding her close, with her back towards him and his arm around her waist. She felt his heartbeat through his wrist. Suddenly they heard the man approaching, the beat of his footsteps loud and clear on the warm air.
‘Run,’ Denham said.
He caught her hand, and together they sprinted down the sidewalk.
The man shouted in German, and ran after them.
They rounded a corner onto a street of stores shuttered for the night and almost collided with a man walking a dog. Ahead, a yellow light spilt onto the pavement from an open doorway. They ran towards it. Smells of roast pork and cabbage came from inside, and the sound of accordion music and laughter.
Denham led her into the crowded Kneipe.
It was noisy and hot. They tried to walk at a normal pace, dodging an aproned waitress carrying a tray of foaming beers and another with platters of chops and mash. Eleanor looked over her shoulder, saw the dark trilby entering after them, and glimpsed the man’s face. Her skin froze. Something horrific . . .
‘Go,’ she yelled at Denham.
They ran along a gangway between dining booths, weaving sharply around another waitress with a tray, which caused Eleanor to knock an ice bucket hard with her knee. Ice, wine, and glasses smashed across the floor.
A draught of cool air from ahead, and they saw, beyond the accordion players and another dining area, an open exit. The Kneipe had entries on two streets.
In another moment they were on the sidewalk again. This second street, lit by bright streetlamps, was crowded with a departing theatre audience. She and Denham pushed into the throng.
Eleanor looked back. ‘Have we lost him?’ She’d barely broken a sweat, though Denham was breathing hard.
‘Let’s find that party,’ he said, as if they’d simply taken a wrong turn.
She stopped and looked at him, incredulous, swinging him around by the elbow so that he faced her. The chattering theatre crowd flowed around them.
‘Would you like to tell me what the hell’s going on?’
‘I don’t know,’ Denham said, shaking his head. ‘Look, Greiser warned me this morning to stay away from Liebermann. But I have no idea if that is why we’re being followed. I’ll explain as we walk . . .’
He told her about the intruders
he’d surprised as they ransacked his apartment.
‘Who were they? Police?’
‘I suspect not. The police would simply have arrested me, then searched.’
‘Thieves then.’
‘They didn’t take anything. No, someone somewhere is under the misapprehension that I have something they want.’
‘Well, what?’
Denham swept his hat off and put both hands in the air in exasperation. ‘I have no idea.’ It was the first time she’d seem him ruffled. Even in that locker room brawl he’d kept his nerve.
‘So that guy following us . . . ?’
‘Could have been one of Greiser’s men keeping an eye on us; could have been one of my intruders; could have been anyone. Who knows?’
‘His face . . . ,’ she said with a shudder.
The theatre on Nollendorfplatz was an art nouveau palace adorned with decorative turrets and frescoes of erotic figures. No light came from inside, and heavy, dark curtains had been drawn behind the door.
‘We’re in the right place,’ Denham said, watching something over her shoulder.
The first things she noticed were the boys’ chequered jackets and wing-collar shirts. These, together with fedoras and rolled umbrellas, which they swung as they walked, created an eccentrically sharp look. The girls on their arms wore their hair waved, dyed, or curled; there wasn’t a Teutonic braid among them.
‘What’s with the umbrellas?’ Eleanor said as the darkened curtain was pulled aside and a faint trumpet, whining high over a drum rhythm, was heard from within.
‘Is he with you?’ said a voice in English. A young man in pinstripes and sporting a gorse bush of tangled hair nodded towards Denham, and slipped an arm round her shoulder.
‘Yes, he is,’ Eleanor said brightly, flicking his hand off.
They entered a marble foyer, where a large notice on an easel proclaimed in red letters:
