Hitler was not in Garmisch for the duration of the games. On February 13, for instance, he was in Schwerin to eulogize Wilhelm Gustloff, the forty-one-year-old physicist who was his hand-picked Nazi party organizer in Switzerland, who had been shot to death nine days earlier. Gustloff’s killer, David Frankfurter, probably was not thinking about the winter Olympics when he pumped five bullets into the Nazi in Gustloff’s study in Davos, Switzerland. True, the games were only two days and 100 miles away. And yes, Davos was a winter sports resort, too, a stronghold of the snow-and-ice set, where the Olympics must have been a popular topic in the lodges and cafés. But Frankfurter was a single-minded and serious young man. A twenty-six-year-old Croatian-born Jewish medical student, he had traveled by train from Bern, the Swiss capital, to Davos a week before the killing to allow himself some time to learn Gustloff’s routine. After killing Gustloff, Frankfurter, who later said his plan had been to commit suicide immediately, instead calmly put down his gun, walked to a police station, and turned himself in. He killed Gustloff because he thought it would be too difficult to assassinate Hitler. “I did it because he was a Nazi agent who poisoned the atmosphere,” Frankfurter said at the time of his arrest. “The bullets should have hit Hitler.”
The German government and press responded swiftly to the killing. “Nazi Germany, from the bier of its shot party group leader,” the Völkischer Beobachter, Hitler’s newspaper, proclaimed, “renews its oath to proceed without compromise in preserving the German people for eternity from the slavery of international Jewry.” The paper also reported that “the Gustloff murder by a Jew throws a glaring light on the rotten activity of Jews in the whole world. Germany lost hundreds of men through Jews and Frankfurter’s act justifies the Nazi separation of Jews from Germany.”
Under the unfamiliar headline “Jew Kills Nazi,” Time magazine described Frankfurter as “a nervous, hollow-eyed young Jew” on February 17, 1936, in an issue whose cover photograph is still often reproduced. The photo is an action portrait of a handsome if not classically beautiful brunette in short shorts struggling, oddly, up a ski slope. The caption reads: “Hitler’s Leni Riefenstahl.”
Frankfurter picked an excellent time and place to kill a Nazi functionary. The maximum sentence in Switzerland for political murders was fifteen years, and despite vehement calls from Berlin for the death penalty for Frankfurter, the Swiss did not budge. Also, official Olympic goodwill prevented the Nazis from launching a full-scale retaliatory assault against either Switzerland or its own Jews. “Still thinking of the Olympic Games,” Time observed, “Germany dared take no obvious reprisals, but bitter little Propaganda Minister Goebbels promptly ordered that all Jewish theatrical meetings, concerts, lectures, etc. in Germany be abolished ‘until further notice.’”
At Gustloff’s funeral, Hitler again blamed Jews for the hundreds of Germans who had been killed and the thousands who had been wounded in political battles since 1918. The invisible hand destroying the Teutonic tribe belonged, he said, to “our Jewish enemy, driven by hatred, who tried to subjugate the German people and make them slaves and who is responsible for all the disasters which befell Germany [since 1918].” Continuing, the Führer said, “You, Wilhelm Gustloff, have not fallen in vain. Little did your assassin dream that through his deed millions would be awakened to true German life.”
Pegler, from his perch in Garmisch, took note of the absurdity of the Führer’s assertion that Germany’s postwar troubles were the fault of its relatively minuscule Jewish population. “It seemed a fine acknowledgement of the superior mentality of the Jews,” he wrote, “and a rather melancholy estimate of the patriotic character and brains of the members of the race of supermen.”
But neither Pegler nor any of the other Olympic visitors had the vaguest idea that at the same time Chancellor Hitler was playing host to the winter games, he was also making final preparations for his boldest and riskiest gambit yet. The same man who nonchalantly signed autographs at the hockey game between the Americans, the eventual bronze medalists, and the Canadians, the eventual silver medalists, had already decided that shortly after the games his forces would reoccupy the Rhineland, violating the terms of the treaties of Versailles and Locarno and all but daring the western powers to invade Germany.
At the hockey game, it occurred to Pegler, contrary to David Frankfurter’s calculations, that it would take no great conspiracy to eliminate the Führer. Watching Hitler at the ice hockey rink, mixing freely with fans, unattended by security, Pegler wrote, “There was a temptation to speculate on the chance that an assassin would have had inside the arena. Hitler sat in full view, without uniformed guards, and it seemed that almost anyone on his side of the place was free to walk up and thrust an autograph book in his hand.” Or, as Pegler was suggesting, a knife in his gut.
Despite the arrogance of the SS and the military displays, the Nazis were for the most part on their best behavior during the games. The anti-Semitic diatribes were temporarily toned down—though only the most willfully ignorant visitors took the Nazis’ cordiality as anything other than a cynical ploy to court public favor. Everyone knew—even the American journalists who arrived only days before the opening ceremony—that there were now signs throughout Germany saying JUDEN UNERWUNSCHT, “Jews Not Wanted Here.” But they had been taken down—“purged,” as Pegler wrote, “to use a familiar word.”
Meanwhile, the American team, which had endured so much uncertainty owing to the boycott debate, might as well have stayed home. After winning twelve medals in Lake Placid in 1932, including six gold medals, Team USA won a grand total of four medals—one gold, three bronze—under Hitler’s gaze. The Norwegians, Germans, Swedes, Finns, and Austrians all won more; in other words, to the Chancellor’s delight, the games were a testament to the virtues of Nordic manhood (and, thanks to Henie, womanhood). Only the two-man bobsled team of Ivan Brown and Alan Washbond won gold for the United States.
In a typically blunt dispatch titled “Send Over Joe Louis,” Paul Gallico wrote, “Your correspondent caught a severe cold yesterday after spending five frigid hours on the mountain watching the bob run. He is striking today so he has time to review the situation and think things over. He has reached the conclusion that it would have been better if the Jews had won out and let the boys stay at home. Nothing has been done by our boys to add to American prestige, although Avery Brundage, head of the American committee, looks beautiful in a Tyrolier hat and his badges.”
As the games in Garmisch-Partenkirchen were winding down, Jesse Owens was waiting out the winter 4000 miles away in Columbus. Because of his ineligibility, he had not been able to participate in any of Ohio State’s indoor meets. Still, he and Larry Snyder remained constantly at each other’s side. In their limited spare time, coach and pupil worked on technique and fitness. Snyder’s prediction that the downtime would help Owens at the Olympic trials and the Olympics had become gospel in the U.S. track community. Writers from New York to Los Angeles pointed out that after his strenuous schedule in the winter and spring of 1935, Owens had faded in the summer heat. That would not happen in 1936, they wrote. He would be fresh at Randall’s Island and in Berlin. It was a damn good thing, they suggested, that he had failed that psychology course.
Meanwhile, Owens’s absence was a decidedly bad thing for the Buckeyes. At the Big Ten’s indoor championships in Chicago on March 15, Ohio State finished sixth. Its only winner was Dave Albritton in the high jump.
On Friday, March 20, however, the midwinter term ended and Owens, who had reversed course academically, was eligible again. He returned to the track just two days later, at the Butler Relays in Indianapolis. Together, he and Albritton and several other teammates were driving through Indiana on their way to the meet when they stopped at a roadside restaurant. Knowing they were unwelcome, the black Buckeyes waited outside for their white teammates to bring them food. This apparently wasn’t good enough for the proprietor, who stormed outside, screaming that he would “feed no niggers.” Typically, Al
britton wanted to fight, and typically, Owens calmed him down.
Unfazed by his second run-in with Hoosier racists in the span of just a few weeks—there had been another ugly incident involving him and Albritton in Richmond, Indiana—Owens proved at the Butler Relays that three months of inactivity had not taken a significant toll. Shaking off some rust, he won all three events he entered. In the 60-yard low hurdles and the broad jump he was not quite himself, but in the 60-yard dash he was spectacular. Running on a slow track, he covered the distance in 6.2 seconds, only one-tenth of a second off the world record he shared with Ralph Metcalfe. “Jesse Owens has served notice to the track world that it takes more than three months’ layoff to dull the fine edge of his abilities,” the Washington Post reported.
“See, Jesse,” Snyder said, slapping Owens on his sweaty back, “when you win those gold medals at the Olympics, you should send one to that psychology professor.”
“He can have one,” Owens said, smiling broadly for the first time since December. “One.”
9
A Friend and a Foe Felled
* * *
PHILADELPHIA: APRIL 1936
A WEEK PASSED before Owens was on the track again. This time he was back home, in Cleveland, for an exhibition at the unusual distance of 50 yards. This time he would not be facing the best that the Midwest could offer. This time he would be racing the one man who had his number.
As Owens warmed up and stretched, he could not keep his eyes off Eulace Peacock. His nemesis appeared stronger than ever. For Peacock there had been no layoff, no chance for his muscles to go slack or his focus to drift. As always, he looked like he would run over—not just past—the rest of the field.
On this night, only four men would run the 50. They would use primitive starting blocks—an advantage for Owens, whose start was better than it had been but still his only weakness. As he walked to the starting line, Owens heard footsteps behind him.
“These aren’t the trials,” Larry Snyder said. “Remember that. I know you want to beat this guy, but don’t let it affect your form—and don’t go too hard. You’re just getting into shape.”
“I know, coach,” Owens said. For all his naiveté in some matters, Owens was a careful tactician. He knew that if he ran too hard he might injure himself. With the Olympics only four months away, that would be the worst of all possible outcomes. He wanted to show Peacock he could defeat him—but as Snyder said, this was not necessarily the time.
A few moments later, Owens crouched into his starting position. Peacock was inches away. The two rivals had exchanged pleasantries earlier. But now there was only the race.
At the gun Owens broke cleanly, but he could sense that something was wrong—not with him but with Peacock, who had tripped coming out of the blocks. Peacock scrambled to his feet, but the race was lost. He did not attempt to finish. He was still wiping the cinders from his shorts as Owens broke the tape. The crowd of 6000 was understandably disappointed. In a moment of true chivalry, Owens offered Peacock a do-over.
“Come on, Eulace,” he said, “that one didn’t count. Let’s do it again.”
“That’s kind, Jesse,” Peacock said, slightly stunned by his great rival’s magnanimity. “Okay.”
The announcement that there would be another race was greeted with a standing ovation. Just a few minutes later, all four starters were back at the blocks and the gun was fired. Still slightly winded from his previous effort, Owens faded late, and Peacock won by no more than a foot, in 5.5 seconds.
“Jesse,” Peacock said to Owens in the locker room, “that was a wonderful gesture.”
“Come on, Eulace,” Owens responded, tearing his sweatshirt off, “it wouldn’t have been right to have sent all those folks home unhappy.”
“Still, I appreciate it,” Peacock said, his newest trophy at his feet. In fact, Owens and Peacock had developed a true fondness for each other—despite the rivalry that might have made it difficult for them to wish each other well.
When their discussion turned to their plans for the upcoming weeks, Peacock said, “I want to run where you run. There’s no point in us not running against each other. We can only make each other better for the trials.”
“But I was going to go to Drake,” Owens said, referring to the meet that would take place in Des Moines the weekend of April 25 and 26. “You’re going to be in Philadelphia.”
“Well, then, you should be in Philadelphia too.” Peacock was grinning. After all, he had just defeated Owens again, his fourth consecutive victory against the man some of the papers called “the Brown Blizzard.”
To the bitter disappointment of the organizers of the Drake Relays—where Owens was the reigning sprint and broad-jump champion—Owens decided to take Peacock’s advice. Instead of traveling to Iowa at the end of April, he would go to Pennsylvania. Overall, the competition would be stronger, and it was time, he and Snyder agreed, to put an end to Peacock’s winning streak. Pressure had also been applied by Lawson Robertson, the University of Pennsylvania track coach, who would serve as the head coach of the American Olympic team. He had made Snyder aware of his desire to see Owens in person. Of course, Owens’s presence would also greatly benefit the Penn Relays, which took place on Robertson’s home field and which he oversaw. In short, Robertson had much to gain if Owens agreed to run in Philadelphia.
Between the exhibition in Cleveland and the Penn Relays, Owens and Snyder spent a week together in West Virginia. They were there to visit four colleges and ten high schools in recognition of National Negro Health Week. Actually, that’s why Owens was there; Snyder was there because Owens was there. In Charleston, in Huntington, in Bluefield, and in Fairmont, Snyder woke Owens up early and put him through his paces on local tracks. Owens could not afford to look out of shape at the Penn relays—not with Lawson Robertson glaring at him, not after having lost four consecutive races to Eulace Peacock.
“You know, Jesse,” Snyder said one morning in Charleston as they jogged together around a high school track, “if you keep listening to me, you might be pretty good someday.”
“If I keep listening to you,” Owens said, “I might keep losing to Eulace.”
The next day, in Bluefield, they were at another track, at another high school, and now Snyder’s tone was more serious. “Jesse, I don’t think anything can stop you—not even Eulace. But you’ve got to promise me that you’ll tell me when you need a rest. This is the most important time of your life. You cannot overdo it. Got me?”
“Larry,” Owens said, “I’m good. I feel really good. We will be there.”
They both knew where “there” was.
During this time, Snyder and Owens grew closer than they had ever been. Traveling alone together, working toward the dual goals of success at the trials and then in Berlin, coach and athlete came to understand each other. The coming weeks and months would obviously be the most important of their lives to date. They could not have known, or even suspected, that there would be no Olympics in 1940 and 1944, but they did suspect that this would be Owens’s only chance. There would be no way for him to support his family while maintaining his amateur eligibility. In the classroom, he was no Ralph Metcalfe. He would not be able to hide away at law school for three years. For Owens, the Olympics would mean either glory or a future pumping gas at the Sohio station. No one knew this better than Snyder, and the reality of the situation fueled his determination to make Owens an Olympic champion. The unfairness gnawed at him. The bigots who belittled him for recruiting and training Owens and Albritton would not have the last laugh. He would not allow it to happen.
By the time the Penn Relays rolled around, Owens was rounding into form. He was much stronger and sharper than he had been in Indianapolis and Cleveland. He was more focused, too. The Olympic trials were only ten weeks away. There was no time now for horseplay, as there had been before the Big Ten meet a year earlier, nor for dancing, as there had been in Los Angeles. The spring of 1936 was the time when Owens’s natural gif
ts were brought fully to flower by a ceaseless regimen of training (but not too much training) and sleep. He slept ten hours a night, or more. He ate prodigiously—Snyder fed him red meat whenever possible—and he drank not at all.
None of this, however, mattered quite so much as what happened in Philadelphia. At Franklin Field on the campus of the University of Pennsylvania, the greatest obstacle to Owens’s command performance was overcome.
Eulace Peacock had suffered a heel injury the previous summer at a meet in Milan. It had nagged at him for months but seemed to pose no serious threat to his Olympic hopes. But on April 24 he was called upon to run the anchor leg for Temple in the 440-yard relay. By the time he was handed the baton, Texas and its anchor, Harvey Wallender, had a significant, if not insurmountable, lead. Sprinting furiously to catch up, running harder than he should have, Peacock pulled up lame 15 yards from the tape, clutching at his right hamstring, which had all but snapped. “A look of pain and surprise spread over his features,” Arthur Daley wrote in the New York Times. Peacock was able to stagger across the finish line, clutching his right thigh, but at that moment he knew he would never see Berlin. He realized that his life’s work had been wasted.
Triumph: The Untold Story of Jesse Owens and Hitler's Olympics Page 12
