by Terry Frei
The decathlon wouldn’t be held until the final stages of the weeklong track and field competition, but Glenn already was nervous.
18
Opening Gambits
Saturday, August 1
Leni decided that her trademark white flannel jackets—which made her stand out in still photos, even the panoramic ones taken at the Nuremberg rallies—needed to be augmented at the Games. For the opening ceremonies, she picked out a gray flannel suit and blouse that could shield her a bit if the morning light rains kept falling. She already had it on when she strolled into the 6AM meeting.
“Why couldn’t we just make it 05:00?” Guzzi Lantschner asked dryly. “Why this late? Ten hours to the opening ceremonies . . . isn’t that kind of cutting it close?”
Guzzi was one of the few who could get away with impertinence. Leni smiled, signifying she knew he was teasing. Then she lectured. “Gentlemen, the time to sleep will come in two weeks. We won’t get a second chance to be prepared. The first time we say, ‘Oh, shit, we missed that,’ we have failed. We can’t just say, ‘Take two!’”
She summarized the weather forecast—light rain off and on—and how they would adjust for various conditions. She reminded them they would meet again that night at 11 after the opening ceremonies to go over assignments for Sunday, and that would be the pattern throughout the Games. No more pre-breakfast meetings; they’d take care of the planning the night before.
“Now . . . everyone have a good breakfast,” she said. “You all have your vehicle assignments, too. I want everyone at your positions by 12:00.”
Later at the stadium, she was heartened to see that all seemed to beat her deadline. As the light rain fell, she made a round of the cameramen’s assigned vantage points. Heinrich, the student and runner, was with her, in case she needed to dispatch messages. She had considered assigning Anatol to the role, but she knew that in addition to delivering notes, the runner might need to get involved in German discussion, and Anatol would be useless. He was assigned as an extra laborer and as a backup runner only when all he had to do was pass along a note. With fans starting to file in, Leni recognized an assistant cameraman hurriedly hustling toward her. “The rostrum cameras!” he yelled and pointed back over his shoulder.
Leni saw SS men gathered in Hitler’s loge box, where the Führer would watch the ceremonies and ultimately declare the Games open. Much to her horror, two of them kept gesturing at the two cameras, which Leni’s men had tied to the rail with rope, more to stake out their positions than to secure the cameras. The biggest one, a sound camera, would show Hitler’s left side as he spoke. Leni’s man, Wilfried Basse, appeared to be making the argument that the cameras belonged there.
As Leni made a beeline for the box, one of the SS men began tugging on the rope.
“Stop!” she yelled.
Startled, the SS men turned. They waited for her to storm into the box. She assessed the situation and concluded that the one who had tugged at the camera was the junior of the two SS men. So she addressed the other one, assuming he was supervising and issuing orders.
“The cameras stay!”
“Fraulein Riefenstahl . . .”
“So you at least know who I am!”
“Yes, but . . .”
“There is no ‘but’! That camera . . . these cameras . . . stay where they are!”
The SS man was respectful, but unapologetic. “As I told your man here,” he said, gesturing at Basse, “these cameras—especially this big one—are in the way. They stand out. The Führer won’t . . .”
“The Führer knows! I spoke with him and he approved. He wants the cameras here.”
The SS man said, “Minister Goebbels told us to make sure there wasn’t anything cluttering up this area. He was clear that to have room for everyone who expects to be with the Führer at these ceremonies, nothing else can be here.”
“You let Minister Goebbels tell me that himself. Do you want to be the man I point to when I tell the Führer he will not be shown in the film, declaring the Games open in the Reich, because some jackass ordered the camera moved?”
The SS man looked at his comrade, who shrugged. Finally, the lead SS man said, “We will wait. We will handle this when the Minister arrives. But if he orders us to take it down, we will have to do so.”
“He won’t,” Leni said. “I won’t let him.”
With siren-screaming escorts, the nearly two hundred military buses moved in a caravan from the Village to the Reich Sports Field. The buses with U.S. flags on them were near the rear. On one of them, Glenn grabbed a window seat, and Walter Wood joined him.
Germans lined the final part of the route, at least several deep, and the greetings were a mixture of the Nazi salute and waves. Even the Nazi salutes mostly were accompanied by smiles. Glenn found himself looking around to see if either Marty Glickman or Sam Stoller was on this bus. They weren’t.
The buses unloaded at the Glockenturm Plaza, and German organizers began herding the Americans athletes onto the huge May Field next to the stadium. Their spot was nearest the Bell Tower, at the northwest corner, again because of the marching order. The rain had stopped, but the skies still were overcast and more showers seemed possible.
“B-a-a-a-a,” Walter Wood bellowed. “Let’s go, sheep.”
Glenn took in the awe-inspiring scene. In front of him stretched a throng of athletes, including the women who had made the hike from the Friesenhaus on the northeast side of the Sports Field grounds, in various national outfits. Spectators, many of them approaching from the adjacent train station, poured through the stadium’s gates. Some walked around the concourse between levels. Majestic orchestral music carried across the field from the stadium speakers. The huge dirigible, the Hindenburg, was in the sky to the east of the stadium, on the downtown side.
German functionaries, including men in military uniforms—Glenn still wasn’t certain which uniform went with each group and which initials—were intent on two things: One, keeping the teams in their national formations; and, two, keeping open a wide lane down the middle of the field, from the Bell Tower to the stadium. A railroad-type set of rails ran down one side of the wide lane. At the end nearest the Bell Tower, Glenn spotted a big flatbed cart mounted on the tracks. On it was a large film camera and a man Glenn assumed was its operator.
Leni’s camera!
Glenn looked at his watch. It was a few minutes past three o’clock. Glenn Cunningham circulated through the trackmen. The team captain didn’t preach about marching synchronization, but suggested at least a semblance of order. Cunningham paused among Glenn’s group and looked toward the marathon gate.
“See that?” Cunningham asked.
“What?” asked Earle Meadows.
“Look . . . all those teams practicing the salutes.”
Glenn looked down the field. The Bulgarians, Colombians, French, and Canadians, among others, were practicing salutes. But which salute? The Olympic salute was supposed to be given with the right arm extended at an angle to the side. The Nazi salute, as they had seen over and over, was made with the right arm extended straight ahead. The teams in question were saluting so imprecisely, the gestures could be interpreted either way. “That’s not smart,” Cunningham said, shaking his head. “Even the ones who think they’re doing the Olympic salute don’t get it—the Germans and the whole world for that matter will think they’re doing the Nazi salute.”
Near the Americans, the Germans, wearing white suits and yachtsman hats, milled quietly. Meadows nodded in their direction. “Guess they don’t need to practice their salute,” he said.
A Badger with a megaphone passed through the Americans’ ranks, repeating his message. “Relax, ladies and gentlemen! We’re going to be here at least an hour—probably longer!”
Glenn briefly considered sitting down, but realized it wouldn’t look good to have grass-stained and wet pants as he marched.
Still poised and standing guard by the rostrum, Leni winced when she heard the voic
e behind her.
“What’s going on here?” Joseph Goebbels asked. The slimy minister of propaganda stepped up to the ranking SS man. “Let me guess. She”—Goebbels hooked his thumb at Leni—“placed these cameras here, in the way of everything.”
The SS man nodded.
Leni angrily stepped toward Goebbels. “Be careful, Herr Minister . . .”
“Don’t you dare threaten me!”
The junior SS man stepped between them. Leni paused, only because—as angry as she was—she almost laughed. He thought I was going to hit Goebbels! Well, I could pummel the little asshole if I had to.
“The Führer approved this!” she shouted.
“I’m sure you misled him about the layout of this box and rostrum,” Goebbels said sharply. “A camera here ruins the ceremonial atmosphere.”
“It was fine with you when we did this for the Nuremberg films! Cameras like these recorded all the speakers—including, yes, the Führer! If you try to remove these, it is you who will have to answer to him. This is supposed to be a day of glory for him—him and the German people!—and you will force him to deal with something he thought was taken care of.”
Goebbels waved around the vast stadium.
“I’m not ordering you to abandon filming this part of the ceremony,” he said. “But there must be somewhere else you can set up your cameras and get it without cluttering up this area!”
“There isn’t!” Leni snapped. Angry tears, long a major Leni weapon, began to form. “To get the sort of image the Führer deserves, the camera must be here—and only here. If you want to tell him he is so insignificant, we can get a tiny shot of him from far off, go right ahead! You don’t believe he approved? Are you calling me a liar?”
“Again, I doubt he knew how crowded it will be,” Goebbels said.
“I made that clear. He accepted that.”
“All right,” Goebbels said, “but if he arrives and doesn’t like the setup, these cameras will be out of here, just like this . . .”
He held up his right hand and snapped his fingers.
“He won’t object,” Leni insisted. She turned to the ranking SS man. “You heard the minister. They’re staying.”
The SS man looked at Goebbels, who offered an almost imperceptible nod.
Suddenly, Hermann Göring, decked out in his white uniform, joined them in the box. Goebbels noticed him first and started hollering again, putting on a show for the portly Air Minister’s benefit.
“You understand me, Fraulein?” He gave a little wave at the cameras. “Even if the Fuhrer allows this, you cannot do whatever you want during the Games. The decisions are mine! You hear me? Mine!”
“Whoa!” Göring bellowed. “What’s this all about?”
Goebbels outlined the dispute, then added, “We’ll see if the Führer has any objections here. But the bigger issue is that Fraulein Riefenstahl must realize—both now and in the upcoming days—that the Olympics are not being staged solely for her benefit. Our film can be useful, but we cannot have her intruding on the Games, on the Führer, or our guests!”
Göring turned to Leni. “Fraulein?”
“I have been preparing for months,” Leni said, tears still visible. “He cannot undo months of planning and wipe away things that have been agreed upon months and weeks ago.”
Goebbels protested, “She can’t . . .”
Göring raised his chubby hand. “There is no sense in going back and forth about this. The points have been made.” He put a hand on Leni’s arm. “And you, girl, stop crying. There’s even enough room here for my belly.”
Leni laughed at that, making it a convulsing sob. Good thing these two hate each other.
As Göring moved to the other side of the box, Leni leaned closer to Goebbels. “There are going to be plenty of beautiful young girls around today—the ones participating in the medal ceremonies during the competition,” she taunted. “You can just occupy yourself trying to feel up some poor little thing. But leave my cameras alone—or you will regret it.”
“Don’t you push your luck here,” Goebbels hissed. “Remember who controls the money for your project. I do!”
“You do control the funding . . . only until I go to the Führer. I know he laughs at your stupid antics, but they aren’t laughing matters when he has to deal with them. You’ll be slitting your own throat if you sabotage this. All those reichsmarks for a sabotaged film! How would the Führer like that? And I would make it clear who did the sabotaging!”
Goebbels stormed off. Leni pondered whether it was safe to leave. Finally, she decided it was, but before she left, she told the cameraman to dispatch a runner to her the instant it seemed there might be any more problems.
The Little Prick wouldn’t dare. But . . .
As the athletes waited on the May Field, Glenn noticed but didn’t at first feel a light rain again falling. He thought: These hats are good for something.
“Get a load of that!” Walter Wood called out, pointing beyond the Bell Tower to the Glockenturm Plaza.
Armed Germans in various uniforms had gathered. Cars pulled up in the plaza, and one large limousine arrived at the foot of the Bell Tower. Adolf Hitler emerged from the back seat. Scattered shouts of greetings came from the few German civilians allowed in the area. Glenn was surprised at how quiet it was otherwise. Hitler, wearing a brown uniform and high black boots, returned the Nazi salute to an honor guard. Then he moved on to greet three men, and Glenn recognized two of them from the Americans’ welcoming ceremonies—the chubby mayor of Berlin and Dr. Theodor Lewald of the German Olympic Organizing Committee. Lewald and the third man—Glenn assumed he was an Olympic official, too—wore long coats, high collars, and medallions draped around their necks on chains.
Soldiers filed down the corridor on the May Field, showily looking side to side as Hitler and his entourage followed. Hitler’s group was perhaps seventy-five men—military officers, Olympic officials, and other functionaries. Glenn inched up, so close to Hitler’s pathway that the soldiers brushed him. Then he saw Leni, squeezed onto the flatbed cart behind her cameraman, who was angled to catch the reaction of the athletes to Hitler. As she approached Glenn’s vantage point, she spotted him. Their eyes met. As the cart went by, with her poised behind cameraman Walter Frentz, she gave him the start, the barest hint, of a smile. For a moment, Hitler was no more than ten feet away.
Marty Glickman ended up at Glenn’s shoulder. He shook his head in wonderment. “Can you believe how close we were? Somebody could have . . .” He left it there.
The looks they exchanged confirmed they both knew Marty wasn’t talking about getting an autograph.
As Hitler moved on, he didn’t look to either side, despite scattered cries from among the athletes. Mostly, it remained eerily quiet.
Soon, though, the roar announced: The Führer had entered the stadium.
As Leni and cameraman Hans Ertl followed, Hitler was greeted in the stadium with a multiple-trumpet fanfare and the raising of a huge Nazi banner with the red swastika against purple. The Führer and his entourage walked down the marble stairs at the marathon gate end to the track. As she moved, Leni made sure her other camera operators were poised. She quickly glanced at the rostrum. The cameras and her men still were there.
Over one hundred thousand spectators filled the seats, most roaring, many offering the Nazi salute. On the track, Carl Diem’s five-year-old daughter—Gudrun—stood alone, in a white dress, floral headband, and white socks and shoes. She offered Hitler a bouquet, which he cheerfully accepted.
Hitler and the entourage climbed to his box with the rostrum and settled in. The German crowd sang the anthem and the “Horst Wessel” song. Leni stood at the far edge, barely wedging her way in behind the big sound camera to Hitler’s left and nodding at the nearby Albert Speer, Hitler’s architect. As she watched sailors along the upper rim of the stadium raise the national flags of the competing nations, she hoped that one of the cameramen assigned to the pageantry had captured tha
t.
At 4:14 PM—Leni marked the time—the Greek team came through the tunnel below the marathon gate and onto the track.
The parade was on.
When Glenn and the Americans neared the marathon gate, they saw the teams starting to form up in more ordered fashion to enter the stadium. The German with the national placard for each team would be five meters in front of the team’s flag bearer. Another five meters behind the flag bearer came, in order, that nation’s delegation officials, the women athletes and then the men. Most striking was the wide disparity in size of the delegations, and the one-man teams from Costa Rica and Haiti had become folk heroes in the Village.
The Americans followed Turkey. As he entered the tunnel, Glenn realized that he was on the side of the eight-across line that would be on the inside of the track, nearest the dignitaries—and Hitler . . . and Leni? Glenn and the American men were far enough back in the delegation that they still were in the tunnel when they heard the thunderous reaction to Jochim’s entrance onto the track.
The first glimpse of the packed stadium stunned him. He had forgotten how, with the field and track dug far below ground level, the stadium looked big from the outside—but gargantuan from the inside. They turned right out of the tunnel, onto the track. Glenn noticed that some spectators, Americans he presumed, were standing, cheering and waving tiny red, white and blue flags. He peered ahead and followed Jochim’s progress past the midpoint of the track, past Hitler and the dignitaries. Jochim kept the flag high. Glenn wasn’t sure why he was so invigorated, since he knew that had been coming, and would have been shocked—and dismayed—by anything different. Still, he thought: Good for Al!
As the Americans passed Hitler’s vantage point, a Wehrmacht officer wedged next to Leni grunted. “Disrespectful bastards,” he said loudly, which meant Leni could barely hear him over the cheering. “We demeaned ourselves by begging them to come. I hope you don’t even show their niggers.”
