Olympic Affair

by Terry Frei

  Glenn tried to sound incredulous. “Leni Riefenstahl?” he asked.

  “No, Greta Garbo. . . . Of course, Leni Riefenstahl!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Right, I’m being ridiculous. Twelve hours before the decathlon starts, you’re her errand boy to find us and beg us to help her.”

  “You’re reading too much into this,” Glenn said. “Why don’t you come out with me and I’ll introduce you, and then I’m out of here and it’s out of my hands. I’ve done my part . . . and not because anything’s going on with her, okay?”

  “Stick to your story, Glenn,” Graber said with a laugh. “That’s fine with me.”

  Outside, Glenn introduced Graber to Leni through the open window. “Thanks so much, Mister Morris,” she said, smiling warmly at Glenn. “I will see you at the stadium tomorrow.”

  After spotting his familiar limo and Kurt, Glenn climbed in and was in bed ninety minutes later.

  The five vaulters, two Japanese plus three Americans, were stunned when they emerged from the dressing-room tunnel and took note of the nearly dozen white-jacketed track and field judges and officials who had barely beaten them to the well-lighted pole vault pit. Bill Graber approached Leni. “Ma’am, you sure have a lot of pull,” he said. “This is amazing.”

  Leni squinted, unsure of what “pull” meant, and then decided whatever it was, she had it. She had left it up to others to line up the officials, and she knew that not all of them had worked the pole vault event itself. But all they had to do was look as if they knew what they were doing, accept the reichsmarks handed them, and not stick out their tongues at the camera at the wrong moment.

  Over the next two and a half hours, Walter Frentz and three other cameramen, working from various vantage points, filmed everything. First, each of the five vaulters in turn stood poised, at the beginning of the runway, holding their poles, rocking back and forth on their heels to toes. She told them to look pensive or determined—or however they usually looked in real competition—as they pondered their upcoming vaults. “I know this is fun,” she told Bill Sefton, “but you have to stop smiling!” Sefton immediately adopted an overly dramatic, and a bit sarcastic, scowl, triggering laughter from the other vaulters.

  Leni thought: It’s going to be hard to find frames of these boys looking serious enough. But we’ll make it work.

  After that was finished, she announced: “All right, we need three jumps—two unsuccessful and one successful—from each of you.”

  Bill Graber spoke for all of them. “The misses, those’ll be easy,” he said, grinning. “But if you want us to clear something now, you better put the bar at about thirteen feet.”

  Leni didn’t smile. “I want it as high as we can get it and still have you make it,” she said.

  As they took turns vaulting, Leni kept praising them, egging them on. Nishida, the veteran who knew a little English, joked, “She should be coach!”

  Finally, after what seemed an eternity to the vaulters, she had what she needed, including a shot of Meadows clearing his “winning” height—at a real height that, shown from the lower angle, at least could pass for what earned him the gold medal in the dark the night before. The others had cleared respectable, but lower heights.

  “Man, you don’t know how hard that was,” Meadows said, rejoining the other vaulters as they lounged on the grass, with blankets over their shoulders.

  “All right, the hard part is over!” Leni told them. “Officials, you can go!”

  “You mean there’s more?” Sefton asked.

  Leni outlined what she needed next and supervised as they played their parts. Each of them in rotation shook hands with the other four, showing that good Olympic sportsmanship. They pretended to be “watching” others vaulting as they remained on the grass. Individually, they looked to be contemplating their next vaults as they waited in the cold. Finally, an official handed Meadows one of the wreaths made of oak leaves presented to medalists, and Leni coached him into pretending he was listening to the U.S. national anthem as he stood atop the medal stand. So Meadows smiled and saluted as the cameras rolled.

  “Wonderful!” Leni proclaimed. “We’re done!”

  Graber laughed. “Good thing,” he said. “The decathlon guys will be out here in about fifteen minutes.”

  Actually, the early morning start still was a few hours off, but even Leni laughed. She shook hands with all five vaulters and thanked them individually. As they gathered up their gear, Meadows tried to keep his voice down, but Leni heard.

  “Her and Morris . . . there’s something there,” he said.

  Graber laughed. “You just figured that out?”

  Leni decided she didn’t mind. At some point, she knew, it would come out as something other than whispers. Perhaps even on her terms. In headlines. And then on screen.

  24

  Decathlon, Day One

  Friday, August 7

  Glenn didn’t like coffee and rarely drank it. He made an exception this morning in the dining room after awakening at 6. The early morning bus from the Village was only half filled, and as he walked down the aisle to an open seat in back, Glenn nodded at the other passengers. Most were his decathlon competitors, and in addition to Jack Parker and Bob Clark, Glenn knew a few others by name—including Olle Bexell of Sweden, Jan Brasser of The Netherlands, and Armin Guhl of Switzerland. They nodded back, with tight smiles.

  During the ride, he read his small stack of telegrams. One was from Karen, and that triggered guilt pangs.

  good luck, darling

  love, karen

  Others were from Harry Hughes, his landlady, his car dealer-employer, plus one adorned with over one hundred names, beginning with those of Colorado Governor Ed Johnson and Denver Mayor Ben Stapleton. Then he came to one from the former heavyweight champion of the world.

  simla sensation:

  hope you score a k.o.

  signed, the manassa mauler

  Bob Clark passed him a copy of the official decathlon entry sheet, finalized the previous day. Several tentative entrants had dropped out, and Hans Sievert hadn’t magically reappeared on the list. So at the outset, before the inevitable withdrawals during the competition, there would be a total of twenty-eight men going for the decathlon gold. Scanning, Glenn didn’t see anything to change his opinion that the major threats to the three Americans were the Dutchman, Brasser, and the friendly German, Erwin Huber, who wasn’t on the bus. Glenn also noticed that in his first event, the 100 meters, Huber also was in his three-man heat—getting the head-to-head competition going right off the bat.

  Arriving in the dressing-room area, Glenn had another cup of coffee, then was on the field to warm up by 8:15. He was surprised that quite a few fans already were in the seats. Despite the talk about how the Europeans were fascinated with the decathlon, he had expected the event to be a private affair for most of the day. The men’s 400-meter heats began at 3PM, and until then, the decathlon was the only event in the stadium.

  He was startled to see Leni emerge through the doors at the bottom of the dignitaries’ boxes, with a pack of about five of her cameramen who kept going, heading to their shooting stations. Leni lingered behind and seemed to be looking at him, inviting. Glenn pondered. They wouldn’t be in the middle of the infield, but they’d be visible. Still, he went over and greeted her. By now, he could be just another of the many prominent athletes in her film who had met her. She held out her hand. “Good luck,” she said as he shook it.

  “Did you just stay here all night?” Glenn asked, smiling.

  “Two hours of sleep at the Castle,” she said. “That’s enough.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “Very long, but very well. They will not win any acting awards, but once they got out there, they enjoyed themselves.” Leni looked around, then said, “Come back here for a second. I didn’t properly thank you last night.”

  Glenn followed her through the doors, under the seats, and up a few stairs of the p
rivate stairway that led to Hitler’s box. There, she stopped and, while on a step above him, drew him into a passionate kiss and embrace.

  When Bob Clark easily won his 100-meter heat in 10.9 seconds, Glenn was reminded his American teammates were going to be tough to beat. You’re not running against the guys in your heat; you’re running against the stopwatch and all the others. Clark was shaking his head as he came to the area outside the track on the corner and picked up his sweatshirt. He told Glenn, “For what it’s worth, either these guys are bad timers or the track’s definitely slower than Milwaukee. I felt good . . . thought it’d be 10.7 or so. When the guy said 10.9, I was shocked.”

  Glenn had to wait through eight other heats. He loosened up with Erwin Huber, who said it was a pleasure to compete against the world-record holder. Glenn at first wondered if he was being set up for overconfidence with flattery, but Huber’s smile again was warm.

  By then, to Glenn’s amazement, there were perhaps 30,000 fans already in the seats at the early-morning hour, and he told Huber how surprised he was.

  “This was a very popular ticket!” Huber said. He pointed at the section nearest them. ‘Look! Half the people there are writing down the times when they are announced! At what other event are you going to see fans keeping tabulations like that? There are zehnkampf fans up there who will be able to plot this better than our coaches!”

  Indeed, many of the fans seemed to have pen and paper in their hands.

  The other runner in their heat was teenager Josef Klein of Czechoslovakia. In the middle between the two Europeans, Glenn got a good start and pulled away from Huber and Klein, but was shocked and alarmed when the officials told him his time—11.1 seconds. Now I know what Clark meant! That was a full four-tenths of a second slower than what he had run at Milwaukee, so not only was he going to be behind Clark after one event, he would be far off the pace of his world-record score in the Trials.

  The broad jump, Clark’s specialty, was next. As Glenn tried to visualize a perfect jump, he and Clark had a light moment when they noted that the press seats, dignitaries’ boxes and the competitors’ section were virtually deserted, standing out among the otherwise filling-up stadium.

  Glenn felt the pressure mounting when Clark’s first jump was measured at 7.67 meters, or a shade over 25 feet. When Glenn was told his initial attempt converted to 21 feet, 9 inches, he lectured himself that he couldn’t leave it there. If I do, Leni’s going to be filming Clark on that top step. On his third try, he planted his right foot on the board, hitting it almost perfectly, and felt an extra spring as he took off, landed, rolled over and got up to assess his mark in the sand. Better! The judge told him 6.97 meters, and considering he had been shooting for 7 meters, he was satisfied with that. In a few seconds, Hamilton told him the distance converted to 22 feet, 10 inches, 4 inches better than his best at Milwaukee, so Glenn breathed easier. He was acceptably close to Clark through his two strong events.

  There was a break of a couple of hours before the shot put began, and Glenn—starving after having only a light breakfast hours earlier—ate a small steak brought over from the Strength Through Joy Village. He pondered whether drinking more coffee would help or hurt, but decided he might as well be all in and had a couple more cups.

  The shot put was a mixed blessing. Glenn shrugged off a warning from a judge, who signaled that he was taking too much time in the ring, shoving the shot put back and forth from his right hand to his left as he pondered his throw. Finally, he settled it next his jaw, slid across the ring and got off a toss of 46-3, the top effort among the entire field, but more than a foot less than his distance at Milwaukee. After three events, he still was second to Clark—2,534 points to 2,436.

  In the high jump, as he rocked back and forth and prepared to take a run at the pit, Glenn noticed one of Leni’s cameraman a few feet away, rolling film, and lowering his sights to focus on Glenn’s legs. For the first time ever in his athletic career, a photographer left him a bit discomfited. He took a deep breath, told himself to ignore it and again looked at the bar. Although his steps were a bit fouled up and he had to stutter-step as he neared the bar, he cleared 5-11 with his scissors-style jump. He shook his head, knowing he barely had gotten over the bar, and sensed that on this day, in part because he couldn’t get the approach timing and steps right, he wasn’t going to match his 6-foot-1 leap at Milwaukee. He turned out to be correct, and he tried to follow the mandate to conserve energy. The good news was he still was part of a three-way tie for second among the decathlon men in the high jump, behind only Jan Brasser, and ahead of Clark and Parker.

  During the finals of the 5,000 meters, Glenn paid attention only until the top American hope, Don Lash, fell out of contention. After sweeping the 10,000 meters earlier, the Finns came up just short of duplicating the showing in the shorter race, with Gunnar Höckert winning and countryman Lauri Lehtinen second. Sweden’s Henry Jonsson claimed the bronze, and the top American was teenager Lou Zamperini, who closed strong, but still was only eighth. Lash dropped all the way to thirteenth.

  Bob Clark watched the distance race more intently than did Glenn. “Looked like Lash was either going to win the damn thing or die trying,” Clark said, shaking his head. “He shouldn’t have tried to stay with those guys. They might have come back to him.”

  A short time later, Glenn found himself again with Huber, preparing for the last event of the decathlon’s first day, the 400 meters. “I’m starting to wonder if anyone’s going to deserve to win this,” Glenn mused to the German.

  “Whoever has the most points will deserve to win,” Huber said, shrugging.

  Brutus Hamilton signaled Glenn over to join him with Clark and Parker.

  “Come on boys, let’s pick up the pace,” Hamilton said. “Let’s show the fellow with the moustache what Americans are made of—again.”

  Glenn looked up to the loge box. Yes, Hitler was there.

  As Clark was running in the third heat, Leni took advantage of the diverted attention to wave Glenn over to her spot in the infield. “I am not an expert on this competition,” she said, “but I think you look as if you are doing calculations in your head on every step. Why not just stop worrying about those things and just compete?”

  She walked away. Pondering, Glenn decided she was right. Stop worrying and just go for it.

  In the fifth heat, Glenn again was with Huber and Klein, plus Franz Sterzl of Austria. He was assigned the inside lane in the staggered start, so the other three were ahead of him at intervals and to his right. Don’t worry about splits. Don’t worry about the others. Just run. And remember, you’re done for the day after this.

  For the first time ever in competition, he ran a 400 as if it were a 100-meter dash. He made the other three look is as if they were running in sand, pulling away as he quickly made up the “stagger” and more. From only about 150 yards into the race, he had no competition. As he came into the straightaway, he wondered: Did I blow this? Fighting for air as his head bobbed, he tried to ignore his tightening legs, slowing but pushing on. Completely expended at the finish, he didn’t bother with his usual run well beyond the line. He slowed to a walk quickly and considered cutting over to the grass and dropping to the ground. But he stayed up and heard the official tell him his time—49.4 seconds, over a second better than his time in the Trials.

  Clark approached him and slapped him on the back. “I’m no math guy,” he said, “but I think we’re pretty much tied.”

  When the totals were posted on the huge board in the end of the stadium, Clark’s impression was confirmed:

  clark—usa 4194 punkte

  morris—usa 4192

  parker—usa 3888

  Jan Brasser was the Americans’ closest pursuer, fifteen points behind Parker.

  As he still was warming down, Glenn stayed to watch the 400-meter finals, and saw American Archie Williams win the gold, edging Godfrey Brown of Great Britain, with Jimmy LuValle of the USA third. Near the finish line, Leni again was
kneeling, and then laying on the infield grass, underneath the lens of one of her photographer’s huge standing film cameras. She said something to Williams, and the runner smiled. Glenn recalled how bothered Williams was when Glenn congratulated Max Schmeling. Archie apparently wasn’t thinking Leni was a disloyal German for congratulating him.

  Glenn considered trying to talk more with Leni, but after the whirlwind of events of the last two days, he knew he would be crazy to do anything other than head right back to the Village, have a light dinner and be asleep by 10 . . . maybe even sooner. He’d see Leni soon enough, in the morning . . . on the biggest day of his life.

  Walter Wood came down from the athletes’ section to pat Glenn on the back, and he said he was joining a group of Americans having a few beers at the Strength Through Joy Village after the competition for the day. So he wasn’t with Glenn on the way back, but Williams and LuValle were. When Glenn congratulated them, Williams said thanks and added: “That’s six now!”

  “Six what?”

  “Six golds for the American auxiliaries!”

  Wood tried to be quiet when he arrived back at the room at about 1 in the morning, but Glenn had just finished telling himself: Last time I chug coffee for anything.

  Trying to be silent, but noticing Glenn stirring in the dark, Wood whispered, “Jesus, sorry!”

  Glenn didn’t whisper. “Don’t worry about it. I was awake.”

  “Well, then, get to sleep!”

  “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  Wood bumped into a chair.

  Glenn said, “Hey, don’t break something. Turn on a light.”

  As Wood got undressed, Glenn asked, “Have a good time?”

  “Yeah,” Wood said. “A bunch of guys showed up. We went downtown for a bit, too.”

  “I kind of guessed that.”

  “Sorry . . .”

  “Sorry? There’s nothing wrong with that, okay? Just don’t throw up in the middle of the night.”