Olympic Affair

by Terry Frei

  “Sure,” Glenn said.

  She squinted in thought, pondering the schedule.

  “How about if Kurt picks you up at 19:00 Thursday and brings you to the Geyer Lab?” she said. “I’ll show you the editing room and we can look at some footage in the reviewing room, too.”

  “That’s fine,” Glenn said, wondering where else it might lead.

  Leni fell asleep in his arms. Although she had mentioned she needed to be back to the Castle Ruhwald fairly soon, Glenn didn’t have the heart to wake her up. He was drifting off, too, when Leni awoke with a start. Checking a clock, she playfully shoved Glenn, saying, “All right, world’s greatest athlete, up and dressed—fast. We need to go. Klaus will drop me off at Ruhwald, then take you back to the Village.”

  As they left together, Glenn briefly wondered whether he should be concerned about her apparent reluctance to allow him to remain behind in her apartment alone—even for a few minutes. He decided he was being petty.

  Glenn, along with Wood and some of the other trackmen, checked out the boxing competition and more swimming. He also spent a lot of time sifting through the new telegrams, which included invitations to appear on radio shows in New York after their return. Also, four letters from Karen arrived at once. The dates indicated they all had been written before the opening ceremonies, and he realized that if she kept writing, other letters likely would make it to Berlin after he was gone. He read the expressions of her support and the depth of her affection, and again the lack of guilt surprised him. It was as if that was another life shoved over in a corner, perhaps to be resumed.

  On Thursday, Kurt the driver finally was comfortable enough to act as more of a guide on the way. He pointed out several of the sites this time, and eventually announced over his shoulder: “Now we’re in Neukölln. Another borough.”

  Five minutes later, as they pulled in front of a nondescript building, it was as if he hadn’t paused. “And this,” he said, “is the Geyer Film Laboratory.”

  A stocky young man, half-bald and tired-looking, and very nervous, greeted Glenn as he entered. What also caught Glenn’s attention was that there were three men in the familiar black uniforms—SS?—and two other men in plainclothes, seemingly on watch in the lobby. Gestapo?

  The man introduced himself as Stephan. “I am Fraulein Riefenstahl’s editing assistant.” Even the simple phrase in English was a struggle for him, though, so Glenn decided it would be futile to ask about the security. He took Glenn to a room where Leni was bent over a strange-looking machine, with what appeared to be a lens in the middle and film sticking out of each side. Other filmstrips were strung around her neck like unclasped necklaces. Still more—many, many more, perhaps hundreds—were draped from hooks on the wall.

  Leni hadn’t heard them.

  “Fraulein?” Stephan asked.

  Leni turned and lit up. She started to shed the filmstrips. “Welcome to my world, Glenn,” she said, smiling tightly. With Stephan watching, she came and gave Glenn a hug that could have been between coworkers, so Glenn followed that lead. But then she kissed him—lightly, but real enough.

  Guess there are going to be no secrets. Better keep practicing that speech. “Sure, I’ve met Leni Riefenstahl. She’s making a movie about the Olympics, and I’m in it!”

  “I barely beat you here,” Leni said. “I was at the pool all day . . . and your Americans are not doing well!”

  Glenn had heard that the Japanese and Dutch were dominating the swimming so far. “They’ll get going,” he said.

  Stephan lingered, and Leni didn’t seem interested in chasing him out of the room. For the next fifteen minutes, she and Stephan demonstrated how they ran filmstrips through the viewer and marked them. They were looking at footage from the swimming from the day before. Leni said, “Stephan has put together a selection of what we have from you competing—very raw, but I’m sure an indication of what you will see in the final film—and the relays from yesterday and we’ll watch it in the viewing room down the hall.”

  She nodded at Stephan, and he left without saying another word. This time, the kiss was deeper. That was fine with Glenn, and he was still holding her and their eyes were only inches apart when he asked: “What’s with everyone out in the lobby?”

  Leni hesitated.

  “Oh, oh,” Glenn said. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

  She locked on his eyes. “Do you love me?”

  “Here and now, yes.”

  “That’s cold,” she said, wounded.

  “You know what I mean!” he said, moving his hands to her shoulders. “Come on, if people looked at this, damn near every one of them would say you’ll be the one to decide it was fun while it lasted and tell me it’s over.”

  “I have been talking of more. I thought you were thinking about it!”

  “I am. I will.” He paused. “But you changed the subject. What’s going on here?”

  “The Führer,” she said.

  When she didn’t continue, he prompted, “The Führer is . . . ?”

  “Coming here.”

  “Now?”

  She nodded, a sheepish confession. “To meet you . . . and watch some of the film.”

  Glenn backed away. “You set me up!” he shouted.

  “Wrong! They found out you were coming here to see the footage. I don’t know how, but they did. Perhaps I told too many people. The Gestapo is all over.”

  “I know it is.”

  “How?”

  “Doesn’t matter now,” he said, and then made a move toward the door, his intentions clear.

  “Stop!” she shrieked.

  He did—involuntarily, with his hand on the doorknob, without understanding why.

  “You can’t do this for me?” she asked.

  “I can’t!”

  “Because of my family and my work, I need to do what these people ask me to do—within reason, of course,” she said. “I am not a Nazi issuing an invitation. I’m someone who loves you asking you to help me.”

  Stepping away from the door, Glenn folded his arms and looked at the ceiling. “They probably know everything, don’t they? Everything!”

  Leni shrugged. “I’m not sure. What I know is the Führer’s adjutant said they would join us.” That had been on Tuesday, but she didn’t tell Glenn that. “Can’t you see?” she implored. “I had no choice!”

  “You could have gotten word to me not to come!”

  “Kurt was on his way to get you. And even if I had reached you, they would have known I warned you off.”

  “I could have been sick, I could have had a meeting, or I could have been told I couldn’t leave the Village. We would have come up with something.”

  “They would have been able to check your story . . .”

  Glenn slapped his head with both hands. “This is great,” he said sarcastically. After a long pause, he added, “At least tell me this is going to be a secret!”

  “I will try to see that it is,” Leni said. “But you are acting like no other athletes have met the Führer! They have. More than you know, I am thinking. They have come up to the room behind his box, they have shaken his hand, and they apparently have not felt guilty. They are meeting the leader of the host nation. That is all.”

  Glenn took a deep breath.

  “Please do this,” she pleaded.

  Glenn said tentatively, “You’re saying no pictures or reporters or announcing it to the world, right?”

  “He was angry when someone took a picture of him with your woman runner. He wants the meetings with the athletes to be private.”

  “But if . . . if . . . it ever comes out, you have to back me that I didn’t know this was going to happen,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “And don’t expect me to act like I’m his biggest fan. No ‘Heil Hitler’ from me.”

  “Glenn, just be civil,” she said. “They’ll just think you’re nervous.”

  “And you think I won’t be?” He thought a second. “How ma
ny people is he going to have with him? And who?”

  “I’m not sure,” Leni said. “SS guards, for sure. An adjutant. I don’t know who else.” She was thinking: As long as it’s not Goebbels. “He might not even have his translator with him. I wasn’t told much except they were coming.”

  There was a knock on the door. Leni spoke in German. Stephan stuck his head in. Glenn didn’t understand him, but he knew what he said. From his tone and his anxiousness, it was obvious.

  “They’re pulling up,” Leni said. “We’ll meet them in the viewing room.”

  The room, down the hall, was a small theater with five rows of slightly tiered and anchored seats—functional but short of plush. The door was at the side of the room, with the projector showing in a hole in the wall at one side and the screen set up at the other. Leni left the door and as they waited, she tried to take Glenn’s hand, but he pulled away and backed up. She looked hurt, but then their attention returned to the door as Stephan entered first, showing the way. Then came the three SS men who been waiting in the lobby. They nodded at Leni and surveyed the room. Glenn assumed they already had checked it earlier. He also wondered how he’d react if they tried to search him. They didn’t.

  One SS man returned to the door and stepped into the hall. Glenn could see him nodding, and then another man in uniform entered. The adjutant, Glenn assumed. And then the Führer strode through the door, with more SS men in his wake. Glenn’s heart raced. The Führer wore a brown uniform with a red belt around the jacket, and black boots. Glenn’s eyes were drawn to the medal pinned to his left breast pocket.

  Hitler first went to Leni and briefly took her extended hand in both of his. The ensuing conversation allowed Glenn to assess. The smiles and demeanors seemed cordial and familiar, but short of affectionate. Hitler was even shorter than he expected. Remembering the frequent derisive comparisons to Charlie Chaplin’s Little Tramp quelled his nerves a bit. He decided it wouldn’t be good if he burst out laughing, either.

  With her upturned right hand and a smile, Leni introduced Glenn. He caught the word zehnkampf—decathlon—and his name. Suddenly, they were shaking hands, and Glenn at that instant regretted that he wouldn’t be able to say for sure if he did or didn’t make Hitler reach first. Hitler’s grip in the quick shake was loose and clammy, but his smile seemed sincere as he locked on Glenn’s eyes. Glenn couldn’t resist doing the same. With his head slightly turned to Leni, making it clear she was expected to translate, Hitler spoke for about fifteen seconds.

  Leni waited until she was certain he was through.

  “The Führer congratulates you on your gold medal and says you were heroic,” she told Glenn. “He found it quite exciting to watch you, especially in that last distance race.”

  “Thank you,” Glenn found himself saying. “I was very fortunate.”

  When Leni translated that, Hitler gave a dismissive wave before saying something about Glenn, America, and Germany. That much, Glenn could tell. He also noticed that Hitler’s adjutant and even one of the SS men smiled. Leni translated, “You are a fine representative of your nation, and America should be proud of you for what you have done here in Germany.” Glenn sensed Leni had left something out—perhaps something that prompted the smiles from the others—but he wasn’t about to press the issue. His guess was that he was being congratulated as a champion of the white race.

  “Thank you again,” Glenn said, looking at the Führer and trying not to stare at the moustache. “All athletes owe your nation thanks for doing such a great job of putting on the Games.”

  Your nation. Not you.

  Hitler’s ensuing spiel mentioned both countries, this time with animated hand gestures punctuating his message, and he also nodded toward Leni and the projector showing through the opening in the wall at the back of the room.

  Leni said, “The Führer hopes that in my film, your performance will serve to remind many that our nations have much in common. And that it would be tragic if we don’t strive to remember that moving forward.”

  Glenn stared at Leni, again trying to read whether she had left something out. He wondered if Hitler had said anything to acknowledge that he knew about their affair.

  “I know this film will honor the spirit of friendly competition and sportsmanship,” Glenn said. “I’ll be proud to be in it.”

  Leni spoke in German, gesturing at the seats. One of the SS men acted as an usher, directing Glenn to the front row. Glenn sat, and two of the men in plainclothes joined him, flanking him. Hitler and his adjutant went into the middle row, with SS men on each side. Out of the corner of his eye, Glenn noticed that several men remained standing.

  When the lights went out and the film began, Leni sat at the end of the front row. In the shadowy light from the projector, she caught Glenn’s eyes briefly. It began with prefacing shots of the stadium and then the decathlon men, including Glenn, gathered in the corner of the track, loosening up and picking through their gear.

  He heard the side door open and noticed the brief flash of light from the hall. He turned slightly, noticing two more uniformed men escorting a woman into the room. Blonde, young, plain . . . that was all he could tell without turning completely around and making it obvious. He could tell, though, that she slipped into the back row with her escorts on each side.

  He turned his attention back to the screen.

  The footage stunned him. Glenn had seen himself in pictures, of course, including from football games and track meets, but never in film this clear, this close up, this illuminating, from so many different angles. Leni really is brilliant! He laughed silently, thinking that for a moment, he had forgotten that not only was he on the screen, but that Adolf Hitler was ten feet away, watching the same thing.

  Brief blank, black interludes in the film showed how it was a rough cut, spliced together, but it was in chronological order over the two days. Glenn was discomfited when the camera showed his looks of steely concentration, especially in the field events, where he shifted the shot put back and forth from hand to hand and looked out over the landing area. Yeah, I should have taken off the watch. As the passages continued, the shifting of the camera up and down, showing his legs as he was about to get off throws or jumps, made him feel as if he was about to break into a cold sweat any second as he watched.

  That embarrassment became a feeling of exultation, though, as he watched his best vault, giving him the height he was perfectly satisfied to accept. And he hadn’t realized how extensively he had demolished his competition in his heats of the high hurdles and the 400 meters.

  Hitler clapped in several places—or at least Glenn assumed it was Hitler—prompting others behind him to join in. The Führer’s periodic comments were indecipherable for Glenn.

  The footage showed only seven of the ten events, and was missing the climax—the 1,500 meters. When he thought that was coming up, in fact, they suddenly saw shots of Helen Stephens, both getting ready for and then running in the 100-meter final, and on the victory stand. Next, she ran the final leg of the relay, storming down the stretch and securing another gold medal—after the Germans dropped the baton. Glenn wondered if whoever decided to show that would be in trouble, so he was shocked when he heard applause behind him again.

  He thought it came from the back row, too.

  That’s weird.

  Then, to Glenn’s surprise, there were shots of the opening ceremonies, including several glimpses of Hitler responding to the salutes of the athletes parading on the track. Glenn waited for the American entrance and procession, wondering if he could spot his near-stumble. But his team wasn’t shown before the film returned to Hitler, shown close up from his left, pronouncing the Games open. In the Geyer room, there was applause for that, too. Glenn didn’t join in. Then the screen was black and the projector light went dark. The lights remained out, though, as additional applause came and Glenn sensed movement behind him. He turned slightly and noticed the woman and her escorts heading to the door, and then out into the lighted
hall. He didn’t get much of a look at her before she was gone and the lights came on. Glenn blinked to adjust to the light, but stayed seated. Two rows behind him, Hitler stood. Leni moved to be next to Glenn. Hitler spoke quickly to both of them—first to Glenn, then to Leni. Glenn could tell she thanked him, and then she turned to Glenn to translate. “The Führer said it was even more inspiring on film than in person,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Glenn said. Just keep saying that. That’s all.

  Hitler pointed at the screen and spoke again, and Glenn inferred from the words he caught that the Führer was talking about the shots of him at the opening ceremonies. Hitler was nodding, so he seemed to be approving. Leni didn’t translate that. Then, with no warning, Hitler turned and followed his security entourage down the row and out of the room. Glenn was surprised and relieved that there wasn’t another round of handshaking.

  Soon, Leni and Glenn were alone. She threw her arms around him. He tried to resist, but she was shivering and crying. So he hugged her, too, and as she sobbed, Glenn found himself whispering, “It’s all right.”

  “Each time he looks at anything I have done, I am trying not to fall apart,” she said. “You don’t know how careful I must be. Goebbels hates me so much, the second the Führer wavers about allowing me to be independent, all will fall apart. And my family will be hurt.”

  “I’m figuring that out,” Glenn said. “But that’s the problem. That’s the life you want me to think about joining. What happened to the talk about how it’s all maneuvering and bluster, and it will not turn out to be policy? That he isn’t the monster some say he is? Why are you so scared then? If you’re so scared like this, how can you say you are independent? Look at you! He controls you!”

  “Those are two different things,” she said, still sniffling. “His policies will turn out to be more moderate and I won’t have to worry about my independence being taken away . . . or held against me. The people don’t want another war. They want our prestige and prosperity restored. He is giving them that.”