by Elise Hooper
From behind the wheel, he grinned at her. His only concession to the day’s heat was the fact that his crisp light blue broadcloth shirtsleeves were rolled up around his elbows. “Hiya, kiddo. Aren’t you a cool sight for a hot day?”
“Hardly. I’m practically melting. Thanks for taking me to see Wilson. Sure you don’t want a ride too?”
“If there’s time I’ll go for a spin, but some of Wilson’s tricks can leave me feeling a little green around the gills. I don’t have your stomach of steel,” Bill said.
Betty peeked in the back seat and spotted a straw basket and red-checked tablecloth. “Your favorite? Chicken salad?”
“The one and only. Don’t get mad if I start on some while you’re up in the air.”
“Just don’t eat it all.” Betty ran her fingers through her hair, relishing the air as it rushed by them through the open windows of the car, but then they turned at an intersection. Betty glimpsed a handwritten sign that said Evacuation Sale tacked to a dented mailbox, and the perilousness of her own family’s situation came roaring back to her. All her gaiety evaporated.
Over the purr of the car’s motor, she cleared her throat. “I have some bad news. My father lost his job.”
“Aww, Betty, I’m awful sorry. How’s he taking it?”
“He’s not missing a beat and is already out looking for a new one. It’s distracting him from all of the bad news about Al Smith so I suppose that’s an upshot.” Nominating conventions for both the Republican and Democratic Parties were being held in the city that month, and all anyone could talk about was the candidates.
“At this rate, it sure looks like Governor Roosevelt’s going to steamroll his way into the nomination,” Bill said.
“Father wants nothing to do with Hoover anymore, so we’ll see what happens.” A vision of her mother’s coat about to be hocked flashed before her eyes and her mouth went dry. “But here’s the real stinger: I’m not sure I’ll be returning to Northwestern in the fall. I may have to start looking for a job.”
Bill kept his gaze on the road, and only his fingers tightening on the steering wheel gave her any indication that he had heard her. He turned the car off the main street and onto the bumpy dirt road that led to the airfield. When the vehicle rolled to a stop, he turned to her. “Betty, I was planning on waiting until next year for this, but why not talk about it now? What would you say to marrying me? I’m going to take over my father’s company after graduation, and while business has been shaky, I can keep it together, and keep us together.”
Betty inhaled sharply. “Bill, I didn’t expect this.”
“I know, this is hardly the way I pictured asking you, but maybe this is fate’s way of telling us something. Let’s get married this summer, and my parents can put us up in a place for one more year. It won’t be fancy, but it’s only until graduation. You could finish school, but you won’t need it anymore if we’re married.”
He was right. Her degree in physical education wouldn’t do much for her if she accepted his proposal, since a school district would be unlikely to hire her if she was married. “And what about the Olympics this summer?”
“Go and compete. We can marry at the end of August. You could still coach if you want to. You don’t need a college degree for that.” He laced her fingers through his own, and his hands were cool and dry. How did he always manage to stay so calm and collected? A lifetime with Bill would be safe and happy. How could it not be?
And I won’t be a burden on my family anymore. The temptation to alleviate her father’s worries pulled at her.
“Yes, of course.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled close to him. He tilted her head back and kissed her.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“I can’t help it. I’m so excited.” She pulled back and looked around the airfield like she’d forgotten where they were and then started to pull on her leather flying cap. “My stomach is already flipping before I’ve even gone up into the air.”
“Forget the plane. Let’s go celebrate now.”
“No, this’ll just take a minute, and I’m so hot. I’ll yell the news from the plane to everyone below.”
“Well, in that case.” He laughed and kissed her on the nose. “Be sure to wave at me from up there.”
She opened the car door and stepped onto the grass not far from where her cousin’s sporty little red Waco biplane waited. Wilson and his friend Harold were inspecting the control panels in the pilot’s cockpit.
“Hey, Betty,” called Wilson. “I had some trouble getting her started a few minutes ago, but it looks like we’re back in business.”
Bill stepped from the car and cupped his hand around his mouth to shout, “Take care of this girl. She’s going to be my bride.”
“No kidding.” Wilson looked at Betty, eyebrows raised. “Wow, congratulations! You still want to go up? Don’t you two have something better to do now?”
“We’ll have all summer to celebrate, but I’ve been dreaming of cool air over the lake all morning,” she said. “Want me in front here?” She gestured toward the front seat and Wilson nodded.
Harold dropped to the ground and backed away, waving. “Yeah, it’ll be perfect up there. You two kids have fun.”
From his seat behind Betty, Wilson saluted Harold and Bill and then flipped the switch to start the plane’s engine. The roar of the propeller filled the air. Betty arranged her goggles over her eyes before blowing a kiss to Bill as the little plane sped down the runway and then lurched upward. There was a blur of parched grass and the field dropped away. Betty’s stomach flipped as the small plane rose. The miracle of flying never failed to leave her breathless. She allowed her gaze to leave Bill and she watched the houses and buildings of Harvey and Riverdale shrink to something resembling a child’s doll village. From above, the missing sections of roofs on abandoned factory buildings gaped; dusty yards littered with abandoned tires, broken appliances, and other garbage became visible. Acme Steel’s smokestacks belched out wisps of black smoke. Automobiles crept along the ribbons of roads like ants. Ahead, Lake Michigan glittered across the horizon, tiny white sailboats dotting its surface like pieces of confetti. The air cooled and the tiny blond hairs on Betty’s forearms rose in goose pimples in the sudden coolness of the altitude. She was on top of the world and let out a loud cheer.
Wilson hooted in response and put the plane into a dive to show off his latest maneuvers. Betty grabbed on to the edges of her seat as the plane began a steep decline. For several minutes he wowed her with a series of steep ascents and descents, and she laughed and laughed, loving the exhilaration that filled her with each new trick.
They had just reached the top of an ascent when a jolt shuddered through the plane. The propeller in front of Betty stuttered and then appeared motionless. An eerie silence surrounded them.
Betty sat straighter in surprise at this latest stunt.
Behind her, Wilson mumbled to himself. Everything felt suspended. Aware that she had stopped breathing, Betty exhaled and marveled at the stillness. Blue sky surrounded them, not a single cloud in sight. A perfect day to be in the air.
And then the plane tilted downward.
Sharply.
Before she could register what was happening, they were plunging toward the earth. Where was Bill? Could he see what was happening? The tops of trees, mere pinpricks moments ago, now swelled like opening umbrellas as they hurtled toward them. A riot of sounds filled Betty’s ears, but it wasn’t from the propeller—it was the roar of rushing air, Wilson shouting, and her own screaming.
THE CHICAGO EVENING STANDARD
July 1, 1932
“Girl Olympian Mistaken for Dead”
Harvey—When Mr. Fisher, the undertaker at Oak Forest Funeral Home, received the lifeless body of a young girl taken from the wreckage of a plane, he paused before preparing her for the Great Beyond. Even in her grievous state, she looked familiar. It was at that moment that he noticed her chest rising and falling
and called for emergency services, thereby narrowly averting a tragic mistake!
So who was this hapless victim?
None other than Miss Betty Robinson, whose infectious smile and fleet feet captured the nation’s heart after she won a gold medal in the 1928 Olympics in Amsterdam.
On Sunday, June 28, Miss Robinson, 20, had joined her cousin Wilson Palmer, 18, in his plane for a short ride to escape the heat. After several minutes in the air, the engine stalled at a height of 400 feet before plummeting into a nearby marshy field. A witness found Palmer alive and took him to Ingalls Memorial Hospital, where he is in serious but stable condition with a fractured jaw and broken legs.
Miss Robinson, currently a coed at Northwestern University, remains in a coma at Oak Forest Infirmary. Doctors are not yet commenting on the extent of her injuries, but her accident has shaken her former Olympic teammates and coaches. Major Gen. Douglas MacArthur, head of the 1928 Olympic team, expressed his shock and sorrow, saying, “This tragedy is a great loss for our nation.” Since winning her gold medal in Amsterdam, Miss Robinson had been training for the Olympics taking place in Los Angeles later this month and was favored to win gold again in the 100-meter sprint.
LOS ANGELES MORNING SUN
July 10, 1932
“Stella Walsh for Sale!”
Cleveland—With the Olympic trials less than a week away, Stanislawa Walasiewicz (better known by her Americanized name, Stella Walsh), speediest of the nation’s sprinters, declined American naturalization papers and announced she plans to run for her native country of Poland. Her statement comes as a stunning blow to America’s chances for gold in the upcoming Olympics.
Her trainer and coach begged her to decline the invitation to join the Polish Olympic team, but Walsh remained firm, citing financial concerns. She explained that after being given a furlough of indeterminate duration by her employer, New York Central Railroad, economic hardship is motivating her decision to race for Poland, a country that has offered to pay training and travel expenses for its Olympic athletes, along with offering an academic scholarship to attend university.
Despite criticism that she is being disloyal to the country that raised her, Miss Walsh insisted she had no choice but to accept Poland’s offer. Mr. Walsh, a father of five and a part-time steel-mill worker, tearfully claimed he had no additional means to support his daughter. Cleveland’s mayor, Mr. Raymond T. Miller, offered her a position in the city’s recreation department, but the American Athletic Union stated that taking any recreation-related job would compromise her amateur athlete status and make her ineligible to compete as a member of the United States Olympic team.
Her announcement has raised eyebrows and confirmed the feminine prerogative to change her mind, not to mention the untrustworthy nature of non-American people. “This is a brazen case of professionalism winning over patriotism,” lamented famed basketball coach Mr. R. Baker. Bob Leahy of Cleveland’s city council also expressed his disgust with her decision, saying, “Walsh clearly has no loyalty to her adopted country, so this unemployed Slavic immigrant should go back to where she came from. Good riddance.”
In the last three years, the young woman has set ten records in a variety of different distances and is widely considered a top contender for being the fastest woman in the world.
BOSTON UNION LEADER
July 15, 1932
“Boston-Area Girls Depart for Olympic Trials”
Malden—Three of the state’s top sprinters boarded the train this morning for Chicago, where they hope to secure spots on the Olympic team heading to Los Angeles later this month. Miss Louise Stokes of the Onteora Track Club, Miss Mary Carew of the Medford Athletic Club, and Miss Olive Hasenfus of the Boston Swimming Association have been invited to compete in the women’s 100-meter dash, one of six Olympic events open to the fairer sex. For the last two years, these three women have been thrilling New Englanders with their nail-biting races, during both the indoor and outdoor track seasons. Miss Stokes, the Negro phenom, achieved a national broad jump record in 1931, and Miss Carew holds a national title for the fastest 40-yard-dash time. Miss Hasenfus traveled to the 1928 Olympics in Amsterdam as a reserve member of the American women’s relay team and has held several national titles in various distances since she was fifteen years old, but she’s endured a challenging year as she recovers from a surgery last winter.
Of the fifty hopefuls who will be competing in the 100-meter race, only the top six women sprinters will be selected to travel to Los Angeles as official members of the women’s team under the expertise of Manager Fred Steers and Coach George Vreeland. In the last two weeks, the women’s sprinting field has broken wide open for American racers with Stella Walsh’s announcement that she’ll be racing for Poland and former Olympic gold medalist Betty Robinson’s horrific plane crash. Perhaps one of our Boston girls will find herself leading the charge to gold.
22.
July 1932
Evanston, Illinois
LOUISE HAD RUN IN SOME HOT RACES, BUT THE National AAU Championships in 1932 made all the challenging conditions that had come before seem mild by comparison. That morning, she stayed in the shade of the bleachers whenever she could. After she finished first in her preliminary heat of the 100-yard dash, she returned to the shade and discovered that race officials had decided the high temperatures merited blocks of ice to be brought in to keep the athletes cool. She’d never seen anything like this and was delighted, but even more exciting was who was sitting on one of the blocks of ice, fanning herself with a race program: another black woman. Since Louise had started racing several years earlier, her competitors had been almost all white women.
“Aren’t your shorts getting wet?” Louise asked, hiding her surprise by pointing at the puddle of water pooling by the woman’s feet.
“In this heat, I don’t mind,” the woman answered, running her hand along the side of the ice before placing it on her forehead and smiling. “My name’s Tidye.”
Tidye was small and her skin was the color of coffee with a good dollop of cream stirred in.
Louise introduced herself and sat on a neighboring block. “Where you from?”
“Not far, just south of here. How about you?”
“Massachusetts.”
“Never been, but I’d like to visit someday. I hear it’s pretty, lots of history. Is it hot there too?”
“It can be, but I’ve never felt anything like this,” Louise said, savoring the way her entire body relaxed as it cooled.
At that moment, a tall girl arrived, pushing her short dark hair off her sweaty beet-red forehead. “Hey, Tidye, can you make room for me? Whew, I’m dying.”
“Can’t you find your own?”
“No, they’re all claimed by other girls. Come on, scoot.”
Tidye inched over to make room for her friend and introduced her to Louise as Caroline Hale, another runner from Chicago.
“So, how did the hurdles go?” Tidye asked Caroline.
“I’ve made it into the final heat with that dreadful Babe Didrikson. She’s competing in too many events and it’s slowing everything down while we wait for her to finish one thing before she moves to the next. Every extra second in this sun is making all the girls pretty grouchy.”
“I thought we were limited to three events,” Louise said.
“We’re supposed to be and clearly all the delays prove there’s good reason for that, but apparently the rules are flexible if you have a coach who’s willing to argue loudly enough on your behalf.” Caroline grimaced.
Tidye giggled. “What? Howard’s not doing his job?”
Caroline flushed even redder than she already was from the heat. “My fiancé is my coach,” she explained to Louise. “But I wouldn’t want him to be a squeaky wheel. I want to earn my spot on the team fair and square. That Babe Didrikson’s already got the press eating out of the palm of her hand and can’t stop bragging she’s going to win all the gold medals in Los Angeles.”
“Why do y
ou keep calling her that Babe Didrikson?” Tidye asked.
“Because I don’t like her and this heat is driving me plumb crazy. Is that a good enough reason for you?”
Both Tidye and Louise burst into laughter, and Caroline cracked them a grudging smile.
WHEN THE ANNOUNCER instructed the women in the first semifinal heat to approach their lanes, Louise’s legs felt like they’d turned into liquid. This was her group. Tidye and Mary would be running in the next one.
Since leaving Boston, she and Mary had been inseparable, but not necessarily by choice. They were sharing a room at the AAU-sponsored boardinghouse so it seemed there was never a moment in the day when the two weren’t together, yet if someone had asked if they were friends, Louise would have been hard put to know how to answer. (Fortunately no one asked.) More than anything, they were bound together by knowing each other from home, but both women were reserved by nature, and there was the discomfiting fact that they were in competition with one another. The Olympic team would only take six of the fifty-something women who were entered in the 100-meter sprint. How likely was it that both women would make it? Whenever the thought that Mary would be the one to go to Los Angeles entered Louise’s mind, she pushed it away, not able to bear thinking about it.
Everything hinged on this race.
If she finished in the top three, she was guaranteed a spot in the finals of the sprint and a place on the Olympic team.
The officials prompted the racers and the usual starting routine commenced. Louise fell to a crouch, relieved to allow her legs to buckle. She took a moment to steady herself, quiet her mind, just like Coach Quain had instructed her to do. Feel the ground under your two feet, breathe in and out deeply. In her mind’s eye, she sprang from her crouch and raced down the track with the feeling of the wind at her back, sweeping her along.
When the gun fired, Louise leapt from her start smoothly, her arms and legs moving with precision and purpose. She ran as if her life depended on it, and at that moment, it felt as if it did. The other racers fell behind, but one woman charged ahead in first place, her shoulders just a couple of inches out of reach. Louise put forth a final surge and felt like she was leaving her body, melting into the heat, taxing every cog in the machinery of her body. Just one more beat faster, that was all she needed. One more beat . . .
