Fast Girls

by Elise Hooper

  “Attagirl. Don’t let a single drop go to waste,” Eleanor said, hiccupping. Then she let out a small shriek and pointed toward the crowd. “Look.”

  Betty arched her head to follow Eleanor’s gaze. At the moment she spotted Mr. Brundage, his eyes met Eleanor’s. He stiffened, his face froze.

  Eleanor pursed her lips into a pout and blew him a kiss. “Yoo-hoo, you can’t escape me, you old toad!”

  He turned on his heel and walked in the other direction, disappearing into the crowd, one more man in a black tuxedo.

  “Isn’t this rich?” Eleanor howled with laughter and grabbed the sleeve of a passing waiter to take another glass. Betty also exchanged her empty coupe for a full one.

  “To Berlin,” they all cried, raising their drinks for another toast.

  Eleanor stepped back and dabbed at the tears of laughter gathering in the corners of her eyes. “Darlings, I’m off to explore,” she said. “See you soon.”

  As she pirouetted away, Betty, Helen, and Ruth sipped at their champagne, watching the crowd. Suddenly a man in a crisp military uniform appeared next to Helen and tapped on her shoulder.

  “Excuse me, Fräulein Stephens and Fräulein Robinson, Herr Göring has expressed that he would be honored to meet you. Please follow me.”

  Helen shrugged and took a step after him as Betty and Ruth exchanged concerned looks before hurrying to follow.

  The never-ending champagne had begun to take its toll and voices had gotten louder, the dancing looser and more daring. Betty passed a woman whose evening gown was hiked up around her thighs, gyrating as her dance partner looked on with a glassy, rapt expression. Torches cast elongated shadows of men and women pressed together into embraces. Betty passed the debauchery and followed the soldier into the castle. Down a long dark paneled hallway they went until reaching a heavy door. The soldier rapped on it, and the door swung open to reveal a long rough-hewn wooden table, its legs carved with elaborate designs. He gestured for the women to enter and then stepped back, his heels clicking together. The door closed with a heavy clank and he was gone.

  The room was warm and smelled of melting candle wax and roasting meat, something gamey. Classical music played on a large radio console behind them, its beat low and heavy. Betty looked to Helen and saw her friend’s expression, both fascinated and repulsed, so she turned and looked farther down the table to where a corpulent man sat, splayed in a heavy wooden chair resembling a throne. He wore a black silk robe that gaped at his chest, revealing rolls of pale flesh sprouting occasional tufts of graying hair. His thinning oiled dark hair was combed back, though several strands had sprung loose and hung lank across his forehead. Surrounding the second-most-powerful man in the Reich, several women in skimpy peignoirs lounged, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed. Göring squinted at his glass and grunted, and one of the women stumbled to a table to fetch a magnum to pour more wine. Another tottered to her feet and stood behind him, massaging his neck, as he surveyed Helen, Betty, and Ruth. Slapping the masseuse’s hands away, he stood.

  He snapped his fingers and the wine server thrust heavy glasses of Burgundy into the hands of Helen, Betty, and Ruth. Up close, the woman’s pupils were so dilated that her empty eyes appeared black. Betty looked into her glass of wine. It was dark and thick, almost syrupy. Could something other than wine be in it? She glanced over at Ruth and Helen, who were also peering into their glasses, their expressions similarly troubled.

  Betty backed away at the same time Herr Göring approached with one slablike hand extended toward Helen. She remained motionless, but this didn’t stop him from taking her hand to lift it to his lips. Behind him, the wine server, masseuse, and other women slunk toward the back of the room, disappearing behind a red velvet wall hanging.

  Betty ran her hand over her forehead. Her earlier giddiness from the champagne and the dancing evaporated, and she tried to breathe in the suffocating heat of the room.

  He turned to Betty. As his lips landed on the top of Betty’s hand, she suppressed the urge to grimace at the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. When he released her hand, she unobtrusively wiped it down the back of her dress.

  “Willkommen. Sit. Drink,” he growled before reaching for Ruth’s hand, but rather than letting him paw her, she stepped back into Helen, who reflexively wrapped her arm around Ruth’s shoulders possessively. It took only a split second for Helen to realize what she’d done and drop her arm from Ruth, but it was too late.

  A slow, oily expression of delight quirked at the corners of Göring’s mouth. “This is interesting. What do we have here?”

  Helen pushed her glass to him. “Bitte, Herr President Göring, but I’m afraid we have a team curfew. We must leave.”

  “Nein. We only have two chairs, but perhaps you”—he pointed at Ruth—“can sit on Fräulein Stephens’s lap? I would like to see that.”

  Betty peeked over her shoulder toward the closed door. Could they leave? The empty mahogany chairs in front of them appeared heavy, impossible to move. Once they were seated, there would be no quick escape.

  At that moment, the door clicked open behind them and the soldier reappeared. He murmured something to Herr Göring, who promptly grunted.

  The attaché turned to the women. “Fräuleins, Herr President has an important phone call. Please excuse him.”

  “Nein, they wait.”

  “But we have team curfew,” Helen repeated.

  Her protests made Göring’s leer turn menacing. “Ach, you disgust me. I can cause many problems for anyone. Even a champion,” he spat, before turning and storming away, his back as broad as a boulder.

  Betty, Ruth, and Helen hesitated, shocked, but then they spun and raced for the door without bothering to wait for the attaché. They continued down the hallway toward the main entrance and dashed outside to the terrace, where Betty searched the crowd for a familiar face. “Thank goodness for that phone call,” she said, her lungs heaving with the cool air and the skunky smell of river water. “That was about to get ugly.”

  “But we could have outrun him,” Helen said in a shaky voice that undermined the bravado of her words.

  “No. These things cannot be outrun. This is very bad,” Ruth said. Her face appeared bloodless, her eyes wide with terror.

  “Let’s go,” Betty said, pointing and moving ahead to weave through the crowd. When she looked over her shoulder to make certain they were following her, Helen was practically dragging a stunned-looking Ruth.

  A redheaded woman lurched into her path, a bottle of champagne in her hand. Betty took in the familiar snub-nosed profile. “Harriet?”

  Their teammate turned. Her lipstick had smeared, leaving her face blurry, her expression hard to decipher. “Well, if it isn’t everyone’s beloved Olympians?” she slurred, raising the bottle to drink out of it directly. Foam sloshed from its opening and bubbled down the dark green glass.

  “Harriet, we’re leaving. You should come with us. It’s getting late.” Helen reached for her pale freckled arm, but Harriet shook her off.

  “I’m staying.”

  “But we have a busy schedule tomorrow. It’s Opening Ceremonies. Come on,” Helen urged.

  “No!” Harriet’s voice rose in indignation. “I’m having fun.”

  “Are you sure?” Betty said, lowering her voice as people turned to check the commotion.

  Harriet leaned in and hissed, “You don’t get it, do you? Both of you will race. Helen’s the star of the show and you’re the one everyone loves. And you?” She looked at Ruth, her lips twisting in an ugly sneer. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re too beautiful for your own good.”

  “We dance!” A young blond man in a military uniform appeared at Harriet’s side and looped his arm around her waist. He pulled her close roughly, tearing a ruffle from her dress, but neither noticed. Harriet giggled, her arms dangled by her sides as if boneless, and he tugged her away; they vanished into a cloud of laughter and cigarette smoke.

  Betty and Helen shook thei
r heads but continued pressing through the crowd in search of Mrs. Brown.

  “She’s over there,” Helen cried, pointing to their chaperone standing alongside a table laden with small plates of sliced Frankfurter Kranz, Kaiserschmarrn, and other desserts.

  Betty dashed up to her. “We’re ready to go.”

  “Isn’t it a bit early?” Mrs. Brown asked, grasping her dessert plate tightly.

  “We need to be home before curfew,” Helen said, taking her plate. “You can have this in the car.”

  “My, you three are such responsible girls,” Mrs. Brown said, her gaze lingering on her slice of cake longingly. “Fine, fine, off we go.”

  Once they were settled in the back seat of their black sedan, a deep rumbling shook the automobile. Red, orange, and bright green flashes of light bathed the air overhead. All four women whipped their heads around in alarm to look out the rear window. Fireworks lit the sky, blooming in sprays of tinted stars. Each boom reverberated in Betty’s chest.

  “Helen—” Betty started, but Helen waved her off, her gaze resting on Ruth, who sat rigid, her back toward them as she faced the window, her shoulders trembling as if she was weeping.

  51.

  August 4, 1936

  Berlin

  WHENEVER HELEN HAD IMAGINED RUNNING THE 100-meter in the Olympics, she’d pictured a glorious summer day and a crowd booming with adulation as she roared down the straightaway to capture her title as fastest woman in the world. In reality, it was nothing like that. For most of the morning of her race, a light drizzle had fallen, but when Helen arrived at the stadium for her first competition, the discus throw, the drizzle thickened to a lashing rain. Multiple events were under way in the stadium, and the whole place felt disorganized, chaotic, and cold.

  Helen knew she needed to focus on competing, but since the party on Pfaueninsel Island, Ruth had been a nervous wreck and threatening to leave Berlin. Helen felt sick with how she had put Ruth at risk. She should have known better. Now here she was—alone, drenched, and standing in soggy wet grass awaiting her turn in the discus, an event she had little chance of winning. Her navy-blue sweatshirt and pants hung off her, waterlogged and heavy, and hanks of her hair stuck plastered to her forehead.

  Over on the track, the racers began to gather for the 100-meter finals.

  Helen strained to see if her running competitors had taken their places, but saw only the three German women who had qualified for the finals circling the starting area. Could officials start the finals of the 100-meter without her? Was that even possible? She shifted from side to side with impatience as Gisela Mauermayer, a German woman in first place in the discus, began bobbing up and down to prepare for her final throw. If Helen missed her race because of the discus, she would be beside herself. She had been waiting far too long for this rematch with Stella and could scarcely wait to beat the Polish runner again!

  Helen squinted into the rain toward the starting area for the 100-meter. Five women—everyone but her—stood listening to instructions from the officials. Annette, tall and narrow, towered over dark-haired Stella. Even from her spot across the wide expanse of field, Helen could sense Stella’s taut focus and anxiety. Since they had met in St. Louis, Helen had been eager to prove her mettle against the other woman, and when reporters goaded her for a snappy bit of copy on their rivalry for their newspapers, she was always happy to oblige. But watching Stella huddled against the cold wind, Helen shivered. Maybe she had it all wrong. She could get invited to fancy parties and kiss beautiful women, but the truth was that she had more in common with Stella than she did with most other people. Running defined them.

  “Fräulein Stephens!” a judge shouted, and Helen sprang forward, rolling up the sodden sleeve on her right arm before reaching for the discus. She wrapped her pruned fingers around the edge of it, slippery and cold in her hands. She stepped into the throwing area, trying to still her mind, but it was impossible not to strain her ears, listening for the announcer to mention final call for the 100-meter. She needed to be done with her field event so she could get to running, so she bobbed, began her spin, and let the cold wind rip the discus from her. As soon as it left her hand, she felt the imbalance, the uncertainty. The discus wobbled and spun through the rain until it landed with a thud nowhere near Gisela’s distance marker, far from what she needed to get out of the middle of the pack.

  Helen didn’t even wait for her official result on the throw, but instead turned and jogged toward the track. When she reached the starting area, she sought out Dee, peeling off her wet tracksuit as she approached her.

  “How did it go over there?”

  “I’m in eighth place at the moment, but there are still more throws.”

  Dee sighed. “Well, this is your best event. We know Stella didn’t run her fastest yesterday, so don’t take anything for granted.”

  Helen nodded, cupped her hands, and blew on them, trying to regain some feeling in her fingertips.

  Annette jogged over and hopped up and down, attempting to stay warm. Goose pimples dotted her skin.

  Dee dashed a towel over Annette’s shoulders. “What about you? Ready?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Dee nodded and the women turned and headed for their lanes on the track. Helen tried to steady her breathing, but her white satin tank top felt tight across her broad chest. The wet red cinder clumped underfoot, sticking to her black leather track shoes. The last few days jumbled through her mind. The crowds and pageantry of the Opening Ceremonies, her massage sessions at the infirmary, watching Jesse Owens win both the 100-meter and the long jump. She wanted to win too.

  She wanted a gold medal.

  No, she needed a gold medal.

  Without one, she was nothing.

  With numb fingers, she dug her starting position into the cinder. Small pools of water immediately appeared in the divots where she needed to place her feet. Stella lowered into her crouch. The people in the stands, yelling and screaming, appeared immune to the weather.

  The starting official took his position and signaled for the women to take their places. She crouched and rocked back and forth, stretching her shoulders. Her fingers dug into the clumps of wet cinder. Helen followed the starter’s commands and let everything and everyone drop away, her mind clear and ready. She inhaled and felt the breath travel easily as if reaching every corner of her body. Her shins no longer hurt. Everything seemed to quiet as the rain eased into a drizzle and the wind died.

  The gun fired.

  Helen sprang from her starting crouch and leapt into the lead. Her body moved as if in a dream, effortlessly, as if her feet barely skimmed the red cinder. She was alone on the track and all she could hear was the steadiness of her own breathing in and out of her lungs, her heart pounding in her ears. And before she knew it, the ribbon snapped across her chest and she raised her hands. She had done it. No one else was even close.

  Her final time: 11.5 seconds.

  Though Annette and the officials were congratulating her, Helen turned to find Stella standing several feet away, bewildered and small, her shoulders hunched against the drizzle. Helen reached out and took the other runner’s hand in her own. Though disappointment pooled in Stella’s eyes, her face relaxed into a shy smile.

  Helen allowed herself to be guided by several young girls in white dresses adorned with flowers in their hair to the medalists’ podium, but kept Stella close to her side. Together they climbed onto the steps and joined Germany’s Käthe Krauss, the third-place finisher. An official took his position with the medals. Once the laurel wreath was placed on her head and her gold medal looped around her neck, Helen smiled at the sea of flags waving in the distance, all different colors, a blurred rainbow in the gray landscape. Music played, but it was hard to hear over the yelling. There was little time to savor anything. As soon as the anthem finished, the officials and her teammates pulled her apart from Stella and towed her toward the sidelines. Dee pushed through the runners and officials and pulled Helen
into a tight embrace.

  “Well done! Now we need to get you to the telegraph office for a radio interview,” she said, thrusting Helen’s track bag at her.

  A young aide clad in a khaki-colored army uniform moved into their path. “Sieg Heil! Fräulein Stephens, the Führer would like to meet you.”

  “The Führer?” She gazed up to the Führer’s special viewing box and there he was, looking straight at her, the little familiar dark-haired man in his double-breasted trench coat, his hand outstretched in that awkward Nazi salute. All the heat that had suffused her since winning vanished and she felt every drop of the cold drizzle pelting her shoulders.

  “Kommen Sie.” The aide gestured for her to follow him.

  “No!” Dee took Helen’s arm and tugged her away. “She has a radio interview with CBS now.” She leaned into Helen and whispered, “Start walking.”

  Helen did exactly that. She stretched out her famously long stride and marched alongside Dee to the press office. The attendant hurried along beside them, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “I tell mein Führer no? You must kommen. Kommen Sie mit!”

  He reminded Helen of a small dog yipping and leaping along at her heels, an ankle biter. Her vision shrank into a pinhole as she bored her way through the throng, trying to ignore the entreaties of the Nazi official and the calls for attention from the crowd. Dee wrapped one arm around Helen and used the other to push through the people in front of them. They made it to the press office and the young man followed them, watching as Helen was perched in front of a large microphone and earphones were placed on her head.

  She forced herself to smile widely, laughed and accepted congratulations, but felt as though she was watching herself from a distance. Her chest seized into a rock of anxiety and she could barely force air into her lungs. Where was Ruth? Although she answered the interviewer’s questions and even made a few jokes, she had no idea what she was saying, but it didn’t seem to matter—everyone looked delighted. She pulled her autograph book from her bag and handed it around for signatures. All the while, her stomach clenched into a tight fist, equal parts anticipation and fear. She knew the Nazi attendant was watching her every move. There was no way she could sneak out of this invitation.