by Elise Hooper
Someone handed her autograph book back, and when the interviewer bade her farewell, she glanced at Dee. The two women locked gazes, resignation in both of their expressions.
They followed the attendant from the press office and down a flight of stairs to a small room. A group of black-shirted men entered, each one circling the space, blocking off the doorways, staring through Helen and Dee, their gazes cold and calculating.
The man at the center of it all, Adolf Hitler, marched into the room and stopped in front of Helen so close she could see the smooth skin of his cheeks, the gray hairs bristling his temples and strange little mustache, and the deep furrows between his clear pale blue eyes. He had taken off his trench coat and now sported a military dress uniform, huge swastikas blazing on each sleeve. He smiled at Helen, eyes bulging with delight, and she looked down at him, trying to suppress the nervous laugh that bubbled in her throat.
Before she knew what she was doing, she thrust out her hand for him to shake and pushed her autograph book at him. She watched in fascination as his translator explained that she wanted his autograph. The Führer took a pen from the man and scribbled his signature on a blank page.
At the exact moment he finished signing, a camera flashed.
Hitler startled and his expression transformed from a broad grin into a murderous grimace. He spun around, searching for the source of the flash and bellowing a stream of guttural commands, his face turning a deep shade of violent purple as he shrieked at the photographer standing beside them. Immediately, four black-shirted bodyguards threw themselves onto the photographer and pinned the man by his arms and waist in front of Herr Hitler.
The Führer, still screaming, leered at the photographer, slapping him across the face with a pair of black leather gloves he held in his hand, and then he started kicking the man in the belly.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
With each thud of impact, the photographer let out a desperate sound, a mixture of groan and cry.
The Führer paused, his teeth bared, and lowered his aim to drive his leather boot into the man’s shins. With each strike to the bone, the photographer’s face turned gray with shock and terror. After several strikes, his camera clattered to the ground and Hitler drove it into the wall with the toe of his boot. The sound of glass shattering rang out. A bodyguard opened a door and the other guards tossed the photographer through it. His camera followed. The door slammed behind him.
It all happened so quickly that Helen and Dee froze, only startling back to attention as the black-shirted guards encircled them again. Screams still seemed to echo off the concrete walls of the room. Helen stared at the autograph book in her hand. She didn’t remember anyone handing it back.
The Führer sniffed and rubbed a hand under his nose before turning back to Helen and Dee. He spoke calmly to his translator, gesturing toward Helen, a look of admiration spreading across his face.
The translator swallowed and cleared his throat before speaking carefully in English. “Welcome, Fräulein Stephens. You must consider running for Germany. Fair hair. You are a big, strong woman. The chancellor says you are pure Aryan, no?”
What was she supposed to say? Helen’s insides felt as though they had turned to water and her legs quaked. “Danke?”
Hitler spoke quickly to his translator.
“And how do you like Germany?” the man asked.
“Berlin is beautiful. Even in the rain.”
“Would you care to spend the weekend with the chancellor at his villa at Berchtesgaden?”
Helen blinked, stunned. What?
Before she could react, Dee stepped forward and spoke firmly. “Tell your Führer that Fräulein Stephens is training for Monday’s relay. Please thank him on her behalf, but nein, she’s not available.”
Hitler watched the exchange with interest, and when it became clear that Dee was saying no, he gave Helen a long, icy stare and spoke again to the translator.
“Ah, yes,” the man said. “He says it’s a shame the American women will lose to our team and urges Helen to take care of herself.”
Hitler gave a small shrug, still smiling, and then leaned toward Helen to embrace her. She recoiled, but he moved quickly, reaching his hands around her waist and rubbing them up and down her buttocks several times. She inhaled in horror. Was no one going to stop him? He finished his explorations with a sharp pinch, stood back, saluted her, and then marched from the room without a backward glance.
Helen and Dee remained rooted in the center of the small room, stunned.
The aide cleared his throat and gestured toward the door that would take them outside.
With a shaking arm, Helen grabbed Dee’s elbow, and they followed him.
In the harsh overhead lighting of the concrete hallway, the aide gave them a wolfish smile. “Fräuleins, be careful.”
52.
August 4, 1936
Berlin
BETTY PULLED A SILVER FLASK FROM HER TRACK BAG and poured some whiskey into Helen’s coffee. “Drink this,” she said.
After taking a long swig, Helen lowered the mug. It was empty and her hand had finally stopped shaking.
From where she sat across from Helen and Betty, Ruth glanced around the team’s dining hall. “I must leave today. The Führer has taken a special interest in you and you denied him. It’s all too much attention. This can only lead to trouble for me.”
“I know, I’m sorry, but—” Helen started to say.
“Ruth’s right,” Betty said, cutting her off. “You just said that the Führer’s aide even repeated the warning to be careful.”
Helen cradled her head in her hands. “I’ve really made a hash of this, haven’t I? The last thing I wanted to do was put you at risk. What about your family?”
A wisp of sympathy passed over Ruth’s face as she leaned across the table, taking both of Helen’s hands in hers. She opened her mouth to say something, but suddenly Harriet appeared beside them, raising a newspaper over the table to get their attention. “Oh my goodness, Helen, I’m so sorry.”
The three women stared at Harriet.
“For what?” Helen asked, her annoyance plain.
A smirk curled at the corners of Harriet’s mouth. Athletes from other tables were now watching them. Harriet stuck out her chest, dropped the newspaper onto the table, and squealed loudly, “Why, haven’t you heard? The Polish team is accusing you of being a man!”
If Harriet had tossed a grenade onto the table, she couldn’t have achieved more of an explosive reaction.
From a neighboring table, Annette stood. “What in the world? That’s ridiculous!”
“Did she just say a man? Sounds like sour grapes to me. Helen, don’t read that garbage,” Olive said.
“How desperate! It’s such poor sportsmanship.” Gertrude shook her head.
Everyone else burst into expressions of outrage and amazement, but Helen froze. Betty grabbed for the paper and held her breath, forcing herself to read the headline of the evening edition of one of Berlin’s English-language newspapers:
HELEN STEPHENS: WOMAN, MAN, OR FREAK?
Betty gasped, but before she could see more of the story Helen snatched the paper to hold it closer to her face, effectively blocking everyone else from seeing it. “I beat Stella, so they have to spread lies? Those Poles sure are a desperate lot, aren’t they?” A tight grin was fixed on her face, but Betty could detect a sharp edge in her voice. Helen rose from her seat, folding the newspaper and tucking it under her arm. “I’m going back to my room to get some rest. See you all tomorrow.”
“Don’t even think about that baloney tonight. Sleep well,” Gertrude called. The other athletes nodded and settled back into their meals, but Betty grabbed Ruth’s hand and they followed Helen outside.
“Helen? Wait,” Betty called after her.
Helen turned, her face taut with terror.
“What does it say?” Betty demanded, running to Helen’s side.
“It says I’m a freak. That I’m lyin
g and really a man.”
“But that’s nonsense.”
“Is it? Betty, I’m not like you. I’m not pretty. I’m tall, ugly, and awkward and I’ve never been able to picture myself getting married and having a bunch of kids like everyone else. I’m different.”
“None of that makes you a freak . . . or a man, for that matter. This is all part of a smear campaign to discredit your victory today. Maybe Ruth’s been right. Maybe this is how the Nazis will hurt you.”
Helen thrashed her finger on the word Freak in the headline. “Well, this hurts. This is exactly what I am. I’ve always been different. Since I’ve started running, I’ve become more acceptable, but I’m still a freak. Apparently I’ve fooled no one.”
“Stop saying things like that.” Betty turned to enlist Ruth’s support in comforting Helen, but their guide had wrapped her arms around her chest and was shivering.
“Girls?” Dee approached the three of them. “I take it you’ve heard the Polish team’s accusations?”
Helen’s face reddened and while her gaze dropped to her feet, Betty pictured Helen holding Stella’s hand on the medals podium and wanted to scream in fury. Without another word, she tore the newspaper from Helen’s hand and ripped it in half. “Of all the betrayals! Why, that Stella Walsh can—”
“She had nothing to do with it,” Helen whispered.
“How do you know?” Betty asked, crumpling the newspaper remnants into a ball. “Since St. Louis, she’s said all kinds of dreadful things about you.”
“Not this. I got a good look at her today up close. It wasn’t her.”
Dee nodded. “It seems the Germans have become more threatened by you. I’m sure they’re behind this.”
“But what’s she supposed to do now?” Betty asked.
Dee sighed. “Officials are saying she has to have a medical exam to prove she’s a woman. A group of doctors at the infirmary can do it.”
Betty couldn’t breathe. The idea of Helen stripping naked in front of a bunch of strange men and letting them poke and prod her? It was unthinkable. She glanced at Helen and saw the horror of the same realization stamped across her face.
“But once I do it, they’ll stand by me?”
“Yes, they’ll certify the results and disprove all of this nonsense.” Dee rubbed a circle on Helen’s shoulder blades awkwardly. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not an ideal solution.”
For once, Helen appeared defeated. “No, it’s not.”
“I told Mr. Brundage you would go to the infirmary at seven o’clock in the morning, when it opens. Get it over with. They’ll be ready for you. And, Miss Haslie, I’m afraid it’s time for you to go.”
53.
August 5, 1936
Berlin
A NURSE LED HELEN INTO AN EXAM ROOM AND INSTRUCTED her to take off her clothing and don the thin cotton gown that lay folded in a square on a wooden chair beside her. The woman left and Helen changed quickly and sat at the edge of the exam table. She blinked back tears and started to tremble. All night long the article had run through Helen’s mind, over and over, and by this point, she could practically recite it word for word.
The fragile bit of strength she had cultivated ever since winning the race against Stella Walsh back in St. Louis disintegrated with every typed word of the story. It had summed up every doubt that she had ever had about herself. The store-bought clothes, the permanent wave, the lipstick, the fancy high heels—none of it could disguise what she truly was: an imposter. Now the whole world knew what she had known all along.
And she had lost Ruth.
A sickening sense of vertigo overcame her and she reached for the metal trash can beside the exam table and retched into it.
When she was done, she stood and wiped her mouth just as the door clanged open. Five doctors marched in, all wearing white medical coats and grim expressions.
“Fräulein Stephens,” said one of the doctors, speaking in a heavy French accent. He stepped forward, brandishing a clipboard, and started to thumb through some papers. “We have the report your team doctor conducted before you boarded the S.S. Manhattan. This document is official and confirms your sex, so we do not need to conduct an exam.”
Relief flooded Helen, but something inside her sparked. A realization. Her relief morphed into something jagged and angry. “Why didn’t this information get reported yesterday? Why were the newspapers allowed to perpetuate lies about me without the IOC coming to my defense sooner?”
Five impassive faces glared back at her. The French doctor gave a gesture of dismissal. “Today the newspapers will report that you’re a woman. Or maybe tomorrow.”
She tried to keep her voice measured, calm. “But again, why didn’t anyone come to my defense sooner?”
The man licked his lips, seemingly enjoying himself as he took his time with his verdict. “That is not our job. Nevertheless, I will write up a report and make it available to the public later.”
All the humiliations she had suffered over the years flooded through her in a torrent. Pa’s cruelties, her cousin’s abuse, Ish’s taunts of Popeye. Though she realized the doctors could probably see through her near-transparent gown, she stood, steeling herself against their callous inspection of her, their nonchalance toward her pain and indignation. This was no time to back down. Let them look. After all, wasn’t that what they were really here for? She straightened her shoulders and loomed several inches taller than the men, and this brought a measure of satisfaction.
She gritted her teeth. “The fact that lies have been spread about me is unacceptable. I insist that the IOC issue an immediate statement confirming the truth about my sex. Write your report now.”
The doctor removed his glasses and polished both lenses with the lapel of his white coat as he glanced around at his colleagues. “Ah, if nothing else, the mademoiselle confirms her sex with her impatience and lack of reason, oui?”
A German doctor chuckled. “Fräulein, what is the rush? All attention is on the German women now and their victory in the relay is imminent. While you have proven to be a force on the track, there is only one of you and your teammates are”—he pursed his lips—“lacking. You will not be news anymore. No one is interested in hearing more about the distasteful subject of your sex.”
The other doctors sneered in agreement, and Helen was filled with a rage so hot and all-consuming, she could have sworn the dank room heated several degrees. She raised her finger and pointed it at the German doctor, stepping toward the men menacingly. They shuffled away slightly.
“I will do everything in my power to see that my teammates and I beat your team and win gold in that relay. I’m tired of you little men in your little white coats thinking that you’re so superior to me. At this point, I have many friends who are reporters and I can assure you that I will have them dig around in your little lives to find things that would be greatly embarrassing if they were to make it into the press. Perhaps some financial malfeasance that could jeopardize your business standing. Or maybe the discovery of private associations that could bring instability to your family life. Or possibly revelations that you have a taste for something distasteful, shocking, maybe even deviant. Because with all of your smug expressions and the advantages endowed by your powerful positions, I’m sure there are things you hide. Whatever your secrets, let’s put your lives up to public scrutiny and test your reputations and see how it feels, shall we? It could be an interesting experiment, don’t you think? So, before we have to discuss this any further, go and write up that report that clears my name now. If your report is not included in this afternoon’s newspapers, expect some uncomfortable consequences. Are we clear?”
Without another word, the doctors scurried for the door.
54.
August 5, 1936
Berlin
“I HAVE NO IDEA HOW I WILL BACK UP MY THREAT IF THEY don’t come through with their report, but it sure was satisfying to tell those doctors off,” Helen said, her blood still throbbing hot and angry
through her veins.
Dee, sitting on Betty’s bed, folded her arms across her chest. “Your name will be cleared. I’m sure none of those fellows wants to test your resolve. Plus, Mr. Brundage doesn’t want any gold medals in question.”
Betty paced the floor of the small dorm room. “Maybe Mr. Brundage should be more concerned about the welfare of his athletes than the medals count.”
Dee shifted and crossed her legs. “Ladies, it’s time we start talking about the relay team. Helen, if you want to race in it and your legs feel strong enough, I see no reason to hold you back.”
Helen wasn’t going to let aching legs stop her now. Thinking back to her encounter with Hitler, how he had abused the photographer and then mistreated her, made her resolve to win even stronger. She also blamed her German hosts for her loss of Ruth, her first love. She could summon the memory of how Ruth would shiver with delight as Helen kissed the soft patch of skin on her neck with such clarity that it made her chest ache. “I’m ready to give the relay everything I’ve got and then some. We’ve got to win it and beat these Germans.”
Dee picked at the satin trim at the edge of the wool blanket beneath her. She didn’t look at either woman as she spoke. “The Germans have a very strong team. They’re the favorites. Even with you out there, I’m not sure we have enough speed to beat them.”
“Who else will race?” Betty asked.
“Helen is a given. Beyond her, I’m thinking of you and Annette. You both have relay experience and have been running well.”
“And the fourth?” Helen asked.
“I don’t know yet. We’ll see how Tidye does in the hurdles over the next couple of days. Harriet’s been racing well too.”
