Table of Contents
Synopsis
What Reviewers Say About Yolanda Wallace’s Work
By the Author
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Books Available from Bold Strokes Books
Synopsis
Germany’s Meike von Bismarck is rich, famous, and the top-ranked amateur female tennis player in the world. She seems to have it all, but the Nazis want more. Can Meike deliver the victories Adolf Hitler requires on court while keeping her soul intact off it?
Brash American Helen Wheeler has reached the upper echelons of women’s tennis, but her fiery temper and headline-grabbing social life have prevented her from being accepted by the genteel sport’s fans. When a shadowy government agent presents Helen with compromising photographs of her with Meike von Bismarck, her one-time doubles partner and former lover, will Helen allow her career to be derailed by an inevitable morals charge or will she agree to spy on the woman she once loved?
What Reviewers Say About Yolanda Wallace’s Work
The War Within
“The War Within has a masterpiece quality to it. It’s a story of the heart told with heart—a story to be savored—and proof that you’re never too old to find (or rediscover) true love.”—Lambda Literary
Rum Spring
“The writing was possibly the best I’ve seen for the modern lesfic genre, and the premise and setting was intriguing. I would recommend this one.”—The Lesbrary
Murphy’s Law
“Prepare to be thrilled by a love story filled with high adventure as they move toward an ending as turbulent as the weather on a Himalayan peak.”—Lambda Literary
Break Point
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Break Point
© 2015 By Yolanda Wallace. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-569-5
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
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First Edition: October 2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Cindy Cresap
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design By Sheri([email protected])
By the Author
In Medias Res
Rum Spring
Lucky Loser
Month of Sundays
Murphy’s Law
The War Within
Love’s Bounty
Break Point
Writing as Mason Dixon:
Date with Destiny
Charm City
Acknowledgments
Tennis and history have always been two of my major passions. With this book, I was able to combine both interests. Break Point was inspired by the lives of two tennis greats—Baron Gottfried von Cramm and Alice Marble.
Modern tennis fans often call the 2008 Wimbledon final between Rafael Nadal and Roger Federer the greatest tennis match of all time. Tennis historians, however, consider the 1937 Davis Cup match between German Baron Gottfried von Cramm and American Don Budge to be even greater. The stakes were certainly higher in the earlier match than the one that came seventy-one years later. When Nadal and Federer squared off, only a Grand Slam title and professional pride were at stake. When von Cramm and Budge faced each other, the result was practically a matter of life and death.
Californian Alice Marble was one of the pioneers of serve-and-volley tennis. She was also one of the few female players in the 1930s who dared to wear shorts on court. Her affairs with men and women were well-known, but her role as a spy during WW II remained a closely guarded secret until she revealed the details in her 1991 autobiography.
Though Break Point is a work of fiction, I tried to make the characters and the often dire straits in which they find themselves as real as possible. Please be sure to let me know if I have succeeded.
As always, thank you to Radclyffe; my editor, Cindy Cresap; and the rest of the BSB team for making the publishing process so enjoyable.
I would also like to give my sincere thanks to the readers. I appreciate your continued support as well as your feedback. Keep those comments coming!
And last but not least, thank you, Dita, for always being in my corner. Game, set, match.
Dedication
To Dita.
In tennis, love means nothing. Since I met you, however, it has meant everything.
Chapter One
September 1937
Berlin, Germany
“Next stop, Alexanderplatz.” The customs agents roamed the narrow aisle with passport stamps dangling between their ink-stained fingers. They had come on board after the train crossed the border between France and Germany and had been making their way through the long string of cars ever since. “Please have your papers ready for examination before the train reaches the station.”
Meike von Bismarck, Germany’s most accomplished amateur female tennis player, gathered her belongings. After a storm-tossed week-long ocean voyage from America, followed by a bumpy train ride from Paris to Berlin, she was ready to relax for a few days and spend time with friends before she began the final leg of her journey. A relaxing car trip in the passenger’s seat of her friend Friedrich’s new Rolls-Royce Phantom, a gift from a wealthy male admirer, would take her home to her family’s lakeside estate along the Swiss border. But home could wait. First she wanted to spend some time in one of her favorite cities in the world.
Friedrich, the most renowned—some would say infamous—drag performer in Berlin, had warned her the city wasn’t the same as it once was, but she hoped he was exaggerating as he was often wont to do.
In its heyday, Berlin was home to hundreds of nightclubs catering to gay men and lesbians or adventurous liberals looking for a good time. Lesbians could live openly, but gay men had to be much more discreet. Nevertheless, gay men were so popular in certain circles, they were practically fashion accessories. No night on the town was complete without a visit to one of Berlin’s notorious gay bars, which featured something for all tastes. From classy cabarets where the dress code was strictly black tie to more rough and tumble establishments featuring live sex shows on any or all of multiple floors.
But that was before. Before local police stopped looking the other way. Before Paragraph 175 and the Nuremberg Laws made sex something to be kept secret instead of celebrated. Before the Austrian came to power.
“Your papers, please.”
Meike reached into her handbag, pulled out her travel documents, and handed them to the customs agent who had asked to see them. The agent checked the documents a bit too thoroughly for her comfort, then, betraying his milita
ry background, clicked his heels and returned the papers with a slight bow.
“Welcome home, Miss von Bismarck.”
“Thank you. It’s good to be back.”
Despite the long voyage, Meike disembarked the train with a bounce in her step. She loved being able to see the world, which her tennis career allowed her to do, but nothing could take the place of home. The region she had grown up in had remained unchanged for hundreds of years, but she couldn’t say the same for Berlin. Her heart sank as she realized Friedrich was right. The city that had once beckoned artists and writers with its promises of freedom now felt like the capital of a police state.
The train station was a beehive of activity, but, except for the employees, the people in it were ominously quiet. Black-uniformed SS officers and scowling youths in brown shirts and matching trousers cowed everyone within their purview into submission, their steely eyes daring anyone to question their authority. Returning and departing passengers with downcast eyes and wary expressions scurried to their destinations like children trying not to raise the ire of an overly strict parent. The scene made Meike wonder if she had stayed away too long or if she hadn’t stayed away long enough.
She watched as a family of three—a man, a woman, and their young daughter, a wisp of a thing in pigtails and a sack-like jumper she had yet to grow into—were paraded through the station by a cadre of armed guards. The woman’s hatbox, which was clutched under one guard’s arm, bulged with rolls of badly concealed Reichsmarks.
Attempting to smuggle money out of the country was a serious offense in cash-starved Germany. Even married couples who forgot to remove their wedding rings before they left the country were subject to stiff fines. If found guilty, the frightened family Meike was seeing now would undoubtedly receive an even harsher punishment.
She tipped a porter a few marks of her own to place the six large steamer trunks she had lived out of for the past three months into temporary storage. Then she continued on her way, a bit more cautiously than before.
Gripping her weekend bag in one hand and her tennis racquets in the other, she exited the train station. Outside, she shuddered, not at the steadily dropping temperature but at the sight of the swastika-emblazoned red, white, and black flags flapping in the breeze. Seeing the symbol of the National Socialist Party never failed to strike fear into her heart. Seeing so many of them lining the street made her wonder yet again about the direction her country was headed. How could so many of her countrymen choose to remain silent when millions of their compatriots were being slaughtered or left to die in the concentration camps that were springing up all over Germany? Were they afraid for their lives or were they too busy celebrating the economic turnaround that had finally put an end to years of rampant inflation to question the tactics of the man responsible?
Despite the public’s good spirits, war seemed almost inevitable. Meike wouldn’t have thought it a few years or even a few months ago, but the house painter from the tiny village of Braunau Am Inn had whipped a military still recovering from the lingering effects of the previous global conflict into a bloodthirsty frenzy. They hungered for land, money, and power. Shielded by the trappings of nobility, Meike and her family would be safe. But how many others would be able to say the same? How many of her friends and former lovers would fall victim to Adolf Hitler’s hatred-fueled ambition?
Meike flipped up the collar of her overcoat to shield her face as she began to walk toward Friedrich’s apartment. After Gottfried von Cramm’s bitter defeat against American Don Budge in the Interzone Final of the Davis Cup a few months before, she had assumed the mantle of Germany’s biggest sports star. She hadn’t lost a match in more than two years and was the two-time defending champion at the French Championships, Wimbledon, and the US Championships. If she won any of those three majors in 1938, she would be able to retire the trophies, the originals gifted to her at the end of the tournaments, as well as the smaller replicas. And if she managed to win all four majors, she would no longer be a star. She would be a legend.
But this was no time to plan her pursuit of history. This was no time to be recognized. This was a time to be anonymous.
As soon as she reached Friedrich’s apartment, she could stop worrying about who might be watching or what they would say if they reported her to the authorities. She could be herself, not Hitler’s propaganda tool. Until then, she had to make sure she wasn’t being followed so her friends could be safe from possible arrest.
She and her closest friends were gay in a country in which such a thing was not only frowned upon but forbidden. No matter which in a series of possible charges they received if they were caught following their hearts instead of the law, the sentences they earned would be swift and harsh. Hard labor, forced military service, or even death via an execution carried out on the spot.
Not wanting her friends to be punished for what they—and she—could not change, Meike decided to take a circuitous route to Friedrich’s in the hope that anyone trailing her would lose contact or interest or both before she reached her destination.
“Countess von Bismarck?”
The two men weren’t wearing uniforms, and the one who spoke tried to strike a friendly, conversational air, but Meike knew they were Gestapo as soon as they fell into step beside her.
She wanted to run even though she had done nothing wrong. Not in her eyes anyway. The Austrian and his accursed inner circle, on the other hand, might beg to differ.
“Meike or Fraulein von Bismarck will do.” She hoped her smile seemed genuine rather than forced. She wanted to appear more relaxed than she felt. “The title of countess belongs to my mother.”
Together, the agents looked like living embodiments of the number ten. One was tall and thin with the wiry build of a track athlete. The other appeared to have spent a few too many days sitting behind a desk. His ample stomach stretched the seams of his ill-fitting suit, and his breathing was labored, even though they had walked only a few meters from the station’s entrance.
The thin agent placed a hand on Meike’s arm as if they were old friends. “But that is what your fans call you, isn’t it? The Countess?”
“Only on the court, not off.” She stared at his hand until he removed it. “Do I know you?”
“No, but I know you.” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled out a packet of Turkish cigarettes, and lit one with a practiced flick of his thumb against the barrel of a stainless steel lighter. “I’ve followed the results of all your matches in the newspapers and on the radio,” he said through a thick cloud of smoke.
“Thank you. I appreciate the support.”
She tried to convince herself the man and his friend were nothing more than ardent fans, but her eyes searched the busy street for possible escape routes nevertheless. But if she did manage to get away, where could she possibly go? If the men were secret police, they would know everything about her. Who her friends were. Where they lived and worked. Who they loved. Who she loved. Her sexuality wasn’t an issue as long as she kept winning tennis tournaments—she was too valuable an asset to the Reich to be hauled off to prison—but she didn’t want to get anyone she cared for into trouble by leading the wolves to their doors.
“If you will excuse me, gentlemen.”
Clutching her racquets to her chest as if they would protect her from harm, she turned back toward the station. Toward the safety of home. She would get word to Friedrich somehow and tell him she had decided not to stay. She would tell him what he probably already knew. Berlin wasn’t safe for people like them.
The portly agent stepped in front of her, impeding her progress. Though he didn’t speak, his intentions were clear. She was being detained.
“Step aside.” Meike hated how ineffectual her voice sounded. She tried to summon the imperious attitude her mother so easily assumed whenever she was displeased, but she couldn’t manage the feat. “Let me pass.”
Although the portly agent’s sweaty face reddened, he didn’t move fr
om her path. “I’m afraid we can’t do that, Fraulein. We have our orders.”
When the thin agent grabbed her arm a second time, his touch was no longer friendly. His grip was vice-like as he directed her toward a nearby car.
“What is the meaning of this?”
She kept her voice low despite her rising indignation. And fear. She didn’t want to cause a scene until she knew what to expect.
The thin agent opened the back door of the idling Mercedes-Benz. Two more agents sat inside. Unlike their counterparts, they were wearing uniforms. Meike could smell the oil from their shiny leather boots. She could see the guns holstered to their sides.
She tried to tell herself the Austrian needed her—her celebrity, her accomplishments, and her blond hair and blue eyes made her the poster child for the so-called perfect race he was trying to fashion by extermination—but she feared the latest in a series of unexplained disappearances was about to be hers.
“Come with us, Fraulein von Bismarck,” the thin agent said. “The Führer wants to see you.”
*
November 1937
New York City
Helen Wheeler woke with a start. The hammering in her head matched the rhythm of the pounding on her hotel room door.
“Open up, kid. It’s me.”
Helen recognized the voice of Swifty Anderson, her agent and favorite whipping boy. She derived great pleasure from giving Swifty grief, but she owed him her life. If not for him, she’d be stuck in Monterey, California, packing sardine cans for a living like the rest of her family instead of waking up with a champagne-induced hangover in a penthouse suite at one of the swankiest hotels in New York City.
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