“Nein,” she said with a firm shake of her head. She grazed her fingertips over Meike’s skin as she slipped the thin spaghetti strap of Meike’s evening gown back onto her shapely shoulder. “Not tonight.”
Meike’s eyes asked the question her slightly parted lips didn’t form. Why?
“When you reveal yourself to me again,” Helen said, fighting to keep her voice steady, “I want it to be of your own free will rather than obligation. I want you to be with me because you want to, not because you lost a bet.”
Meike’s pupils dilated, indicating she might be amenable to a kiss and, perhaps, much more. Unlike at the card table, Helen decided not to press her luck. Instead, she indicated the twin piles of discarded clothing. “Trade you?”
Meike smiled, something Helen wished she would do a lot more of. “Only if you promise to grant me a rematch one day soon.”
Helen was pleased to see her gambit tonight had worked. She had Meike’s attention. The next step was gaining her interest. But based on Meike’s reaction to her touch, she already had that, too. One thing was for sure. Meike definitely had hers. “Before Adelaide or after?” she asked as she got dressed.
“After.”
“Naturally.”
Meike obviously didn’t want anything to distract her from her preparations for the Australian Championships. In that respect, tonight was definitely the exception to the rule.
Distraction or not, Helen wasn’t going to go away. She was filled with questions, and only Meike could provide the answers. Questions about Meike’s role in Hitler’s plans for Germany. Questions about Oskar Henkel’s dubious presence in her life. And, most importantly, questions about what role—if any—she might have in Meike’s future now that they were finally taking steps to put the past to rest.
Helen formed her tie into a Windsor knot, shrugged on her suit jacket, and bade Meike good night. Lanier was expecting her to send him a detailed report when she arrived in Adelaide, but she didn’t have anything to give him. Despite her win at the poker table, she felt like the evening had ended in a draw.
But the stakes were about to get much higher. Because the next time she and Meike met, there would be a trophy on the line.
Chapter Four
January 1938
Adelaide, Australia
At the Australian Championships, nearly half the competitors in the ninety-six player fields in both the men’s and women’s draws were citizens of the host country. As she played Aussie after Aussie during the tournament’s early rounds, Meike encountered raucous crowds but met with little resistance from her opponents. She won her first match in twelve minutes and her second in fifteen. Not counting her doubles matches, which also passed in practically no time at all, she reached the singles semifinals having spent a total of less than an hour on the court.
As a rule, continuous play made tennis matches go by quickly on any surface—most five-set matches were completed in about an hour, and any match that lasted more than two hours was considered an epic test of endurance—but grass courts shortened points, speeding up the pace even more.
Meike thought the courts at Wimbledon were quick. But that was before she set foot on the lightning-fast courts in Adelaide, where most points didn’t last more than three strokes and the majority of games were contested in under a minute.
Her concern about wilting in the heat appeared to have been for naught. After she crushed former champ Joan Hartigan in the semifinals, she felt like she had put herself in the perfect position to win her first singles title in Adelaide. Doubles, too, if she and Liesel continued to advance. She was playing well and she had plenty of energy left, despite the oppressive conditions. Her only concern at this point—other than avoiding injury in the doubles semifinal—was finding a way to derail the freight train that was Helen Wheeler.
Helen had struggled in her opening match, forced to go three sets to defeat fellow American Dorothy Cheney. Once she got past that hurdle 10-12, 8-6, 6-4, she had looked unbeatable. Every part of her game was working—her volleys, her groundstrokes, and especially her serve. In fact, she was serving so well, she had struck more aces than some of the competitors in the men’s field, a tally she added to when she whitewashed last year’s runner-up Emily Hood Westacott in the semifinals to set up a match against Meike for the singles championship.
“Helen is playing brutally efficient tennis,” a reporter said as Meike and Liesel made their way to the court to play their doubles semifinal against two-time defending champions Thelma Coyne Long and Nancy Wynne Bolton. “How do you plan to defeat her?”
Meike planned to play the singles final with a mixture of aggression and patience, but she didn’t want to give away her strategy in case Helen got wind of it in time to form a successful counterattack.
Helen was playing better tennis than Meike had ever seen her play and she had two important intangibles in her favor: she was more familiar with the court and, thanks to winning three consecutive titles, she was a huge favorite with the fans. The Australians had practically adopted her as one of their own. Playing her in the final would be like going up against yet another Aussie.
The oddsmakers said Meike was the slight favorite in the final, but she felt like the underdog. Beating Helen would be a difficult task. Meike didn’t want to spot her any unnecessary advantages.
She carefully considered the reporter’s question, then smiled in his general direction and said, “My plan to defeat Helen? Winning the final point.”
*
“It’s a scorcher out here, kid.” Swifty fanned his sweaty face with his fedora as he and Helen climbed into the backseat of a taxi to make the short ride from their hotel to the tennis stadium. “The thermometer in the window of that barber shop over there reads thirty-eight degrees Celsius. I couldn’t tell you how to translate Celsius into Fahrenheit if you paid me, but I don’t need to know the exact temperature to know that spells H-O-T hot. You and Meike will be up against it today. I heard fans are already fainting in their seats and play hasn’t even started yet.”
Helen placed a wet cabbage leaf in the lining of her cap to combat the heat, a trick Alice Marble had picked up from the farm workers she had come across in her youth. Helen used to make fun of her old friend’s peculiar habit—until she tried it for herself and experienced the amazing results.
The cab’s leather seats burned the backs of her flannel shorts-covered legs. She wished she had waited until she got to the locker room to don her tennis attire, but it was too late to change her mind now.
“Are you trying to make me feel better about my prospects or worse?”
“I’m just letting you know what you’re in for, that’s all. I still believe in you, kid. Before the tournament started, I bet on you to win the triple.”
Helen had opted to play singles, doubles, and mixed doubles in Adelaide, and she had managed to make the finals of all three events. After she and Meike squared off in singles, they would face each other again in doubles. At the end of her busy day—if she was still standing by then—she and Don Budge would contest the mixed doubles final against Australians John Bromwich and Margaret Wilson.
Thanks to Swifty’s comment, Helen felt the pressure to win ratchet up even higher. On the way to Adelaide, he had said he loved her like a daughter. She thought his feelings for her were genuine, but tennis, like any other major sport, was a business. If he found another player he thought he could take to the pinnacle instead of the penultimate spot, she had no doubt he would turn his back on her before the ink dried on the new kid’s contract. Where would that leave her? Where she’d been all her life: on the outside looking in.
She had to win today. Not only to narrow the gap between herself and Meike but to widen the one between herself and the players nipping at her heels.
“I’ll try not to let you down, Swifty.”
He placed a reassuring hand on her knee. When he spoke, his voice was as gentle as his touch. “I was kidding about the bet, kid. I wouldn’t dream of
putting that much extra weight on your shoulders. Well, I might,” he added with a wink, “but I’d be smart enough not to tell you about it until the matches were over.”
The cabbie pulled to a stop outside the stadium, put the car in Park, and jumped out to open the door. Swifty held up a hand to ask for a few minutes alone. The cabbie nodded and backed away, mingling with a few members of the steadily growing crowd while he waited for his fare.
“I know the title you really want, kid, and it isn’t doubles or mixed. Now go out there and get it.”
The tension in Helen’s shoulders loosened and the butterflies in her stomach stopped flapping their wings. “Yes, sir.”
She screwed her cap on tight, prepared to show Meike she was the three-time defending champion for a reason. Prepared to put an end to Meike’s vaunted winning streak once and for all. She climbed out of the car to a deafening round of applause.
“Last year might have been her year,” she said to herself as she waved to the cheering fans, “but this year’s going to be mine.”
*
Meike and Helen stood in the tunnel leading to the court, matching bouquets of flowers in their arms. Despite her calm exterior, Meike was a bundle of nerves before every final, especially a major. Helen, on the other hand, looked as cool as the proverbial cucumber. “Good luck today.”
Helen looked at Meike’s outstretched hand for a long moment before she finally reached to grasp it. “The same to you. Today, you’re going to need it.”
Helen spoke with a steely determination. Meike hoped Helen’s words wouldn’t prove prophetic. If the card game she and Helen had played on the Southern Star was any indication, luck was most assuredly not on her side.
Adrenaline coursed through her body as she remembered the look in Helen’s eyes and on her face while she attempted to pay the bet she had lost. She could still feel Helen’s fingers grazing over her skin, searing her flesh as Helen adjusted the strap of her gown and said in a voice husky with desire, “When you reveal yourself to me again, I want it to be of your own free will rather than obligation. I want you to be with me because you want to, not because you lost a bet.”
When she ended her relationship with Helen, she had thought she would never feel Helen’s touch again. Now she didn’t know if she would be able to live without it.
“Miss von Bismarck?”
The voice of chair umpire Simon Cahill pulled Meike out of her reverie. She realized with a start Simon and Helen were staring at her. “Yes?” she asked, wondering how long they had been waiting for her to respond to a question that had gone unheard.
“Shall we take the court?”
Helen slowly unspooled a knowing smile. Had she been able to read Meike’s thoughts? The twinkle in her eyes certainly said so. Meike looked away to hide her growing discomfort. “Yes, of course. I think the fans have been waiting long enough.”
“If you’re feeling the heat, Meike,” Helen said under her breath, “I know a few ways to cool you off. How about we start with a bucket of ice and a bottle of champagne? If handled properly, both could prove equally intoxicating.”
With Helen around, Meike had a hard enough time keeping her wits about her. She didn’t need to add alcohol and the lure of sex to the equation. “Thank you for your kind offer,” she said with what she hoped was a polite smile, “but I am sure I will manage just fine.”
Helen shrugged as if to say, “Your loss.”
Meike felt it already.
She hoped missing out on an opportunity to spend time with Helen was the only loss she would experience today, but once the match that the press and fans alike had been anticipating for weeks finally began, she was forced to put thoughts of victory aside and settle for simply trying to find a way to make the match competitive.
The first set was over before late-arriving fans could settle into their seats. Meike couldn’t remember the last time she had been so thoroughly outplayed. Unable to equal Helen’s power or passion, she was buried under a barrage of aces, smashes, and sizzling groundstrokes as she lost the set 6-0.
She stared in disbelief as the numbers were affixed to the hand-operated scoreboard. In her entire career, she had never lost a set without winning a game. Even as a rank beginner pitted against far more experienced opponents, she had managed to string enough points together to capture at least one game. Now, many years later, she was allegedly the best player in the sport. And she’d just been blanked in the first set of a tournament she couldn’t afford to lose.
Helen was right when she had said there was more to life than tennis. Unfortunately, the sentiment didn’t apply to her. She longed for the days when winning and losing didn’t feel like a matter of life and death. But those days were over. Perhaps for good.
As she prepared to serve to begin the second set, she was tasked with the unfamiliar challenge of having to come from behind—and cast in the unexpected role of underdog. For the past three years, this had been Helen’s court. And the way she was playing today, she obviously didn’t want her to reign to end.
The crowd’s rhythmic applause was meant to lift Meike’s spirits, but it only made her feel more embarrassed about her performance. Or lack thereof. For the first time in years, her fear of losing exceeded her will to win. If she didn’t reverse course soon, the match, her winning streak—and, perhaps, her life—could be over in a matter of minutes.
As she stood on the baseline and waited for the crowd to grow quiet so play could resume, she chanced a peek into the stands. Oskar was sitting between Inge and Liesel. His arms were folded across his chest and, despite the score—or perhaps because of it—he looked like the match was going exactly the way he wanted it to. The Austrian and the rest of the Reich might be unhappy about the result if the second set followed the same pattern as the first. Oskar, however, could barely contain his delight.
The smug look on Oskar’s face gave Meike the inspiration she needed to keep fighting. To remain patient. To wait for Helen’s level of play to drop just enough to give her a chance to get back into the match. No matter how much energy she needed to expend or how long the task would take, she was going to turn Oskar’s smirk into a frown. She was going to win.
“Thank you.”
She accepted a ball from the ball boy and bounced it once, twice, three times. She hadn’t been able to find a rhythm on her serve all day, but now was as good a time as any to start.
She took a deep breath, slowly released it, and tossed the ball into the air. Her racquet rose to strike the fuzzy, grass-stained orb just before it reached the apex of its flight. In the fraction of a second before her racquet made contact with the ball, Meike saw Helen out of the corner of her eye. Helen took a step to her forehand side, obviously expecting Meike to draw her out wide with an American twist serve. Indeed, that was what Meike had initially planned to do. Helen’s shift in position indicated she knew Meike’s playing patterns almost as well as Meike did. The action confirmed Meike’s decision to end their doubles partnership. Helen knew her game—knew her—too well.
Helen would always have a place in her heart. In her mind, however, there was room for only one.
Instead of giving Helen what she expected, it was time to give her what she didn’t. She decided to abandon her baseline tactics and take the net every time she had a chance to move forward. She decided to play like Helen.
She served an ace down the middle to open the game, then won the game at love by playing serve-and-volley on each point.
She played chip and charge when it was Helen’s turn to serve, slicing her returns of the powerful deliveries to keep the ball low, then rushing to the net. Helen missed her first attempted passing shot. Then another. And another.
Meike broke her at love, consolidated the break to go up 3-0, and broke again to extend her lead even more.
Even though Helen was still winning the match, Meike could feel her starting to panic. Little by little, Helen’s confidence began to waver. Her game began to unravel, followed soon
after by her control over her emotions.
The calm, cool, almost cocky persona Helen had displayed before the match gradually disappeared. In its place came Hell on Wheels, the tantrum-throwing character fans loved to hate.
Helen hurled her racquet halfway across the court after Meike closed out the second set 6-0. The reporters in press row ate it up as they gleefully wrote updates to their still-developing stories, but the crowd whistled its disapproval.
Meike stepped away from the baseline and raised a finger to her lips, but her efforts to calm the riled-up crowd were for naught.
“Quiet, please,” Simon Cahill said, making his own attempt to silence the din. “The players are ready.”
The crowd protested a few minutes more, then the boos and whistles gradually began to subside. Despite the change in momentum in the second set, Meike expected Helen to fight as hard as she could in the third to retain her title—and regain her dignity.
She looked into Helen’s eyes as she stood on the baseline and prepared to play the first point of the deciding set. What she saw simultaneously comforted and saddened her: Helen didn’t think she could win.
*
Helen’s heart sank as she watched Meike’s passing shot blow by her and land on the baseline. Meike’s latest in a long string of winners had just won her the Australian Championships.
Meike thrust her arms in the air and skipped to the net as the chair umpire called out the final score.
“Game, set, match, Miss von Bismarck. Miss von Bismarck wins 0-6, 6-0, 6-2.”
Simon Cahill’s voice was nearly drowned out by the spectators’ deafening applause. And the blazing sun overhead paled in comparison to Meike’s dazzling smile. Helen could tell how much the win meant to Meike, but she was too disappointed by her humbling defeat to offer more than cursory congratulations as she and Meike shook hands at the net.
Break Point Page 6
