“If Lanier finds out you were lying to him,” she said, “you can expect to be audited next year.”
“Don’t I know it.” Swifty washed the crusty dishes in the sink and placed them in the strainer to drain. Then he dried his soapy hands on a dish towel and took a seat opposite her. “Talk to me, kid. Tell me you’re going to pull out of this tailspin you’re in.”
Helen shook her head disconsolately. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
“What happened?”
“I already told you.”
“Your telegram was skimpy on details, so tell me again.”
“I could tell you the whole sob story, but it’s easier if I give you the short version. I went to visit Meike in Germany, I spent some time with her and her family and I got to see who she really was. Unfortunately for me, she returned the favor.”
“Sounds like you got sloppy and you got found out.”
“I keep asking myself why I didn’t toss the report before I gave my coat to Hans. I had six miles to get rid of it, but I forgot about the damn thing after the first few feet. I was so scared about making it through the tunnel without having it collapse on my head that I didn’t give the report a second thought.” She took a sip of her orange juice and winced as her queasy stomach rebelled against it. “I could tell Lanier it’s his fault for insisting I put everything in writing, but I know the fault was mine. I got careless and I blew my cover. But I should have been honest with Meike from the beginning. Now she’s through with me and I can’t say I blame her. She was right about me all along. I don’t take things seriously enough. If I did, I wouldn’t be in the mess I’m in now. I wouldn’t be sitting here wondering how I managed to screw things up with her a second time. All she wanted to do was love me and I just wanted to—What? Crack a few jokes? Make her laugh? Save my own hide?”
The challenge of melting Meike’s icy exterior had been one of the things that had initially attracted Helen to Meike, but it was the warm, loving soul she had discovered under the surface that had drawn her in. Now Meike was gone for good. Helen stared at the orange pulp that had settled in the bottom of her glass.
“We could have had a future together, Swifty. Now all we’ll ever have is a past.”
“Dames.” Swifty lit a Gauloise cigarette and blew out a thick plume of smoke that smelled almost as bad as the fumes produced by the cheap cigars he favored. “You can’t live with them and you can’t live without them.”
“If I just had a chance to explain. Maybe I could make her understand why I did what I did. That’s what I had planned to do when we got back to Rheinsteifel, but she read the report before I could prepare her for what was in it. Before I could tell her what I had been asked to do. You should have seen the look on her face when she discovered I had been spying on her and her family. She’ll never trust me again, Swifty, let alone love me.”
“You’re forgetting something, kid. In tennis, love means nothing more than a goose egg on a scoreboard.”
“And I’ve come out on the losing end once again.”
“I’m going to give you some free advice. It’s worth as much as you’re paying for it, so you can take it or leave it.” Swifty took one last puff of his cigarette and ground the unfiltered butt in an ashtray. “Don’t chase after her. Give her some time to get over any hard feelings she might have toward you first.”
“You’re asking me to give her even more time to stew?”
“No, I’m asking you to give her time for the boil to cool to a simmer. She’s pretty steamed at you right now and rightfully so. If I were in her shoes, I would rather slug you than forgive you. I’ve fixed a lot of situations for you in my time, kid, but I can’t get you out of this one.”
“I know. I sold out someone I love in order to save myself. A couple of sawbucks aren’t going to cut it this time. What am I supposed to do?”
“I’m a businessman, not a relationship expert. Get yourself back in shape and get your career back on track. The Confederation Cup starts soon. That should come first and foremost. You can sort out the personal stuff later.”
“Putting my career first is what started the ball rolling. I should have turned Lanier down when I had the chance and been woman enough to face the fallout when it came. Now it’s too late. I’ll never convince Meike to forgive me, no matter what I do or say.” She nodded toward a week-old copy of a French newspaper. “According to that, she’s decided to play the Confederation Cup. Why do you think she changed her mind?”
“I think a little guy with a funny-looking mustache probably twisted her arm. If not him, then someone under his command.”
“You’re probably right.” Helen picked up the newspaper and stared at Meike’s photo on the front page of the sports section. “I hope she knows what she’s in for. She doesn’t know what it’s like to play for her country. The pressure’s different. A player ranked one hundred can get so inspired, she can outclass a player ranked much higher.”
“Do you think you can play?”
Helen tossed the newspaper aside. “I’m not only going to play. I’m going to win. Because I certainly don’t have anything else to lose.”
Chapter Ten
June 1938
Paris, France
Meike stood in the middle of the main show court at Roland Garros Stadium and held up the trophies she had earned for winning the singles and doubles titles at the French Championships. Liesel was ecstatic beside her and Inge was beaming from her seat in the stands, but Meike couldn’t manage a smile. Although both of today’s victories had been resounding, they felt hollow. She didn’t feel the usual joy or sense of accomplishment she usually experienced during such moments. Only a grim satisfaction for having fulfilled her assigned duty to the Reich.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Liesel asked as they continued to pose for the gathered photographers.
“Yes, it is.”
“Then why don’t you look happy?”
“This tournament might be over, but our work isn’t done. The Confederation Cup begins in a few days.”
The opening ceremonies were scheduled to take place Wednesday afternoon on the same court on which they were standing. The matches would begin the following day, culminating in next Sunday afternoon’s final. Meike was grateful for the tight schedule. The condensed time frame would give her fewer chances to run into Helen off the court, but—provided Helen had returned to full-strength—meeting her on it seemed almost inevitable.
“If we play as well as we did today, the other teams won’t stand a chance,” Liesel said. “I’m hoping we play the Americans in the final, don’t you? I want to exact some revenge on Helen Wheeler for teaming up to beat us in the doubles final in Australia.”
Mindful of the reporters standing within earshot, Meike kept her voice low. “Has she recovered from her recent injury? I heard she might not even play next week.”
“I don’t think her injury was as serious as she made it seem,” Liesel said with a sniff of disdain. “She probably pulled out of the French Championships so she could be fresh for the Confederation Cup. Then she probably asked the coaches to list her as an alternate so the other teams wouldn’t know who they would have to face. Even though clay isn’t her best surface, who in their right mind would leave the second-ranked player in the world sitting on the bench?”
“Do you think she’s capable of such gamesmanship?” Meike wouldn’t have thought so a few weeks ago, but one fateful night in Rorschach had turned everything she had thought she knew about Helen on its head.
“I wouldn’t put it past her. She has always struck me as someone who wants to win at all costs. Not like you.”
“No,” Meike said, “she is nothing like me.”
Despite their disparate backgrounds, she used to think she and Helen had so much in common. Now she realized they couldn’t be more different. Or further apart.
“Meike,” a reporter called out, “how do you plan to celebrate your latest victory?”
M
eike switched from German to English. “I am happy to have won, but I do not have the luxury of being able to reflect on what I have done. The most important competition of my life begins on Thursday, and I want to make sure I am prepared to play my best tennis.”
“In other words,” Liesel said, “she will be limiting herself to one glass of champagne instead of two. But don’t worry, boys, I will make sure none of it goes to waste.”
While the other reporters jotted down Liesel’s humorous response, the original questioner turned to Meike for a follow-up to his initial query. “Until recently, Meike, you weren’t entered in the Confederation Cup. What made you decide to change your mind?”
Meike’s gaze drifted to Oskar, who was seated next to Inge in the front row of the players’ box. Her mood darkened as she remembered the strong-arm tactics he had used to bully her into submission. Subjecting her to the horrors of a concentration camp, putting a gun to her head, and threatening to take away her freedom if she didn’t agree to his terms.
“Was it Hitler?” another reporter asked before Meike had time to formulate a response. “He has said he plans to attend on Sunday not if but when Germany wins the final. How do you feel about him guaranteeing a victory? Does that put more pressure on you to succeed or less?”
Meike chose to be diplomatic rather than give the reporter the headline he so obviously sought. “No one can put more pressure on me than I already exert on myself. I hope the Führer, like the other spectators in attendance, will enjoy the matches. And I hope, above all, that the best team will win. Now, if you will excuse us, gentlemen, Liesel and I have a tournament to prepare for.”
“You are the only member of the team who has not become a member of the National Socialist Party,” Liesel said as they headed for the locker room. “Party members are required to salute the Führer when they appear before him, and all German citizens are required to return the salute when it is presented to them. Will you give the salute if we compete in the final on Sunday? It could be considered a sign of disrespect if you refuse to comply.”
The gesture was purely symbolic but fraught with meaning. Performing the Nazi salute was not only encouraged but expected. Doing so could ease the tremendous pressure on Meike’s shoulders, but it would cost her one of the few things she had left: her good name.
*
Even though she had already been named to the American Confederation Cup team, Helen felt like she was auditioning for a roster spot as she worked out under the watchful eye of team captain Jeanne Chisholm. Jeanne was a former national champion and the coach of rising star Betty Chambers, who had nearly beaten Helen out for the spot she was clinging to by her fingernails.
“What do you think?” Helen asked after she narrowly lost an 8-6 practice set to teammate Helen Hull Jacobs, a fellow Californian and one of her best friends on the tour.
Her arms folded across her chest, Jeanne tapped a finger against her pursed lips. “Understandably, it took you a few games to shake off the rust,” she said thoughtfully, “but your serve doesn’t have the same forcefulness I’m used to seeing. You managed to keep the score close by using instinct and guile rather than power. Our team has been named the top seed in the tournament. Depending on how the draw turns out in a few hours, we’ll probably be playing Poland or Italy in the first round. Poland has Jadwiga Jedrzejowska, and Italy has Alessandra Mastroianni. JaJa made it to the semifinals of Wimbledon and the US Championships last year, and Alessandra just reached the final of the French Championships, a testament to how well she plays on clay. To be honest, I don’t think you could beat either of them right now.”
Helen started to point out that she was still number two in the world, but her grip on the ranking was growing more tenuous by the day. Her absence from the tour had cost her valuable rankings points. Now the rest of the field was closing fast. Since the Confederation Cup wasn’t an officially sanctioned tournament, her performance in the event wouldn’t help or harm her ranking. But it could go a long way to helping her regain the respect—and the fear—of her fellow players.
“I’m going to start you out in doubles,” Jeanne said. “Is that okay with you?”
“I can’t deny that being relegated to doubles feels like a slap in the face, but I’m willing to do whatever it takes to help the team in any way I can.”
“I know. That’s why I chose you in the first place. Now hit the showers and get changed. We have a draw ceremony to attend.”
“Thanks, skipper.”
Jeanne’s instructional comments made Helen feel like she was a young player just getting started, but the pain in her right shoulder as she stood under the shower spray made her feel older than her years. She rubbed the aching joint as the water continued to run. The team was counting on her to contribute, and she didn’t want to let them down. Citing fatigue after a valiant run to the semifinals of the French Championships, Alice had removed herself from contention for the Confederation Cup squad, leaving Helen, “the other Helen,” and Dorothy Cheney to carry the flag.
Helen didn’t expect the team to have any trouble in the first round. Despite her recent success in Paris, Alessandra had a history of coming up short in big matches, and her supporting cast wasn’t strong enough to help her pull off the upset. But the road would get tougher from there. Depending on the draw, the US could face Great Britain in the second round and Germany or Australia in the final. Helen still couldn’t understand why Germany had managed only a paltry third seed. Yes, the Australians were loaded in the second spot, but they weren’t that strong on clay, and Germany boasted the best player in the world playing on her best surface. That had to account for something.
Helen was rounding into shape. Her legs felt strong and her endurance was almost where she wanted it to be. If the team made the championship round, she expected to be on the court instead of the sidelines. But she had work to do if she wanted to make her appearance in the final round more than ceremonial. She needed to get a few matches under her belt before she would be ready to face Meike in singles or doubles, especially on clay.
“Hurry up, Wheeler.” Jeanne’s voice echoed off the tiled walls. “They’re getting started.”
Helen turned off the shower, dried off, got dressed, and slipped into the back of the press room as the organizers of the Confederation Cup concluded their speeches. She looked around the room while the speaker droned on to extend his time in the spotlight. All the coaches had gathered to watch the draw ceremony, but only a few players had deigned to attend. She nodded at Isabella Sanchez from Spain, Amelia Sanderson from Great Britain, and Margaret Wilson from Australia. When she locked eyes with one of the members of the German contingent, she forgot how to breathe.
Meike stared right at her. Right through her. Her eyes, like her ashen face, looked haunted. Oskar Henkel sat two seats away, which probably accounted for some of Meike’s discomfort. Helen felt responsible for the rest.
“I’m sorry,” she mouthed, but Meike turned away before she could get the words out.
“Are you okay, kid?” Swifty asked, his usually gruff voice filled with concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Helen wrapped her arms around her middle to protect against a sudden chill. “I think I did.”
*
Meike could feel Oskar’s eyes on her as he tried to gauge her reaction to seeing Helen for the first time since her brief incarceration in Dachau, but she forced herself to keep her swirling emotions at bay. The time off seemed to have done Helen a world of good. She looked fit. She looked rested. She looked…beautiful. Not that such things mattered anymore. Not that they ever would again.
Helen’s attempt at an apology—if that’s what she had been about to do before Meike turned her back on her—had come much too late. There was nothing Helen could do or say now. The damage she had inflicted was irreparable; her actions unforgivable.
“Is something wrong?” Oskar asked under his breath.
“No,” Meike said tersely. “Everything
is fine.”
She tried to will the official conducting the draw to move faster as he placed two numbers in a hat. A beret, naturally, considering their location on the outskirts of Paris. The United States, Australia, Germany, Great Britain, France, Spain, Poland, and Italy were seeded one through eight. If the official pulled an even number out of the beret and the seeds held according to form, the Americans would play Great Britain in the semifinals. If the official pulled an odd number, the Americans would play a semifinal against Germany instead.
The press had made it no secret how they wanted the draw to go. They were clamoring for a US-Germany final so they could see the two highest ranked players compete for the title—and they weren’t above suggesting the tournament organizers should rig the draw so their desired narrative could play out.
Meike had been instructed to win or else. If she wanted to hoist the championship trophy in a few days’ time, she couldn’t afford to care who she had to defeat along the way. She supposed she could exact a small measure of revenge if the Americans were her victims in the final—Helen had been talking about the Confederation Cup for months and her desire to win the event was almost palpable—but Meike doubted continuing her superiority over Helen on the court would make her feel any better about their fractured relationship off it. In fact, it might make her feel even worse.
Helen hadn’t given her reasons for agreeing to act as a spy, but Meike suspected her decision had something to do with protecting her tennis career. No other explanation made sense. How ironic to think Helen had often accused her of putting tennis in front of everything and everyone else in her life when it was plain to see the opposite was true.
Michel LeGrand, the head of the Confederation Cup organizing committee, smiled as he placed his hand in the beret and shuffled the numbered chips inside.
Break Point Page 16
