“In the inaugural Confederation Cup,” he said as he slowly withdrew his hand, “the United States will have…” After a dramatic pause, he revealed the chip in his hand. “Evens.”
A satisfied murmur began in the area reserved for members of the press.
“The United States, Great Britain, Spain, and Italy will be on the top half of the draw,” Michel said as one of his assistants placed the countries’ names on the draw board behind him. “Australia, Germany, France, and Poland will be in the bottom half.”
Meike looked at the draw board. The US would play Italy in the first round, Australia would play Poland, Great Britain would play Spain, and Germany had the misfortune of having to square off against France, the home team.
The crowd’s reaction to Meike had been mixed when she won the French Championships the week before. Some had cheered vociferously for her, while others had greeted her with jeers and whistles. When she took the court against the French team on Friday, she had no doubt the reception she received would be less than cordial. Not for political reasons, but patriotic ones.
“My fellow committee members and I look forward to a fun and exciting event,” Michel said. “Good luck to all the teams. We will see you tomorrow for the opening ceremonies.”
Reporters surrounded Meike after Michel finished speaking. They peppered her with so many questions she didn’t have time to answer one before she was hit with another.
“Are you excited about the event?”
“What did you think about the draw?”
“Do you think Germany deserved better than the third seed?”
“Do you think you can lead your team to the title?”
“If you do win, would you consider it your greatest victory?”
Meike held up her hands to bring the cacophony to an end. “As Monsieur LeGrand said, I look forward to a fun and exciting event.”
“Helen,” another reporter called out, drawing everyone’s attention to the other side of the room, “how does your shoulder feel? Do you think it can withstand the rigors of playing on slow red clay?”
“How does it feel to be ranked number two in the world and be relegated to a supporting role on a team you were supposed to lead?”
Even though Helen tried not to show it, Meike could tell the last question rankled her. She knew because she knew Helen. Better, it turned out, than Helen knew her. She started to leave while the reporters’ attention was focused elsewhere, but she wanted to hear Helen’s response. She needed to know her frame of mind. Was Helen as upset about what had transpired between them as she was, or had she been able to laugh it off like she did everything else?
“I just want to do whatever I can to help the team,” Helen said. “Every point counts, right?”
“How about a picture?” a photographer suggested. “Can we get a shot of you and Meike?”
“I don’t think—” Meike began, wishing she had slipped out of the room when she had the chance.
“Sure,” Helen said before Meike could finish. “Make sure you get my best side, though. I don’t want to look bad standing next to someone as easy on the eyes as the champ here.” She extended her hand when the laughter died down. “Hello, Meike.”
“Hello, Helen. You are looking well.”
Meike was disappointed to see Helen act so flippantly after everything that had happened the last time they were together. But based on Helen’s past behavior, she knew she shouldn’t be surprised. Helen still cared about the present instead of the future. And the past, in her mind, was something best forgotten instead of remembered. Not for Meike. For her, the past, the present, and the future were equally important. And she had once hoped Helen could be a part of all three. Now that hope was gone.
She reluctantly reached for Helen’s hand. She feared she would no longer feel the connection she and Helen had once shared. And she feared even more that she would. When their palms slid across each other, their fingers gripped each other’s hands, and flashbulbs popped all around them, she had never been so happy to feel nothing at all.
“I never thought I’d see you here,” Helen said. “When last we talked—”
Meike held her smile in place as the insatiable photographers continued to take their pictures, but there was no mirth in her voice when she said, “Many things have changed since the last time we talked. My feelings for you, most of all.” Unable to hold on to the pretense any longer, she abruptly released Helen’s hand. “Good luck this week. I hope to see you on Sunday.”
And if she got to the championship match, she had no doubt her team would win. They had to. Because she wasn’t just playing for her country. She was playing for her life.
Chapter Eleven
June 1938
Paris, France
The flags circling the stadium fluttered in the breeze as Helen waited to walk onto center court with the rest of the members of her team. Just like at the Olympic Games, the teams would march into the stadium in alphabetical order with the home team granted the honor of entering last. Germany came first in French so Meike and her team would enter the stadium first, Helen and her cohorts would walk in somewhere in the middle of the proceedings, and the French would bring up the rear.
Meike was her team’s flag bearer. The announcement had been greeted not with the respect afforded the other teams’ flag bearers but speculation she had accepted the role to avoid having to give the Nazi salute when her country’s national anthem was played. Helen hoped Meike saw the appointment as the honor it was instead of the convenient escape it afforded her.
She took a peek into the stands. She didn’t expect to see many fans—it was the middle of the day during the workweek—but most of the seats were filled with smiling faces eagerly waiting for the players to appear.
“Everybody loves a parade.”
She adjusted the fit of her red cap, which had been paired with a matching scarf, a blue blazer, and a white skirt to create a patriotic team uniform.
“Bellissima,” Alessandra Mastroianni said as she got in a last-minute smoke. She had earned the nickname La Duce from her fellow players because, thanks to her full lips and jutting jaw, she bore an uncanny resemblance to Benito Mussolini.
“You, too, Alex. Good luck this week.”
Alessandra ground her cigarette beneath the toe of her stylish black boot. “Since my team has been drawn to play yours tomorrow, I think my week will be rather short, don’t you?”
Helen laughed, something that didn’t come as easily as it once did. “No hard feelings though, right?”
“Not if you have dinner with me tonight. We haven’t seen each other in months. We have a lot of catching up to do. What do you say we start over a bottle of Bordeaux?”
If it were any other tournament, Helen might have leaped at the chance to have a few hours of mindless escape. But the Confederation Cup was too important to begin with a hangover—or a guilty conscience. Her heart belonged to Meike, even if Meike didn’t want to claim the prize.
“I can’t. Jeanne has us on a curfew.”
“My coach implemented one of those, too, but my teammates and I are treating it as more of a suggestion than a rule. Jeanne seems much less willing to look the other way, so I wouldn’t cross her if I were you.”
“I don’t intend to.”
“I will allow you to refuse my invitation this time, but when I come to New York for the US Championships in a few months, you owe me a rain check.”
“You’ve got a deal.”
When Helen returned to her team, she noticed an unexpected face had joined the ranks. Her heart filled her throat when Paul Lanier said, “Miss Mastroianni was right. You do look beautiful.”
“What brings you to Paris, Agent Lanier?”
“I haven’t heard from you lately. I missed your smiling face.”
The few players Helen hadn’t taken into her confidence about her personal life looked at her as if they were witnessing a lovers’ tiff.
“What are you really doin
g here?” she asked after she drew Lanier a discreet distance away.
“I wanted to inform you in person you’ve been released from our agreement. Your days as a spy are over.”
“Why? Because I screwed up the assignment?”
“No, because Meike von Bismarck isn’t a Nazi.”
Helen felt an overwhelming sense of relief, followed by a surge of anger. “How long did it take you to figure out what I’ve been telling you all along?”
“Since the Nazis arrested her and threw her into Dachau without bothering to wait for a trial.”
The thought that Meike had been forced to experience the hardships of a concentration camp made Helen feel sick. And it made her betrayal feel that much worse. Meike thought Helen suspected her of being in league with the people who had put her through hell. “How did you find out she’d been arrested?”
“Her parents made inquiries to several officials regarding her whereabouts, which caught the attention of one of our sources.”
“What did the source say?”
“That Meike was dragged from her home, treated like a prisoner for twenty-four hours, and then released.”
“They wouldn’t just let her go.”
“They would if they got what they wanted from her.”
“Which is?”
“Total obedience. She may not be one of them, but she’s at their mercy.”
Helen remembered the haunted look she had seen on Meike’s face before yesterday’s draw ceremony. Now she knew the reason for that look. It wasn’t a broken heart that was to blame but a shattered spirit. “They broke her when she was in Dachau, didn’t they?” Helen felt her own spirits flag when Lanier nodded in affirmation. “Isn’t there something we can do to save her?”
“Yeah.” Lanier got her hopes up, then dashed them just as quickly. “You can lose. Because if she doesn’t win this tournament, she’s as good as dead.”
Helen pushed her way through the crowd of players, coaches, and hangers-on and stood in front of Meike until Meike met her eye. “When were you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“What you were up against,” she said in a fierce whisper. “What they put you through.”
Meike’s eyes widened as she gasped in surprise. Her expression looked pained and, for a moment, Helen thought she might admit everything. Then Meike drew herself up tall, put on a brave face, and said, “My life isn’t your concern, Helen.”
“But your death certainly is, and I won’t be responsible for it.”
“What is she talking about, Meike?” Liesel asked in obvious confusion.
“Nothing,” Meike said. “Every tournament is life and death to me. This one is no different. Play your game, Helen, and I’ll play mine. The rest will take care of itself.”
“Perhaps.” Helen cupped her hand against Meike’s cheek, not caring who might be watching. “But who will take care of you?”
*
Meike didn’t play her best tennis in the first round—Liesel’s loss in the opening singles match, combined with the raucous partisan crowd had her nerves on edge as she struggled mightily against the French number one—but she played well enough in singles and doubles for the team to eke out a 2-1 victory and take the tie. Great Britain defeated Spain by the same score and the US cruised by Italy 3-0.
In the day’s only upset, JaJa Jedrzejowska led her seemingly overmatched Polish squad past favored Australia 2-1. The Australians looked uncomfortable off the grass courts on which they excelled, but JaJa’s play was so inspired, Meike thought she could have beaten them on any surface. Now it was up to her to make sure JaJa didn’t repeat her heroics against Germany. Because in the semifinals, the United States would take on its Wightman Cup rival Great Britain and Germany would face Poland. JaJa was equally adept on grass as she was on clay. Meike knew she would have her work cut out for her on Saturday. Especially if JaJa played as well as she did today.
“Is it true what Helen said yesterday?” Liesel asked as they made their way to the locker room, where Inge and designated alternate Rilla Huber were awaiting their arrival. “Is your life in danger?”
Meike examined the strings on her favorite racquet. The catgut was fraying and she needed to get it restrung. But racquet stringing was an art no two practitioners performed the same way and she couldn’t afford to get stuck with a hack. Not this week. Not when every set, every game, every point was so vital. “I had better do the job myself. Do you suppose the stringer’s office is still open?”
“Stop pretending you didn’t hear me and answer my question,” the usually meek Liesel said with uncharacteristic force as she turned Meike to face her. “Has someone threatened you? Oskar wouldn’t allow something like that to take place, would he?”
“It’s Oskar who’s leading the charge,” Meike almost said before the doubt she heard in Liesel’s voice managed—just barely—to convince her to hold her tongue. Liesel was in love, and Meike knew that, short of having Liesel bear witness to Oskar’s heinous acts, there was nothing she could do or say to change Liesel’s opinion of him. “How much do you know about him?”
Liesel’s cheeks colored as she placed a protective hand over her slightly rounded belly. Meike hadn’t noticed Liesel’s weight gain before, but it seemed blatantly obvious now.
“You are carrying Oskar’s child?”
“Yes.” Liesel’s lips curled into a proud smile. “We are to be married after the tournament ends. We planned to tell everyone about the baby when enough time had passed to make it prudent to do so.”
“Do you plan to make the announcement before or after you retire from the tour?”
Liesel’s blush deepened. “How did you know?”
“It seems logical that if you’re starting a family, Oskar would want you to stay home to take care of it.” And raise even more Hitler Youth to goosestep in his footsteps.
“Don’t you want a family, Meike?”
“I already have one.”
“You know what I mean. Not the family you were born into but one of your own making. Don’t you see a husband and children in your future?”
If things didn’t go her way the next few days, Meike didn’t know how much of a future she would have.
“Tennis has been my life for so long, I haven’t given much thought to what I might do when I stop. But even when I was a little girl, I never foresaw having a husband or children.”
“But don’t you want to grow old with someone?”
“More than anything.” Meike blinked away the tears that sprang to her eyes at the thought of being robbed of the chance. Of the opportunities she had already missed out on with Helen. “I want to grow old with someone I love and who loves me in return.” She thought of the moment in the tunnel when Helen had told her she loved her and she had foolishly believed it to be true.
“And you don’t want that person to be a husband but someone like Helen.” It sounded more like a statement than a question, but Liesel provided her own answer. “Not someone like Helen but Helen herself. I could see by the gentle way she touched your face yesterday how much she loves you. And you love her, too, don’t you? You can tell me,” she said when Meike didn’t respond. “I’m your doubles partner.”
This time, Meike didn’t hold back. “You are also Oskar Henkel’s fiancée.”
“You’re like a sister to me. I wouldn’t—I couldn’t denounce you. To anyone.” Meike must have looked skeptical because Liesel fixed her with an earnest look and said, “I know you don’t trust many people, including me. You have made that abundantly clear over the years. But I’m asking you to trust me now. I want to win the Cup as much as you do, but neither of us can do it without the other. We need each other, Meike, and the one thing that requires is trust. Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” Meike said after giving the matter some thought. “I trust you with my life.”
Chapter Twelve
June 1938
Paris, France
Dorothy Cheney
was struggling. She had managed to defeat Italian Maria Lorenzi in her first round rubber in two tight sets, but she had just dropped the second set to Brit Anne Carter and the match was headed to a decider. No sure thing on any surface, but even more so on clay, where momentum could change at the drop of a dime.
“Come on, Dodo,” Helen said from her perch on the sidelines. “You can do it.”
Jeanne shouted a few encouraging words of her own, then took a seat next to Helen on the end of the team bench. “You were the best player on the court in yesterday’s doubles match. And that’s saying something, considering Jacobs has made the final of the French Championships twice and she used to own the US Championships until Meike came along.”
Helen looked over at her old friend. Helen Hull Jacobs, who had been playing world-class amateur tennis for almost thirteen years, was twenty-nine now and hadn’t won a Grand Slam singles title since Meike ascended to the top of the sport two years ago. Some said Jacobs’s best tennis was behind her. Now they were saying it about Helen, too. The Confederation Cup offered both a chance—perhaps their last chance—to prove everyone wrong. But how could Helen hope to win if the possible cost to Meike could prove so dear?
“How does your shoulder feel?” Jeanne asked after Dodo fought off two break points to hold serve and draw even at one-all in the third set.
“Good as new.” Jeanne’s arched eyebrow prompted Helen to amend her response. “Well, practically. Why do you ask?”
Jeanne turned back to the action on court and ran her hands through her short salt-and-pepper hair. “Dodo’s twenty-one and the future of American tennis, but I don’t think she’s ready to face this kind of pressure yet. I picked her for the Confederation Cup team because she’s excelled in Wightman Cup play the past two years, but she hasn’t been playing with the same kind of confidence this week. In fact, she looks scared to death.” As if to illustrate Jeanne’s point, Dodo flubbed an easy overhead to fall behind 2-1. “If we win today,” Jeanne said as the players changed ends, “I want you and Jacobs to play singles and doubles tomorrow. I want you to be my number one and Jacobs to play number two.”
Break Point Page 17
