by Frank Deford
Then, too, how could you—how could any man or woman—not be taken with young Herr Gerhardt? As my mother had wanted to be his lover, I wanted to be his buddy, his chum, his pal. The guy was quite special, that’s for sure, a grand co-star in the epic my mother had starred in.
So I waited upstairs and returned to the garden only when Mom called for me to bring her a couple more ice cubes. When I reached her, she began by offering some apology.
“Sorry if I told you more than you wanted to know, Teddy. I suppose I was almost in something of a trance there for awhile.”
“Oh, that’s okay, Mom. It’s about love, and there’s always room for more of that in this tawdry twenty-first-century world of ours.”
“Well, thank you for indulging me, but I suppose if I’m going to tell my story, I might as well not censor any of it—especially the sweet spots. I warned you there’d be a little sex.”
“Mom, you were fine. You were very decorous. I give it a PG-13.”
She accepted that assessment, but then couldn’t resist: “I spared you the full-frontal nudity.”
So, okay, if she was going to be flip now, I’d pay her back in kind. “Of course, if you’d told me that you’d first given it away to Frankie of Easton, Maryland, parked by a corn field in the back seat of some jalopy, I wouldn’t’ve been as approving.”
“That’s no way to talk to your old mother.”
“All right, I’ll give you the megaphone back.” I flipped on the tape recorder. “Where do we go from here?” She only grinned at that, and answered by simply reaching back into the purple acetate folder to pull out the swatch of magenta, which she placed on her lap, where she could pat it occasionally for either emphasis or affection. And so she began again.
You’ve heard that phrase about the Nazis: “the banality of evil?”
“Yes, of course.”
Well, Teddy, the Goebbels party would be the beauty of evil. Of course, I saw only the former. That evening I was myself a microcosm of almost every German. They said that for as long as Hitler had the economy humming and was winning battles, most people in Germany simply ignored the other terrible, obvious realities. And like that, this evening, I was so blinded by how perfectly gorgeous it all was, that I never stopped to ponder what horror paid for this sumptuousness. Not for a moment did it cross my mind.
“Oh come on, Mom, you said yourself: you were eighteen years old. You’d only been abroad for a week—the first time in your life. You’d just fallen off the turnip truck. You didn’t know Germany from Peru. You don’t have to be hard on yourself.”
I said: I was Germany in microcosm. I knew enough by then, Teddy. I wasn’t completely blind. Horst had told me things. No, I’m not flagellating myself. I’m simply saying that, looking back, I see how easy it is for any of us anywhere to go along. That’s all. And Horst was Exhibit B. He, who had told me how he wanted to shout from the rooftops about injustice, ah, when the chance came to enjoy the fruits of that terror so that he could impress a pretty girl, he bought her a gown and pleaded with his father to get him inside the tent, and then he forgot all the complaints he’d had and drank the hemlock just like everybody else.
It worked, too. The pretty girl wasn’t just in love anymore. She was in his thrall.
We pick and choose so, don’t we, Teddy? We are the most selective of creatures.
And so we arrived at the Goebbels, amid spotlights crossing the heavens like a Hollywood premiere—Horst in his white dinner jacket, me in my scrumptious magenta gown.
For emphasis, she patted the old swatch from the gown that she’d laid in her lap.
We were obscenely handsome, all the more so that we were, I’m sure, the youngest couple there. I realized—smugly—that everyone was looking at us with envy. Why, Teddy, they were all Ponce de Leon, lookin’ to drink from our fountain.
The Goebbels’ estate was on an island in the Havel River, on the way down to Potsdam, not far from where Horst and I had gone swimming in Lake Wannsee. I forget the German name of the island, but it means “peacock,” and, yes, the birds roamed the gardens. Kings had lived there. But Goebbels had dressed it up beyond what mere royalty would have been satisfied with. In a way, Teddy, this was his coming-out party for international society, and all of us embroidered his respectability.
You reached the island by walking over pontoon bridges, and once there, there were two lines of pretty girls—the best looking dames from the night clubs in Berlin. Goebbels had them gussied up like male pages from the seventeenth or eighteenth century—the wigs, the knickers. And at the end of this sexy gauntlet, there stood the Goebbelses to receive us. They both had deep tans and were decked out all in white, head to toe.
Of course, Goebbels didn’t know us from Adam, but as soon as Horst gave his name to the attaché standing there next to mein hosts, Goebbels understood that Horst was Klaus Gerhardt’s son, and he greeted him warmly. Then, when Horst introduced me, Goebbels kissed me on both cheeks. He was the second person to do that. That’s quite a distinction, isn’t it, Teddy—in the double-cheek-kiss category? First Leni Riefenstahl, then Joseph Goebbels. He closed a little too tightly onto me, though, making sure his white suit could press a bit on my bodice. God, but Goebbels was such a smarmy little bastard.
Anyhow, there were champagne bars set up everywhere, and a buffet the size of the Chesapeake Bay and over a ways, beyond a high curtain, they’d built a regular mini-amusement park. And I don’t mean just skee ball and some guy guessing your weight. It was quite a production. Keep in mind, it was a big island. Goebbels wasn’t gonna appropriate some dinky sandbar.
Near to where we came in, too, there was a large dance floor, with a full orchestra playing. Mostly, in fact, it was playing American pop hits. They were into “Begin the Beguine” when Horst and I reached the dance floor. We just stood there, taking it all in. Only a few couples were dancing. Everybody else was, like us, simply so dazzled by the whole business. Then, all of a sudden, there was this sort of glimmering apparition at my side, and whoosh, like that, Horst was gone, swept away. Presto—he’s out on the floor, holding the apparition in his arms, whirling. Well, guess what? It was Leni Riefenstahl, in this shimmering silver gown, that if it was any tighter would’ve had to be painted on. And I believe I told you, Teddy, that the lady had some curves.
“You made that point, Mom.”
Well, she’d just abducted Horst, and they were gliding all over the floor. I told you, when a guy suggests maybe you can go dancing, then you can bank on it that he’s a good dancer.
“Yes, you made that point, too.”
Well, Horst was, as I expected, just a honey of a dancer, and as the other couples on the dance floor looked up and saw that it was Leni Riefenstahl herself in the arms of this handsome young Astaire, they began to evacuate the premises post haste. I mean, at this point in the Olympics, after Hitler himself, Leni Riefenstahl was the cynosure of everyone’s eyes. Then the band moved into “Just One of Those Things.” Remember that? “It was just one of those things, just one of those crazy flings . . .” Boy, I remember that, Teddy. I loved it. Great lyrics. But it really picked up the tempo, so all of a sudden it’s just mein liebchen and that vixen in the clinging silver gown sweeping around the dance floor.
But, luckily, it’s at this point that I realize I am not the cheese, standing alone. Next to me, likewise gaping at Leni and Horst, is this very nice-looking fellow. I did sort of a double take before I realized it was none other than Glenn Morris, the hot-shot American who’d won the gold medal in the decathlon only yesterday. His picture was in all the papers.
“You told me Leni had taken more than just a filmmaker’s interest in him.”
Exactly. In fact, Teddy, if you ever get a copy of Olympia, and really you should—
“I will Mom, absolutely.”
—well, you will see Mr. Morris prominently displayed. He’s on screen more than old Hitler himself. Leni had fallen ass over tea-kettle for the guy.
Now, at
the time I was unaware of this, but knowing Leni’s interest in the younger set, I put two and two together very quickly. I nudged him. “You’re with Leni?” I asked.
I think he was irritated that I was so nosy, but he acknowledged that he was. “Well,” I said, “I’m with the guy she’s dancing with.” That brought no pro-active response from him, either, so I stuck out my hand. “Hey, congratulations on the gold.” He shook it and mumbled thanks. Nothing more. Obviously the strong-silent type. So then I said, “I’m Sydney Stringfellow, from Maryland. I’m swimmin’ the backstroke.” And now that I had his hand I kinda yanked on it. “Come on, let’s us dance, too.”
“I don’t know,” Glenn said. In point of fact, Teddy, he was downright reluctant. He even tried to unhinge my hand from his. He said, “That’s pretty fast stuff they’re playing.”
Luckily, though, right then the band switched to “I’m in the Mood for Love,” so I said, “Come on, that’s a slow one,” and I tugged him out onto the floor, and we began to move with the music. Approximately. Now, the decathlon, as you know, Teddy, is a very demanding event. It was multi-tasking before anyone came up with that expression. You have to run and jump and throw the discus, and a bunch of other things I’ve forgotten, and Glenn Morris was the best in the world at them, altogether. The renaissance man of sport. But, one thing I can promise you that is most assuredly not in the decathlon is dancing, because he was certainly no prize at that. A terpsichore Glenn was not.
But as I was despairing, over his shoulder, I see Horst steering Leni our way. Glenn and I were sorta holding to one spot, tiltin’ back and forth. That’s what passed for dancin’ with the decathlon-champ-slash-renaissance man. A real cement mixer. But Horst—my hero!—tapped Glenn on the shoulder and said, “Double cut,” and Leni gave me a little wink and fell against Glenn, taking my place in that stationary spot, while Horst whisked me away, gliding, Teddy, gliding. I was back, swimmin’ in champagne again.
I was so enthralled, in fact, that at first I didn’t hear a little buzz from the crowd. It was just as the band switched to “East of the Sun (and West of the Moon),” which I adored, so I glanced over Horst’s shoulder and saw that a third couple had come onto the floor. That was what had occasioned the buzz, you see. Horst just happened to whirl me around at that moment, though, so I couldn’t immediately see who it was, but in another instant, they swung by, and in a loud voice, I heard: “Sydney!” and the girl leaves her partner and runs over and kisses me and then runs back to him. She hardly missed a step. Guess who?
“Mom, come on.”
Eleanor Holm! She was dancing with her husband, Art Jarrett. The vocalist. As soon as he’d heard how that jackass Avery Brundage had kicked Eleanor off the team, he’d taken the next ship to London and then flown to Berlin to protest. Lotta good it did him. Brundage wouldn’t even see him, and, for good measure, he banned Eleanor from swimming in all the other meets in Europe, too. She’d gotten a job as a reporter, covering the Olympics for the International News Service, so Brundage decreed that writing about swimming made her a swimming professional.
Well, naturally, Horst’s interest was piqued. “Who’s that?” he asked me.
“Eleanor Holm.” (I knew he meant the girl.)
“No fooling. She’s really pretty.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. Eleanor was in this beautiful black back-less gown, with a spray of bright red and sky blue down her left side. And, of course, not only were she and Art Jarrett wonderful dancers, but he was crooning along. Right there in the middle of the dance floor, sans microphone, he started singing “East of the Sun” to Eleanor.
“Up among the stars,” and so forth and so on. I forget the lyrics. Songs all had such great lyrics then, Teddy. They had words that meant something. Songs even had little prefaces, introductions before you got into the meat and potatoes of the chorus and the harmony. It says something that the decline of the written word may be illustrated by music. Of all things. But songs had clever lyrics then; they had meaning. But now that nobody is familiar with the English language anymore, you have to see everything, so even music has to have videos. You have to see music to appreciate it now. Isn’t that something? Beethoven is probably rolling over in his grave. Not to mention Cole Porter.
You probably don’t remember Chester A. Riley on television, do you?
“No, that doesn’t ring a bell.” Mom was off on one of her tangents now, so I just relaxed and went along for the spin.
He was the star of a show on the radio called “The Life of Riley,” and halfway through every show, when things came to a pretty pass, he would wail to his wife, who was Peg. He would say, “Peg, what a revoltin’ development this is.” And that’s the way it is with lyrics. They’re a lost art. What a revoltin’ development this is.
Anyhow, because Art Jarrett stopped to sing, the band was smart enough to do another chorus of “East of the Sun,” so Horst whirled me around some more. I could see everyone looking at us and whisperin’. Like: that’s Leni Riefenstahl herself with the guy who won the decathlon. And that’s the infamous Eleanor Holm, with her husband, the vocalist. But, achtung, achtung: who in the world is the great kid dancer in the white dinner jacket with the girl in that gorgeous magenta gown? Who are they? I just knew that’s what everybody and his brother was sayin’, and I adored it, Teddy. I drank it all in. And let me tell you, I didn’t miss a step. Horst and I coulda stepped right outta a Busby Berkeley musical.
There are times in your life when you rise above, don’t you? When you do something you couldn’t possibly imagine that you could. You know, like the guy who lifts up the two-ton truck when the little child is trapped under it. You just do it.
Then—well, you know how you men try to explain it. It’s because of . . . come on, now. You know.
I hadn’t realized I was about to be tested. I came back to attention. Finally, I ventured: “Adrenaline?”
No. Come on, Teddy: balls. Balls, Teddy. When some man does something exceptional, you men always say: he’s got balls. Typical man talk. Because you’ve got balls. You possess them. And of course, we gals don’t. Oh, it’s so tedious what you guys say. God knows I’ve heard it enough. Oh, he’s got a big pair. Oh man, made o’ brass. Stuff like that. Well, it isn’t balls, Teddy.
“No? What is it?”
It’s neck!
“Neck?”
Yes. As in: you stick your neck out. And maybe you don’t even realize you’ve done it till your neck’s already out to here. I had to stick my neck out to dance around with all those big VIPs watching, to dance out there without showin’ any fear and gettin’ it right. Now, that was neck, Teddy. I probably only had neck a few times—well, only two times for sure in my whole life.
“What was the other . . . the other time you had neck for sure?”
Don’t rush me. We’ll come to that, don’t you worry. What did I tell you about surprises? And for God’s sake, let me savor all this. I mean, when the band finished “East of the Sun,” they paused, and everybody applauded. It was better’n winnin’ a race. I just fell into Horst’s arms. “God, I love you,” I said. And for good measure, I said it in German, too: “Ich liebe dich.” He hugged me to him and whispered the same thing into my ear. Yep, both languages. Double your pleasure, double your fun.
And Eleanor ran back over and reminded her husband about how he’d met me at the Palmer House. Then she said, “Well, Sydney, aren’t you gonna introduce me?” I explained who Horst was, and I was kinda hangin’ onto his arm, and the way Eleanor was lookin’ at me, I knew she knew we were sleepin’ together, ’cause she was lookin’ at me the same way I’d looked at Leni and Horst when I’d first seen them together. Now that I’d been there myself, Teddy, I knew. As we used to say on the Shore: you don’t know how you look till you get your picture took.
So, we’re standin’ in the middle of the dance floor, chitchattin’, Eleanor cursin’ Avery Brundage, me tellin’ her about the pool and the Friesenhaus, and so on and so forth, when
who should come over but Leni Riefenstahl with her new enamorato. She was lookin’ great, too. When she was working, she eschewed make-up, Teddy. She said Hitler didn’t like it, and she never knew when she was gonna run into him, so she just left it off. But she knew the Führer wasn’t gonna make an appearance at the Goebbelses. He was no party boy, Hitler. So tonight, Leni had pulled out all the stops. She was as dolled up as Eleanor. Or me, for that matter.
And now we’re old pals, Teddy. Leni gives me the double cheek kiss again. But then it hit me that, of all people, I was the only one in the group who knew everybody else, even if my relationship with Glenn Morris could only be described as fleeting. So I introduced him and Leni to the Jarretts. Immediately, Leni touched Art perfectly, the way she touched all men perfectly, and then she turned to Eleanor. “Oh, I am so glad to meet mitt you, Eleanor,” she said. “I so much vanted you to be big star ov my film.”
And Eleanor said, “You’re not as sorry as me, honey. I’ve already been in movies, you know.”
“But not svimming.”
“No. That SOB Brundage wouldn’t allow that.” Eleanor stamped her foot. “God, I’d give anything just to get in the pool here.”
Horst picked up on that. “You wanna swim in the Olympic pool?”
“God, yes. I’ve come this far. I was in L.A. four years ago and Amsterdam in ’28. For cripe’s sake, I’d just like to try it here, too.”
So Horst turned to Leni and said something to her in German, which, I gathered, was along the lines of: you can handle that.
Leni beamed. “Yah, ve vill film you svimming tomorrow. Hokay?”
Eleanor was flabbergasted. “You can get me in the pool? It’s that easy?”
“For me, yah,” Frau Riefenstahl said. She turned to Horst and said, “Schatzi, vhat is . . .” and she asked him something roughly like how do you say I’m in charge of the whole situation in English?
