Spring 1936
Leopold knows a cigar store vendor who still dares to keep foreign papers behind the counter for steady customers. Last fall, shortly after Hanni’s triumph in the Grunewald, he began to bring Frieda copies of the New York Times — he hid them inside his jacket — to show her how different life is in America. She has kept them, and sometimes at night she brings them out and marvels that there’s a place where people can voice conflicting opinions in a forum as public as a newspaper.
BRUNDAGE FAVORS BERLIN OLYMPICS
Has Faith in Nazi Pledge
CHICAGO — Avery Brundage, president of the American Olympic Committee, asserted here today that he knew of no racial or religious reasons why the United States should consider withdrawal of its athletes from competition at the Olympic Games in Berlin next year.
He was responding to Jeremiah T. Mahoney, president of the Amateur Athletic Union, who was quoted as personally opposed to American participation because of German discrimination against Jewish athletes.
Brundage stated, “The AOC must not be involved in political, racial, or sociological disputes. The Nazi government has agreed to accept Olympic rules. A boycott would be a travesty for Olympism, for the American athlete would become needlessly involved in the present Jew-Nazi altercation and become a martyr to a cause not his own.
“It seems,” he said, “that opponents of the Nazi regime, mainly Jews and Communists, are not satisfied with Olympic rules; that they really want a boycott to undermine Nazism; they mean to use the games as a political weapon. The Jews and Communists must keep their hands off American sports. We must stand our ground and not give in.
“Mr. Mahoney, on the other hand, has mayoral ambitions in New York and is wooing the Jewish vote.”
In the end, the Americans, led by Avery Brundage, convinced themselves that Jewish athletes were being treated fairly and decided against the boycott. They made the decision in time to compete in the winter games held in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, which took place in full Nazi splendour in February.
Less than two weeks later, Hitler, perhaps encouraged by the success of those games, marched German troops into the Rhineland, an area demilitarized by the Treaty of Versailles. The river Rhine, Leopold maintains, is considered a natural border between Gaul and Germany, and after the war, France insisted that the east bank be removed from German control so that the Boches could not use it as a platform for attack again. According to Leopold, the student of history, the river has always been the boundary between Western civilization and something darker, more primitive. Hadn’t Julius Caesar himself stopped at the Rhine, believing the murderous German tribes too barbaric to be absorbed into the Roman Empire?
The papers in March are filled with pictures of soldiers on horseback being cheered by the inhabitants lined up along the route. But afterwards, the whole country hold its breath, waiting for France to respond and send troops. Of course that would mean war, and no one, including France, wants this. Leopold is particularly on edge.
“Hitler’s gambling,” he says. “He’s sent a small force to see what everyone will do. France could easily defeat him there now — they must not let him get away with it. According to the treaty, England is obliged to back them up. And America should protest and show him that he can’t just do as he damned well pleases.”
But one day goes by with no response from the world, then another. Nobody protests. Nobody sends troops. The German papers roar with jubilation. Hitler is a hero who will bring Germany back to the glory it so rightly deserves, which it has been denied so unjustly since 1918.
And if anyone thought the Rhineland incident would affect the coming of the games to Berlin in August, they were sadly mistaken. In June the anxious mood of the city lifts. Berlin has been dressed up like a tart going to the opera. Thousands of blood-red Nazi flags with their swastika centres flutter high above the streets, attached to building fronts in endless succession. Interspersed, but not as profuse, are the white Olympic flags with their insignia of five interlocking circles representing the continents. Fellowship among continents is commendable, Frieda thinks wryly, on her way to the hospital. Much easier than fellowship among countrymen.
Like sentinels, banners two storeys high have been erected along Unter den Linden. When the wind rises, all the flapping in the streets sounds like a flock of birds startled in formation.
By July, foreign visitors are strolling the sidewalks, gawking at the banners and buildings festooned with swastika flags row upon row. How can they know that for their benefit, all the signs forbidding Jews have been removed from the entranceways to shops, grocery stores, restaurants, parks, and swimming pools?
One evening Wolfie insists on taking Frieda to a neighbourhood ice cream parlour they frequented before the “No Jews Allowed” signs went up. Now that the signs have been removed, they stroll in, Frieda’s head down as they pass the waitress. She is too busy to notice. They sit down and eat their favourite flavours of ice cream, smiling at each other like cats that have swallowed canaries.
Meanwhile, the German government has responded to international pressure over the past year and invited twenty-one Jews, including Hanni, to train at special Olympics centres. Since then, Leopold’s skepticism has abated somewhat.
“She’s the best woman jumper in Germany,” he tells Frieda. “They’d be mad not to let her compete. In the pre-Olympic qualifying tryouts she came first with a jump of one-point-six metres, four centimetres higher than her closest rival.”
But one Saturday afternoon in the middle of July, Frieda is called to the hospital telephone. “It’s an emergency,” Wolfie says. “Come to the store at once. Bring a sedative.” He hangs up with no further information.
All the way home she is running over the different scenarios in her mind: Mutti has had a breakdown; overworked Oma has gone beserk; Vati is threatening to kill Wolfie for coming into the store late.
When she hurries into the store, Vati is sitting behind the counter.
“What’s happened?” she asks.
He waves a dismissive hand at the door behind him that leads to the workroom.
She pushes it open and finds Oma at her usual place at her sewing machine.
Oma looks up from her work and points her nose to the office. “It’s just the silly girl.”
Frieda sees Wolfie sitting in a chair with Hanni curled on his lap, her head burrowed into his neck. She’s sobbing quietly.
“What’s happened?” Frieda says.
Wolfie removes his hand from Hanni’s back to reach for a letter on the desk. “Read this crap.”
Frieda steps forward and takes the letter from him. It is from Reich Sports Office Director Hans von Tschammer und Osten, who regrets to inform Hannelore Sussman that she will not be considered for the German Olympic team because of her mediocre achievements.
Mediocre achievements, Frieda thinks with disgust. Even such a blatant lie must have cut the poor girl to the quick. All the patriotic banners and interlocking circles flapping cheerily in the breeze mean nothing to those who no longer have a place in the life of their country. She looks up at Hanni, hiding her face in Wolfie’s neck, and silently forgives him for summoning her with the “emergency” message.
She scans the rest of the letter, in which von Tschammer und Osten says that Hannelore must understand that standards must be kept high and therefore only the best can be included on the team. He thanks her for her efforts and has included for her use two tickets for standing room only for the high jump event. Standing room only! The insult is clear.
Wolfie tries to stir, shifting Hanni’s weight. “Look who’s here, Hanni!” he says, moving his head so that Hanni must lift hers.
She blinks up at Frieda, her face bloated from weeping.
“I’m sorry,” Frieda says. “This is terrible for you ... so unfair ...”
“They’re idiots,” says Wolfie. “She’s the best jumper they’ve got and they won’t let her compete. They’d rather lose than let a Jew play.”
Hanni’s mouth sets. “They have three spots on the team and they’re only using two. I was supposed to be the third one. Why are they doing this?”
“Look,” says Wolfie, “let’s find a British reporter — or a French one — and tell them what they’ve done. Embarrass the bastards in the foreign papers, the ones they’re so intent on impressing.”
“No!” says Frieda vehemently as Hanni watches him with interest. “It’s too dangerous. Once the reporters are gone, who will protect her? Or her family? Do you want them to end up in Dachau?”
Wolfie stares at her, annoyed.
“All right,” he says, “when the Americans arrive, find them and tell them you want to go to the United States. Tell them you’re the best jumper in Germany and they’ll get you over there. And then you can compete for them.”
Frieda shakes her head.
Hanni sniffs a few times, stifling tears. “But how can I go without you?”
Wolfie glances with embarrassment at Frieda, who looks away, astonished at their intimacy.
“Look,” he says, “I was going to surprise you, but what the hell — you need a present now. You won’t believe what I’ve got.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out some tickets. He holds them in front of Hanni, who wipes her eyes as she examines them.
“Four tickets to the fencing match. August 5. How did you get these?”
“I have my ways.”
She shakes her head rhythmically. “No,” she says, head back and forth. “How can I go after this? How can I show my face?”
“You must go. Show them you’re better than them.”
“I’m too embarrassed. I can’t. Look at what it says in the letter. Mediocre achievements!”
“But you know it’s a lie. Don’t let them win. Remember, you’re the champion. You have no reason to be embarrassed. They should be embarrassed. You will wear your best dress and take my arm when we walk in. You will be the most beautiful woman there.”
Her chest heaves in a sigh.
“Frieda has something that will make you feel better. Don’t you, Frieda?”
Frieda remembers the tube of sedative and pulls it from her purse. She goes to the little washroom in the corner to find a spoon and a glass.
Later, when they’re alone, Frieda asks him, “How could you afford four tickets to the Olympics? They must’ve cost a fortune.”
Wolfie chuckles. “I won them at cards. I was going to sell them — they would’ve brought in a lot of money — but I had to do something for her, she’s had such a shock. She deserves to go. Promise you won’t tell.”
“And you’d love to go,” Frieda says. “Who are the other two tickets for?”
He smiles at her mischievously.
Oma insists on making Frieda a snappy little jacket from some off-white linen she picked up at a shop that was closing out. She nips it in at the waist to show off Frieda’s figure.
“It’s not every day you go to the Olympic Games,” says Oma.
Frieda wears the new jacket over a soft cream-coloured blouse tucked into a narrow maroon skirt with a slit up the side. She angles a wide-brimmed straw hat over one eye, her hair wound inside. She hasn’t been this dressed up since she graduated from high school.
Wolfie whistles as she steps through the front door ahead of him. They are meeting Leopold and Hanni at the U-Bahn. If they wanted to go to the Zoo station stop, they could join the crowds and watch the Olympic events broadcast on a giant screen. “Our great German technology leads the world!” the newspapers crow. Wolfie describes how he stood there amid the mob on the opening day (Saturday, when he should have been in the store) and watched the torch bearer mount the stairs on screen to light the Olympic flame. The Zeppelin Hindenburg floated high above the athletes marching in the new stadium, filled to capacity, while the spectators cheered and gave the Nazi salute.
At the U-Bahn, Leopold smiles sadly when Frieda approaches. “You look beautiful,” he says, bending to kiss her cheek.
The Sussmans have moved into a smaller apartment after the takeover of their factory. She dares not ask him how they are living, refuses to let him pay for anything.
Hanni is sulky in a white cotton dress that skims her tall, boyish frame, arms crossed over her chest. Wolfie beams at the sight of her. He holds her at arm’s length, examines her scrubbed face with no makeup, the chin-length brown hair in soft waves around her unhappy face.
“Beautiful,” he pronounces, kissing her on both cheeks. “My favourite high jumper.” He takes her arm and loops it through his.
Frieda can’t remember when she has seen so many elegantly dressed people as those queuing up to go into the fencing hall. Thanks to Oma she can hold her own here in her maroon and cream outfit. The men in Nazi uniforms make her nervous, though they stand and joke with their companions like everyone else.
Once they have reached their seats, Frieda sits down beside Hanni, the two men on the outside. She takes in the huge expanse of the room where natural daylight streams in through a wall of glass running along the whole perimeter above the tiered seating. Forty-foot-high banners cover either side of the hall, the swastika insignia glowering in the middle. She reads in the program they have received that they will be watching the women’s individual foil competition.
Teams of women fencers march in. All of them wear heavy white jackets over white breeches and white knee-high stockings.
Wolfie leans over to Hanni. “There’s Helene Mayer,” he whispers. “She won the gold medal in 1928 in Amsterdam. She’s the only Jew competing for Germany.” Giving Hanni a meaningful look, he adds, “In any event.” He turns back toward the players. “And she’s only half-Jewish. Most of the Hungarian team are half-Jewish too.”
Frieda looks at the German team and Helene Mayer. She’s tall and icy-calm, her blonde hair coiled in braids around her ears. The most Aryan-looking of all of them.
The first two fencers, an Italian and a Hungarian, salute each other, lifting the handle of their foils close to their mouths, then sweeping the foil down to the ground. With their free hand, they each pull the large wire mesh mask over their heads.
An official says, “Êtes-vous prêtes? Êtes-vous prêtes? En garde! Allez!”
The bout begins. Frieda cannot follow the action, it goes so fast.
“I don’t understand,” she whispers to Leopold.
He points to the four men hovering near the two fencers as they move back and forth. “There are two judges on either side of each fencer. The objective is to hit your opponent’s chest with the tip of your blade. Only the chest, nowhere else. When a judge sees a hit, he raises his hand and the president calls out to halt. The first player to score five hits against her opponent wins the bout.”
Suddenly the spectators around them jump up and cheer. The Hungarian fencer has scored the fifth hit on her opponent. The bout is over. A new bout begins.
Three bouts go by before Frieda begins to recognize the players on the different teams. Finally Helene Mayer steps up, a blonde Amazon. Her opponent is American.
Wolfie bends over. “I’ve heard Helene doesn’t wear a chest protector beneath her jacket like the other women. Interferes with her movement.”
Hanni rolls her eyes. Frieda sees her embarrassment and wonders how long Wolfie’s infatuation with this young girl will last.
The two fencers salute each other. After that it’s all downhill for the American. Helene Mayer shouts with exuberance at each lunge she makes toward her hapless opponent. Within short order she has scored five hits. The crowd jumps to their feet, applauding and shouting their approval.
After everyone has sat down, Frieda’s eye is drawn to a figure still half-standing off to the side below them. The man in the Nazi uniform is staring at her, his hand touching his cap in greeting. Her heart drops in her chest. Is he really looking at her? The dark, familiar eyes ... She catches her breath. It’s Hans Brenner. She hasn’t seen him since that day in his office. Though she has thought of him often.
She nods, then turns away. No one else has noticed. The next bout has begun and Leopold is engrossed in it.
She avoids looking in Brenner’s direction for a few minutes, but when the bout is finished and the audience is clapping, she glances over and finds him watching her. She feels warm, too warm.
After watching a dozen bouts, Frieda can sometimes spot when a fencer touches her opponent for a hit. Usually they move too quickly for her to follow, but she strives to concentrate. She turns her body toward Leopold, away from Brenner. Every now and then, when the audience is applauding, she turns slightly to find Brenner in her peripheral vision. For the moment his attention has been captured by the fencers.
After several hours, all of the Italian, French, and American fencers have been eliminated. The three women left — among them Helene Mayer — are medallists, but now they must play each other to see who wins the gold, silver, and bronze. The audience, whose attention has been flagging after the hours of competition, comes back to life.
The official announces, “The next players are Ilona Elek of Hungary and Ellen Preiss of Austria.
Wolfie leans closer to Frieda and whispers, “Both half-Jews.”
Everything depends on these final bouts. Excitement hangs in the air. The spectators follow every move and murmur at every hit called out. The scoreboard rises quickly from 1 to 4 under each name. Otherwise the great hall is silent except for the thin, ringing sounds of metal upon metal and the shuffling of the fencers’ feet. Ilona Elek scores a final hit against her opponent. The crowd jumps to their feet, applauding. When she returns to her place, the Hungarian coach, a middle-aged man in a brown suit, pats her on the arm with glee.
Wolfie leans over and says, “This means the Hungarian can win the gold but the Austrian can’t go higher than the silver. It all depends on the next two rounds.”
The official calls out, “The next players will be Helene Mayer of Germany and Ellen Preiss of Austria.”
The two women step to the centre strip and salute each other. Merely by her size and majestic bearing, the blonde braids wound over her ears, Helene must be a daunting opponent. The brown-haired Preiss is of medium height and ordinary appearance in comparison. They pull on their masks and start.
“Whoever loses this round gets the bronze,” Wolfie whispers.
Foil clangs against foil. Preiss holds her own against the Amazon, but just barely. Helene cries out with vigour at each hit, both for her and against her. The audience loves her and claps each time she scores a hit against Preiss. When the score is 4–4, the spectators lean forward with rapt attention.
Though Frieda watches closely, she misses the winning hit. When the official declares the hit against Preiss, the crowd stands up and cheers. Helene’s teammates pat her on the back while the German coach, all smiles, shakes her hand vigorously.
Wolfie’s eyes shine with excitement. “This is it. Preiss gets the bronze. Now what everyone’s been waiting for. These two will fight for the gold.”
During a short break one of Helene’s teammates massages her shoulders. Another hands her a glass of water. Her coach leans beside her, lips moving silently close to her ear.
Finally the official calls into the microphone, “In the final bout the players are Ilona Elek of Hungary and Helene Mayer of Germany.”
The two women salute each other. Helene Mayer has met her match in the Hungarian fencer, who is nearly as tall, if not as handsome. They both must be nervous, Frieda thinks, yet their faces show no emotion. They pull on their masks and stand en garde.
“Êtes-vous prêtes? Êtes-vous prêtes? En garde! Allez!” The audience leans forward to catch every move. Wolfie is beside himself with excitement, fidgeting in his seat.
They dance back and forth at each other, lunging, feinting, their foils aimed to strike. The two best players in the world manage to avoid each other’s foils for a time, then suddenly a hit from one side, and in quick succession a hit from the other side. The audience claps loudly with each strike.
Frieda finally realizes why she is so ambivalent about Helene Mayer. She’s a Jewish athlete who is playing for a country that hates Jews. Why should Frieda want her country to win when it is no longer her country?
The audience begins to clap: she has missed another hit. In two more minutes, the score reaches 4–4. The one who scores next will win the gold medal.
Frieda holds her breath. Everyone in the audience, it seems, is holding their breath. The two fencers are sparring back and forth, foils clashing, when a judge’s hand goes up. Frieda has missed it again, but she sees who the strike is against: Helene Mayer. There’s a flurry of activity between the judges and the president, their heads bobbing together.
Finally the official announces, “The gold medal goes to Ilona Elek of Hungary!”
The spectators leap to their feet. A roar rises up from them, a tumult, as if they had wanted the Hungarian to win all the time. The Hungarian team dances around the winner, embracing her left and right. Two of them lift her into the air. Their coach is weeping tears of joy.
“Damn!” says Wolfie, clapping and scowling at the same time. “I could’ve made a lot of money if Helene’d won.” He has to shout to be heard above the cheers.
“You made a bet on this?” Frieda hisses. She shakes her head with disgust. Hanni, however, is smiling at him.
Frieda stands up, glad to be able to stretch her feet. She looks for Brenner but has lost sight of him in the crowd. People have begun to leave, and three or four men in Nazi uniform move along the aisle of the row ahead; without warning one of them breaks away and stops in front of her.
“Fräulein Eisenbaum,” says Hans Brenner directly before her, touching his cap. “It’s nice to see you again.” His companions watch her from ten feet away, their faces blank. “My friends and I are going out to celebrate. Would you care to join us?” He glances back at the group of men, whose faces have turned stony. “No, no, of course not.”
He observes her as if they are alone, his eyes wandering to her breasts and legs. He can’t take his eyes off her, and she is thrilled. “Do you see patients?” he asks. “Are you practising?”
Leopold sits stiffly beside her, staring into the distance.
“I work at a hospital, covering for some physicians.” One of his friends is clearing his throat, trying to get Brenner’s attention. They’ve had enough of this illicit interchange between the Aryan and the Jewess. She lowers her voice. “I never thanked you for your help with my certificate.”
He stares at her, and she can see in his eyes the image of her body lying on his examining table, his hand on her breast. But he waves the suggestion away — which one, she wonders, her thanks or the memory? “Not necessary ...” he mumbles.
“Nevertheless,” she says softly.
He gives a slight nod, then walks away, followed by his companions, who stare straight ahead without giving them a glance.
Once they’re out of earshot, Wolfie mutters, “You surprise me, little sister. Maybe you could arrange a little game for us. I could make a bundle there.”
She silences him with a nasty look.