David John - Flight from Berlin

‘Like blackfly,’ suggested Eleanor.

Eventually dinner was announced by a bugle. Eleanor excused herself and went in search of her table, which she found beneath an oak tree hung with lanterns. It was seated with young women athletes, all in team uniforms of different nations, and she realised then that only the females had been invited, which, given her brief experience of their host, kind of figured. The girls eyed her gown, perhaps thinking she had the wrong table.

‘Eleanor, over here,’ came a husky voice she knew, and the gentle, giant figure of Helen Stephens unfolded to its full height, beckoning her over. ‘Sit with me.’ They hugged, and for a precarious moment Eleanor felt all the raw hurt that had made her weep in the stadium.

‘You won’t believe my day,’ Helen said, banging the table so that the cutlery bounced. A childhood operation on her throat had left her sounding like a longshoreman with a hundred-a-day cigarette habit. ‘I won. I won the hundred metre. I beat that damned Polack, Stella Walsh

…’

‘Sis, that’s wonderful. You were the only woman man enough to beat Stella the Fella.’

Waiters placed a selection of wines in the centre of the table and served panini and small Italian delicacies as a tenor serenaded the tables with a tub-thumping aria. None of the girls touched the wines, and for once Eleanor decided she’d enjoy herself sober.

The surface of the Wannsee reflected a crimson sky. Soon, candles were placed on the table and tiny electric lights turned the trees into sparkling candelabra.

Later as the plates were cleared away couples got up to dance on the terrace in front of the Gothic folly. The string orchestra had withdrawn and was replaced with a large, black-tie dance band that immediately swung into a foxtrot.

‘Oh, ha-ha, there you are.’

Martha was gliding towards her through the crowd, her eyes lit with champagne. Once again, Eleanor got the faint impression that she’d been made the butt of some joke and noticed, not without some satisfaction, that the shorter woman had lipstick on her teeth, giving a carnivorous leer to her smile.

‘Lord, what a head we’ll have tomorrow,’ Martha trilled, taking Eleanor’s arm. ‘Over here, there’s a fascinating man I know you’ll be dying to meet.’

‘Okay, but I’m married, remember?’ Eleanor muttered.

She was led between clusters of people until they reached a group of men with their backs towards them. With an instant dread she recognised the broad shoulders and bolt-upright posture of the man addressing the group. He was winding up some story with booming emphases and hand gestures.

‘Some joke, Martha.’

‘You said you had to talk to him.’

Martha tapped his elbow. He swung around, and Eleanor was faced with Avery Brundage.

The man’s nostrils flared.

‘Mr Brundage,’ Martha cooed, sliding a glance at Eleanor. ‘Look who I’ve found.’

‘Hello, sir,’ Eleanor said, trying her best smile.

For two seconds his indignation visibly battled self-control.

‘Good evening, Mrs Emerson,’ he managed. There was perspiration on his brow.

‘There, ha-ha, you’ve made up. A diplomatic coup on my part, I think. Mr Brundage, Eleanor is our guest during the Games.’

‘Sir,’ Eleanor continued, ‘would you be kind enough to spare me a minute of your-’

But before she could finish, a British voice was saying, ‘My word, who have we here?’

Brundage stepped aside to allow the women into the circle. A short, dapper gentleman with a monocle and a pencil moustache was observing Eleanor with a poker face. His chest was heavy with medals and decorations.

Martha said, ‘Eleanor, dear, this is Sir Eric Phipps, the British ambassador.’

‘Delighted,’ he said, his face giving nothing away, but she noticed his monocle casting a miniature spotlight up and down her body.

He, too, kissed her hand, and something about his courtly manner charmed her.

‘Eleanor won the hundred-metre backstroke at the last Olympics, Sir Eric,’ Martha said.

‘The backstroke? How very interesting.’

‘And you, sir,’ Martha continued, turning to the third man, ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’

‘Richard Denham, madam. I’m a journalist.’

‘At last, a colleague,’ Eleanor said.

He offered his hand, and their eyes met.

She’d held the gaze of umpteen people this evening, so why this one was different she wasn’t sure, but she felt an instant quickening of her heart, a tightening in her chest. Her hand lingered in his before he released it. He had cool, greenish eyes that seemed a little sad. His tailcoat was an obsolete cut, but it revealed a pleasing figure, even if he was a tad shorter than she was. He was in his late thirties, she guessed. He wore no ring.

‘Mr Denham here has been very sporting in not jotting down my indiscretions,’ said the ambassador, ‘and Mr Brundage has been delighting us with a thoroughly comprehensive account of the American Olympic training regimen.’

Denham caught Eleanor’s eye, and she turned to hide a smile.

Brundage seemed to bristle at the women’s intrusion. He gave a curt nod to each of them. ‘Ladies. Your Excellency. Sir.’ And stomped away.

‘You’re a Brit?’ Eleanor said to Denham.

‘I am, but I live in Berlin.’

‘Been in the wars, huh?’ she said, looking at the bruise on his cheek. ‘Say, didn’t I see you leaving the Adlon yesterday?’

There was a reticence about this man. She wondered what his story was. Martha was already making eyes at him and had begun to pout her lips out in a way she seemed to think attractive.

Sir Eric was smiling at them and was about to speak, when a young woman appeared at his side and slipped her arm in his.

‘Dear, I think Sir Robert and Sarita need rescuing from the Ribbentrops.’

‘Ah. Please do excuse me.’ He bowed and left.

‘So, Mr Denham,’ Martha simpered as she accepted yet another glass from a passing tray, ‘are you for the Games, or are you one of these Olympic spoilsports, too?’

‘I’m afraid,’ Denham said, looking at Eleanor, ‘that I’m one of those spoilsports. Simply by coming here you’re helping them.’

‘Helping who?’ said Eleanor, grinning, thinking there was a punchline coming.

‘You’re helping the Nazis muscle into the fold of decent nations. They’re using you.’

Eleanor laughed with dismay. ‘I am not- we are not-anyone’s pawns.’

Martha had already drained most of her glass and seemed to have lost the thread of the conversation. ‘Exactly, everyone should just get along…’

Eleanor held his gaze. The last thing she wanted was an argument at a party. All the same, she couldn’t let this pass.

‘Can’t some things in life be above sordid politics?’ she said, conscious that she was sounding just like Brundage. ‘I think the Olympic ideal is one of the few things that is.’

Denham’s brow furrowed with understanding. It was the same mannerism her father had when arguing with her, and it drove her nuts.

‘The Olympic ideal is being twisted by some very unscrupulous people. The racial discrimination on the German team, for instance-’

‘Race?’ said Eleanor with a little shake of her head. ‘We’ve got the fastest man on the planet competing in these Games, and he’s a Negro. Doesn’t that give the lie to race theories? Who cares about race?’

He chose not to take the baton and seemed to wait for her to cool down. Martha had given up on the lip pouting and was trying to lock eyes with him.

In a conciliatory tone he said, ‘Look, for the Germans these Games have little to do with sport. This fortnight is a huge show of power, a propaganda display. The whole country is in training, but not for sport…’