David John: Flight from Berlin

‘Got them heated on the chef’s grill, ma’am.’

‘Thanks, kid,’ Eleanor said, handing him a second pair. ‘Girls, whatever you want, just ask Hal.’

‘That’s right. Coffee… tea… me,’ the boy said as he left.

She took out her small beauty mirror, balanced it against her trunk, and blew smoke thoughtfully into her reflection.

‘Eleanor,’ said Olive in a schoolma’am voice. ‘You’re smoking again. ’

‘Haven’t you heard?’ Eleanor said as she set about waving her hair. ‘I train on cigarettes and champagne.’

S he found most of her teammates already assembled in the noisy C deck dining room. They were so many that they ate in two sittings, but all had gathered to hear Avery Brundage’s speech, with dozens standing around the edges of the room. Jesse Owens entered, looking a little delicate, she thought. She’d heard he’d spent the day in his cabin, seasick.

Eleanor found herself sitting at a table with the decathlete Glenn Morris, the five-thousand-metre runner Lou Zamperini, and two relay runners, Sam Stoller and Marty Glickman. Morris had matinee-idol looks: six foot two, with brooding, Cherokee eyes and a chin like a DC Comics superhero.

The noise subsided as Avery Brundage strode in, followed by two AOC officials and Mrs Hacker, the team chaperone, self-important with her clipboard. She’d applied some lipstick, Eleanor noticed.

Brundage, the president of the American Olympic Committee, had on his buttoned-up double-breasted suit and rimless eyeglasses, which, together with his bolt-upright posture, gave him a trim, conceited appearance. He was a tall ex-pentathlete, broad shouldered, and at forty-nine wore his age well. Not handsome exactly-his chin and forehead were large and plain-but he had the charisma of conviction. Eleanor knew from the public beefs he’d had with her dad that Brundage took himself seriously in the extreme. Both were men of strong principles, but where her father’s were inclusive and egalitarian, she suspected Brundage’s were quite the opposite. He stood still, waiting until the dining room had fallen silent.

‘Fellow Olympians,’ he began, ‘we are finally on our way.’ Cheers and whistles from the audience. ‘You, America’s finest, are participating in an event that enshrines the world’s noblest sporting ideal: the Olympic Games. It is an ideal that exemplifies all that is good in man’s nature, an ideal that transcends the quotidian struggles of everyday life…’

‘The what?’ mumbled Lou Zamperini.

‘Hold the spirit of this ideal in your hearts and remember that you represent the grandest country in the world. You are going to Germany to win for the honour of your country and for the glory of sport.’

The athletes applauded with wild enthusiasm, but now Brundage wagged a finger in the air.

‘It has not been an easy road. Only a few months ago, it was still uncertain whether we would be competing in this Olympiad. Those in the so-called boycott movement-the Communists and the cosmopolitans who understand little of sport-sought to make the American athlete a martyr for a cause not his own…’

‘He means Communists and Jews are not real Americans,’ Eleanor said in a low voice.

‘… but common sense has prevailed. The Olympic ideal rises above all those issues of politics and skin colour, and let no one tell you otherwise.’ Again, the athletes applauded and whistled. ‘Whatever misconceptions people may have about Germany, whatever distortions are perpetuated in the press, let one thing be understood.’ Pointing into the audience, he paused, looking at everyone in the room. ‘Germany appreciates the Olympic ideal better than any other country I know. It has made athletic excellence the highest priority in its national life-a policy our own government would do well to emulate. For I believe that in striving for this ideal we may one day witness the development of a new race. A race forged through sportsmanship, a race physically strong, mentally alert, and morally sound…’

‘Jesus,’ said Eleanor.

Brundage stopped for a moment and seemed to be looking in her direction, his eyeglasses flashing in the light.

‘A race that scorns injustice and will fight for fair play and what it believes is right.’

The applause this time was less certain, as the arcane articles of Brundage’s faith passed over the heads of most in his audience.

‘Sounds like fascism to me,’ said Marty Glickman.

Eleanor looked at him, this almond-eyed relay runner from the Bronx, still in his teens, and wondered if he and Stoller were the only Jews on the team.

‘Finally,’ Brundage said gravely, ‘I must give you a word of warning about your conduct over the next few days at sea. You will be tempted by an unlimited variety of rich food. If you are undisciplined in controlling your appetites, your medals will be lost at the dining table…’

Even as he spoke, waiters were preparing the tables for the first course, placing baskets of bread rolls on each.

‘Will you look at that?’ said Lou Zamperini in hushed amazement. ‘ Six types of bread roll.’

‘… Second, I would remind you all of the AOC handbook rules, which demand that you refrain from smoking, the drinking of intoxicating liquors, gambling, and other forms of dissipation.’ He looked slowly around the room to make sure everyone was hearing. ‘Anyone who violates these rules will be dealt with severely. Thank you.’

‘I’ll take that as a challenge,’ Eleanor said, to laughter from those around her. She’d heard enough of Brundage’s views to know that if Communists and Jews didn’t fit into his Olympian ideal-whatever bunk he spoke about sport transcending all-then, frankly, neither did she. Athletes, in his world, were supposed to be poor and pure, but she had made money of her own and had tasted plenty of what life had to offer. But she was a sure bet to win a gold-and Brundage knew it.

‘What’s on the menu tonight?’ Lou asked a waiter.

‘Pumpkin soup, roast chicken with gravy and mashed potatoes, roast beef with French fries, tomato salad, baked apple, cranberry Jell-O, and ice cream.’

‘Oh my Lord…’ Lou’s eyes filled with wonder.

‘Careful, Lou,’ Eleanor said. ‘Fatty Arbuckle never won the five thousand metres.’

After coffee, she slipped on her white sable stole. ‘Well, see you boys around,’ she said. ‘This joint’s a little clean for me.’

‘Have fun,’ said Lou, into his second ice cream.

The rolling seas had calmed, and Eleanor stepped out onto the deck to a beautiful night. She leaned back against the rail and watched the Olympic flag on the top deck flutter gently against a sky already filling with stars. Water lapped away from the ship, which hummed gently. The lights of a distant vessel twinkled and bobbed, and she felt a sudden yearning in her heart, a void that longed to be filled, but with what, she wasn’t sure. Didn’t she already have love? Phrases of music from the upper decks carried down on the breeze. She turned and climbed the stairs up to first class, trying to push Herb from her thoughts.

Some of the ship’s grander passengers were walking off their dinner with a promenade on A deck. Eleanor caught the sparkle of diamonds around the women’s necks and the scent of expensive perfume. Inside, a piano was playing a familiar song, ‘The Glory of Love.’

She followed the music down a wide corridor to a small lounge decorated in the modern style. The lighting was soft and low.

At a bar made entirely of polished chrome, Charlie MacArthur and his wife, Helen Hayes, were standing drinks for a number of men Eleanor guessed were the reporters. Helen, fair haired and delicate in a white gown and corsage of apple blossom, looked lovelier in the flesh than she did on the silver screen, and, unlike Eleanor, had received the benefit of the A deck hairdresser.