of respect and concern.
Friedl explained that nothing was being left to chance with the movie, Olympia, and with a blank-cheque budget from the Propaganda Ministry, they had more than forty cameras ready for every contingency. Any shots that could be filmed beforehand had been. ‘I’ve been on set at the stadium for a month,’ he said. ‘She films everything.’
‘She…?’ Denham wasn’t sure why he felt surprised. ‘You work for Leni Riefenstahl?’
‘Yes.’ Friedl gave him a quizzical look, as if unaware of the opprobrium and awe that attached to the woman’s name in equal measure. Denham had seen Triumph of the Will and remembered being dazed with disgust and admiration. It was an astonishing work, casting Hitler as a nation’s Messiah, glowing with a monochrome aura. The bastard had literally given her a cast of thousands.
‘Well then,’ Denham said, buttering a slice of bread, ‘what stories going round would you care to share with a discreet reporter?’
Friedl munched slowly on an apple. ‘None that wouldn’t get me into trouble…’
‘So you do have a story.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Come on. If it’s the one about the German lady high jumper who might be a man, I’ve heard it.’
‘No…’ Friedl shifted in his seat. ‘It’s about the Jewish athletes, the ones who trained for the German team…’ He turned again, to make sure they weren’t being overheard. The Party men and their wives were taking second helpings, but the boy was nowhere to be seen. ‘Sorry, but if I tell you, they’ll trace it back to me…’
This was a familiar situation for Denham, and he seldom felt proud of himself when he had to use the old hacks’ tricks.
‘Look, if it’s a story that damages the Nazis, the world needs to hear it. Don’t you agree?’
‘Yes, but-’
‘These people aren’t your friends, Friedl. If you keep quiet you’re sort of helping them… aren’t you?’
Friedl fell silent. Denham waited.
‘Do I have your word you’ll protect my name?’
‘Naturally,’ Denham said.
‘The Jewish athletes in the Olympic Games…,’ he began, and started again. ‘The Reich Sports Office had to allow some Jews to try for the German team; otherwise the IOC would have removed the Games from Germany… or countries would have boycotted.’
Denham searched his memory. There had been an outcry about this in the international press last year, before the Winter Olympics in Bavaria. The Americans sent a delegation to make sure the German-Jewish athletes were being given a fair chance.
Friedl leaned in closer. ‘It was a deception. The Nazis set up some fake training session for the benefit of the IOC, the press, and the Americans, with Jewish athletes present. But in fact the Jews got no facilities-nothing. They had to train in farmers’ fields. After all, they’re banned from every sports club in Germany…’
A buzzing noise, and an old Fokker biplane appeared alongside the airship’s promenade. The pilot, in cap and goggles, waved, and most of the diners interrupted their eating to watch at the windows. The boy was still not there.
‘It gets worse,’ Friedl said. ‘Last week, when all the countries’ teams were safely on board ships heading for Germany, the Reich Sports Leader simply told the Jews that they hadn’t been selected for the German team after all. I guess he calculated that it was too late for anyone to complain or take official action.’
‘ “Germans Drop Jews from Team”?’ Denham said. ‘Nothing new there.’
It was a depressing and familiar story, although this deception sounded more brazen than most.
‘They had to make a single exception, however. Hannah Liebermann. You’ve heard of her?’
‘The fencer? Are you joking?’ Denham reflected for a moment. It hadn’t occurred to him before that she was Jewish. ‘She’s one of the most famous athletes in the world.’
‘Exactly. She’s so famous they couldn’t not include her. But how is this for irony?’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘She refused. The one Jew they gave the honour of competing for the Reich told them where to put their invitation…’
‘Good for her. So she’s not on the team either.’
For a minute Denham had thought this was leading up to a scoop. He called the waiter over and asked for a whisky.
‘She is on the team,’ Friedl said, his expression dark. ‘They’re forcing her.’
‘What?’
‘They’re forcing her to compete on the German team by threatening her family if she doesn’t.’
‘Christ.’ Denham put his glass down. ‘Wasn’t she living abroad?’
Friedl was distracted again. The cameraman, Jaworsky, was calling him from the far end of the promenade.
‘She’s been in California since ’33. When she refused their invitation the Gestapo started arresting her family. She boarded the next ship back to Germany.’
‘How do you know all this?’
Friedl shrugged. ‘Call it pillow talk between me and someone who knows.’
‘I’ve got to interview her,’ Denham said.
‘Excuse me.’ Friedl got up. ‘I have to work.’
Denham had a story. A vital, personal story of courage and deception, a political story that even his agent, Harry, would like. It moved him. It went straight to the heart of all that was wrong with these Games. An innocent woman made to act in the charades of a boundlessly criminal regime in its bid to appear decent before a watching world. They were holding her up as proof of their fairness when they had nothing but hatred for her. To cap it all, she was a sporting superstar-with cover-girl looks.
He drained his glass and got up, noticing as he did so the white cloth on a nearby table twitch, and the scabbard of a Jungvolk dagger poking from underneath. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, he delivered a brisk kick to the bulge where the boy’s backside was. He was out of the dining room before anyone could locate the source of the howling.
As usual when he was preoccupied Denham wanted to pace. He returned to the deserted lounge on the starboard side and ambled along the promenade window, drumming his fingers on the sill. Beneath him beech forests and fields heavy with crops rolled by, but in his mind’s eye he saw Hannah Liebermann, lithe and silken- haired, pointing her foil, arm straight. She was one of the greatest athletes Germany had ever produced, whose fighting style had an extraordinary grace.
He’d have to reach her in private somehow. An approach through the official channels would almost certainly be refused. In fact, Willi Greiser would surely expel him for this one. No doubt about that… Was it worth it?
He was sitting at the baby grand piano, looking up at the portrait of the tramp turned dictator, trying to remember the notes for that Bessie Smith number ‘ Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out,’ when he saw the red jug ears and ginger hair of that steward approaching from the far end of the lounge. The one who’d asked for his camera earlier. The Party pin in his lapel glinted like an evil eye.
‘Herr Denham? I’m at your disposal.’ He spoke with a marked Swabian accent. ‘Captain Lehmann suggested you may like a tour of the ship.’
‘You read my mind,’ Denham said. ‘Could we start with the smoking room?’ He was dying for a cigarette.
They descended to B deck. The steward, who introduced himself as Jorg, led him to a small bar, which connected via an airlock to an intimate smoking room, pressurised, he explained, so that no hydrogen could seep in. It had small cafe tables and a comfortable leather bench running around its walls.
He lit Denham’s HB. On the far side of the room was a wide window set into the floor. Wisps of white cloud passed beneath the glass, filling the room with a pale light reflected from forests and valleys below. Surely this must be the acme of all smoking experiences, he thought.
‘Do you have mail to post?’ the steward asked.
‘Mail?’
‘We drop a postbag when we reach Berlin. Letters are franked in the mailing room.’
‘With Hindenburg stamps?’
