bumper to bumper, a row of ten open-topped Mercedes-Benz touring cars, gleaming and ticking in the sun like a demonic coal train. Each was guarded by SS men in white gloves who stood about being photographed by tourists and answering questions from Jungvolk boys.
‘Adolf’s security,’ Denham said.
They showed their press cards at the gates and passed into the stadium’s forecourt. With the flags of the competing nations flapping from its rim, it resembled some vast vessel in sail.
The stadium was full and murmuring. The long jump finals were in progress as he and Eleanor squeezed along a row near the eastern gate. On the far side he spotted the gold flash of the pennant that flew when Hitler was in attendance, but the man himself, surrounded by his entourage, was a brown dot in the distance.
Carl ‘Luz’ Long, the German long jump favourite, was on the runway. The press had been idolising him for months, and it wasn’t hard to see why. Tall, graceful, and flaxen-haired, he was an Aryan poster boy. But such was the curiosity about Owens since Monday, when the hundred-metre win had made a black man the most famous figure in the Reich after Hitler, that the stadium’s energy seemed ambiguous to Denham. The members of the large American contingent were easy to spot with their straw boaters and sunglasses.
Denham tapped the shoulder of a man sitting with his young son in the row in front. ‘What’s happened?’
The boy answered. ‘Luz Long jumped seven point seven three metres, but Owens fouled again. This is the second jump out of three. Maffei of Italy and, um, Tajima of Japan are still in, but they’re not jumping as far as Owens and Long.’
The stadium fell into an electrified silence as Long prepared. He stood, frowning and rubbing his knees, his white shorts pulled up high around his waist, then launched himself, blond hair waving, with enormous strides. The leap was tremendous; his legs pedalled thin air as if to force him farther forwards, and his landing was so hard that it sent a shower of sand into the pit where a camera was filming. The crowd applauded generously. There was a few seconds’ wait, and the speakers announced the result.
‘Seven point eight seven metres. New Olympic record. ’
The stadium rose to its feet and began chanting Long’s name. Two German team members lifted him, beaming, up onto their shoulders and carried him around the pit. When they put him down, Owens walked over and shook his hand.
‘What a sportsman,’ said Eleanor.
Denham peered at the distant brown dot in the Fuhrer box, picturing the man slapping his cotton gloves into his hand and muttering, ‘Beat that, Neger.’
The stadium waited as Tajima and Maffei took their jumps, both far shorter than Long’s. Finally a warm ‘aah’ surrounded Owens from all sides as he stepped onto the runway, his hands on his hips. He took a deep breath, tapped his heels on the ground and rocked his torso gently, as if moulding his muscles to the movement he had to make.
The Americans were on their feet.
‘Owens! Owens! Owens! ’
His body was supple, his limbs loose and lithe compared with the tension and power of Long’s.
The stadium fell into a tense silence. Some American girls in the next row were wringing their programmes in agony. If Owens fouled again, the gold was Long’s. Eleanor grabbed Denham’s hand.
Owens broke into a sprint.
‘Go on, Jesse, go on, go on, go on!’ Eleanor said under her breath.
With his final stride the American catapulted into the air and, as he flew, bent his head forwards and brought his legs up straight, reaching for his toes. When he landed there was a look of mild surprise on his face as the applause broke around him. The measure was taken.
‘Seven point nine four metres. New Olympic record.’
A tremendous ‘ooh’ from the crowd.
Owens dusted off the sand and gave his modest grin, waving at the crowd and trotting back to a towel he’d laid on the grass, as if he’d been for a dip.
The murmuring intensified as the minutes passed and Long finally returned to the runway for the third and final jump.
The crowd chanted his name, but his face looked far from encouraged. He was pale and kept screwing his fingers into his palms, as though he had dirt on his hands. Far away in the Fuhrer box the entourage was on its feet and watching through binoculars.
Carl ‘Luz’ Long broke into the run of his life, and the crowd screamed their support. With the final two strides he leapt. But somehow, once airborne, he seemed to lose his balance, as if hands unseen were nudging him off course. He strained but couldn’t recover as his body fell forwards and he landed badly on one foot.
The red flag went up, and the Fuhrer’s entourage sat down. The gold medal was Owens’s, and he still had his third jump to make.
‘He’s won,’ Denham said. ‘He doesn’t need to try again.’
Eleanor was watching Owens intently as he walked back to the runway. ‘He’s going to jump clear out of Berlin.’
Owens touched his nose and lips, crouched, and rubbed his hands over his buttocks and down his shanks.
Then he rocketed down the runway and shot into the air. For two seconds he flew, and landed with such force that he sprang upwards again, diving into the sand.
The tape measure was brought up, and when the announcement was made there was a half second’s silence as the crowd took it in.
‘Eight point zero six metres. New Olympic record. ’
After the silence, the roar rolled across the stadium like an avalanche in the Tyrol, causing the seats to tremble and buzz. The crowd chanted, ‘Yes-sy Oh-vens, Yes-sy Oh-vens.’ To Denham’s surprise Eleanor threw her arms around him, laughing, so that he caught the white flower scent in her hair. When they parted, her face was close, her eyes on his. He felt her breath.
They turned back towards the field. Long, who’d won the silver, shook Owens’s hand and embraced him; then, to everyone’s delight, the pair set off arm in arm around the track, waving to the crowd, inspiring laughter, and even greater applause.
Denham looked up to the Fuhrer box, but the man’s seat was empty. He’d left.
He and Eleanor made their way to the end of the row. On the steps, she slipped her arm in his, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and turned to look at Owens down on the track, so that Denham couldn’t read her face.
Still staring down at the athlete, who was surrounded by reporters, she said, ‘We still shouldn’t be here. Not even Jesse. The whole setup stinks…’
Denham was stunned. What had happened to her last night? He decided not to press her, though. Not now. Instead he said, ‘There’s a friend of mine down there I want you to meet.’
He led Eleanor down the steps to the edge of the track, pushing past the departing crowds. The movie crew were still at work, lifting cameras out of pits in the ground where they’d filmed the action. He spotted Friedl wheeling a camera dolly. Denham called out, and the young man waved, then ambled over, flicking his sleek black hair out of his eyes. He had a white band around his arm with the word FILM. When Denham introduced Eleanor, Friedl’s mouth gaped.
‘ “Seven Beautiful Girls from the USA,” ’ he said. ‘You’re the swimmer.’ She rolled her eyes, but Denham saw from her tight smile that she was pleased.
‘Think that long jump will make it into your movie?’ she said.
‘Of course… Unless someone says otherwise.’ He put a surreptitious two fingers under his nose to make a toothbrush moustache. ‘Tell me, Beautiful Girl from the USA, do you like hot music, too?’ He put his arms around them in a confidential huddle. ‘There’s a dance tonight, and I would love you both to come.’
Eleanor looked at Denham.
‘Be at the Nollendorfplatz Theatre by ten.’ He dropped his voice. ‘A band from Hamburg is playing some prohibited numbers in between the polkas and waltzes. American swing. If we’re lucky the police will leave us alone because of the Olympiad. Every hepcat in Berlin will be there…’
As they joined the throng leaving the stadium through the eastern gate Eleanor said to Denham, ‘What on
