The room was warm and smelled of melting candle wax and roasting meat, something gamey. Classical music played on a large radio console behind them, its beat low and heavy. Betty looked to Helen and saw her friend’s expression, both fascinated and repulsed, so she turned and looked farther down the table to where a corpulent man sat, splayed in a heavy wooden chair resembling a throne. He wore a black silk robe that gaped at his chest, revealing rolls of pale flesh sprouting occasional tufts of graying hair. His thinning oiled dark hair was combed back, though several strands had sprung loose and hung lank across his forehead. Surrounding the second-most-powerful man in the Reich, several women in skimpy peignoirs lounged, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed. Göring squinted at his glass and grunted, and one of the women stumbled to a table to fetch a magnum to pour more wine. Another tottered to her feet and stood behind him, massaging his neck, as he surveyed Helen, Betty, and Ruth. Slapping the masseuse’s hands away, he stood.
He snapped his fingers and the wine server thrust heavy glasses of Burgundy into the hands of Helen, Betty, and Ruth. Up close, the woman’s pupils were so dilated that her empty eyes appeared black. Betty looked into her glass of wine. It was dark and thick, almost syrupy. Could something other than wine be in it? She glanced over at Ruth and Helen, who were also peering into their glasses, their expressions similarly troubled.
Betty backed away at the same time Herr Göring approached with one slablike hand extended toward Helen. She remained motionless, but this didn’t stop him from taking her hand to lift it to his lips. Behind him, the wine server, masseuse, and other women slunk toward the back of the room, disappearing behind a red velvet wall hanging.
Betty ran her hand over her forehead. Her earlier giddiness from the champagne and the dancing evaporated, and she tried to breathe in the suffocating heat of the room.
He turned to Betty. As his lips landed on the top of Betty’s hand, she suppressed the urge to grimace at the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. When he released her hand, she unobtrusively wiped it down the back of her dress.
“Willkommen. Sit. Drink,” he growled before reaching for Ruth’s hand, but rather than letting him paw her, she stepped back into Helen, who reflexively wrapped her arm around Ruth’s shoulders possessively. It took only a split second for Helen to realize what she’d done and drop her arm from Ruth, but it was too late.
A slow, oily expression of delight quirked at the corners of Göring’s mouth. “This is interesting. What do we have here?”
Helen pushed her glass to him. “Bitte, Herr President Göring, but I’m afraid we have a team curfew. We must leave.”
“Nein. We only have two chairs, but perhaps you”—he pointed at Ruth—“can sit on Fräulein Stephens’s lap? I would like to see that.”
Betty peeked over her shoulder toward the closed door. Could they leave? The empty mahogany chairs in front of them appeared heavy, impossible to move. Once they were seated, there would be no quick escape.
At that moment, the door clicked open behind them and the soldier reappeared. He murmured something to Herr Göring, who promptly grunted.
The attaché turned to the women. “Fräuleins, Herr President has an important phone call. Please excuse him.”
“Nein, they wait.”
“But we have team curfew,” Helen repeated.
Her protests made Göring’s leer turn menacing. “Ach, you disgust me. I can cause many problems for anyone. Even a champion,” he spat, before turning and storming away, his back as broad as a boulder.
Betty, Ruth, and Helen hesitated, shocked, but then they spun and raced for the door without bothering to wait for the attaché. They continued down the hallway toward the main entrance and dashed outside to the terrace, where Betty searched the crowd for a familiar face. “Thank goodness for that phone call,” she said, her lungs heaving with the cool air and the skunky smell of river water. “That was about to get ugly.”
“But we could have outrun him,” Helen said in a shaky voice that undermined the bravado of her words.
“No. These things cannot be outrun. This is very bad,” Ruth said. Her face appeared bloodless, her eyes wide with terror.
“Let’s go,” Betty said, pointing and moving ahead to weave through the crowd. When she looked over her shoulder to make certain they were following her, Helen was practically dragging a stunned-looking Ruth.
A redheaded woman lurched into her path, a bottle of champagne in her hand. Betty took in the familiar snub-nosed profile. “Harriet?”
Their teammate turned. Her lipstick had smeared, leaving her face blurry, her expression hard to decipher. “Well, if it isn’t everyone’s beloved Olympians?” she slurred, raising the bottle to drink out of it directly. Foam sloshed from its opening and bubbled down the dark green glass.
“Harriet, we’re leaving. You should come with us. It’s getting late.” Helen reached for her pale freckled arm, but Harriet shook her off.
“I’m staying.”
“But we have a busy schedule tomorrow. It’s Opening Ceremonies. Come on,” Helen urged.
“No!” Harriet’s voice rose in indignation. “I’m having fun.”
“Are you sure?” Betty said, lowering her voice as people turned to check the commotion.
Harriet leaned in and hissed, “You don’t get it, do you? Both of you will race. Helen’s the star of the show and you’re the one everyone loves. And you?” She looked at Ruth, her lips twisting in an ugly sneer. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re too beautiful for your own good.”
“We dance!” A young blond man in a military uniform appeared at Harriet’s side and looped his arm
