Betty and Helen shook their heads but continued pressing through the crowd in search of Mrs. Brown.
“She’s over there,” Helen cried, pointing to their chaperone standing alongside a table laden with small plates of sliced Frankfurter Kranz, Kaiserschmarrn, and other desserts.
Betty dashed up to her. “We’re ready to go.”
“Isn’t it a bit early?” Mrs. Brown asked, grasping her dessert plate tightly.
“We need to be home before curfew,” Helen said, taking her plate. “You can have this in the car.”
“My, you three are such responsible girls,” Mrs. Brown said, her gaze lingering on her slice of cake longingly. “Fine, fine, off we go.”
Once they were settled in the back seat of their black sedan, a deep rumbling shook the automobile. Red, orange, and bright green flashes of light bathed the air overhead. All four women whipped their heads around in alarm to look out the rear window. Fireworks lit the sky, blooming in sprays of tinted stars. Each boom reverberated in Betty’s chest.
“Helen—” Betty started, but Helen waved her off, her gaze resting on Ruth, who sat rigid, her back toward them as she faced the window, her shoulders trembling as if she was weeping.
51.
August 4, 1936
Berlin
WHENEVER HELEN HAD IMAGINED RUNNING THE 100-meter in the Olympics, she’d pictured a glorious summer day and a crowd booming with adulation as she roared down the straightaway to capture her title as fastest woman in the world. In reality, it was nothing like that. For most of the morning of her race, a light drizzle had fallen, but when Helen arrived at the stadium for her first competition, the discus throw, the drizzle thickened to a lashing rain. Multiple events were under way in the stadium, and the whole place felt disorganized, chaotic, and cold.
Helen knew she needed to focus on competing, but since the party on Pfaueninsel Island, Ruth had been a nervous wreck and threatening to leave Berlin. Helen felt sick with how she had put Ruth at risk. She should have known better. Now here she was—alone, drenched, and standing in soggy wet grass awaiting her turn in the discus, an event she had little chance of winning. Her navy-blue sweatshirt and pants hung off her, waterlogged and heavy, and hanks of her hair stuck plastered to her forehead.
Over on the track, the racers began to gather for the 100-meter finals.
Helen strained to see if her running competitors had taken their places, but saw only the three German women who had qualified for the finals circling the starting area. Could officials start the finals of the 100-meter without her? Was that even possible? She shifted from side to side with impatience as Gisela Mauermayer, a German woman in first place in the discus, began bobbing up and down to prepare for her final throw. If Helen missed her race because of the discus, she would be beside herself. She had been waiting far too long for this rematch with Stella and could scarcely wait to beat the Polish runner again!
Helen squinted into the rain toward the starting area for the 100-meter. Five women—everyone but her—stood listening to instructions from the officials. Annette, tall and narrow, towered over dark-haired Stella. Even from her spot across the wide expanse of field, Helen could sense Stella’s taut focus and anxiety. Since they had met in St. Louis, Helen had been eager to prove her mettle against the other woman, and when reporters goaded her for a snappy bit of copy on their rivalry for their newspapers, she was always happy to oblige. But watching Stella huddled against the cold wind, Helen shivered. Maybe she had it all wrong. She could get invited to fancy parties and kiss beautiful women, but the truth was that she had more in common with Stella than she did with most other people. Running defined them.
“Fräulein Stephens!” a judge shouted, and Helen sprang forward, rolling up the sodden sleeve on her right arm before reaching for the discus. She wrapped her pruned fingers around the edge of it, slippery and cold in her hands. She stepped into the throwing area, trying to still her mind, but it was impossible not to strain her ears, listening for the announcer to mention final call for the 100-meter. She needed to be done with her field event so she could get to running, so she bobbed, began her spin, and let the cold wind rip the discus from her. As soon as it left her hand, she felt the imbalance, the uncertainty. The discus wobbled and spun through the rain until it landed with a thud nowhere near Gisela’s distance marker, far from what she needed to get out of the middle of the pack.
Helen didn’t even wait for her official result on the throw, but instead turned and jogged toward the track. When she reached the starting area, she sought out Dee, peeling off her wet tracksuit as she approached her.
“How did it go over there?”
“I’m in eighth place at the moment, but there are still more throws.”
Dee sighed. “Well, this is your best event. We know Stella didn’t run her fastest yesterday, so don’t take anything for granted.”
Helen nodded, cupped her hands, and blew on them, trying to regain some feeling in her fingertips.
Annette jogged over and hopped up and down, attempting to stay warm. Goose pimples dotted her skin.
Dee dashed a towel over Annette’s shoulders. “What about you? Ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Dee nodded and the women turned and headed for their lanes on the track. Helen tried to steady her breathing, but her white satin tank top felt tight across her broad chest. The wet red cinder clumped underfoot, sticking to her black leather track shoes. The last few days jumbled through her mind.
