Before she knew what she was doing, she thrust out her hand for him to shake and pushed her autograph book at him. She watched in fascination as his translator explained that she wanted his autograph. The Führer took a pen from the man and scribbled his signature on a blank page.
At the exact moment he finished signing, a camera flashed.
Hitler startled and his expression transformed from a broad grin into a murderous grimace. He spun around, searching for the source of the flash and bellowing a stream of guttural commands, his face turning a deep shade of violent purple as he shrieked at the photographer standing beside them. Immediately, four black-shirted bodyguards threw themselves onto the photographer and pinned the man by his arms and waist in front of Herr Hitler.
The Führer, still screaming, leered at the photographer, slapping him across the face with a pair of black leather gloves he held in his hand, and then he started kicking the man in the belly.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
With each thud of impact, the photographer let out a desperate sound, a mixture of groan and cry.
The Führer paused, his teeth bared, and lowered his aim to drive his leather boot into the man’s shins. With each strike to the bone, the photographer’s face turned gray with shock and terror. After several strikes, his camera clattered to the ground and Hitler drove it into the wall with the toe of his boot. The sound of glass shattering rang out. A bodyguard opened a door and the other guards tossed the photographer through it. His camera followed. The door slammed behind him.
It all happened so quickly that Helen and Dee froze, only startling back to attention as the black-shirted guards encircled them again. Screams still seemed to echo off the concrete walls of the room. Helen stared at the autograph book in her hand. She didn’t remember anyone handing it back.
The Führer sniffed and rubbed a hand under his nose before turning back to Helen and Dee. He spoke calmly to his translator, gesturing toward Helen, a look of admiration spreading across his face.
The translator swallowed and cleared his throat before speaking carefully in English. “Welcome, Fräulein Stephens. You must consider running for Germany. Fair hair. You are a big, strong woman. The chancellor says you are pure Aryan, no?”
What was she supposed to say? Helen’s insides felt as though they had turned to water and her legs quaked. “Danke?”
Hitler spoke quickly to his translator.
“And how do you like Germany?” the man asked.
“Berlin is beautiful. Even in the rain.”
“Would you care to spend the weekend with the chancellor at his villa at Berchtesgaden?”
Helen blinked, stunned. What?
Before she could react, Dee stepped forward and spoke firmly. “Tell your Führer that Fräulein Stephens is training for Monday’s relay. Please thank him on her behalf, but nein, she’s not available.”
Hitler watched the exchange with interest, and when it became clear that Dee was saying no, he gave Helen a long, icy stare and spoke again to the translator.
“Ah, yes,” the man said. “He says it’s a shame the American women will lose to our team and urges Helen to take care of herself.”
Hitler gave a small shrug, still smiling, and then leaned toward Helen to embrace her. She recoiled, but he moved quickly, reaching his hands around her waist and rubbing them up and down her buttocks several times. She inhaled in horror. Was no one going to stop him? He finished his explorations with a sharp pinch, stood back, saluted her, and then marched from the room without a backward glance.
Helen and Dee remained rooted in the center of the small room, stunned.
The aide cleared his throat and gestured toward the door that would take them outside.
With a shaking arm, Helen grabbed Dee’s elbow, and they followed him.
In the harsh overhead lighting of the concrete hallway, the aide gave them a wolfish smile. “Fräuleins, be careful.”
52.
August 4, 1936
Berlin
BETTY PULLED A SILVER FLASK FROM HER TRACK BAG and poured some whiskey into Helen’s coffee. “Drink this,” she said.
After taking a long swig, Helen lowered the mug. It was empty and her hand had finally stopped shaking.
From where she sat across from Helen and Betty, Ruth glanced around the team’s dining hall. “I must leave today. The Führer has taken a special interest in you and you denied him. It’s all too much attention. This can only lead to trouble for me.”
“I know, I’m sorry, but—” Helen started to say.
“Ruth’s right,” Betty said, cutting her off. “You just said that the Führer’s aide even repeated the warning to be careful.”
Helen cradled her head in her hands. “I’ve really made a hash of this, haven’t I? The last thing I wanted to do was put you at risk. What about your family?”
A wisp of sympathy passed over Ruth’s face as she leaned across the table, taking both of Helen’s hands in hers. She opened her mouth to say something, but suddenly Harriet appeared beside them, raising a newspaper over the table to get their attention. “Oh my goodness, Helen, I’m so sorry.”
The three women stared at Harriet.
“For what?” Helen asked, her annoyance plain.
A smirk curled at the corners of Harriet’s mouth. Athletes from other tables were now watching them. Harriet stuck out her chest, dropped the newspaper onto the table, and squealed loudly, “Why, haven’t you heard? The Polish team is accusing you of being a man!”
If Harriet had tossed a grenade onto the table, she couldn’t have achieved more of an explosive reaction.
From a neighboring table, Annette stood. “What in the world? That’s ridiculous!”
“Did she just say a man? Sounds like sour grapes to me. Helen, don’t read that garbage,” Olive said.
“How desperate! It’s such poor sportsmanship.” Gertrude shook her head.
Everyone else burst into expressions of outrage and amazement, but Helen froze. Betty grabbed for the paper and held her breath, forcing herself to read the headline of the evening edition of one of
