HELEN STEPHENS: WOMAN, MAN, OR FREAK?
Betty gasped, but before she could see more of the story Helen snatched the paper to hold it closer to her face, effectively blocking everyone else from seeing it. “I beat Stella, so they have to spread lies? Those Poles sure are a desperate lot, aren’t they?” A tight grin was fixed on her face, but Betty could detect a sharp edge in her voice. Helen rose from her seat, folding the newspaper and tucking it under her arm. “I’m going back to my room to get some rest. See you all tomorrow.”
“Don’t even think about that baloney tonight. Sleep well,” Gertrude called. The other athletes nodded and settled back into their meals, but Betty grabbed Ruth’s hand and they followed Helen outside.
“Helen? Wait,” Betty called after her.
Helen turned, her face taut with terror.
“What does it say?” Betty demanded, running to Helen’s side.
“It says I’m a freak. That I’m lying and really a man.”
“But that’s nonsense.”
“Is it? Betty, I’m not like you. I’m not pretty. I’m tall, ugly, and awkward and I’ve never been able to picture myself getting married and having a bunch of kids like everyone else. I’m different.”
“None of that makes you a freak . . . or a man, for that matter. This is all part of a smear campaign to discredit your victory today. Maybe Ruth’s been right. Maybe this is how the Nazis will hurt you.”
Helen thrashed her finger on the word Freak in the headline. “Well, this hurts. This is exactly what I am. I’ve always been different. Since I’ve started running, I’ve become more acceptable, but I’m still a freak. Apparently I’ve fooled no one.”
“Stop saying things like that.” Betty turned to enlist Ruth’s support in comforting Helen, but their guide had wrapped her arms around her chest and was shivering.
“Girls?” Dee approached the three of them. “I take it you’ve heard the Polish team’s accusations?”
Helen’s face reddened and while her gaze dropped to her feet, Betty pictured Helen holding Stella’s hand on the medals podium and wanted to scream in fury. Without another word, she tore the newspaper from Helen’s hand and ripped it in half. “Of all the betrayals! Why, that Stella Walsh can—”
“She had nothing to do with it,” Helen whispered.
“How do you know?” Betty asked, crumpling the newspaper remnants into a ball. “Since St. Louis, she’s said all kinds of dreadful things about you.”
“Not this. I got a good look at her today up close. It wasn’t her.”
Dee nodded. “It seems the Germans have become more threatened by you. I’m sure they’re behind this.”
“But what’s she supposed to do now?” Betty asked.
Dee sighed. “Officials are saying she has to have a medical exam to prove she’s a woman. A group of doctors at the infirmary can do it.”
Betty couldn’t breathe. The idea of Helen stripping naked in front of a bunch of strange men and letting them poke and prod her? It was unthinkable. She glanced at Helen and saw the horror of the same realization stamped across her face.
“But once I do it, they’ll stand by me?”
“Yes, they’ll certify the results and disprove all of this nonsense.” Dee rubbed a circle on Helen’s shoulder blades awkwardly. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not an ideal solution.”
For once, Helen appeared defeated. “No, it’s not.”
“I told Mr. Brundage you would go to the infirmary at seven o’clock in the morning, when it opens. Get it over with. They’ll be ready for you. And, Miss Haslie, I’m afraid it’s time for you to go.”
53.
August 5, 1936
Berlin
A NURSE LED HELEN INTO AN EXAM ROOM AND INSTRUCTED her to take off her clothing and don the thin cotton gown that lay folded in a square on a wooden chair beside her. The woman left and Helen changed quickly and sat at the edge of the exam table. She blinked back tears and started to tremble. All night long the article had run through Helen’s mind, over and over, and by this point, she could practically recite it word for word.
The fragile bit of strength she had cultivated ever since winning the race against Stella Walsh back in St. Louis disintegrated with every typed word of the story. It had summed up every doubt that she had ever had about herself. The store-bought clothes, the permanent wave, the lipstick, the fancy high heels—none of it could disguise what she truly was: an imposter. Now the whole world knew what she had known all along.
And she had lost Ruth.
A sickening sense of vertigo overcame her and she reached for the metal trash can beside the exam table and retched into it.
When she was done, she stood and wiped her mouth just as the door clanged open. Five doctors marched in, all wearing white medical coats and grim expressions.
“Fräulein Stephens,” said one of the doctors, speaking in a heavy French accent. He stepped forward, brandishing a clipboard, and started to thumb through some papers. “We have the report your team doctor conducted before you boarded the S.S. Manhattan. This document is official and confirms your sex, so we do not need to conduct an exam.”
Relief flooded Helen, but something inside her sparked. A realization. Her relief morphed into something jagged and angry. “Why didn’t this information get reported yesterday? Why were the newspapers allowed to perpetuate lies about me without the IOC coming to my defense sooner?”
Five impassive faces glared back at her. The French doctor gave a gesture of dismissal. “Today the newspapers will report that you’re a woman. Or maybe tomorrow.”
She tried to keep her voice measured, calm. “But again, why didn’t anyone come to my defense sooner?”
The man licked his lips, seemingly enjoying himself as he took his time with his verdict. “That is not our job. Nevertheless, I will write up a report and make it available to the public later.”
All the humiliations she had suffered over the years flooded through her in a torrent. Pa’s cruelties, her cousin’s abuse, Ish’s taunts of Popeye. Though she
