“Of course,” Betty said firmly. “You go. I’ll dress and get something to eat. Meet you in the dining hall in an hour or so?”
“I’ll head there as soon as I’m done,” Helen called as she opened the door and left.
Alone, Betty crossed her arms over her thin nightgown and surveyed their little room. The smell of fresh paint still clung to the walls, but also there was the earthy scent of damp clothes. Helen’s medal gleamed where it hung from her bedpost. Betty bent over, groaning as her back cracked, but she lifted it and put the medal around her neck. Did she regret selling her own medals? Was all this effort and sacrifice going to be worth it?
With shaking hands, she removed the medal from her neck and returned it to Helen’s bed before slowly dressing in her white team skirt and navy-blue blazer. She glanced at her wristwatch. Only a couple of minutes had passed. She couldn’t imagine going to the noisy dining hall and making small talk for the next hour. And anyway, she wasn’t hungry.
After fixing her hair, she laid out a game of solitaire on her bed to keep herself occupied. She’d play a hand or two, collect her thoughts, and then go get something to eat. But after several minutes of staring at her cards, she swept them into a pile and leaned back against the bed’s wooden headboard. She closed her eyes and tried to summon her memory of Amsterdam, the sensation of crossing the finish line in first place. She needed to calm down.
Instead, she was taken back to Wilson’s plane, the moment when the engine stopped. She had known something terrible had gone wrong, but for a second, she had been overwhelmed by the beauty of her surroundings. The quiet. How the lake had shimmered in the distance, blue and clear. How the world below them—the buildings, cars, streets—had all been miniaturized and the land reduced to its most basic shapes. It had been peaceful and perfect—before terror had set in. Or maybe it had been terror that provided the sharp contrast in perspective, that beautiful tipping point between moving forward and falling, between daringly risky and fatal. She pulled herself off the headboard and sat, her face in her hands. Why was she thinking about this now? How was this supposed to help her?
She swung her feet off the bed and stood to look outside the window. The sky was growing darker with impending rain.
“Betty?”
She turned to see Annette in the doorway, holding a telegram out to her. “I’m on my way back from the mailroom, but I wanted to drop this off for you.”
“Thank you,” Betty said. She unfolded it.
The Western Union Telegraph Company
Received at Berlin, Germany 1936 Aug 9 8:09 AM
GOOD LUCK IN TODAY’S BIG RACE. ALL OF YOUR NORTHWESTERN TRACK TEAMMATES ARE CHEERING YOU ON. I HAVE YOUR 1928 GOLD AND SILVER MEDALS SAFE AND SOUND FOR WHEN YOU RETURN. BEST WISHES, BILL RIEL.
She read the telegram several times, her eyes blurring with tears.
Bill bought her medals from Jim?
“Is everything all right?” Annette asked, still standing in the doorway, watching her.
“Yes, I’ve received surprising news from an old friend.”
“Good news?”
“Great news, actually.” Betty couldn’t stop staring at the telegram.
“I’m so glad. Do you need anything?”
“No, no, you should go get ready for our race.”
Annette left, and Betty packed her uniform and shoes into her track bag, double-checking that she had included the correct shoes. She had survived a plane crash and overcome the odds to return to the Olympics. What was she so worried about? Before she left for the dining hall, she tucked the telegram into her bag with a steady hand. She had everything and didn’t need any good luck charms, but she’d bring it anyway.
57.
August 9, 1936
Berlin
HELEN TOOK HER PLACE AT THE FINAL LEG OF THE RELAY and hopped up and down, shaking out her arms and legs, trying to stay loose. Red flags marred with swastikas filled the air and the cheers of the crowd were deafening.
When Helen had run the individual 100-meter, she’d felt antsy and preoccupied. She had wanted to absorb the significance of the moment and couldn’t, but this time on the track felt different. Helen tented her hand over her brow, looking toward the other end of the track. There stood Annette, looking serious but calm. Even Harriet, across the track at the start, seemed immune to the crowd. She gave Helen a small wave and then went about the business of checking her starting position.
Helen glanced across the curve in the track and found Betty smiling at her. It felt right that she’d be the one passing off the baton to Helen. They’d proven to be a good pairing. This time, Helen wouldn’t wait for Betty to collide with her. She knew to start gently, put her hand out, and trust that the baton would be there.
An unexpected sense of love and of solidarity with these women and all that they had gone through to get there filled Helen.
No matter what happened next, this was their team.
At the starting area, the official took his spot and raised his gun to the sky. The women dropped to crouches. The starting commands echoed throughout the stadium. The gun fired.
The racers moved so quickly. Despite her irresponsible behavior over the last few weeks, Harriet ran effortlessly and passed the baton to Annette, who moved down her straightaway with ease. When the pack clustered around the second hand-off, the Germans took the lead and a sense of urgency buzzed through the stadium. Marie Dollinger surged ahead. Betty’s face strained with effort and concentration as she chased the German, but she wasn’t going to be able to close the distance. Every fiber of Helen’s body came alive with the electricity of the challenge that was becoming more real with every split second. This would be the race of
