her towards the reporters seated around an open-air table at the Tiergarten Café. Gallico walked behind them. ‘Don’t be shy,’ Martha whispered. ‘Thomas Wolfe’s a sweetheart.’ The low cloud of the day before had returned, but Eleanor wore her sunglasses nonetheless. Somewhere in the trees a loudspeaker was blaring out the Radetzky March.
The four men stood as Eleanor’s party approached. What an odd pair we must look, she thought. Martha was so short her head barely reached Eleanor’s shoulder.
‘Lord, don’t say you’ve eaten breakfast already,’ Martha said in the high, silvery voice she reserved for male company. ‘We’re starving. Hello, Walter. Hello, Tom. Hello, Bill. May I introduce Eleanor Emerson, who is staying as our guest for the duration of the Games?’ Pat Murphy introduced himself.
‘Mrs Emerson,’ said Thomas Wolfe. ‘Your fame precedes you.’ He was a hulking great man; her hand seemed lost in his.
Eleanor groaned. ‘You’re too kind, but please don’t offer me champagne. I don’t want to get thrown out of Berlin tomorrow.’
The men laughed politely.
Wolfe said, ‘You know, news of your being, uh, released from the US team has been all over the dailies back home, and not just the sports pages.’
‘Well, it’s not exactly what I wanted to be famous for.’
Coffee, eggs, and strudels were ordered; then to Eleanor’s embarrassment Martha began recounting for the men’s amusement the incidents of the voyage, with her run-ins with Brundage and the moments of her shame and disgrace told in an uproarious parody, so that by the end of the story she’d been made to sound like some tipsy Mae West in a game of truth or dare with Ming the Merciless. The reporters barked with laughter, drawing the attention of people at the other tables. This set off an intense round of gossip and rumour swapping as the men dished up what they’d heard about the regime’s stage management of the Olympics. Eleanor glanced at Gallico for support, and met a look of ferocious sympathy. What a dear man you are, she thought, and thank God I didn’t tell Martha about Herb. I’ll never see the funny side of that story.
Martha Dodd was twenty-eight years old, and petite, with a girlish round face and widely set eyes of a startling blue. She hosted literary parties, adored intrigue, and relished arguments—most unlike her father, the solemn Ambassador William E Dodd. Unfortunately for Eleanor, the girl’s sharp repartee could often sound like bitchiness; she seemed to think Eleanor’s ‘news column’ at the same time important and comical, which probably meant that she saw her guest as a bit of a joke. And why wouldn’t she, Eleanor thought. I was good at one thing and one thing only, and I blew it.
‘Now, boys, we need to find some scoops for Eleanor to file—some proper news, mind you. Bill? What about the links between German athletic training and rearmament?’
Eleanor rolled her eyes at Gallico, the one person she didn’t mind knowing how much this was getting on her nerves.
‘It’s okay, Martha,’ she said. ‘There’s an important story for me right here.’ Eleanor turned to the Daily Express reporter. ‘Mr Murphy, tell me more about this kraut lady high jumper who might, in fact, be a man.’
B y morning Denham had a high ringing in his ear from the punch to his head, and a purple contusion across his left cheek.
He ignored the mess in the apartment, simply returning the table and chair to their place so he could type up the Hindenburg piece from his notes while his courtyard neighbour, a locksmith, changed the lock on the apartment door.
Denham worked through the day, tapping away at the Underwood in a sleeveless undershirt, an HB hanging from the corner of his mouth. A warm, gritty breeze brought the sounds of the city through the window.
By late afternoon he was satisfied. He gathered the typewritten sheets, put them in an envelope addressed to Greiser’s press
The four men stood as Eleanor’s party approached. What an odd pair we must look, she thought. Martha was so short her head barely reached Eleanor’s shoulder.
‘Lord, don’t say you’ve eaten breakfast already,’ Martha said in the high, silvery voice she reserved for male company. ‘We’re starving. Hello, Walter. Hello, Tom. Hello, Bill. May I introduce Eleanor Emerson, who is staying as our guest for the duration of the Games?’ Pat Murphy introduced himself.
‘Mrs Emerson,’ said Thomas Wolfe. ‘Your fame precedes you.’ He was a hulking great man; her hand seemed lost in his.
Eleanor groaned. ‘You’re too kind, but please don’t offer me champagne. I don’t want to get thrown out of Berlin tomorrow.’
The men laughed politely.
Wolfe said, ‘You know, news of your being, uh, released from the US team has been all over the dailies back home, and not just the sports pages.’
‘Well, it’s not exactly what I wanted to be famous for.’
Coffee, eggs, and strudels were ordered; then to Eleanor’s embarrassment Martha began recounting for the men’s amusement the incidents of the voyage, with her run-ins with Brundage and the moments of her shame and disgrace told in an uproarious parody, so that by the end of the story she’d been made to sound like some tipsy Mae West in a game of truth or dare with Ming the Merciless. The reporters barked with laughter, drawing the attention of people at the other tables. This set off an intense round of gossip and rumour swapping as the men dished up what they’d heard about the regime’s stage management of the Olympics. Eleanor glanced at Gallico for support, and met a look of ferocious sympathy. What a dear man you are, she thought, and thank God I didn’t tell Martha about Herb. I’ll never see the funny side of that story.
Martha Dodd was twenty-eight years old, and petite, with a girlish round face and widely set eyes of a startling blue. She hosted literary parties, adored intrigue, and relished arguments—most unlike her father, the solemn Ambassador William E Dodd. Unfortunately for Eleanor, the girl’s sharp repartee could often sound like bitchiness; she seemed to think Eleanor’s ‘news column’ at the same time important and comical, which probably meant that she saw her guest as a bit of a joke. And why wouldn’t she, Eleanor thought. I was good at one thing and one thing only, and I blew it.
‘Now, boys, we need to find some scoops for Eleanor to file—some proper news, mind you. Bill? What about the links between German athletic training and rearmament?’
Eleanor rolled her eyes at Gallico, the one person she didn’t mind knowing how much this was getting on her nerves.
‘It’s okay, Martha,’ she said. ‘There’s an important story for me right here.’ Eleanor turned to the Daily Express reporter. ‘Mr Murphy, tell me more about this kraut lady high jumper who might, in fact, be a man.’
B y morning Denham had a high ringing in his ear from the punch to his head, and a purple contusion across his left cheek.
He ignored the mess in the apartment, simply returning the table and chair to their place so he could type up the Hindenburg piece from his notes while his courtyard neighbour, a locksmith, changed the lock on the apartment door.
Denham worked through the day, tapping away at the Underwood in a sleeveless undershirt, an HB hanging from the corner of his mouth. A warm, gritty breeze brought the sounds of the city through the window.
By late afternoon he was satisfied. He gathered the typewritten sheets, put them in an envelope addressed to Greiser’s press
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