Bliss, Remembered (28 page)

“If he does do even better in Beijing, put a rose on my tomb—in honor of me and the Tokyo Olympics of 1940.”

“Okay, will do.” And I did. When Phelps won eight gold medals at Beijing, I put a whole bouquet on Mom’s grave. Well, I pulled one rose out and put it on Dad’s, next to her’s.

So the swimming ended with a whimper, and in another day, I’d be flying back home to Montana. “I’m gonna miss having you to tell my story to,” she told me the next afternoon, when we repaired again to the garden.

“It’s been really wonderful for me. You made it worth waiting for all these years.”

“You’re not disappointed in me, Teddy?”

“In what way?”

“You know. Your dear, sainted old mother throwing her lustful self unconditionally at a boy she hardly knew.”

“No, Mom, I think after, uh . . . let’s see . . . sixty-eight years, the statute of limitations on any of your libertine teen-age behavior has run out. I’d have to say: what happened in Berlin, stays in Berlin.”

“Hmm. I’d call that a rather qualified dispensation, but I’ll take it. And I’ll try to finish up the rest of my memoirs today.”

“This is the end?”

“Of the oral part. I’ll give you the rest of what I’ve written to take home. Maybe you better read that after you leave. You may not be so forgiving of me then.”

That took me aback. “Sounds rather ominous,” I said. Mom gazed away. Once again she seemed a little tired, a little older, a little sicker. Maybe looking forward to watching the swimming had buoyed her for a while, but now that that was over, her spirits had fallen and taken her body down a bit with them. I was almost prepared to say that perhaps we should postpone this final session till later on. Or that I could stay another day or two.

But, instead, she glanced back at me, then beckoned imperiously at the tape recorder. With that, some of the sparkle came back into her eyes, and a bit more of zest returned to her voice, and she was off and running again.

Well, Teddy, I’d have to say that the rest of the time in Berlin was more of the same. But remember now, I was grading on a curve. More of the same was more of heaven.

I’m sorry. Excuse the hyperbole.

Thank you. I’ll try to limit the overkill. But, my, it was wonderful. Horst’s parents returned home from the sailboat competition, so that took away our love nest, but Horst had some friends with bachelor apartments, so we never had any trouble rendezvousing for l’amour.

Did I go over the top again?

All right, I’ll assume a less poetic tack, Teddy. I went to the swimming every day, cheering on my teammates. It was very exciting—twenty thousand people screaming at a swimming meet. The first heats in the backstroke were Tuesday, with the semis on Wednesday, where Alice and Edith did well enough to make the finals for Thursday. There was a young Dutch girl named Nida Senff, and she had a sensational heat. She swam a 1:16.6, which was only three-tenths of a second off Eleanor’s world record. Nida was clearly the one to beat—she and another Dutch girl named Rie something.

When the racing wasn’t on, Horst and I would just go off. You know, hither and yon. One day we drove up to Grünau, to the river where the Olympic sculls were racing, and one evening we went to watch the exhibition baseball game in the stadium. That was like something out of
Alice in Wonderland
, a hundred thousand Germans watching Americans play a game they didn’t understand a lick. Another afternoon we drove down to Potsdam, to the great castle there where the old Prussian kings had lived. They didn’t hold any Olympic events in Potsdam, and so it was more like just being a tourist somewhere. And you gotta remember, the little girl from the Shore had sure never seen a castle before.

Tuesday evening, though, I had to meet Horst’s parents. Klaus and Inge. That was not something I would’ve voted for, but Horst had been a bit too effusive in talking about this strange American girl he’d been running around with, and so they’d grown curious. Also, between you and me and the lamppost, I think maybe I hadn’t hidden my tracks completely, and Frau Gerhardt had a pretty good inkling that somebody else had been sleeping in baby bear’s bed. Whether she shared these suspicions with her lord and master, I don’t know, but Horst’s father certainly went over me with a jeweler’s eye when we met.

Now let me clarify that for the record, Teddy. Men can give you very admiring looks—very admiring, indeed—but there’s two types. The one is the salacious. Even when that guy is looking you in the face, you know where his mind’s eye is. But then there’s the other. You don’t mind him giving you the old once-over, because you can sense that he’s more of a connoisseur. Probably just as randy as the other fellow, but you can tell that he really does like women.

Well, I wouldn’t go that far, Teddy. That’s giving you men a bit too much credit. But the second type, which was clearly Herr Gerhardt, does deign to accept us for what we are and not just for what we can deliver. It’s a fine line, I know, but I’ve always put you on the right side of the line, so be thankful for small favors.

Of course, you’ll probably slip back now that you’re long enough in the tooth to be a dirty old man. But let’s get back on track:

Frau Gerhardt served tea, which, as you know, I’ve never much liked. It’s just so thin, tea is. It’s not that I dislike it. Some drinks are simply unpalatable. Scotch, for example. How does anyone like Scotch well enough to become an alcoholic? Beats me. And Dr. Pepper. Yuck.

Well, they just happened to come to mind in tandem. I haven’t touched either of them in eons, but some distasteful memories stay with you in perpetuity. Or I can honestly say: I will take those memories to the grave, the grave being imminent enough for me nowadays.

But certainly, Teddy, I don’t find tea abhorrent, and I sipped it politely with the Gerhardts while we chitchatted about where the hell the Eastern Shore was and how I came to swim and what-have-you. Then Herr Gerhardt leaned in a bit—

No, he had another target in his sights. “Now Sydney,” he began nicely enough. Like Frau Gerhardt, he had only a bit of an accent, and his English was more British than American. “Stringfellow,” he went on. “That’s an interesting name.”

I said, “Well, it’s certainly a long name.” He nodded, smiling. The subject of my name invariably came up whenever I’d meet people, so I’d developed a pat routine about it. “My father told me that it probably derived from the craftsmen in the middle ages who prepared the strings that fit in bows. The fellow made strings to shoot arrows with. String-fellow.” That was the second part of my schtick on my maiden name, Teddy, and that usually was enough to satisfy anybody. But Herr Gerhardt wasn’t finished.

“And what sort of name is it, exactly?”

“You mean, its heritage—that sort of thing?”

“Precisely.”

“My father told me it was British. It’s an odd name, I know, Herr Gerhardt, but there’s more Stringfellows around than you might imagine. Especially in the South. I guess you could say we’re more the Yankee end of the Stringfellow clan, although no one would ever call the Eastern Shore Yankee territory.”

I don’t know if he followed all that inside American stuff, but he said, “I see,” and then he went on: “And your mother’s side?”

“Oh, that’s easy. Mom’s a DeHavenon. That’s French Huguenot.”

“Ach.”

“Of course, sir, you have to understand that it’s been a coon’s age since any of our crowd came over from France. I don’t think I’ve ever met a DeHavenon who knew a single word of French. Not even merci beaucoup.”

At that point I noticed that Horst had a disagreeable expression on his face, and I thought perhaps I’d said something out of line, but both his parents chuckled politely. Herr Gerhardt sat back comfortably in his chair, and Frau Gerhardt said, “That’s very charming,” and she held up the teapot to see if I wanted more, which I didn’t, of course. Quite frankly, Teddy, at this point, this would’ve been one time when I would’ve been delighted to have had a shot of Scotch.

Horst seemed to come back to life then, speaking up to explain how I’d come to be in Berlin because of Eleanor’s expulsion. Naturally, the Gerhardts had heard all about Eleanor Holm. Everyone had. So that produced a fertile conversational gambit, especially since I could provide some humorous anecdotes and explain how Horst had met her too. Then I added: “So you see, it’s really something of a fluke that I’m here. I think my Olympics will be in Tokyo.”

“Indeed,” Frau Gerhardt said.

“Yes, and, of course, Horst has told me . . .” I paused and looked over at him at this point, because I was teasing him, making him think I was about to spill the beans about how I knew Herr Gerhardt might be going to Tokyo as ambassador. But then I quickly added: “. . . that you all lived in Tokyo for several years.”

And Horst gave me one of those you-got-me looks, and I winked at him, but right away, Herr Gerhardt said, “Well, Sydney, it appears that Mrs. Gerhardt and I will be going back to Tokyo very soon ourselves.”

“You got the job?” Horst asked.

“It should be announced as soon as the Olympics are over.”

Horst promptly rose, clapped his father on the shoulder and shook his hand. “Congratulations, Father. That’s wonderful.” It was quite a lovely moment to see between a father and son. You could tell there was both respect and rapport there.

“Danke, Horst.” Then Herr Gerhardt turned to me. “You see, Sydney, it seems I will become ambassador to Japan, so should I still be in Tokyo in ’40, I will be cheering for you”—and then he lowered his voice in mock conspiracy—“so long, of course, as there are no German girls in the race.”

“I understand, sir. And congratulations.”

Since Horst was on his feet now and we’d all shared a fine moment of camaraderie, I could see he was ready to try and pull the plug and gracefully usher me out. I was preparing to take his cue, when Herr Gerhardt said, “So, Sydney, will you Americans have your black auxiliary in Tokyo again to dominate the athletics?”

Well, I was lost, Teddy. On two counts. First of all, I hadn’t a clue that the Germans had been calling Jesse Owens and our other sprinters our “black auxiliary.” And second, I didn’t know that the Europeans called track and field “athletics.” So I was totally out to sea.

Horst jumped in. “Father,” he said, “I don’t believe that any Americans think of their colored athletes as a ‘black auxiliary.’ It’s just not so.” He spoke that rather evenly, but it was immediately crystal clear that Herr Gerhardt did not like being contradicted by his son.

He looked up at him and, I thought, speaking as if I weren’t even there, he said, “Perhaps it is good, though, for Sydney to know how others may feel about her country. God knows we have had to endure our share of criticism long enough.”

I wanted to say something, but I was still a bit unsure about the nature of the whole discussion. Horst looked over to me, his face pained, fearful that I’d been hurt. I tried to signal to him that I was all right, just a bit tossed. Happily, into this breach, Frau Gerhardt—ever the diplomat’s wife—tried to patch things over. “It’s only too bad, Sydney, that should you come to Tokyo, Horst shall not be there. Alas, we must be leaving my baby behind here to continue his studies.”

“Well,” I said, grinning, “he’s not a baby anymore.”

“My baby—always, I’m afraid,” she said, smiling at him. Our exchange was light. Her goal had been achieved, the brief squabble put past us.

Unfortunately, though, Horst then said, “Well, I may be seeing Sydney before that. I’m thinking of perhaps studying in the United States.”

As blithely, even cheerily, as he said this, both his parents looked as horrified as they were stunned. And believe me, Teddy—I was just as stunned myself. This was news to me.

Frau Gerhardt said, “You’ve never mentioned this before.”

“It’s just something I’ve been thinking about, Mother. After my naval service.”

More sternly, Herr Gerhardt said, “We have discussed, of course, some sort of apprenticeship with Albert Speer.”

“Yes, Father, of course, that certainly remains a possibility.”

This time, Herr Gerhardt turned to speak to me as if Horst were the one not present. “Albert Speer is the most influential architect in Germany, Sydney. The Führer himself has designated him the prime architect of the Third Reich. And I have personally spoken to Mr. Speer about Horst. To not accept the golden opportunity of working with him would be as if someone in your country turned down a chance to apprentice for Frank Lloyd Wright.”