Free Flight from Berlin by David John Page A

boycotted.’
    Denham searched his memory. There had been an outcry about this in the international press last year, before the Winter Olympics in Bavaria. The Americans sent a delegation to make sure the German-Jewish athletes were being given a fair chance.
    Friedl leaned in closer. ‘It was a deception. The Nazis set up some fake training session for the benefit of the IOC, the press, and the Americans, with Jewish athletes present. But in fact the Jews got no facilities—nothing. They had to train in farmers’ fields. After all, they’re banned from every sports club in Germany . . .’
    A buzzing noise, and an old Fokker biplane appeared alongside the airship’s promenade. The pilot, in cap and goggles, waved, and most of the diners interrupted their eating to watch at the windows. The boy was still not there.
    ‘It gets worse,’ Friedl said. ‘Last week, when all the countries’ teams were safely on board ships heading for Germany, the Reich Sports Leader simply told the Jews that they hadn’t been selected for the German team after all. I guess he calculated that it was too late for anyone to complain or take official action.’
    ‘ “Germans Drop Jews from Team”?’ Denham said. ‘Nothing new there.’
    It was a depressing and familiar story, although this deception sounded more brazen than most.
    ‘They had to make a single exception, however. Hannah Liebermann. You’ve heard of her?’
    ‘The fencer? Are you joking?’ Denham reflected for a moment. It hadn’t occurred to him before that she was Jewish. ‘She’s one of the most famous athletes in the world.’
    ‘Exactly. She’s so famous they couldn’t not include her. But how is this for irony?’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘She refused . The one Jew they gave the honour of competing for the Reich told them where to put their invitation . . .’
    ‘Good for her. So she’s not on the team either.’
    For a minute Denham had thought this was leading up to a scoop. He called the waiter over and asked for a whisky.
    ‘She is on the team,’ Friedl said, his expression dark. ‘They’re forcing her.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘They’re forcing her to compete on the German team by threatening her family if she doesn’t.’
    ‘Christ.’ Denham put his glass down. ‘Wasn’t she living abroad?’
    Friedl was distracted again. The cameraman, Jaworsky, was calling him from the far end of the promenade.
    ‘She’s been in California since ’33. When she refused their invitation the Gestapo started arresting her family. She boarded the next ship back to Germany.’
    ‘How do you know all this?’
    Friedl shrugged. ‘Call it pillow talk between me and someone who knows.’
    ‘I’ve got to interview her,’ Denham said.
    ‘Excuse me.’ Friedl got up. ‘I have to work.’
    Denham had a story. A vital, personal story of courage and deception, a political story that even his agent, Harry, would like. It moved him. It went straight to the heart of all that was wrong with these Games. An innocent woman made to act in the charades of a boundlessly criminal regime in its bid to appear decent before a watching world. They were holding her up as proof of their fairness when they had nothing but hatred for her. To cap it all, she was a sporting superstar—with cover-girl looks.
    He drained his glass and got up, noticing as he did so the white cloth on a nearby table twitch, and the scabbard of a Jungvolk dagger poking from underneath. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, he delivered a brisk kick to the bulge where the boy’s backside was. He was out of the dining room before anyone could locate the source of the howling.
    As usual when he was preoccupied Denham wanted to pace. He returned to the deserted lounge on the starboard side and ambled along the promenade window, drumming his fingers on the sill. Beneath him beech forests and fields heavy with crops rolled by, but in his mind’s eye he saw Hannah Liebermann,