Aren't You Thomas Wolfe?

 

 

 

About thirty Americans -- half of them trackmen -- were

among the athletes on the two buses. The German guides meeting them at

the stop near the Brandenburg Gate emphasized in several languages -- Spanish,

English and Japanese -- that buses would load up and leave from this spot

at 23:00, 24:00, and 01:00.

 

"The ones unfortunate enough to miss the buses will be on their own to

get back to the Village," one guide warned in English.

 

"You mean the ones lucky enough!" an Australian runner said jauntily.

"Lucky enough to have found an hospitable fraulein!"

 

"You're dreaming," another Aussie said. "If you miss the last bus, you'll be

passed out in the gutter."

 

Glenn loved hearing the Aussies' banter at the Village. In fact, even when

they were talking about the mundane, just passing the word about a team

meeting time, they could sound like they were teasing each other.

 

The Olympians went several directions, and the Japanese took off together.

Most of the Americans, plus a few Australians and Spaniards, followed

Jack Torrance, trusting him because he claimed the Germans working

out at the Village track had recommended a spot-at least as a starting point.

 

The Essen Haus turned out to be a giant hall with long tables. The German

customers spotted them, but other than the raising of steins in their direction

for welcoming gestures, left them alone at first. None of the German men

were in uniform, though, which surprised Glenn. Up to this point, it had

seemed as if half the men in the country wore uniforms. Gradually a handful

of men-all in their twenties, it seemed-wandered over. One of them just

started talking to Torrance, as familiarly as if this was a corner bar in Denver

and everyone knew each other. Or as familiarly as it could be when half the

conversation was in a second language. Because of the noise, only those closest

to Torrance could hear, but Glenn was part of it.

 

"Americans, correct?"

 

"Most of us," Torrance said. He gestured up and down the table. "Australian

and Spanish, too."

 

"Welcome," the German spokesman said. He raised his glass, and his

German friends did the same. Glenn reached out and tapped a few of the

Germans' steins and glasses. Smiles all around.

 

Another German, skinny with floppy light brown hair parted in the

middle, materialized at Glenn's side. Glenn was starting his second beer, and

had just told himself he would stop there.

 

Luz Long 

 

"What do you think of our country?"

 

"So far, it's very impressive," said Glenn. "Everybody seems nice."

 

The German smiled. "Not what you expected?"

 

"I wouldn't say that."

 

"There are a lot of lies being told about us," the German said.

 

An Aussie broke in. He wasn't challenging, asking it almost breezily.

 

"Like what?"

 

"Like . . ."

 

The German stopped.

 

The Aussie asked, "You mean like . . . how you treat your Jews?"

 

The German waved his hand. "I'm sorry to have raised this. There is no

need to talk about such serious matters. These Games should be about friendship

. . . between your nations and ours."

 

Before long, the Aussies announced they liked the Essen Haus just fine,

so there was no need for them to move on to another tavern. The American

trackmen, Glenn included, decided to walk back to the Unter den Linden

and wander a bit before picking out a spot for another round . . . or a nightcap.

 

As they made it clear they were about to head out, the German who

had mentioned "lies" approached again and leaned in close to Glenn. Now

Glenn noticed that he seemed to be on his own, not with the other Germans.

 

"You fellows misunderstood," the man said.

 

Glenn peered at him quizzically.

 

The German continued, "The lie is that by now, we are all Nazis. We are

not. And even many who have joined the party for reasons of pragmatism do

not advance the party principles."

 

"I think most of us know that," Glenn said.

 

"Do you? Then tell your journalists to stop saying ‘Hitler's Germany' or

‘Nazi Germany.' It still is the Fatherland. Deutschland. Germany. There are

many of us who love our country, but are not Nazis. Remember that during

the Games."

 

Glenn smiled. "I'll try to."

 

The German said earnestly, "No, I am serious! During all the salutes of

Hitler, please remember that. Some Germans are doing what they have to

do-not out of enthusiasm, but necessity and duty. It is no different than if

you were a member of your President Roosevelt's opposition party, acknowledging

he is your head of state. I've read that many in America believe his

policies are against your nation's traditions."

 

"That's true," Glenn said. "They're called . . . Republicans."

 

"It's much the same here."

 

"But Americans can openly disagree. Can you?" Glenn challenged.

 

The German leaned even closer. "No. We can't," he said conspiratorially.

 

Then he backed off and reached out. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Morris.

Good luck in the Games."

 

Suddenly, he was walking away.

 

"Hey!" Glenn called out. The German gave a half-wave over his shoulder.

Glenn had wanted to ask how the German knew his name, but then he suddenly

realized his face had been all over-or, if that wasn't the reason for the

recognition, someone else could have disclosed his identity. At least that's

what he thought until they were on the street, and hurdler Forrest Towns

caught up with Glenn.

 

"Wow, Long sure looked like he was telling you something important,"  

Towns said.

 

"Who?"

 

Glenn was thinking he meant another American, and he didn't know of

a team member named Long.

 

"The German you were talking with," Towns said. "You don't know who

that was?"

 

"No," Glenn admitted.

 

"Geez, I thought you knew . . . That's Luz Long. The German. Only man

in the world who might be able to beat Jesse Owens."

 

Glenn was genuinely confused. "In what?"

 

"Broad jump," Towns said. "If Jesse gets too tired because he's doing everything

else, too, that guy'll beat him!"

 

Glenn's first instinct was to pass along what Long had said, but then

quickly realized that would be betrayal. He was reminded by that, too, when

they were back on the Unter den Linden, draped with the huge swastika

banners hanging on long poles from the front of the buildings amid moving

spotlights. Then Walter Wood, in charge of picking a second spot, called

out, "Next stop, Café Wilhelm!"

 

The spacious café and bar was sedate, at least compared to the beer hall.

 

The Americans settled at several tables, near the back. Glenn was with

Wood, Torrance, and Towns. Soon, they noticed a huge man loudly speaking

English at a nearby table. His back was to the athletes and he hadn't noticed

them. He wasn't as big as Torrance, but even seated, he appeared to be

strikingly tall and burly. His companion, facing them, was a smartly dressed

blonde young woman who, judging from her accented attempts to respond

during his rants, was German. The man was drunk, that much Glenn could

tell. He also seemed familiar. Turning slightly, he looked up at the waiter and

announced, "Your country is magical! If there weren't a Germany, someone

would have to invent one! If your publishers were just a little more honest in

accounting for royalties, it would be perfect!"

 

Publishers?

 

After the waiter left, Glenn walked over to the American's table. "Excuse

me . . ."

 

The man looked up.

 

"Yes?"

 

"Aren't you Thomas Wolfe?"

 

"Now why in the hell would you confuse me with that fat hack?" Noting

Glenn's embarrassment, the man laughed and added, "Of course I am."

 

"I'm a fan," Glenn said.

 

"Of course you are."

 

Wolfe didn't seem interested, so Glenn began to back away. "Just wanted

to say . . ."

 

The writer turned. "You want an autograph." It was a statement, not a

question.

 

"That's all right. You're busy."

 

"Oh, don't mind me," Wolfe said. "Just been a long day, getting here and

right away meeting with Ambassador Dodd -- I must have signed a book for

everyone in the embassy -- and doing the interview with the newspaper in

my suite. And now Thea here" -- he gestured at the woman -- "has gotten me

very drunk on this exquisite Pfalzer wine."

 

Wolfe had turned slightly to keep Glenn in his sight, so he caught sight of

the other Americans at the back tables. "You boys all Americans?"

 

"Mostly," Glenn said.

 

"Well, I'll be damned . . . you're our athletes!"

 

Glenn grinned self-consciously. "Right."

 

"Well, how come you're not in bed? Or drinking milk somewhere? Or putting

yourself to sleep by reading Sinclair Lewis?" He laughed at his own jokes

and gestured at one of the extra chairs. "Sit down!" he roared.

 

"Just for a minute," Glenn said. He introduced himself. Wolfe's handshake

was firm. He seemed genuinely pleased when Glenn told him he had started

Of Time and the River on the SS Manhattan, was making steady progress and

was enjoying it. Glenn thought about asking, but didn't, if Wolfe was offended

if readers skipped some of his painstaking description and philosophical

rants to get on with the story. After doing that some in Look Homeward,

Angel, Glenn was doing more in Of Time and the River.

 

"Enjoying it is good," Wolfe said. "But are you appreciating it? Appreciation

is the lifeblood of an author."

 

Glenn couldn't resist. "I thought it was selling books," he said. "Lots and

lots of books. Which you seem to do."

 

Wolfe chortled. "That, too." After a pause, he asked, "What sport are you

in?"

 

Thea leaned forward and told Wolfe, "He is your decathlon man."

 

To Thea, Wolfe said, "How do you know who he is?"

 

"His picture was on front pages this week," she told the author, and

then smiled at Glenn. "Berliner Tageblatt," she explained. Offering her hand,

she added, "I am Thea Voelcker."

 

 

 

Wolfe told Glenn, "Thea is the newspaper artist. Drew my picture, and I

am sure it is wonderful, for the story that is in soon and will send my German

edition sales soaring even higher! For that, she has earned the right to shortly

return to my suite."

 

Thea shrugged. Glenn wasn't sure if that was confirmation or denial.

 

"Did you come for the Olympics?" Glenn asked.

 

"Two birds, one stone," Wolfe said. "I was here a year ago and loved it. I

was going to come over sometime for promotion and to check on whether

I'm being robbed, and we agreed this would be a good time, with all the

journalists and other influential folks here. I'll be meeting with some of

them. Plus, I'm working on six books and I decided a break would do me

good."

 

"Six?"

 

Wolfe shrugged. "Give or take."

 

Glenn asked, "You going to any events?"

 

"Dodd said I could use his box whenever I wanted. Said I could look

behind me and see Hitler." He paused. "So let me ask you, since you have

shown yourself to be a man of fine judgment and terrific literary tastes . . .

how do you like Berlin so far?"

 

"What we've seen is great," Glenn said carefully. "The stadium is stupendous,

and, well . . ." He made a sweeping gesture that might have described

the café . . . or all of Berlin. "Who wouldn't be impressed with all of this?"

 

"New York has its charms," Wolfe said, "but it's filthy compared to this.

This is so wonderfully cool and clean after New York! Did you see the

cobblestones on the street? They look like they're scrubbed two hours a day!

And now, the energy!"

 

Glenn nodded. "But our Village is way to the west, so we really have to

work to get in here." He thought of Leni and his earlier visits: If he only knew.

"And I'm pretty sure it's going to be the Village and the stadium only for us

from here on out . . . at least until we're done with our events."

 

Wolfe asked Glenn when he was competing. Glenn told him, while being

fairly certain the novelist wouldn't remember the days.

 

"I'll leave you alone," Glenn added. "I just wanted to say hello."

  

 Ten minutes later, as the Americans were ordering what they promised

each other would be their final round, including a beer Glenn would only sip,

Wolfe and Thea passed by, heading out. Glenn had briefed his teammates

about both the author and his companion.

 

"Win lots of gold, gentlemen!" Wolfe bellowed.

 

Thea, strikingly tall herself, looked over her shoulder, and it seemed to

Glenn that she was trying to make it clear she was just putting up with him

to his door -- and not beyond.

 

"That dame is gorgeous," Torrance said, voicing the obvious. "And she

even looks smart. So . . . what's she doing with that jerk?"

 

Towns reacted in mock horror. "Wait," he announced to Torrance, "you

are belittling a true Southern gentleman of arts and letters, one of the finest

craftsmen in the history of American Literature, a titan of the written word!"

Torrance gave him a withering look.

 

Towns laughed and added, "Our Modern American Literature professor

called him all that, and I was brought up to believe that if an LSU professor

says it, it must be true. So I just went along with that and I got a ‘B.'"

 

"I'm glad I didn't take that class," said Torrance, the fellow LSU grad.

 

"The guy's still a jerk."

 

Glenn cut in. "Now we'll be in his next book," he said. "He writes about

his own life, you know. Just changes the names of the people and places.

Instead of ‘Baby Elephant,' you'll be ‘Moose' or something like that."

 

"Just so I win the gold," Torrance said with mock solemnity.

 

They caught the midnight bus back. That's why you don't drink. Much.

 

Glenn berated himself for trying to keep pace with the boys-at least until

the last round. He wasn't drunk; he just felt light-headed and on the verge

of nausea.

 

In the room, Glenn grabbed Of Time and the River, hoping to make it

through another fifty pages. He tried to picture the huge man from the café,

no longer just the man whose picture was on the book cover, at a typewriter,

writing the words on the pages in front of him.

 

After about twenty pages, he caught himself nodding, and gave up.

 

As he went to bed, he told the picture on the desk: Night, Karen.

 

As he closed his eyes, he wondered: What did Leni do tonight?

 

Read Chapter One of Olympic Affair 

 

Olympic Affair page on this site