von Schirach, leader of the Hitler Youth, as they strode past the embassy box, or so Mildred translated for her friends. “I shall not shake hands with this Negro. Do you really think that I will allow myself to be photographed shaking hands with a Negro?”
Later, after Jesse Owens took his third gold medal, Hitler suddenly hastened away on what Martha acidly assumed was another invented errand. Along the way, he spoke earnestly to his companion, whom Martha recognized from an embassy dinner as Albert Speer, the architect.
As Hitler passed their box, Mildred drew in a breath sharply.
“What’s wrong?” Martha asked.
Mildred hesitated. “Hitler is . . . very annoyed by Owens’s victories.”
“Obviously, but what did he say?”
“I’d rather not repeat it.”
“Come on,” Martha implored. “Don’t I deserve to know, if only for getting you that great seat?”
“He said—” Mildred hesitated, pained. “He said that people whose ancestors came from the jungle are primitive. He says that their physiques are stronger than those of civilized whites, and therefore they should be excluded from future Games.”
“That’s damn foolishness,” said Thomas. “I wish Jesse Owens could win a fourth gold medal just to spite him.”
Later, he seemed poised to do exactly that.
As the runners for the first heat of the men’s 4-by-100 meter relay took their places on the track, Martha gasped. “Isn’t that Owens in the lead leg?”
“That’s him all right,” said Thomas. A faint roar surged through the crowd as if everyone else had simultaneously made the same observation. “And that’s Ralph Metcalfe lining up to run second.”
Martha checked the program. “They weren’t originally in this relay. The coach must have made a last-minute substitution.”
“They’re replacing Marty Glickman and Sam Stoller,” said Mildred, studying her program. “They’re Jews. Do you suppose the Nazis pressured the U.S. Olympic Committee to replace them? Or perhaps the coach wanted to avoid offending Hitler?”
“I certainly hope not,” said Martha. “However, as much as Hitler hates Negroes, he hates Jews more.”
“That probably has nothing to do with it,” said Thomas. “Owens took the gold and Metcalfe the silver in the hundred meters. It’s a strategic decision.”
“The original team was already heavily favored to win,” Mildred pointed out. “Why fix what wasn’t broken?”
“Well, now the odds have improved even more,” said Thomas, but he frowned slightly as if he too wondered about ulterior motives.
Martha leaned forward as the runners settled in their lanes. She jumped at the sharp crack of the starter’s pistol, her heart beating faster and faster as Jesse Owens pulled away from the other runners and flew around the first curve, his feet seeming barely to touch the ground. A blink of an eye, a flawless baton exchange, and suddenly Owens was gradually slowing as Metcalfe sped away, down the straightaway to Foy Draper, who took the second curve with the Italian runner on his heels. As the roar of the crowd rose, louder and louder, Frank Wyckoff carried the baton down the final stretch with an Italian barely a second behind him. And then it was over. The United States and Italy, first and second, would advance to the finals.
Exultant, Thomas leapt to his feet, cupped his hands around his mouth, and let out an earsplitting war whoop. Hitler twisted in his seat, fixed him with a furious gaze, glaring with stark hatred. If looks could kill, Thomas would have been finished. Martha seized his left arm and Mildred his right, and they pulled him back into his seat.
“What the hell,” he protested, laughing. “It’s the Olympics and our team won. Owens was wonderful. I’m proud, so I yelled.”
“Maybe not so loudly at the back of the Führer’s head next time,” Martha advised, but she smiled, not at all sorry that Jesse Owens had spoiled both Hitler’s fun and his theory of Aryan supremacy.
The German team won the third heat, much to Hitler’s jubilation, but in the finals the Americans triumphed yet again, with the Italian team taking the silver and the Germans the bronze. Thomas celebrated the victory, but less ostentatiously, so Martha did not have to worry that he might spark an international incident. This time the Führer remained in the Honor Loge as the medals were awarded, possibly out of loyalty to the third-place Germans. But if he ever shook the hand of Jesse Owens or the other men on the American relay team, Martha did not see it.
“He is such a child,” Martha said to Mildred and Thomas later as they left the stadium. “Throughout the Games, he hasn’t