Not Just a Game

By Doug Zipes

It is 1936 as track star Dietrich Becker trains for the Berlin Olympics. Supported by his wife and an unknown benefactor, Dietrich is hiding a dangerous secret: he is Jewish. But when he unexpectedly loses to the legendary Jesse Owens, a humiliated Dietrich crumbles under overwhelming pressure and makes a decision that changes everything.

Thirty-six years later, Dietrichs son, Adam, assistant head of the 1972 Israeli Olympic team, travels to Munich, where eleven Israeli athletes including one of his friends, fencing coach Levi Frankel, are murdered by Islamic terrorists. Eventually Adams daughter, Kirsten, is taught to fence by Levis widow and sets her sights on the 2016 Olympics. When she travels to Rio with the Israeli team just as Nazism is reborn, Kirsten and a French fencer become intrigued by rumors that Hitler fled WWII to South America. After visiting Bariloche, Argentina to investigate, they explore Hitlers house and find the priceless Amber Room. As her journey leads her back to the Olympics, Kirsten soon discovers she is fighting not just to win gold but also for her life.

Not Just a Game is the riveting story of three generations of Olympic athletes as they attempt to survive monumental challenges in the shadow of Hitler and during a rebirth of Nazism.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491790274

Doug Zipes

Doug Zipes graduated from Dartmouth College, Harvard Medical School, and Duke University Medical Center. He is editor-in-chief of two cardiology journals, and has published hundreds of medical articles and multiple textbooks. Dr. Zipes writes a column for, and is on the editorial board of, the Saturday Evening Post. He and his wife, Joan, have three children, five grandchildren, and live in Carmel, Indiana, and Bonita Springs, Florida. Ari’s Spoon is his fifth novel.

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Copyright © 2015, 2016 Doug Zipes.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-9025-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-9026-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-9027-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016904487

iUniverse rev. date: 4/26/2016

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Afterword

I dedicate this book to the many athletes who have given their lives to their sport—literally and figuratively—especially to the Munich Eleven and to the families and friends who have supported them. I want to recognize the role of Ankiee Spitzer, whose courageous fight may have finally gotten the IOC to do what is right.

The time you won your town the race,

We chaired you through the market place;

Man and boy stood cheering by,

And home we brought you shoulder-high.

Today, the road all runners come,

Shoulder-high we bring you home,

And set you at your threshold down,

Townsmen of a stiller town.

—A. E. Housman, To an Athlete Dying Young

ringsb.psd

Young bones heal

Minds not so well;

Crippled by lies

Their fathers tell.

—Peter Jacobus

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am indebted to Amy Orlando, competitive USFA A-rated épée fencer, member of the US Summer National Gold Medal Team, NCAA Fencing Championship Team, and the World University Team and winner of many titles. Amy taught me all I know about épée fencing and made major suggestions for the fencing bouts Kirsten fought. Any mistakes are mine.

My usual brain trust read drafts, picked up errors, and made great suggestions: Clair Lamb, Michael Rosen, Peter Jacobus, Patrick Perry, Marilynn Wallace, and my children—Debra, Jeffrey, and David. As always, my wife, Joan, did the yeoman’s work, at home and for the novel.

CHAPTER 1

TEL AVIV, JUNE 1989

IT’S A GIRL! TEN TINY FINGERS and toes and a beautiful face, Adam told his mother as he drove her from the assisted-living community to the Ichilov Hospital in central Tel Aviv. Your new granddaughter has your smile, complete with dimples, Dannie’s blonde hair, and my blue eyes. Adam thought for a moment. Her hair’s more red than blonde. She’s the prettiest baby ever.

Traffic was light. He glanced at his mother. She had lost more weight in the past month. Or was it two months since he had seen her? Not remembering triggered guilt pangs, but his law practice was so busy. He’d taken her to the best heart doctors in Israel, but he thought maybe he should take her to the States. Visit Mayo or Hopkins? He owed her so much. How could he ever repay it? A granddaughter was a start, and that made him feel good.

Gretchen laughed, a happy sound. So says every father. But finally I get to hold my grandchild, she said, rocking her folded arms back and forth, fingers twitching. I’ve been waiting for this a long time.

Adam smiled. It’s never too late.

Seemed you took forever, Gretchen said.

He nodded. No need to explain the difficulties of a middle-aged man trying to have a baby with a young wife.

And what will you name her? Gretchen asked, getting out of the car with Adam’s assistance.

We haven’t decided yet.

Almost eighty, Gretchen was frail, her heart failing since the second heart attack. Her cheekbones, always prominent, now seemed like angular bumps in a fragile, sunken face. When Adam had asked if she was getting enough to eat, she laughed. You know the story about the Jewish mother waiting for her son to call? He shook his head. She lost weight because she stopped eating so she wouldn’t have a mouthful of food when the phone rang.

Adam had moved her to a residential complex two years earlier so she could receive around-the-clock attention. Though she dressed with care, clothes once a perfect fit now hung from her bony frame.

Adam had a curbside wheelchair ready. He eased Gretchen in and pushed her to the maternity wing. Broad shouldered and trim from daily workouts, Adam moved with an athlete’s grace, maneuvering the chair along a crowded hallway. His cobalt blue eyes and thick, dark hair still turned heads as young nurses walked by.

At Dannie’s room, Gretchen insisted on standing. Adam helped her out of the chair, holding it steady with one hand, the other cupped under her elbow. She walked slowly to the bed where Dannie cradled her daughter at her breast. The baby was a tiny pink bundle, only her silky reddish-blonde hair showing. Dannie’s cherub face, rounded from the pregnancy, showed exhaustion from the twelve-hour labor.

When Adam had left this morning to get his mother, Dannie’s blonde hair had been soaked with sweat, hanging in wet strands clinging to her forehead. He had passed two nurses as they entered her room with fresh towels, washcloths, and a change of bedclothes. Dannie now looked beauty-parlor fresh with pink lipstick and rosy cheeks, wearing a soft white robe. She glowed with a new mother’s look of love and patted a place beside her for Gretchen to sit.

We were expecting a boy, so we’re not quite prepared for this, Dannie said. We already painted her room blue. Dannie moved over to make room on the bed. The baby lost her nipple and squirmed, grunting until she found it again.

Gretchen sat on the edge of the bed and caught her breath. Her dress hiked up, showing knobby knees and varicose veins. She quickly rearranged it to cover them. After a moment, she leaned over and stroked soft cheeks busy puckering and relaxing at Dannie’s breast.

She turned to her son. How about Kirsten, after your grandmother?

Adam looked to Dannie for a response.

Wonderful idea. Dannie smiled and nodded. This hungry little bundle, she said, caressing the baby’s downy crown in the midst of slurping and suckling noises, will be Kirsten.

I like that name, Adam said, pulling up a chair beside the bed.

What was your grandmother like? Dannie asked Adam.

Adam shrugged and looked at his mother. I don’t remember much. Mom?

She was Austrian and lived in some small town near the German border. But I don’t know for sure, Gretchen said. I know she went crazy before she died and was buried near her home. It was in the early 1930s, before the war. She turned to Adam. Your dad was training for the ’36 Olympics at the time. Dietrich didn’t talk much about the funeral when he came home. There was no inheritance, so he buried her, and that was it. We never talked about her again.

What about your grandfather? Dannie asked.

Adam again looked at his mother.

I only know he left your grandmother while she was still pregnant, before your father was even born. Just disappeared and never returned.

A one-night stand? Dannie asked.

I guess something like that. She never married. That I know.

But Grandmother Kirsten was Jewish, yes? Adam knew the mother’s religion determined the child’s. One could always be certain who the mother was.

Of course, which is why both you and your dad were circumcised, Gretchen said. And your father being an Olympian was more important to the Germans than the fact we were Jews, so we were protected during the war.

Gretchen shook her head, as if to clear it of these memories. Enough with the past. This little bundle—she patted the baby’s freshly diapered bottom—is all about the future.

I agree. In fact … Adam let the sentence hang and sat on the edge of his chair, watching Dannie cradling Kirsten, now fast asleep.

What? Dannie and Gretchen asked.

Adam tried to hide a grin. He stood and walked about the small room. He picked up the picture of his new daughter cradled by Dannie, already printed by the hospital photographer and set in a silver frame on the small night table. A beautiful touch, he thought, especially if it were a free perk. He had his doubts.

Looking at the picture, he said, almost to himself, Suppose—just suppose—this little bundle became an Olympic athlete.

Dannie knew where her husband was going. She smiled. A fencer?

I don’t understand. You two are moving too fast for me to keep up, Gretchen said.

Adam set the picture down, went over to his mother, and put his hand on her shoulder. The Olympics, Mom. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Kirsten grew up to become an Olympian? For the Munich athletes and for my father—her grandfather Dietrich. He pointed at his new daughter. Maybe a fencer, to celebrate Levi Frankel’s life, or a runner, for Father. He knew it was far-fetched, planning an Olympic career for a daughter not even a day old, but he couldn’t help dreaming. Maybe it would help lessen his pain, his guilt.

Do you suppose Sharon would teach her? Dannie asked.

A big smile lit Gretchen’s face as the enormity of his vision sank in. Dare we even think about it? Dream about it? Your father would’ve liked that, Adam. Fencer or track star, it doesn’t matter. An Olympian medal winner, that’s what Dietrich would’ve wanted, what would’ve mattered to him. Gold, silver, or bronze. Any medal would liberate that man’s tortured soul.

Gretchen bowed her head, her forehead touching the pink blanket that swaddled her granddaughter. Softly, she said, Please, dear God, let this little bundle of joy accomplish that. Touch Kirsten with your special love so she can redeem her grandfather’s reputation and make her father proud.

Amen, Adam and Dannie said together.

CHAPTER 2

BERLIN, SPRING/SUMMER, 1936

DIETRICH’S BREATH WAS RAGGED, burning, and the pain in his legs excruciating, like hot metal boiling beneath his skin. It started in his instep, each time his track shoes hit the street surface, and traveled up his calves and shins, into his thighs. Those bulky muscles, two inches bigger than they’d been three years before, screamed for relief, for oxygen and more blood, but he wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop. He imagined others around the globe doing the same, training as hard for the gold. He drove himself through the wall of agony, knowing if he kept running, the pain would lessen.

Go, Dietrich, run—don’t stop. You can do it, Lutz urged, running alongside. Another kilometer, and we can rest for water before we start the sprints.

Don’t know if I can make it, Dietrich panted, glancing at Lutz barely breathing hard. He gritted his teeth and concentrated on the rhythm of his feet pounding the road. The thud was like his heartbeat: lub-dub, lub-dub, left-right, left-right.

His thoughts went to Jesse Owens, as they did so often now that the Olympics were approaching. Jesse was his major competitor, and Dietrich tried to copy him. He had read an article about the track star. From the air, fast down, and from the ground, fast up, Owens had said, focused on his feet spending as little ground time as possible. Like running on hot coals.

But that had been easier to do five years ago, and still easier five years before that. Then, at age twenty, Dietrich could run all day, outpace dogs and even horses for short distances. He lost only twice in almost one hundred gymnasium and university track meets in the hundred-meter and two-hundred-meter races.

The effort was so much greater now, and the high was less. Not the drive. That had magnified tenfold.

Still, his body could take only so much punishment before something would give. His knees, he thought, particularly the left one with the torn ligament after his fall four years ago. One of the best surgeons in Berlin had repaired it—a Jewish doctor—but even the best left tracks. The knee talked to him, beginning at about the eighth kilometer. It shouted by kilometer twelve and screamed at kilometer fifteen, when he had to quit. He’d run no more marathons, only sprints—if he was lucky.

What will happen if you can’t run anymore? Gretchen had asked, worried the money would end. Teaching school paid very little, and she wanted a second child. Little Adam needed a playmate.

I don’t know. I guess I’ll have to ask for my old job back.

And if they don’t take you?

He shrugged. He had wondered the same thing many times.

After finishing school, Dietrich had continued to race, but amateur competition did not pay bills, so the drive to win had faded. Money was tight, and he and Gretchen argued often about having another child.

The phone call that forever changed their lives had come on Christmas Day three years ago. The voice reminded him he had once been a great track star—and could be again. Good enough to compete and win in the 1936 Olympics. The caller had promised total support, so Dietrich could train full-time. The caller was certain Dietrich would make this sacrifice for Germany, for the Fatherland.

The following day, Dietrich quit his accountant job and began a new life, one he kept faithfully for the next thousand days.

He woke at six o’clock and ate a high-protein breakfast of cheese, milk, bacon, and eggs. He stretched and then began a two-hour run. After a thirty-minute rest, he drank lots of water and ate four more eggs. Ninety minutes of weights followed, to strengthen his legs and back, concentrating on building power and speed, especially for that left leg. He ate a twelve-ounce steak for lunch or a salmon fillet and salad—food shortages never affected his overflowing refrigerator—slept for an hour, and started a four-mile afternoon run. He finished with wind sprints up the hills outside Berlin. After that came sit-ups, push-ups, squats, lunges, and planks. Then the stretches and massages by his trainer to placate fatigued and angry muscles. For dinner, he ate another steak, but this time sixteen ounces. He consumed eight thousand calories a day and never added an ounce to his wiry 145 pounds. Over his wife’s objections, he was in bed by eight o’clock for eight or nine hours of exhausted sleep. The next day began a variation of the same routine.

The three years had taken its toll. His brown hair had thinned and receded, making his forehead appear more prominent. His straight nose and thin lips became sharper. Dark eyebrows arching over blue eyes remained full and helped soften the gaunt look.

Gretchen hounded him. She loved him but was afraid. Her pretty, dimpled smile gave way to brooding with lips pressed together and forehead wrinkled. We have no savings. You don’t even know where the money’s coming from, only that someone over the phone promised it.

They haven’t let us down yet. We have extra food rations and money. What more do you want? They had more during his training than they ever had before.

Starting with that phone call, on the first of every month, a check covering all expenses arrived from the training center. And extra money for birthdays and Christmas. When his mother died, her headstone was among the largest in the cemetery.

C’mon, old man, Lutz goaded, can’t keep up with the youngsters anymore? Carl Ludwig Long, nicknamed Lutz, was twenty-three. At six foot three, he towered over Dietrich, the added height an advantage for his specialty, the long jump. Though their track events differed, Dietrich and Lutz had become friends and started training together twice a week for the past year. Lutz studied law at the University of Leipzig. He had won the German Long Jump Championship in 1933 and ’34, barely missed in ’35, and won again in ’36. Lutz was an affable, handsome young man, with blond hair and blue eyes, a ready smile, and a sense of fairness. A tough competitor, he displayed maturity beyond his years.

Lutz had become Dietrich’s best friend, but the two had argued more than once over the importance of the Olympics. They did so again at the beginning of their run today.

Dietrich, yes you have to train hard, but after all, it’s just a game, Lutz said. "Remember—that’s why they’re called Olympic games. Keep it in perspective."

Easy for you to say. You’re going to be a lawyer. If I don’t win— He left the sentence unfinished.

The discussion had ended when they began their run. But a banner hanging from a streetlamp as they approached Pariser Plaz an hour later reminded Dietrich of their conversation. Dietrich used it as an excuse to stop and rest.

Both were breathing hard and dancing on their toes to keep muscles warm and loose. After a moment, Dietrich controlled his breathing enough to speak.

Look around you, Lutz, he said, pointing to the black and red swastikas hanging from every flagpole and the banners shouting Deutschland Über Alles and Alles für Deutschland in every storefront window.

Hitler guaranteed the world we will dominate the competition. These aren’t just games, Lutz; these are battles in a different kind of war. Can you imagine if that American Negro, Owens, beat us?

Lutz stopped running in place and listened to his friend.

I read that in his country, Owens can’t eat at the same restaurants as his teammates or sleep in the same hotels, Dietrich said. Hitler didn’t want them to compete at all—no Jews or blacks in the races.

True, and the United States threatened to boycott the Olympics if he did. Dietrich, you don’t really believe any of that bullshit, do you? Between us, I know why you say those things.

You do?

Yes. I also know why Hitler says those things, Lutz said. Propaganda, so he can unite all Germans behind him. Hitler isn’t even German. He’s Austrian. And I’ve heard rumors he has Jewish blood—a grandmother or grandfather. His blue eyes are about the only Aryan thing he’s got. And that stupid little mustache. Like he glued a broken comb to his lip. I bet he doesn’t believe those dumb signs any more than we do.

Dietrich clamped his hand over Lutz’s lips and pressed down, his eyes fearful, scanning the neighborhood. Are you crazy, Lutz? Are you absolutely mad, saying those things in public? Do you want to get us arrested? My God, man.

They both stiffened as they heard the distant synchronous hammering of jackboots on pavement. Down the road, Dietrich could make out the rigid, goose-stepping march of a group of brown-shirted storm troopers turning from Friedrichstrasse onto Unter den Linden, where they stood. At least thirty marched as one—stiff-legged, right arms swinging to the same height, rifles on left shoulders, eyes straight ahead, and kepi caps pulled low over foreheads. Heels nailed the street in unison, almost shaking the buildings.

Oh, shit, not now, Dietrich murmured, his face blanching. Just let them pass. He took his friend by the arm and spun him away from the street, facing the pedestrian mall.

Hey, you two. Over here, the captain of the storm troopers ordered, halting his troops.

They didn’t move.

Now!

Do what he says, Lutz. We don’t want any trouble, Dietrich whispered, still holding Lutz’s arm.

What kind of trouble? We haven’t done anything wrong. Lutz pulled loose.

Maybe the guy heard what you just said.

Impossible. They were still around the corner, Lutz said. He turned and shouted back, What do you want?

The captain stood hands on hips, studying first one, then the other. He pointed with a short brown leather riding crop. What are you doing? Get over here.

It’ll be okay, Dietrich, Lutz muttered, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder to guide him. Just act natural. Louder—We’re coming.

They walked to the captain and stopped in front of him. The captain stared at Lutz for several moments, then at Dietrich, slapping the crop into his open-gloved hand. Brow creased, he turned back to Lutz.

I know you, he said, pointing the crop at Lutz and jabbing him lightly in his chest. You’re the track star, aren’t you? Your picture was just in Der Stürmer for winning the German long jump.

Lutz reached across the crop and held out his hand. I’m Lutz Long, Captain. He nodded at Dietrich. This is my friend Dietrich Becker. We’re both training for the Olympics in August, me in the long jump, and Dietrich in the sprints.

To win for the Fatherland, Dietrich added, bobbing his head up and down. His face had regained color, but his fingers trembled as he shook the captain’s hand. If the captain noticed, he didn’t comment.

Okay, then, the captain said. I wondered why you weren’t in the army or marching here with us. He swept his hand toward his troops. But training for the Olympics is acceptable. He smiled. We’ll win our war; you win yours.

Thank you, Captain, Dietrich said. Maybe after the Olympics we will join you. He prayed that would not happen. He’d rather die. Just their presence gave him chills. He walked blocks out of his way to avoid crossing paths with any Brownshirts.

I hope so. I wish you good luck in your competition. His look became stern. Show them German superiority.

We’ll do our best, Captain, I promise you, Lutz said.

Heil Hitler, the captain said, saluting with a stiff right arm and clicking his heels. Both men followed suit and let their arms drift downward as the captain abruptly turned away and marched off with his men.

Dietrich collapsed on the curb. My heart’s pounding like I just ran the two hundred meter. Christ, that was close.

Close for what, Dietrich? He was just making conversation.

Maybe so, but I don’t like those storm troopers. They scare me.

Why?

Lutz, Germany scares me now that Hitler’s chancellor. About him being Austrian or part Jewish? None of that matters anymore. If he says he’s Aryan, then he is. No Jewish blood, it becomes a fact. If he says we’re superior, then we are, and we have to behave that way. Dietrich pulled his shoulders back, inhaled, and stood tall. Lutz punched him playfully in the gut, and Dietrich exhaled with a whoosh.

So, what do you think will happen if you lose the sprints to Owens? Lutz asked.

They walked to the park and sat on a wooden bench. Gentle breezes stirred the leaves and cooled their sweaty bodies. A warm afternoon May sun breathed life into the green grass and bright yellow daffodils.

Dietrich ran his fingers through his thinning hair and massaged his scalp. I don’t know, and I don’t want to think about it. Not yet. August is still two and a half months away. But that’s why I train so hard. It’s easy for you. You’re seven years younger, like Owens. That makes a huge difference. I don’t know why they picked me to run. There’re so many younger guys.

They picked you because you were a superstar and will become one again. The age thing is in your head. You’re the same guy who never lost a race in university.

Not true. I lost twice, Dietrich said.

"I never told you this, but you were my idol growing up. I had a scrapbook with all the newspaper stories about you, and I tried to be like you. You think we just happened to start running together? I asked the training center to team us up."

Dietrich grinned. Show me that scrapbook.

"After you beat Jesse Owens, I’ll give it to you. You can keep it alongside the gold medal you’re going to win. Frame them both."

They chatted until the urge to run sprints evaporated with their sweat. They walked back to the training center together to clean up and change. Dietrich waited until Lutz finished showering. He walked through the training center, checking the rooms. When he was sure he was alone, he undressed and took his shower.

CHAPTER 3

TENSION WAS PALPABLE AS Berlin prepared for the 1936 Games of the XI Olympiad. Friction peaked further when Wally O’Conner, a US water polo star and flag bearer during the opening ceremonies, refused to dip the Stars and Stripes while passing before Hitler sitting in the official host box.

This flag dips to no earthly authority, Wally responded when later challenged by German officials.

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It was a hundred-degree early August day in Berlin, and Jesse Owens was tired. The sun beat down mercilessly, sapping his energy and shorting his patience. The transatlantic trip, the time change, the Olympic hype, and his new surroundings overwhelmed his senses. He scanned the Olympiastadion, the new track and field arena Hitler had built to outshine the 1932 Los Angeles Olympics, and felt insignificant. The huge complex in the Grunewald Forest held one hundred thousand screaming fans. He coped with being black in the United States, but this was different. His first trip to Europe left him bewildered.

James Cleveland Owens, or J. C., as he was called before his grammar school teacher mistook his southern drawl for Jesse and changed his first name forever, was the son of a sharecropper and grandson of a slave. Mahogany skin, short dark hair, a broad nose, and intelligent but friendly dark eyes accompanied the lean look of an athlete. In his junior year at Ohio State University, he won all forty-two track events while working after school to pay tuition. No scholarships for a black athlete.

Jesse’s greatest triumph before the 1936 Olympics came at the Ann Arbor Big Ten meet in May 1935 when, in the most famous forty-five minutes of athletic competition ever recorded, he set world records in the long jump, the 220-yard sprint, and 220-yard low hurdles and tied his own world record in the hundred-yard dash.

Now he faced possible elimination in the Olympic long jump competition.

Jesse half-jogged down the runway of the long jump to get a feel for the running surface. It was more of a fast walk than a run, and a gentle push off to test the springiness of the surface. The judges, led