Next to us, on the highest step in the centre of the Olympic podium, the two gold-medallist Germans were standing side by side, their right arms raised in salute, their faces lifted towards Hitler’s remote figure.
It was simultaneously terrifying and enthralling. In spite of what little I knew about the Nazis, I felt myself responding to the intoxicating thrill of the moment. The sheer size of the crowd, the deafening roar they were making, the almost mechanical precision of the SS men paraded in front of us, the high, distant figure of Adolf Hitler, virtually godlike in his remoteness and power. The urge to raise my own arm, to thrust it emphatically towards the German leader, was for a few moments almost irresistible.
I glanced across at Joe, to see how he was reacting. He was already watching me and I instantly recognized the expression of suppressed anger that Joe adopted whenever he felt cornered, unhappy; uncertain of himself. He spoke some words to me. Although I leaned towards him to hear better I couldn’t make out what he said because of the noise.
I nodded instead, acknowledging him.
With a sudden, peremptory swirl, Hitler turned his back on us and moved to return to his seat. The noisy acclaim quickly died away, to be replaced by the band striking up a new marching number. The SS men in front of our stand dispersed. The man who had given us our medals walked back towards Hitler’s podium with a measured tread. He went at the same relaxed pace up the steps and after a moment I saw his tall figure leaning over to speak to someone. Shortly afterwards he sat down.
The Olympics officials were clustering around us, making it clear it was time for us to leave. We shook hands with the Danish and German athletes we had raced against, uttered congratulations once more, then stepped down on to the grass. Our moment of Olympic fame had already passed.
11
We walked together towards the British pavilion, where we had left our street clothes and our other possessions. As we approached the temporary wooden building we saw a group of British Embassy officials standing by the entrance. They were apparently waiting for us, because as soon as we appeared they strode towards us, stretching out their hands in greeting and congratulation.
A man we already knew as Arthur Selwyn-Thaxted, a cultural attaché at the embassy, was the quietest but most insistent in his congratulations. As he shook my hand affably he gripped my elbow with his free hand. ‘Well done, Sawyer!’ he said. ‘Well done indeed, both of you!’
He turned to Joe and said much the same.
‘Thank you, sir.’ we said.
"It’s a great day when Britain wins another medal. You probably heard us cheering for you! It was a hard race, but you did exceedingly well. What a brilliant race you rowed!’
We said what we felt we were expected to say.
‘Now, we can’t let this remarkable achievement of yours pass,’ said Selwyn-Thaxted. ‘We’d be pleased if you would join us this evening. Just a little celebration at the embassy. The ambassador would like to meet you and there will be members of the German government present.’
Out of the corner of my eye I detected Joe stiffening.
‘What kind of celebration would it be?’ he said. ‘We were planning - ’
‘A quiet reception. It’s not every day that we have Olympic medal-winners to show off, so we like to make the most of them when we can. Your sculling colleagues will be there, the equestrian team, Harold Whitlock, Ernest Harper, many more. The evening clearly wouldn’t be complete without you.’
Joe said nothing.
I said, ‘Thank you, sir. We’d enjoy that.’
‘Excellent,’ Selwyn-Thaxted said, beaming at us as if he meant it. ‘Shall we say from about six o’clock onwards? No doubt you know the British Embassy, in Unter den Linden?’
He smiled sincerely again, then turned away towards somebody else, raising a hand in simulated greeting. He went back to the group with whom he had been standing when we arrived. They moved off at once. When I turned to speak to my brother, Joe had already walked away. I saw him striding at great speed past the marshals by the entrance to the enclosure. His head was lowered. I went after him, but within a few seconds he vanished into the crowds that were standing about in the park outside.
I went into the pavilion, changed into my street clothes, collected Joe’s gear as well as my own and walked down to the U-Bahn to catch a subway train back to the Sattmanns’ flat. By the time I arrived, Joe had already packed his belongings and his bags were stacked in the hallway. He looked impatiently at me then went back into the room we had been using. I followed him in and swung the door to behind me.
Birgit was practising her music in one of the rooms at the front of the apartment. The sweet sound was muted when the door closed.
‘What’s going on, Joe?’
‘I feel I should ask you that. Have you any idea, any idea at all, what’s been happening here at the Olympics?’
‘I know you don’t like the idea that the Games are a Nazi showpiece.’
‘So you’re not as blinkered as I thought.’
Joe, we came here to row. We can’t get involved in politics. We don’t know enough about it.’
‘Maybe there are occasions when we should.’
‘All right. But any country that hosts the Olympics uses the Games as a way of promoting itself to the world.’
‘This isn’t just any country’ Joe said. ‘Not now, not anymore.’
‘Look, you knew that before we left home. In effect we both made the decision to be part of it when we were selected.’
"Did you realize who that was, who handed us the medals?’
‘I didn’t recognize him. I assumed it was someone from the government.’
‘It was Hess. Rudolf Hess.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He’s one of the most powerful Nazis in Germany.’
‘But that doesn’t affect us, Joe! It wouldn’t have made any difference if Hitler himself had given us the medals. We’re of no importance to the Nazis. We’re simply here to compete in the Games and when they’re over we’ll go home. We had to go through with the ceremony. Are you suggesting we should have turned our backs on that?’
‘Didn’t you even think we might?’
‘What good would it have done? President Hoover went to Los Angeles four years ago. You presumably didn’t object to that, so how can you object to Hitler turning up at his own Games?’
‘How can you not?’
‘You didn’t say anything at the time.’
‘Neither did you.’
We both stood there angrily in that pleasant room overlooking the broad parkland, hot in the late afternoon sun. Birgit’s plaintive music could still be heard, a little louder than before: it was a piece she played every evening, Beethoven’s Romance No. 1. I noticed that the draught had moved the door ajar. Because I knew that the family who were our hosts could all speak English, I quietly pushed the door and closed it properly.
We argued on, but there was no shifting Joe from his position. He intended to leave for home more or less straight away. I put up objections: our shells were with the scrutineers, the van was parked close to the Olympic Village, we still had some kit at the pavilion. No matter what, we couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to Jimmy Norton, the coach. Joe shrugged the objections away, saying he would deal with them all. He said he was going to retrieve the van, pick everything up and set off for England at once. He planned to drive all night and with any luck would have crossed the border out of Germany by the next morning.
All he would say about my position was that if I wanted to leave with him I’d be welcome. If not, I’d have to find my own way home with one of the other teams.