Berlin Games: How the Nazis Stole the Olympic Dream

Prologue

‘I LOOKED DOWN that field to the finish 109 yards and 2 feet away and then began to think in terms of what it had taken for me to get there…And as I looked down at the uniform of the country that I represented and realised that after all I was just a man like any other man, I felt suddenly as if my legs could not carry even the weight of my body.’

It was coming up to 4.55 p.m. on Monday, 3 August 1936. A light rain fell on Jesse Owens as he waited for the start of the 100 metres final. The temperature was mild–some 19 to 20 degrees–and a light 6 mph wind was blowing diagonally from behind him. Owens had easily got through the heats, and now just a ten-second run stood between him and an Olympic gold medal. He looked around the stadium, spotting Adolf Hitler, the patron of the Games, waiting to see whether an Aryan would triumph over this ‘Neger’, in the same way as Germany’s Max Schmeling had defeated America’s Joe Louis earlier in the year at the Yankee Stadium in New York City.

Owens had been drawn on the inside lane. Next to him stood Strandberg of Sweden, and in lane three stood Hitler’s hope, the mighty Erich Borchmeyer. The German was the Nordic archetype, every inch of his six foot pure Aryan. In lane four stood Osendarp of Holland, with the Americans Frank Wykoff and Ralph Metcalfe–Owens’ fellow African-American–in lanes five and six. Owens knew that he could beat them all, but he also knew that the same was true of Metcalfe and Borchmeyer. He recalled his coach’s words: ‘Imagine you’re sprinting over a ground of burning fire.’

At 4.58 the men dug their feet into the cinders. Hitler strained forward in his seat in the box of honour, beating his right fist on the rail in front of him. Borchmeyer had to win. For a mere Negro to walk away with gold would be unthinkable.

The starter’s words rang out.

‘Auf die platz…’

Owens looked down the lane. He could just about make out the finishing tape.

‘Fertig!’

Simultaneously, the six men raised their haunches. Owens swallowed, trying to control his breathing. The pistol went off, the recoil jolting the starter’s right arm. A large cloud of white smoke filled the air around his head. Owens launched himself forward, his arms starting to pump furiously. Within 20 metres, Owens was already ahead, sprinting at his top speed of 22½mph. ‘There never was a runner who showed so little sign of effort,’ wrote one observer. ‘He seemed to float along the track like water.’ One second and 10 metres later, he had widened the gap to a whole metre, making his lead seemingly unassailable. Ralph Metcalfe had had an appalling start and was in last place, while Borchmeyer was struggling in fourth between Strandberg and Osendarp.

After 80 metres, Owens noticed that someone was closing on him. The figure was too far away to be Borchmeyer–in fact this challenger was on the other side of the track. It was Metcalfe, who was clipping away at Owens’ lead with every stride. As the two men approached the tape, it looked as if Metcalfe might overtake him. More muscular than Owens, Metcalfe displayed a running style that appeared far more powerful than Owens’ graceful light-footedness. He had beaten Owens before, and it looked as though he was going to beat him again.

‘Ralph and I ran neck and neck,’ Owens recalled. ‘And then, for some unknown reason I cannot yet fathom, I beat Ralph, who was such a magnificent runner.’ The ‘unknown reason’ was Metcalfe’s appalling start. Had Metcalfe started as quickly as Owens, then the race would have been his.

Much to the Fuehrer’s chagrin, the crowd went ecstatic. They shouted ‘Yess-say Oh-Vens! Yess-ay Oh-Vens!’, not seeming to mind that Borchmeyer had come second from last. If Nazi Germany was racist, then its prejudice was seemingly put aside for a few minutes of fanatical cheering. Owens grinned, although his natural modesty made him refrain from anything more demonstrative. He had won in a time of 10.3 seconds, although the world record was denied him because of that 6 mph tail wind. Owens didn’t care: ‘The greatest moment of all, of course, was when we knelt and received the Wreath of Victory and standing there facing the stands we could hear the strains of the Star Spangled Banner rise into the air and the Stars and Stripes was hoisted to the skies.’ The flag would be hoisted three more times in Owens’ honour. He was doing his best to make the Games his own, but there were others for whom they represented more than the chance of winning a few races.

1

Sporting Spirit

WITH ITS GRAND classical façade, the town hall in Barcelona makes a suitable setting for momentous decisions. Gathered there on the morning of Sunday, 26 April 1931, were twenty men, all of whom had breakfasted well and were ready to discuss the most important matter on the agenda of their two-day meeting–the venue for the 1936 Olympic Games. The men were members of the International Olympic Committee, and this, their twenty-eighth annual meeting, was chaired by the committee’s president, the fifty-five-year-old Count Henri de Baillet-Latour. The Belgian had been a member of the IOC since 1903, just nine years after it had been created to establish the first of the modern Olympic Games in Greece in 1896. A former diplomat and a keen horseman, Baillet-Latour had successfully organised the 1920 Olympics in Antwerp, a feat that had been regarded as extraordinary as he had only a year to accomplish it in a country that had been ravaged by war. Tall, with balding white hair and a large but trim moustache bristling under a long nose, Baillet-Latour commanded much respect from his fellow members of the IOC.

Also present were three men who hoped to gain much from the meeting. Their names were State Excellency Dr Theodor Lewald, Dr Karl Ritter von Halt and the Count de Vallellano. Lewald and von Halt were both German members of the IOC, and they felt confident that Berlin, after years of lobbying, would be awarded the prize. Nevertheless, Vallellano, a representative of the Spanish Olympic Committee and a powerful financier with his own palace in Madrid, was hopeful that the IOC members would award the 1936 Games to Barcelona.

Although Berlin and Barcelona were the two front-runners for the prize, there were two other potential candidates for host city–Budapest and Rome. After an introduction by Baillet-Latour, the first members to speak were two Italian members of the IOC, General Carlo Montu and Count Bonacossa. To the relief of the Germans and the Spaniard, they told the meeting that 1936 was not the right time for Rome to host the Games, but they begged the committee to consider the city at some future date. The next to speak was the Hungarian, Senator Jules de Muzsa, who instead of lobbying for his capital spoke in favour of Berlin, much to the delight of Lewald and von Halt.

Lewald then addressed the meeting. For him, that Sunday morning was the potential culmination of nearly two decades of intense effort to get the Games staged in Germany. A member of the IOC since 1924, Lewald had also been head of the German Organising Committee that had been planning the 1916 Olympics, which were awarded to Berlin at Stockholm in 1912. The Germans had set to work immediately, and had constructed a magnificent stadium outside Berlin that had been dedicated by the Kaiser in 1913. Surprisingly, the outbreak of war in 1914 did little to damage the chances of the Games being held in Germany. ‘In olden times it happened that it was not possible to celebrate the Games, but they did not for this reason cease to exist,’ Baron Pierre de Coubertin, the founder of the modern Olympics and the then president of the IOC, declared in the spring of 1915. In April, the Germans announced that the Games would simply be delayed until the end of the war, a decision agreed by the IOC.

On the 22nd of that month, however, a grey-green cloud was observed by 8,000 French colonial soldiers entrenched north of Ypres in northern France. The cloud was in fact a truly terrifying weapon. It was chlorine gas, and its sinister, billowing appearance caused the soldiers to flee. The Germans, wary of their own gas, failed to capitalise on the French retreat and the gap in the line was quickly reinforced by Allied troops. The deployment of those first few tons of chlorine changed the nature of the war, however, and soon poison gas was used on both sides. As a result of the war losing its ‘gentlemanliness’, Coubertin finally felt obliged to cancel the Games.

After the war ended, Lewald was to encounter more disappointments, as Germany was forbidden from taking part in the Games of 1920 and 1924. Nevertheless, along with Dr Carl Diem, his sidekick on the German Olympic Committee, he persisted in lobbying the IOC, whose new head, Baillet-Latour, was more amenable to their approaches. Lewald’s efforts paid off. In 1928, Germany once more competed in the Olympics. Her performance at Amsterdam was stunning; the country came second only to the United States in the tally of medals. With eight gold medals, seven silver and fourteen bronze, Germany had firmly re-established herself as an Olympic power. Naturally, Lewald was determined to capitalise on the German success. In May 1930, the IOC held its congress in Berlin. Setting the tone for the gathering, President Hindenburg declared that ‘physical culture must be a life habit’. But the meeting was more of a showcase for Lewald than the ageing president. If Lewald could sufficiently impress the visiting Olympic dignitaries, then there was a good chance that Berlin might soon host the Games. Lewald was mercenary, even reminding the delegates that it was thanks to the work of German scholars that so much was known about classical Olympism. Rooted in antiquity, Germany was the natural home for the Games, he claimed.

Lewald drew on the same themes at the meeting that Sunday morning in April 1931. As a former under-secretary of state, the seventy-year-old Lewald was used to the sophisticated parley of the committee room. He made the case for Berlin impressively, with no need to draw on the smooth charm of his colleague, the handsome financier and war hero von Halt. Lewald said that Berlin deserved the Games, not least because it had been denied them in 1916, and also because Berlin, being in the heart of Europe, would attract far more visitors than Barcelona. The Count de Vallellano then made the case for Barcelona, and Baillet-Latour called for the votes to be cast.

There was a problem, however, a problem that should have been dealt with sooner. The attendees present did not even constitute half the membership of the IOC, which was nearly sixty strong. In the days before jet aircraft, such a poor showing was by no means uncommon, but with such an important decision at stake, it was decided to wait for the votes of absent members to be mailed or sent by telegram to the IOC headquarters in Lausanne. The votes that had already been cast were sealed. Now there was nothing the IOC could do but wait.

Lewald and his team had to kick their heels for nearly three agonising weeks. At last, on Wednesday, 13 May, the final count was held in the Swiss lakeside town. In the presence of the vice-president of the IOC, Baron Godfroy de Blonay, and the magistrate of Lausanne, Mr Paul Perret, the envelopes were opened. Eight IOC members, dissatisfied by both cities, abstained. Sixteen votes were cast for Barcelona. Berlin received a commanding forty-three votes, which represented three-quarters of those available. It was a triumphant victory not only for Lewald but also for Germany. The vote signified that thirteen years after the war, she was ready to be readmitted to the pantheon of ‘respectable’ nations.

It is easy to underestimate how desperately Germany wanted to be regarded as a civilised country. Since the legal establishment of the Weimar Republic in August 1919, the grip of democracy in Germany was anything but strong. For the twelve years leading up to her being awarded the Olympics, the country suffered a succession of left-wing and right-wing putsches and economic crises. In March 1920, when the new national government was less than year old, a group of far-right paramilitaries–members of the infamous Freikorps–seized Berlin and installed Wolfgang Kapp, a right-wing journalist, as Chancellor. The legitimate government called for a general strike, and within four days the Kapp putsch had failed. It was the left’s turn next, and the Ruhr soon fell under the command of a 50,000-strong ‘Red Army’. This was quashed by an amalgam of the regular army and Freikorps units.

On the evening of Thursday, 8 November 1923, yet another putsch was mounted, this time by the fledgling Nazi Party. Under the command of their firebrand thirty-four-year-old leader, Adolf Hitler, and General Erich Ludendorff, the Nazis attempted to seize power in Munich by storming the Buergerbräukeller, where Gustav von Kahr, the Bavarian commissar, was addressing a crowd of 3,000. The Beer Hall Putsch was a failure. Far from being the ‘national revolution’ that Hitler announced when he mounted the stage, the attempted coup disintegrated into violent farce. After a night of confusion, Ludendorff decided the following morning that the Nazis should do something proactive and march–although quite where, no one knew. When the column of around two thousand neared the Defence Ministry, shots were fired, resulting in the deaths of four policemen and fourteen insurgents. Hitler was captured and subsequently sentenced to five years in Lansdberg Prison, where, assisted by Rudolf Hess, he wrote Mein Kampf.

It was not just political turbulence which threatened the integrity of the Weimar Republic. In 1923, the government defaulted on its reparations payments, demanded by the Treaty of Versailles, and as a result the French and Belgians occupied the Ruhr in January. A series of strikes further damaged the economy, and in order to pay the striking workers their benefits the government decided to print currency. The now infamous hyper-inflation took hold, and by November of that year it required 4,200,000,000,000 marks to buy one dollar. At the beginning of the year the exchange rate had been 4.2 marks to the dollar. Nevertheless, after a revaluation, the situation was brought under control, and until 1929 Germany enjoyed a relatively stable six years.

In 1930, however, Germany was hit by the Great Depression. The political result was a resurgence of extremist parties, and in the election of September 1930 the Nazis became the second-largest party in the Reichstag, holding 107 seats, or 18.3 per cent of the vote. Hitler, who had been released from prison just over a year after the Beer Hall Putsch, ruled his party by means of the Fuehrerprinzip, which demanded absolute loyalty to him as leader. His style of leadership appealed not just to established Nazis, but also to the masses of farmers, veterans and members of the middle class who had voted for him. Furthermore, the party’s emphasis on ritual, the wearing of uniforms and elaborate ceremony, elevated the image of the party above that of merely another manifestation of the lunatic fringe. To many Germans, the appeal of Nazism lay in its look, which suggested in an almost cultist fashion the virtues of discipline, order and strength.

By the time Theodor Lewald had learned that Berlin had secured the Olympics, 4 million Germans were unemployed. Nevertheless, despite the country reeling punch-drunk from crisis to crisis, Lewald and Diem were not discouraged. Lewald was fortunate to have the vigorous forty-eight-year-old Diem as his colleague. Initially a sporting journalist, Diem had captained the German team that had competed at the Stockholm Olympics of 1912. In 1920, with the backing of Lewald, he founded a university–the Deutsche Hochschule fuer Leibesuebungen–dedicated to the study of sport. What was remarkable was that Diem had no formal education, and yet he was soon to be regarded as a formidable scholar. With his intellectual and organisational abilities, he was a natural choice to become the secretary of the German Olympic Committee.

Like Lewald, Diem was an enthusiastic supporter of Baron Pierre de Coubertin, the founder of the modern Olympics. ‘It will be my most ardent desire to arrange the Olympic Games of 1936 in the spirit as desired by their originator,’ he wrote to Coubertin in October 1931. At the age of sixty-eight, Coubertin was living in Lausanne, where he could reflect on his achievement of founding what had become the most successful international sporting event the world had seen. A French educationist and historian, Coubertin believed that sport not only promoted a healthy body but also provided much moral enrichment, a view he had arrived at after observing the British. ‘Since ancient Greece has passed away,’ he wrote, ‘the Anglo-Saxon race is the only one that fully appreciates the moral influence of physical culture and gives to this branch of educational science the attention that it deserves.’

Two Anglo-Saxons in particular had influenced Coubertin’s thinking. One was Thomas Arnold, the famous headmaster of the British boys’ school, Rugby. Although Arnold had died over twenty years before Coubertin’s birth, his legacy of combining sport with religion to create boys of ‘character’ greatly appealed to Coubertin, who saw the success of schools like Rugby as being vital to the formation of the British Empire. The other Anglo-Saxon was William Brookes, the driving force behind the annual ‘Olympian Games’ held in Much Wenlock in Shropshire since 1850. A forerunner to the modern Olympics, Brookes’s ‘Olympics’ was a village fête that had transmogrified into a significant athletic pageant that attracted much international attention. One of the characteristics of the Shropshire games was their use of ritual and ceremony–laurels were awarded by women to the victors, specially composed music was played, flags with ancient Greek mottoes were hoisted; the Greek king had even donated a silver cup to be awarded at the Games. Although Coubertin never saw the Games, he visited Much Wenlock in October 1890, and he and Brookes struck up a friendship of sorts. Whether Brookes’s games alone gave Coubertin the idea for a modern Olympics is unclear, but there is no doubt that he owed a debt to the Englishman. After his visit, Coubertin wrote, ‘If the Olympic Games, that Modern Greece has not yet been able to revive, still survived today, it is due, not to a Greek, but to Dr W. P. Brookes.’

Four years after his visit to Much Wenlock, in June 1894, Coubertin convened an international congress at the Sorbonne in Paris. It was there that he proposed the revival of the Games, which would draw upon the ancient Greek Olympic ideals of amateurism and fair play. Using a mixture of charm and lavish entertainment, Coubertin convinced a collection of sportsmen and sports educationists of the merits of his idea. The congress decided that the Games should be held every four years, with the first scheduled to take place in Greece in 1896.

On 6 April of that year, the first Olympic Games of the Modern Era were opened in the newly restored Panathenaic Stadium in Athens. Eighty thousand crowded into the stadium, including King George I of Greece, who started the Games with the unashamedly patriotic words: ‘I declare the opening of the first international Olympic Games in Athens. Long live the Nation. Long live the Greek people.’ The king had neglected to mention that the representatives of twelve other nations were waiting to compete, having come from as far afield as Australia and the United States to help make the Games a success.

Even though the standard of competition was almost abysmal–no world records were set, and the only two nations whose athletes had trained for the events were Great Britain and the United States–the Games were considered a success. The Greeks found a new national hero in the form of Spiridon Louis, a water-carrier who won the marathon in a time of 2:58:50, his efforts fuelled by wine, milk, beer, orange juice and even an Easter egg. When Louis won, the Greeks in the stadium went wild. ‘Here the Olympic Victor was received with full honour; the King rose from his seat and congratulated him most warmly on his success,’ reads the official report of the Games. ‘Some of the King’s aides-de-camp, and several members of the Committee went so far as to kiss and embrace the victor, who finally was carried in triumph to the retiring room under the vaulted entrance. The scene witnessed then inside the Stadion cannot be easily described, and even foreigners were carried away by the general enthusiasm.’

The closing ceremony was held on 12 April. Over 100,000 packed into the stadium and massed on the surrounding hills to watch as the athletes received their medals and laurel wreaths. Pigeons with blue-and-white streamers were released, and flower petals were tossed into the air. Spiridon Louis then led the athletes in a lap round the track, his presence once more causing a massive outburst of nationalist fervour. After the lap, King George closed the ceremony with the portentous words: ‘I proclaim the ending of the first Olympiad.’ Later, King George declared that the Games should be held in Greece for all time. This went against the wishes of Coubertin, who had found himself almost as a bystander during the past week. Coubertin wished to see the Games held in a different city every four years, thus encouraging internationalism. Many of the athletes were not in agreement, however; even most of the American athletes signed a petition to the Crown Prince of Greece asking for the Games to be held in Athens in perpetuity.

Nevertheless, Coubertin got his way. Over the next few decades the Olympics were held in Paris in 1900, St Louis in 1904, London in 1908 and, Stockholm in 1912; there was also an ‘Intercalated Games’ in Athens in 1906. The Paris and St Louis Olympics had been considered failures, overshadowed by massive international exhibitions held concurrently in their host cities. The Athens Games of 1906 were a successful attempt to reinvigorate the Games, but it was not until the 1912 Games that the Olympics became recognisable in the form they maintain today. For the first time athletes came from all five continents, thus ensuring that the symbolism of the five Olympic rings was truly representative. The ceremonies and rituals also became more elaborate, and the establishment of national Olympic committees ensured a high level of competition.

By the early 1930s, however, the ageing baron in Lausanne was not as happy as he should have been. After standing down from the presidency of the IOC after the 1924 Paris Games, Coubertin watched as the Olympic movement swelled and outgrew its founder. He grew increasingly bitter, partly because he felt he had not received the international recognition that he deserved, and also because he was worried about his dwindling financial resources. In the late summer of 1934 he was to be found in a positively suicidal mood. ‘He seemed in excellent health, though he still pronounced that he wished soon to die,’ wrote Sigfrid Edstrøm, the vice-president of the IOC, to Baillet-Latour. ‘He said that he had nothing to live for. His wife is very ill.’ Coubertin also told Edstrøm in confidence that ‘he had lost all his money’, and that he would have to sell the furniture and paintings that his wife had left in the Olympic museum, items that the couple had wished to leave to the city of Lausanne. It was unsurprising, therefore, that Edstrøm found Coubertin ‘difficult to handle’.

One of Lewald’s and Diem’s first actions upon securing the Olympics for Berlin was to head to the United States for the Los Angeles Olympics of 1932. The two men, along with the million other visitors to California, were impressed. Despite the depression, the Californian Treasury Department had managed to donate $1 million (nearly $11 million in 2005), and a special bond raised $1.5 million (over $16 million in 2005), all of which ensured that Los Angeles was able to hold a glittering Games. A massive stadium meant that 104,000 could watch the athletes competing under–for the first time–the Olympic flame. This new piece of ritual was invented by Hollywood, and it had no roots in ancient Greek culture. One element that did have its roots in Olympism, albeit of the modern variety, was the releasing of pigeons, which had been a feature of the 1896 Games. The most important addition to the Olympic pageant, however, at least from the point of view of anybody who organises Olympic Games, was the Los Angelenos’ building of an Olympic village. Previously, athletes had been housed in cheap hotels or had had to stay with friends, but the provision of purpose-built cottages and halls meant that the athletes had their first chance to mingle ‘after hours’.

Lewald and Diem spent their time furiously making notes. Diem went so far as to take photographs of workshops, and even noted the culinary preferences of each participating country. With their country in an even worse financial state than the United States, the two men knew they would be pushed to duplicate, let alone better, the tenth Olympiad. Their mood was not improved by the poor showing Germany made in the medals table, lagging in ninth place with a mere three gold medals, twelve silver and five bronze. The Americans were the victors by a long chalk, with a total of 103 medals, forty-one of which were gold. The Italians and the French were second and third respectively, and the British came eighth, with a total of sixteen medals, four of which, being gold, secured them a place above Germany.

Germany’s showing caused much upset back home. The most virulent reaction came in the pages of Der Angriff (The Attack), the Nazi newspaper. A fortnight after the German team returned from Los Angeles, the newspaper commented that members of the German Olympic Committee were ‘traitors’ for allowing German athletes to compete against Jews and ‘niggers’. For the time being, Lewald and Diem were able to dismiss such rantings as the outpourings of extremists, but they would soon find themselves having to curry favour from those who shared such execrable views.

In the meantime, they had work to do. On 11 November 1932, the German Olympic Committee met to found the Organising Committee, and it was swiftly agreed that Lewald should become its chairman. The Olympic Committee also pondered the adoption of a symbol for the Games, and after some discussion Lewald’s idea of a bell was chosen. On 24 January the following year, the Organising Committee held its first meeting at the Berlin Town Hall. There, Lewald estimated that some four thousand athletes and one thousand team leaders and trainers would attend the Games–an unprecedented number. He also advocated that the existing stadium should have its capacity increased to around 80,000–85,000. The money for all this, he said, would come from the sale of tickets, which would raise some 3 million Reichsmarks ($712,589–$10,000,000 in 2005). A million Reichsmarks would be raised by the addition of a small levy on postage stamps, and an unspecified amount would be earned from the payment by spectators at sporting events of an ‘Olympic penny’. The economics minister, Dr Hjalmar Schacht, had also given his blessing to a lottery that would run for three years.

Six days after Lewald’s meeting, however, the entire face of Germany changed: the Nazis came to power. Since the election of September 1930, Hitler’s path to power had been steady but not quite sure. In 1932 he stood against Hindenburg in the presidential election, and although he came second, he won nearly 37 per cent of the vote. In the Reichstag election of July that same year, the Nazis won 230 seats, thus becoming the largest party in parliament. Franz von Papen, the beleaguered Chancellor, soon lost a no-confidence vote, and a further election was called for November. Frantic efforts by Papen to secure Nazi support for his Centre Party failed, and although the Nazis lost seats in the November election, they remained the largest party. Papen was fired by Hindenburg and was replaced by General Kurt von Schleicher, who had promised he could form a majority government without the Nazis. Unsurprisingly, his attempt failed, and Hindenburg reluctantly called upon Hitler to assume the chancellorship. On the morning of 30 January 1933, Hitler was sworn in.

Hitler’s elevation represented a severe threat to the efforts of the Organising Committee. The previous year, Hitler had declared that the Olympics was ‘an invention of Jews and Freemasons’ and ‘could not possibly be put on in a Reich ruled by National Socialists’. Lewald and Diem now feared that the Olympics in Germany might be cancelled for a second time, not through external pressure, but through inimical forces within. The Organising Committee had another problem, however, which no amount of smooth talking to the Nazis by Lewald would be able to banish: Lewald’s paternal grandmother had been a Jew. Although his father had converted to Christianity at the age of seventeen–some 110 years earlier–Lewald knew that as far as the Nazis were concerned he was still a de facto Jew. What made matters worse was that Diem’s wife, Liselott, also had Jewish forebears, an association that made some Nazis describe Diem as a ‘white Jew’.

Lewald was canny enough to have anticipated the difficulty of his and Diem’s position in the event of the Nazis coming to power. The Organising Committee was founded as a not-for-profit private society, which meant that if the Nazis respected the German legal system, they would not be able to oust Lewald for being a Jew. Lewald’s influence and range of contacts meant that he was able to register the company in far less than the normal six weeks. In fact, the Organising Committee of the 1936 Olympics was registered in just one hour.

In March, Lewald met the Chancellor and his new Minister for Popular Enlightenment and Propaganda, Josef Goebbels. Although Goebbels, who showed little interest in sport, saw the advantages of the Olympics as a showcase for the regime, Hitler remained unconvinced. According to the official Olympic Report, however, Lewald appeared to have impressed Hitler to the extent that his opinion of the previous year was turned round: ‘The Games, he [Hitler] asserted, would contribute substantially towards furthering understanding among the nations of the world and would promote the development of sport among the German youth, this being in his opinion of vast importance to the welfare of the nation.’ Naturally, the report is anodyne, but with Lewald securing an official public statement from Hitler pledging his support for the Games, there is little doubt that Hitler was at least paying lip-service to them. What the report does not mention is the question of Lewald’s Jewishness. The Nazis wanted Lewald to relinquish his post, but Baillet-Latour would not have it. The Nazis relented, and allowed him to stay, with the proviso that he step down from the German Olympic Committee as soon as the Games were finished. In effect, Lewald would be nothing more than a titular head of the Organising Committee, while the bulk of the work would be carried out by Diem, who would in turn report to the government through the figure of Hans von Tschammer und Osten, the Reich’s sports minister, one of Hitler’s oldest allies. Furthermore, both Diem and Lewald had to relinquish their posts at the Deutsche Hochschule fuer Leibesuebungen, the sports university they had established.

Nevertheless, on 1 April Lewald felt sufficiently confident to write a letter soothing the disquiet any of his fellow IOC members may have felt about the new regime:

During the last few weeks the foreign press reported in many instances that the National Government of the Reich opposed the Olympic Games being held in Berlin 1936. This is one of the numerous wrong news [sic] about Germany which recently have been set afloat; it is as unfounded as all the widely circulating rumours about atrocities occurring in this country. The fact of the matter is that the Chancellor Herr Hitler, the Minister of Foreign Affairs, the Minister of the Interior, the Propaganda Minister and the Minister of Defence have expressed their willingness to further the cause of the Olympic Games by all means in their power.

Unsurprisingly, Lewald did not mention his Faustian pact with his new rulers. It would be the first of many times that Lewald would mislead the Olympic movement, mendacities all the more shocking coming from a man whose career had been threatened by the regime for reasons of race.

Lewald’s letter did not work. The IOC remained troubled by what it heard coming from Germany. With each week, its members, along with the rest of the world, heard more and more stories concerning prejudice against Jewish sportsmen and women. One of them was Brigadier General E. Charles Sherrill, one of three American members of the IOC. Like many, Sherrill was appalled by the situation in Germany, and wrote to the American Jewish Congress, promising them that he would ‘stoutly maintain the American principle that all citizens are equal under all laws’. The IOC was also concerned about the stranglehold the Nazis were already starting to exert on the Games. On 5 May Baillet-Latour wrote to Lewald, von Halt and the Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, the third German member of the IOC, warning them that measures ‘taken against certain athletes have created a hostile movement of opinion in the sporting world overseas and in international federations, against the celebration in Berlin of the XIth Olympiad’. Baillet-Latour laid down the Olympic law firmly, insisting that Hitler should be made to realise that the Games were the IOC’s and not his. If Hitler did not offer a written guarantee saying that he would leave the Games alone, then Berlin would have to withdraw as the host city. He then invited the three men to attend the next IOC congress in Vienna in June to explain their position.

An incensed von Halt replied on 16 May, claiming that he understood Baillet-Latour’s worries, but that he did not understand the content of his letters, fearing that the IOC president had been influenced by biased newspapers. He did not deny, however, that discrimination had taken place.

Events in Germany are solely to do with domestic politics. In individual cases sportsmen have been affected. If a certain anti-German press feels called upon to deliver these domestic German matters on to the Olympic stage, then this is extraordinarily regrettable and shows their unfriendly attitude towards Germany in the worst possible light. […] Germany is in the middle of a national revolution that must be described as an example of the greatest, never-before-seen discipline. If, in Germany, individual voices rise up against the Olympic Games, then they emanate from circles that do not understand the Olympic spirit. These voices must on no account be taken seriously.

Von Halt then scoffed at the idea of seeking Hitler’s written guarantee, saying that Hitler’s spoken confirmation would have to do. ‘I request your understanding, Mr President, that the head of a government of a nation of 65 million people cannot be made to confirm in writing an affirmation given orally.’ Von Halt had clearly never heard of treaties, but then written guarantees from Hitler were to become infamously worthless.

Baillet-Latour was clearly affronted by von Halt’s attitude. Ten days later, he wrote back to von Halt from Lausanne. He dismissed the charge that he had been influenced by a hostile press, and claimed that he had gathered his knowledge from official declarations. Was it not true, he said, that Lewald had in fact been replaced by the Reich Sports Minister, and that his participation was only a sham? Were German Jews able to take part in the Olympics representing Germany? If not, this would be ‘contrary to the Olympic charter’. Once more, he demanded that the three German members of the IOC present themselves at Vienna.

So what evidence did Baillet-Latour have that the Jews–and in particular Jewish sportsmen and women–were being discriminated against? The list of measures taken against Jews is extensive, but one law that did affect Germany’s right to stage the Games was a decree issued on 26 April, which banned Jews from membership of sports organisations. This directly contravened the clause in the Olympic Charter that read: ‘The Olympic Games assemble together the amateurs of all nations on an equal footing and under conditions as perfect as possible’.

By the time the IOC gathered in Vienna on 7 June, the matriculation of Jews from schools, colleges and universities was limited to just 1.5 per cent of the student body. Any Jews beyond this percentage found it impossible to attend classes, let alone play sports at school. Specific sports were targeted as well. On 8 May, for example, Jews were excluded from tennis competitions. Later that month, any rowing club affiliated to the German Rowing Association was allowed to accept only ‘Aryan’ members. The German boxing federation banned Jews on 1 April. On 2 June, just five days before the Vienna meeting, Jews were barred from gymnastic clubs. That same month the German Skiing Union forbade any subordinate clubs from accepting Jews.

One Jew who was affected by these measures was the eighteen-year-old Margaret ‘Gretel’ Bergmann. An exceedingly talented all-round athlete, Bergmann was a member of the Ulmer Fussball Verein (the Ulm Football Club), which despite its name trained its members in all manner of track and field disciplines. Bergmann discovered her niche as a high-jumper, and she soon found her technique improving under expert tutelage. ‘The fact that I had developed a gigantic crush on the coach was also helpful,’ she later wrote; ‘trying to impress him I worked twice as hard.’ Bergmann recalls her days with the UFV spent at Ettlingen training camp in the Black Forest as idyllic and free from prejudice: ‘When the day’s labours were done we all got together for our meal and an evening of socialising. I do not know if any other Jews, besides me and a friend from the UFV, were among these atheletes; nobody cared anyway. Many a close and lasting friendship was formed.’ By the end of 1931, Bergmann found herself ranked fourth in Germany.

Her talent did not stop a letter arriving in April 1933, a few days before her nineteenth birthday. ‘It was not a very nice birthday present,’ she wrote. ‘The letter informed me that my membership in the UFV had been terminated and that I was no longer welcome. Forgotten were the good times we had together, forgotten were the many medals I had won for them, forgotten was the camaraderie.’ By the autumn, Bergmann’s parents had decided to send her to England, where she dreamed of joining the British Olympic team. She would soon be sucked back to Germany, however.

At 2.45 on the afternoon of 7 June, the IOC met in yet another fine building at the heart of a European city. The room on this occasion was the Festive Hall of the Academy of Sciences in Vienna, a gaudy affair with marble stucco and a baroque ceiling fresco. The turnout was only marginally better than in Barcelona two years before, with some thirty members in attendance. After welcoming new members, and bemoaning the death of Prince Leon Ouroussoff of Russia, the committee elected four new members to the IOC, two of whom were British–the champion hurdler Lord Burghley, and the author Sir Noel Curtis-Bennett.

Baillet-Latour then turned to the vexatious question of Germany. He briefed his colleagues on the exchanges that had taken place between himself and the Germans, reminding them of the necessity of ensuring that the Olympic code was adhered to. Diplomatically, Baillet-Latour paid tribute to the Olympic spirit and loyalty of the German delegates–Lewald, von Halt and Mecklenburg-Schwerin. He then read out a statement:

The President of the International Olympic Committee asked the German delegates if they would guarantee the observance of the articles in the Charter dealing with the Organising Committee and the Rules of Qualification. On behalf of the three Delegates, His Excellency Doctor Lewald replied that, with the consent of his Government […] All the laws regulating the Olympic Games shall be observed [and] as a principle German Jews shall not be excluded from German Teams at the Games of the XIth Olympiad.

There were two weasel clauses here. The first, ‘with the consent of his Government’, indicated that the German Organising Committee was not in charge of the Berlin Games; rather the government was. In Germany the government meant only one man: Hitler. The second weasel clause was ‘as a principle’. Although this convinced many of the delegates, it still allowed the Nazis to mete out punitive measures against their Jewish sportsmen and women. Jews may have had the right to compete, but they had little or no opportunities to do so. The provision did not, for example, restore to Gretel Bergmann her membership of her beloved UFV. It did not stop Jews being banned from swimming in public baths, for fear that they would ‘infect’ the water. It did not stop the Jews being banned from equestrian clubs, lest the German horses were ‘sullied’ by Jewish riders. Like so many other Nazi so-called guarantees, it was valueless. Nevertheless, the IOC members took it at face value. General Sherrill, who had openly questioned Lewald about the rights of Jews to compete, wrote to Rabbi Stephen Wise back in New York, telling him that the negotiations with the Germans had been ‘a trying fight’ but that Lewald and his colleagues had ‘finally yielded because they found that I had lined up the necessary votes’. There was an air of finality about the proceedings, as if this distasteful business regarding the Jews was finally over, a teething trouble, nothing more. Nevertheless, the trouble would not go away.

The IOC was clearly turning two blind eyes to what was going on in Germany. Fine words echoing in fine buildings were not representative of the true situation. In fact, the farcical nature of the Vienna congress was revealed just a few days after it was held. Towards the end of June, von Tschammer und Osten, the Reich’s sports minister, made a speech in Berlin which contradicted the empty words spoken by Lewald to Baillet-Latour. ‘We shall see to it that both in our national life, and in our relations and competitions with foreign nations, only such Germans shall be allowed to represent the nation as those against whom no objection can be raised.’ That meant only one thing–no Jews were to be allowed to compete. If any IOC member wanted further confirmation of this attitude, then he could have found it more vulgarly expressed in The Spirit of Sport in the Third Reich, written by Bruno Malitz, the sports leader of the Berlin SA. After expressing the most un-Olympian sentiment that he could ‘see no positive value for our people in permitting dirty Jews and Negroes to travel in our country and compete in athletics with our best’, the author then stated:

There is