Garden of Beasts

They looked over the water. “Saw you sparring earlier. You pro?”
    “An old man like me? Just do it for the exercise.”
    “I’m Jesse.”
    “Oh, yes, sir, I know who you are,” Paul said. “The Buckeye Bullet from Ohio State.” They shook hands. Paul introduced himself. Despite the shock of what had happened in his cabin, he couldn’t stop grinning. “I saw the newsreels of the Western Conference Meet last year. Ann Arbor. You beat three world records. And tied another one, right? Must’ve seen that film a dozen times. But I’ll bet you’re tired of hearing people tell you that.”
    “I don’t mind it one bit, no, sir,” Jesse Owens said. “Just, I’m always surprised people keep up so close with what I do. Just running and jumping. Haven’t seen much of you on the trip, Paul.”
    “I’ve been around,” Paul said evasively. He wondered if Owens knew something about what’d happened to Heinsler. Had he overheard them? Or seen Paul grab the man on the top deck by the smokestack? But he decided the athlete would’ve been more troubled if that had been the case. It seemed he had something else in mind. Paul nodded toward the deck behind them. “This is the biggest damn gym I’ve ever seen. You like it?”
    “I’m glad for the chance to train but a track shouldn’t move. And it definitely shouldn’t rock up and down like we were doing a few days ago. Give me dirt or cinders any day.”
    Paul said, “So. That’s our boxer I was up against.”
    “That’s right. Nice fellow. I spoke to him some.”
    “He’s good,” Paul said without much enthusiasm.
    “Seems to be,” the runner said. It was clear he too knew boxing wasn’t the strong suit of the American team but Owens wasn’t inclined to criticize a fellow athlete. Paul had heard that the Negro was among the most genial of the Americans; he’d come in second in the most-popular-athlete-on-board contest last night, after Glenn Cunningham.
    “I’d offer you a ciggie . . .”
    Owens laughed. “Not for me.”
    “I’ve pretty much given up offering butts and hits from my flask. You folks’re too damn healthy.”
    Another laugh. Then silence for a moment as the solid Negro looked out to sea. “Say, Paul. I got a question. You here officially?”
    “Officially?”
    “With the committee, I mean? Maybe like a guard?”
    “Me? Why do you say that?”
    “You sort of seemed like a, well, soldier or something. And then, the way you were fighting. You knew what you were doing.”
    “I was in the War. That’s probably what you noticed.”
    “Maybe.” Then Owens added, “Course that was twenty years ago. And those two fellows I’ve seen you talking with. They’re navy. We heard ’em talking to one of the crew.”
    Brother, another trail of clues.
    “Those two guys? Just bumped into ’em on board. I’m bumming a ride with you folks. . . . Doing some stories about sports, boxing in Berlin, the Games. I’m a writer.”
    “Oh, sure.” Owens nodded slowly. He seemed todebate for a moment. “Well, if you’re a reporter, you still might know something ’bout what I was going to ask you. Just wondering if you heard anything about those two fellows?” He nodded at some men on the deck nearby, running in tandem, passing the relay baton. They were lightning fast.
    “Who’re they?” Paul asked.
    “Sam Stoller and Marty Glickman. They’re good runners, some of the best we’ve got. But I heard a rumor they might not run. Wondered if you knew anything about that.”
    “Nope, nothing. You mean some qualification problem? Injury?”
    “I mean because they’re Jewish.”
    Paul shook his head. He recalled there was a controversy about Hitler not liking Jews. There was some protest and talk about moving the Olympics. Some people even wanted the U.S. team to boycott the Games. Damon Runyon had been all hot under the collar about the country even participating. But why would the American committee pull some athletes because they were Jewish? “That’d be a bum deal. Doesn’t seem right by a long shot.”
    “No, sir. Anyway, I was just thinking maybe you’d heard something.”
    “Sorry, can’t help you, friend,” Paul said.
    They were joined by another Negro. Ralph Metcalfe introduced himself. Paul knew about him too. He’d won medals in the Los Angeles Olympics in ’32.
    Owens noticed Vince Manielli looking down at them from an upper deck. The lieutenant nodded and started for the stairs.
    “Here comes your