Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [20]
“The five thousand meters.”
“And what is your name?” he inquired.
“I didn’t win anything,” I said, “so it’s not that important.”
“No, Hitler wants to know the name of every athlete.”
“Okay. My name is Zamperini.” I gave him the camera and he took a picture.
When Goebbels came back he said, “Hitler wants to see you.” My mouth dropped open.
I walked over and shook his hand. He seemed friendly enough and said, through an interpreter, “Ah, you’re the boy with the fast finish.” Then I went back to my seat. Frankly, it wasn’t that big a deal. Even if Hitler had given me his wristwatch, it still wouldn’t have meant much. He was just another dictator. So what? Sure, he was an anti-Semite, and I certainly wasn’t, but I’m embarrassed to say that at the time I didn’t understand what that was all about. I’d just graduated from high school and was more concerned about myself than about governments and how the world worked, or didn’t.
LATER I HIT the streets of Berlin with a friend from the team. We hiked everywhere, saw the sights. We wanted to find an Automat, where they served liters of beer. You could drink one and walk around with a little boost. Maybe try something you normally wouldn’t. We also wanted souvenirs. I grabbed an ashtray from a Tanz bar—a dance hall and bar. I also copped a fan.
At the Reich Chancellery we stopped and stood across the street to take in the magnificent building. In front, two guards marched from the doorway in the middle to the corners, where each would do an about-face and goose-step back to the center. While we stared, a limousine pulled up and Hitler got out and went inside, accompanied by some officers.
Of all the possible souvenirs, I wanted a Nazi flag the most. I couldn’t get the beautiful ones, the long silk streamers that hung from the building tops, so I set my sights lower and spotted a banner maybe ten, fifteen feet up, on a pole stuck in the Chancellery’s perimeter wall. My mind went to work; thinking maybe I could get it when the guards weren’t looking, I watched them walk their circuit and timed how long it took. I figured I could be across the street and up and down the pole while they walked toward their respective corners, then gone before they swung again in my direction.
As soon as the guards turned I made my move, but when I got under the flag it was higher than I figured and I had some trouble getting up the pole. When the guards did their about-face, they saw me, and began to yell. I stretched, grabbed the flag, then dropped to the ground and ran. I heard a loud crack that sounded a lot like a rifle shot, and the words “Halten sie! Halten sie!” I didn’t need to understand German to figure it out.
I made the smart move: I stopped. The guards seized me and cuffed me a bit for good measure before they took a good look at my Olympic clothing and realized I was an American athlete. One guard spoke very halting English. He wanted to know why I’d torn down the flag. I told him my name and the truth: I wanted a souvenir to take home to America—and here I embellished a bit—“to always remind me of the wonderful time I had in Germany.”
He left me with the other guard, went into the building, and returned with an older, high-ranking officer, introduced as Fritz. I later learned it was General Werner von Fritsch, commander-in-chief of the German Army (whom they eventually executed for going against Hitler’s policies). Von Fritsch said, “Why did you tear down the swastika?”
I repeated my explanation. It must have been the right answer. He presented me with the flag, “as a souvenir of your trip to Germany.”
I still have the flag today.
The story of my little adventure hit the press and quickly died. But a few years later, during World War II, our side resurrected it as part of the propaganda effort, and twisted it around into an event that never happened. I didn’t know they’d done it, but when I found out I understood: our government had to paint the enemy as black as possible.