Le Pierre de Coubertin Based on a true story

Le Pierre de Coubertin—based on a true story
Written by Joesph Blake Parker

I woke to the sounds of twisting metal, sharper and more immediate than the muffled explosions and gunshots outside our bunker. Since the Allies had invaded the dusty beaches of Sicily, our strongholds had been taken over, seemingly overnight. The Italians forces that had not already escaped were giving up without a fight. Our own squadron's orders to hold our ground seemed like suicide—like Kind David sending Uriah the Hittite to front lines of battle. This is what made sleep so rare and precious, and what caused me to search for the source of the twisting metal. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust so that I could see what was happening.

In his cot, Commander Long, tossed violently, waking me and a few of his fellow soldiers with the straining of metal that threatened to snap beneath his significant weight. The flimsy bed was not made for men like him—for a German Übermensch, a super-man—but none of us believed that this would be problem by the morning.

That thought put a sour feeling in my stomach, as I watched beads of sweat pour down Commander Long's face. And, in addition to fearing the break of dawn for my own sake, I felt nauseous at the idea that the Commander would fall with me. A man like that should have been bathing in Olympus among the gods or, at the least, dining at Odin's table. Not tossing like a puppy in its sleep—whispering names.

“Ragna...” breath. “Karl...” turn. “Julia...” A clenching of the muscles so that the cot tore like the soul of the man trying to return. And then a third name. One that was not of the German's tongue. “Jazze...” Then the giant would be still for a little while before it began again.

But even though we knew that this wasn't right, not one of us pitied or thought little of the man whose tears mixed with sweat before us. Though asleep he turned, he was every bit the superman that we had imagined. And we all suspected that Long knew more about the reason for this suicide mission, but we trusted him—every one of us with our life. This man of unquestionable courage—this Uriah—was the only reason we had not fled the battle in a display of cowardice. And not one of us could say that we did not pray a secret prayer of thanks that he was the man who led us through this Valley of Death.

And as I drifted back to sleep at these thoughts, Commander Luz Long dreamed.

-O-

People said that Luz Long, German Olympian, was like something out of a comic when he performed in the Olympic long jump, launching himself with such power over the sand. And Long, himself, felt this surreal power—the rush of wind as he fought the physical forces that tried to prevent his launch into the skies, and then the pull of gravity that made him a devastating meteor upon the earth. For a split second, silence. When Long rose, the waves of onlookers roared explosively and the energy beamed through him like electricity.

“Luz Long! Luz Long! Luz Long!” the crowd cheered. And Long bathed in it. He looked up into the stands and saw the one who had chosen him, he who had personally granted Long his blessing less than twenty-four hours before, glowing in delight.

Adolf Hitler.

“Luz Long...” said the führer, Adolf Hitler. The man was small enough in stature but large enough in presence to make even Long feel shadowed. “I chose you, hand chose you for this day.” It was known that Hitler was Austrian but it could not be detected in his language that seemed to have captured the spirit and soul of his Germany. This, the man who had brought his people out of a depression that had nearly starved an entire generation to death.

“How do you feel about tomorrow?” Hitler asked.

“My führer, I could not be more confident. In spirit and in strength, I am ready,” Long replied. He could detect a pencil thin smile from his commander's lips—warm, like that of a school teacher, pleased with his student's enthusiasm.

“I am glad to hear it. But that is not the tomorrow I speak of,” Hitler said, his eyes seeming to glow with an infectious lightness about them. “In your tomorrow—and make no mistake, it will be your tomorrow—you will prove your country's prowess. You will show the inferiority of such races trapped by their own dependence upon weakness itself and, above all, you will demonstrate the strength of the German spirit.”

Long nodded his head, his own face rigid and attentive. The Americans—particularly, the blacks that would compete against him tomorrow—were said to be a broken people forced to adopt a perversion of the Christian religion, not the one of the German people. Their religion had been force-fed by the Americans that they had served for so many generations—and taught them apathy amid their wretched treatment, so that they could be kept submissive and docile. It was a poisonous hope that they held onto during the dead of night, a sedative to keep them weak. And while Long bore no inherit offense towards them for that, he certainly did not believe them entitled to any sort of respect, only pity.

“But the tomorrow I speak of is after this,” Hitler continued. “After you have achieved victory. Where will you go when all of this is but a sweet dream...” The Führer turned thoughtfully and stared out the the window at the Olympic field. “What do you think when you land, Long? What do you do when you heels touch hard, bracing earth and you don't yet know if the crowd is roaring for you or against you?”

“I think...” Long answered. “I think—it's time to jump again.”

The führer smiled again and turned his face back upon Long.

“You remember that, Long, and you win tomorrow and thereafter,” said the Führer. “I will assure that the sun forever bathes you in glory.”

It was the strangest experience, Long thought, remembering the day before. And now he did not know whether it was something to have feared or to have cherished. The longer he thought about it—about the implications of if he didn't win—the more he hoped that it was the second. But haunting thoughts lingered, clinging like whispering creatures tugging on the back of his skull.

That was until now—now that the crowd's cheering was only just dying down after his jump; and the wet, earthy smell of sand tainted the air he tasted. The euphoria still filled him long after the sound of praise had died down and other competitors had left their own dents in the sand. Many of these qualified, many more did not—but none reached the crater that had Long left in the sand. He was not so much interested in these, however, as in the man that he had come to defeat.

The moment that Jesse Owens walked onto the field, Luz suspected that everything that he had been told about the man was true—that he was an emblem of his race and a symbol of self-limitation. Owens was small, unassuming. This great hero to his nation did not carry it in his presence, nor did his white teammates even look at him like an equal. Only with a seeming resentment at his presence. Long looked up into the stands and noticed that his Führer was nowhere to be seen. Clearly, his führer felt the same disinterest.

Taking a seat on the sideline, Long watched Owens prepare for the jump. Long followed the man's eyes from the track to the sandy pit—the true enemy. The sand was not a padded place to land safely, unlike what one who had never jumped might have thought. It was a cold, gritty reminder of failure, of man's bondage to laws which he could never escape. Owens' eyes watched it, darkly and—for a split second—defiantly.

Owens dashed. He ran. He flew, taking flight like a war jet—every bit of the glory and magnitude he had kept hidden in his walk now sailing behind him like a banner of glorious fury and defiance to the gods around him.

But Owens fouled the jump—had stepped upon the boundary line behind which he was supposed to have launched.

The Long stood, stunned. The crowd cheered at the news that Owens' jump had not defeated that of their hero, Luz Long. It didn't matter, though. Suddenly, their cries went silent and the rest of the world froze as this small man with dark skin returned, quiet as he had arrived and readied himself to jump again. Long was sure that the crowd that cheered against him with hands raised in salute to himself and to the German nation would start to suffocate Owens' jump like a heavy fog weighing him down.

Again Owens ran. For a moment, Long believed that the weight had closed in on him but, as if breaking free of the sound barrier, Owens lunged through the thick cloud as if it were not even there. He landed.

Another foul.

Jesse glanced for a moment—perhaps through coincidence or perhaps because his was the only gaze wanting Owens to soar—at Long. Long could see in the man's dark face that he also was sealed from the noise around him. And that Owens was going to try one last time, to launch himself again even if he knew it meant crashing back to earth in a fiery heap of flesh, shot down by the cries of the crowd surrounding them.

Something like terror gripped Long's chest with a clawed hand and he descended down the field, running towards Owens. He would have been too late if Owens had not taken a moment to rest or to give some sort of last, desperate prayer.

Long put his hand on Owens' shoulder and felt the man jump a bit when he saw that his enemy who, just seconds ago was sitting up in the audience, was now looming over him.

“I Luz Long,” Long said, placing a hand to his chest, trying his best to remember his English from high-school, and trying not to feel oafish with his hand gestures.

Jesse stood there a moment, stunned, not sure to what to make of this German enemy who had interrupted his jump to introduce himself to a rival.

“I think I know what is wrong,” Long said in the best that his broken English would allow. “You give everything when you jump. I the same. You cannot do halfway, but you are afraid you will foul again.”
This time, Owens responded a little better, his wrinkled brow smoothing slightly and nodding to show he either that he agreed or that he was listening. It was good enough of a response for Long.
“I have answer. You need to jump sooner, before you reach the line. You need to have at least the quarter meter in front of you for good jump,”

Jesse nodded as if he understood but Long was not satisfied. Walking back to the benches, he took the towel from around his neck and dropped it casually. It was exactly the distance that Long had set for his own jump, the distance he had advised Owens to set. The German walked back, sat on the edge his seat, and watched—his elbows burying themselves into his knees hard enough to leave bruises.

Owens paused briefly at the line. He ran. Leaped. Glided like a inhuman force through the air and stretched his feet forward like a bird of prey. Like a hawk, his shadow fell over the canyon and he met it as he landed on the other side. Without waiting for the judges, Long knew that the jump had qualified. The brown, kindred eyes looked at those of Long with a joyous light and Owens nodded.

Long nodded back.

-O-

Commander Luz Long of the Nazi army, woke from his cot before any of his men. His waking was not violent, unlike his sleep, but as gentle as just a raising of the eyelids. He needed this moment, however short it might be, to still himself. He fingered the envelope that was in his left breast pocket, addressed to a town in the United States—as if touching it would warm his body and fill him with some sort of courage. He had to be strong—strong enough to lie. His men, fine German soldiers, knew that he was aware of something that they were not. And none were under the illusion that their chances of survival were high. But they trusted Long to not let them believe that they were merely scapegoats in an inglorious last stand. They trusted that he would never tell them that it was he, Luz Long, who was the reason that they were to be sacrificed. And indeed, as he ran his dry, calloused fingers ran along the edge of the paper, softened by wear, it did seem to produce a small amount of heat. The remnants of the night's dreams began to trickle into his conscious mind and he was momentarily lost to them once again.

-O-

Luz watched his new-found friend curled over a cup of coffee in front of the fire. It was as if the warmth of the fireplace was not enough, that Owens was bound to absorb the steam from his drink as well.

Owens had found Long after the jump, and invited him to share a drink. And so Long was here, introducing himself to his American competitor, and making small-talk. It took a little bit of getting used to, Jesse's southern accent. But soon, they were ruggedly hurling through conversation like the language barrier didn't even exist.

“You have family?” Long asked before taking a large sip out of his glass and savoring the bitter heat in his mouth and throat and then belly.

“I do,” Jesse momentarily lowered his coffee to remove a tiny framed picture from his pocket. In it was Jesse, a petite black woman, and a baby asleep in her arms. “Minnie and I were married when I was fifteen and then Gloria,” Owens pointed to the child, beaming a silly smile. “She was born a little while later.”

“Your girls are beautiful,” Long said, reaching for his wallet. He pointed at the picture of his wife, much larger than Minnie, and a little boy. “This is my wife, Ragna. And Karl is my son, he is good boy.”

“If he's good, then it's because you raised him that way.” Owens replied sincerely. There was a momentary, almost uncomfortable pause.

“Jazze, I have a question for you.” Long stated, changing the topic and his countenance to one slightly more serious.

“Yeah?”

“How can you bear the thought of returning to your home? I have seen in news and read about what life if like for your people. They call you weak, and treat you like less than a man.”

Owens thought for a moment, holding the coffee in his mouth as if, with time, he could filter out the answer like it were a distinguished taste.

“To be honest, I don't know.” replied Jesse. “You don't think I'm loved here, by all the Germans do you?”

Luz put a hand on Jesse's shoulder and looked him straight in the eye, as if what he had to say was a matter of life and death. And to Long, it might as well have been.

“No. But you will make us love you. We are blind because we are taught that your people are weak, and pitiful, and that all you have is faith in weakness. That you have nothing else to hold on to,” the German's eyes grew dramatically larger. “But I saw you jump. Jazze! I saw you jump—like you were completely free.... We Germans may be blind, but we are not fools, my friend. When you show us that you have this power, we will see and we will respect you.”

Owens smiled. Taking in the words of this large man who, in a day, would jump to defeat him, and perhaps in a year cut him down in a hail of bullets—and he smiled.

“What about you, my friend,” said Jesse, putting his free arm on Long's shoulder in the same fashion. “What will you do when you return to your home? Will they make you a hero?”

The question caused Long to think for a moment, remembering what his commander had told him. There was no “if” in what he had said: You remember that, Long, and you win. I will assure that the sun bathes you in glory. And now, more clearly than ever he would, he could see that the Führer's words had been a thickly veiled threat.

“I do not know, Jazze. To tell you truly, I do not know.”

-O-

One after the other they had flown. Long remembered, a subtle smile creeping slowly across his face as he inched his hands through the arms of his coat with his home's swastika emblem on the left arm. And as he reached for his Luger handgun and placed it in his hip holster, and his men likewise readied themselves with fear and desperation written on their faces, Long remembered the absolute freedom in every leap. With every jump and record he set, Owens followed and surpassed him in the next. It only pushed Long harder—until the German set the world record in the long jump. But the record lasted no more than a few minutes, because Jesse's final leap cleared his own and set yet another world record. Even so, Long realized as he strapped his MP40 sub-machine gun to his back, that he had felt completely free with Jesse when his friend lunged above the earth and sand that tried viciously with invisible wires to pull him back into its embrace.

As he remembered that day, Long realized that the men around him, had seemed to notice his mood lightening more and more. In this dark place, Long's eyes surely must have now shone brighter than the sun they wore on their sleeves, because the young soldiers looked at him with a sort of hunger.

“My comrades,” Long said, looking each soldier in the eye. “and my friends. Tomorrow. we will be free, this I promise you. If only for an instant as we fly down upon our enemies like eagles, with the sun warming the feathers on our backs. We will look down and see the beaches and then look to one another. And we will smile... because we will know that we are free! We will leap united toward our own tomorrow and nothing will tear us apart. Brothers, as we soar for Heaven, that dusty ground will never—ever—again stop our flight. That is my promise to you.”

Of course, the young soldiers didn't fully understand. Long saw this, but they trusted him, would trust him into whatever tomorrow he lead them. And, above all, they would reach it with the taste of hope sweet on their tongues.

Then, as Allied troupes burst in from every direction and fire filled their ears, Long would jump. He would soar into a wall of bullets but he would keep going. He was free and here he would meet his friend—his brother, Jesse, never to taste sand again.