Rudy Steiner vs. Liesel Meminger: The Bet, the Mud, and the “Jesse Owens” Legacy

He took her to Hubert Oval, the scene of the Jesse Owens incident,‎where they stood, hands in pockets. The track was stretched out in‎front of them. Only one thing could happen. Rudy started it.‎“Hundred meters,” he goaded her. “I bet you can’t beat me.”‎Liesel wasn’t taking any of that. “I bet you I can.”‎“What do you bet, you little Saumensch? Have you got any money?”‎“Of course not. Do you?”‎“No.” But Rudy had an idea. It was the lover boy coming out of‎him. “If I beat you, I get to kiss you.” He crouched down and began‎rolling up his trousers.‎Liesel was alarmed, to put it mildly. “What do you want to kiss me‎for? I’m filthy.”‎“So am I.” Rudy clearly saw no reason why a bit of filth should get‎in the way of things. It had been a while between baths for both of‎them.‎She thought about it while examining the weedy legs of her‎opposition. They were about equal with her own. There’s no way he‎can beat me, she thought. She nodded seriously. This was business.‎“You can kiss me if you win. But if I win, I get out of being goalie at‎soccer.”‎Rudy considered it. “Fair enough,” and they shook on it.‎All was dark-skied and hazy, and small chips of rain were starting‎to fall.‎The track was muddier than it looked.‎Both competitors were set.‎Rudy threw a rock in the air as the starting pistol. When it hit the‎ground, they could start running.‎“I can’t even see the finish line,” Liesel complained.‎“And I can?”‎The rock wedged itself into the earth.‎They ran next to each other, elbowing and trying to get in front.The slippery ground slurped at their feet and brought them down‎perhaps twenty meters from the end.‎“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” yelped Rudy. “I’m covered in shit!”‎“It’s not shit,” Liesel corrected him, “it’s mud,” although she had‎her doubts. They’d slid another five meters toward the finish. “Do we‎call it a draw, then?”‎Rudy looked over, all sharp teeth and gangly blue eyes. Half his‎face was painted with mud. “If it’s a draw, do I still get my kiss?”‎“Not in a million years.” Liesel stood up and flicked some mud off‎her jacket.‎“I’ll get you out of goalie.”‎“Stick your goalie.”‎As they walked back to Himmel Street, Rudy forewarned her. “One‎day, Liesel,” he said, “you’ll be dying to kiss me.”‎But Liesel knew.‎She vowed.‎As long as both she and Rudy Steiner lived, she would never kiss‎that miserable, filthy Saukerl, especially not this day. There were more‎important matters to attend to. She looked down at her suit of mud‎and stated the obvious.‎“She’s going to kill me.”‎She, of course, was Rosa Hubermann, also known as Mama, and she‎very nearly did kill her. The word Saumensch featured heavily in the‎administration of punishment. She made mincemeat out of her.As we both know, Liesel wasn’t on hand on Himmel Street when Rudy‎performed his act of childhood infamy. When she looked back,‎though, it felt like she’d actually been there. In her memory, she had‎somehow become a member of Rudy’s imaginary audience. Nobody‎else mentioned it, but Rudy certainly made up for that, so much that‎when Liesel came to recollect her story, the Jesse Owens incident was‎as much a part of it as everything she witnessed firsthand.‎It was 1936. The Olympics. Hitler’s games.‎Jesse Owens had just completed the 4 × 100m relay and won his‎fourth gold medal. Talk that he was subhuman because he was black‎and Hitler’s refusal to shake his hand were touted around the world.‎Even the most racist Germans were amazed with the efforts of Owens,‎and word of his feat slipped through the cracks. No one was more‎impressed than Rudy Steiner.‎Everyone in his family was crowded together in their family room‎when he slipped out and made his way to the kitchen. He pulled some‎charcoal from the stove and gripped it in the smallness of his hands.‎“Now.” There was a smile. He was ready.‎He smeared the charcoal on, nice and thick, till he was covered in‎black. Even his hair received a once-over.‎In the window, the boy grinned almost maniacally at his reflection,‎and in his shorts and tank top, he quietly abducted his older brother’s‎bike and pedaled it up the street, heading for Hubert Oval. In one of‎his pockets, he’d hidden a few pieces of extra charcoal, in case some‎of it wore off later.‎In Liesel’s mind, the moon was sewn into the sky that night. Clouds were stitched around it.‎The rusty bike crumbled to a halt at the Hubert Oval fence line and‎Rudy climbed over. He landed on the other side and trotted weedily‎up toward the beginning of the hundred. Enthusiastically, he‎conducted an awkward regimen of stretches. He dug starting holes‎into the dirt.‎Waiting for his moment, he paced around, gathering concentration‎under the darkness sky, with the moon and the clouds watching,‎tightly.‎“Owens is looking good,” he began to commentate. “This could be‎his greatest victory ever ….”‎He shook the imaginary hands of the other athletes and wished‎them luck, even though he knew. They didn’t have a chance.‎The starter signaled them forward. A crowd materialized around‎every square inch of Hubert Oval’s circumference. They were all‎calling out one thing. They were chanting Rudy Steiner’s name—and‎his name was Jesse Owens.‎All fell silent.‎His bare feet gripped the soil. He could feel it holding on between‎his toes.‎At the request of the starter, he raised to crouching position—and‎the gun clipped a hole in the night.‎• • •‎For the first third of the race, it was pretty even, but it was only a‎matter of time before the charcoaled Owens drew clear and streaked‎away.‎“Owens in front,” the boy’s shrill voice cried as he ran down the‎empty track, straight toward the uproarious applause of Olympic‎glory. He could even feel the tape break in two across his chest as he burst through it in first place. The fastest man alive.‎It was only on his victory lap that things turned sour. Among the‎crowd, his father was standing at the finish line like the bogeyman.‎Or at least, the bogeyman in a suit. (As previously mentioned, Rudy’s‎father was a tailor. He was rarely seen on the street without a suit‎and tie. On this occasion, it was only the suit and a disheveled shirt.)‎“Was ist los?” he said to his son when he showed up in all his‎charcoal glory. “What the hell is going on here?” The crowd vanished.‎A breeze sprang up. “I was asleep in my chair when Kurt noticed you‎were gone. Everyone’s out looking for you.”‎Mr. Steiner was a remarkably polite man under normal‎circumstances. Discovering one of his children smeared charcoal‎black on a summer evening was not what he considered normal‎circumstances. “The boy is crazy,” he muttered, although he conceded‎that with six kids, something like this was bound to happen. At least‎one of them had to be a bad egg. Right now, he was looking at it,‎waiting for an explanation. “Well?”‎Rudy panted, bending down and placing his hands on his knees. “I‎was being Jesse Owens.” He answered as though it was the most‎natural thing on earth to be doing. There was even something implicit‎in his tone that suggested something along the lines of, “What the hell‎does it look like?” The tone vanished, however, when he saw the‎sleep deprivation whittled under his father’s eyes.‎“Jesse Owens?” Mr. Steiner was the type of man who was very‎wooden. His voice was angular and true. His body was tall and heavy,‎like oak. His hair was like splinters. “What about him?”‎“You know, Papa, the Black Magic one.”‎“I’ll give you black magic.” He caught his son’s ear between his‎thumb and forefinger.‎Rudy winced. “Ow, that really hurts.”‎“Does it?” His father was more concerned with the clammy texture‎