Not Just a Game

They met on the piste. Seventy-one years after the end of World War Two, the first Olympic Super Bowl of Fencing beamed live to TV stations throughout the world became transformed into a life and death battle between a Nazi Reichsleiter and a Hungarian Jew.

Fédération Internationale d'Escrime Rules of Fencing did not regulate this battle. Gordo slashed chaotically—no fencing technique, just brute strength. László Petschauer parried and danced out of the way. Like a boxer fighting a slugger, he jabbed his épée to keep the blond giant at bay. But the slugger brushed aside the lightweight weapon, like the annoyed swatting of a fly. Even so, pinpricks of blood appeared on the Reichleiter’s neck and trickled down his jacket where the épée tip pierced his skin. Still he attacked, the hacking sword making whooshing sounds amplified by the TV microphones.

As the Storm Troopers crowded closer, surrounding the piste, ready to help their leader, another group of men wedged in. All wore yellow Stars of David pinned to their chests, the badge Nazis mandated Jews wear to humiliate and distinguish them from Aryans.

Kirsten recognized men of the IDF and Mossad, as well as Israeli Olympians. They insinuated themselves between the Storm Troopers. They looked marchers in the face, stared into their eyes, and shook their heads: "No, don't even think about interfering," the expressions said. "Get out of here. Now, while you still can." They patted bulging jackets and pants pockets, wordlessly warning what would happen if the Nazis didn’t obey. Without a word spoken, they dispersed the group.

A collective gasp rose from the audience when Gordo landed a cutting blow to László’s left side. He fell to the ground, gushing blood. The Reichsleiter was over him in an instant, moving in for the kill, sword held in both hands high overhead. At the last instant, László dodged the killing blow, rolling sideways as the blade fell. It found only empty air and thumped off the piste. László regained his feet but held his bleeding side with one hand. Blood oozed through his fingers. Gordo pressed the fight, driving László backwards off the piste onto the stadium floor. László’s bleeding increased, slowing his movements as blood-loss began to take its toll. Still, he parried killing blow after blow, trying to find an opening in the giant’s maelstrom of sword thrusts.

As Gordo charged, his foot slipped in László’s blood, pooled on the smooth wooden floor. The giant grounded his sword tip a moment to steady himself. With a lightning thrust, László drove his épée deep into the Reichsleiter’s neck, straight through his Adam’s apple. The force of the blade severed the spinal column behind, instantly rendering Gordo quadriplegic. Paralyzed muscles, disconnected from their command center, became flaccid. The big man crashed to the floor.

Hatikvah, the Israeli National Anthem, replaced the Horst Wessel Song, and boomed throughout the stadium.

An elderly gentleman at the back of the audience scowled, rose slowly and wobbled against a young man on his right. He regained stability by leaning on a wooden cane, turned and left.