Читать книгу Frozen in Time - Nikki Nichols - Страница 10

The most gifted artist could not paint a more striking landscape. A snow-capped mountain pierced the hovering clouds. Jagged rocks gave way to lush greenery as the mountain spread closer to earth. Pikes Peak, the jewel of the Colorado Rockies, stood high above Colorado Springs, a sleepy western town that had become a desirable destination for the emerging upper-middle class and the decidedly well-to-do. It was here that the 1961 U.S. National Figure Skating Championships would take place. For many years, skiing was the only winter sport of note in the town—but that changed when the drama and beauty of figure skating captured the hearts of two of the town’s most prominent citizens.

Near Pikes Peak, Cheyenne Mountain drew a select crowd of ski enthusiasts in the early 1900s. A small hotel and casino offered respite for the weary tourists, but Spencer and Julie Penrose, a fashionable and wealthy young couple, envisioned something better for the location. They purchased the hotel and transformed it into the most luxurious resort in the world, complete with a golf course, riding stables, and every other appointment of wealth.

The Broadmoor Hotel opened in 1918. Its pink stucco exterior beckoned guests to enter its luxurious halls. Its most distinctive feature was an opulent tower reaching into the sky. At the Broadmoor, presidents played and Hollywood stars roamed the halls after cotillions and socials. The hotel brought a touch of sophistication to the still untamed spirit of the West. The hotel flourished as the decades clicked by, and the area, in part because of the Broadmoor’s classic European flair, earned the name “Little Switzerland.”

The Broadmoor Ice Palace.

In the late 1930s, one of the latest diversions of society was attending popular ice revues that included headliners like Frick and Frack, and the inimitable Sonja Henie, now at the peak of her brilliant career. Sonja cast a spell on Spencer and Julie Penrose when they saw her perform in 1937. They instantly fell in love with the ice and decided to bring skating to their posh hotel.

The Penroses tore out the Broadmoor’s riding stables to make room for a new ice rink, a move that perplexed some of the guests but quickly drew even more attention to the hotel. With few all-year indoor rinks in the country, the new arena had a real chance to be the most state-of-the-art facility in the nation. With its arched exterior, imposing beams, and Olympic-sized ice surface, the Broadmoor Ice Palace lived up to expectations when it opened its doors to skaters in 1938.

Spencer and Julie Penrose wanted more than just a place for the rich to play. They wanted the arena to serve as a training ground for top competitors throughout the world. They also wanted the arena to play host to some of the biggest ice and hockey competitions. This message was duly conveyed to Broadmoor president Thayer Tutt (whose wife was an American skating champion). He worked as a tireless advocate for the Broadmoor, securing some of the biggest ice tournaments of the day. The World Figure Skating Championships came there in 1957 and 1959. In 1961, the Broadmoor Ice Palace was selected to host the U.S. National Figure Skating Championships.

As the finishing touches were being put on the facility in 1938, an Austrian émigré was working toward what he hoped would be a promising coaching career. Edi Scholdan, a diminutive man barely 5’6”, spoke with a sharp Austrian accent that made him sound cold and austere. But by all accounts he was infinitely kind with comedy running through his veins.

He began skating at age twelve in his native Vienna. He once placed fifth in a world professional competition, but performing, rather than competing, was his real love. Financially hampered by strict amateur rules, the expenses became too much for him to continue his competitive career. He joined a traveling ice show in Europe, and his antics on the ice, from juggling to purposefully tripping over his own feet, brought him huge acclaim. Scholdan fed off of the immense laughter and joy.

He decided to venture to the United States and try his hand at performing and coaching. Along the way, he served in the military police. His friend, Ice Follies performer Howard Deardorff, never could understand why they put such a funny person in the military police. Deardorff described Scholdan as a “helluva sweet guy. A loving bear.”

In 1943 Scholdan and a fellow military officer found themselves in hot pursuit of an AWOL soldier. They were hopping trains, moving from town to town following leads for four months, when they spotted the man on a train. They took care not to let him know he had been discovered. While Scholdan’s partner left the train to call the next town and arrange for a squad car, Scholdan sat down and started a conversation with the man, giving him no indication he was about to be arrested. For thirty minutes, they talked about their families, their hometowns, and their future plans. When they arrived at the next stop, Scholdan just said, “I guess you know that we recognize you.” The AWOL soldier did not seem surprised. In fact, he thanked Scholdan for treating him with so much respect, and eagerly stretched out his hands for the handcuffs. The other officer was dumbfounded that their lengthy pursuit had ended so peacefully, with the help of Scholdan’s charm.

After Scholdan had fulfilled his duty with the military, he found himself in the center of American luxury—the Broadmoor Hotel. He began coaching part time at the Broadmoor Ice Palace, then in 1948 was given a full-time contract. His coaching style was strict, but kind. He would jokingly chase his students around the ice with blade covers, then during lunch breaks would sit with them outside the rink and read the “Dear Abby” column with his own hilarious ad-libs. From these moments, he earned the nickname “the clown prince of Broadmoor.”

He made his students laugh, but when it came to training, everyone knew who was boss. And his methods began to produce stunning results. By 1956, less than a decade after taking a job at the Ice Palace, he had produced his first Olympic gold medalist in Hayes Alan Jenkins. Four years later, Hayes’s little brother, David, won a gold medal, too. Scholdan’s formula for success seemed to be working. Skaters from around the country were eager to study with him and his other talented colleagues. Edi and the beautiful rink where he was head coach made a fateful impression on a well-to-do family from Kansas City.

Edi Scholdan was one of the nation’s best coaches, having molded two Olympic champions. He was Steffi Westerfeld’s coach in 1961.

Lured by the beauty of Colorado Springs, Otto and Myra Westerfeld took their two daughters to the mountain retreat for a summer respite. During the Westerfeld family vacation to the Broadmoor, Steffi’s older sister Sharon, called Sherri, was first exposed to skating, and the love was instant. The family returned to Kansas City, where Sherri was eager to visit a local ice rink, the Pla-Mor.

In the early fifties, the Pla-Mor was one of only a handful of indoor ice rinks in the country. In the winter, it was filled with skaters in the height of their competitive seasons, and in the summer months, it was converted into an indoor swimming pool.

Jane Bucher Jones was one of the competitive skaters in training at the Pla-Mor rink. Bucher Jones practiced her school figures with meticulous attention to detail, working hours on end to perfect the art. One day while practicing, she noticed a little girl copying her moves—with astonishing precision.

“If you’ve ever seen children skate, those who have good ankles are natural, in the sense that they don’t have to overcome the weakness. I don’t know whether she had ‘dance’ or not, but she just had that natural ability.”

That little girl was Sherri Westerfeld. Sherri had the ankles—and the daring—that allowed her to try skating tricks, even though she had never had lessons before in her life.

Bucher Jones recalled, “I would do a spin and Sherri would do a spin, or three turns, and stuff like that.”

Bucher Jones decided in her own mind that Sherri had star quality and something needed to be done about it.

“I approached Sherri’s mother, Myra,” Bucher Jones recalled, “and I told her Sherri had so much natural talent.”

Myra immediately enrolled Sherri in skating lessons, and took an active role in Sherri’s development as a skater, even though she had never been a competitive skater herself. It was simply Myra’s protective nature to stay at her daughters’ sides at all times.

She doted on the girls. She had lost a son in infancy, and gave birth to Sherri at age thirty-one, and Steffi at age thirty-nine.

As Sherri blossomed into a talented world-class competitor, Steffi watched as her big sister would soar through the air, spin, and earn praise and attention. Steffi would receive attention as the cute little girl at the rink, so fond of the concession-stand popcorn that she came to be known as “Popcorn.” With her curly locks, she at some moments resembled another gifted child—Shirley Temple.

Steffi wanted to do more than just wait on the sidelines. At four years old, she asked her mom if she could skate, too. Myra agreed, and Steffi laced up and began taking lessons. In her very first competition, she finished dead last out of eighteen skaters, and declared she “hated” skating. She eventually recaptured her ambition and never finished in last place again.

Both Westerfeld girls were showing immense talent. They were easily the most talented competitive skaters in Kansas City, but the geography of their birth hindered their development in the sport. It was impossible to attract any famed coaches to Kansas City because the rink, only open in the fall and winter, could not pay a coach’s salary all year. Former U.S. Nationals competitor Bill Swallender coached there for only a few seasons because he needed full-time pay.

No one anticipated the elite qualities that would emerge in Sherri’s and Steffi’s skating. To maintain and improve upon these gifts, the girls would need to train in the summer months, too. The Westerfelds’ eyes turned back to the Broadmoor, a fertile ground for champions. The opportunity to train with a world-class coaching staff on a prestigious ice surface would factor heavily into whatever decision the family would make.

The finances were such that family patriarch, Otto Westerfeld, could afford to send Myra and the girls to Colorado Springs in the summer months. In 1949, they rented an apartment and stayed there during the summer. This pattern repeated itself the next summer, with Otto visiting frequently.

Sharon Westerfeld pins a test medal on Steffi.

Sherri’s skating blossomed, and her little sister was showing potential, too. Even though Steffi was only five years old, she was willing to try anything. You could sense a hunger in her childlike repetitions of her big sister’s moves. Steffi was soon enrolled in skating lessons, too.

With two children desperate to stay in skates all year, Myra and Otto were left with few options. Edi had a magical way of explaining things that made everything come together for Sherri, and it was not beneficial to have two different coaches in two different cities. Consistency in instruction is a key to success in any sport.

The Westerfeld family business was in Kansas City. Simply relocating and finding a new job was not an option. The decision was made to split the family—Otto would be the lone Westerfeld to remain in Kansas City, and the women would live in Colorado Springs full time, a unique arrangement for an American family in the early 1950s.

The Westerfeld women settled in quickly, and Sherri’s progress proved the permanent move was worth it. In 1955, an eighteen-year-old Sherri was a top contender for a medal at the U.S. National Championships. She was even “going steady” with Olympic bronze medalist Jimmy Grogan, the perennial runner-up to Dick Button at the U.S. Nationals. Life was full of possibilities for the blossoming young woman.

Throughout these years, Otto continued to visit. He sent weekly checks to cover the costs for skating, housing, and other expenses, never leaving Myra and the girls waiting for anything. The Westerfelds seemed like the picture of the American dream—happy, affluent, and with two youngsters well on the road to athletic fame. The only obvious ingredient missing from this formula was that Otto did not live under the same roof as his family. Myra was the leader of the household, and Otto was in many ways a part-time husband and a reliable funding source. Myra, as sole parent living in Colorado, spent all her days keeping vigil at the Ice Palace, watching every lesson, critiquing every move, and drilling important training reminders into the girls’ heads well into the night. Over time, Myra became completely wrapped up in the girls’ skating—everything from the jumping and figures technique, to the costumes she had custom-made for their competitions. While pushing her daughters to be more disciplined, she nonetheless was charming and funny, and most of the time, people loved to be around her. She endeared herself to people by calling them “sugar” and remembering every little detail about their lives, giving a sense that she really was a kind of rink mother to everyone.

Myra’s dreams were about to be realized in 1955, when Sherri reached the apex of her ability leading up to the U.S. Nationals. Sherri was a strong competitor in school figures, but often struggled in the free skating portion of the event. After a successful compulsory figures round that put a medal well within reach, she did not execute her free skate well, missing some key jumps and opening the door to other competitors.

She ended up placing in the dreaded position of fourth. Tenley Albright was the winner, Carol Heiss was second, and Catherine Machado took the bronze—the first time a Hispanic American had won a medal in American figure skating. All the years of sacrifice had left Sherri exhausted and wearing the unfortunate title of first alternate.

The top finishers did end up competing at Worlds, so Sherri’s alternate position provided no real reward. She quit competitive skating to attend Colorado College, where she planned to earn a degree in psychology. She was no longer interested in the rigors of competitive skating, and was content to watch her little sister gradually prove herself as a far more gifted skater. Sherri loved skating—but did not particularly enjoy competing. She thought that maybe someday she could get a job with one of the big touring companies. She stayed close to the rink through college, even coaching part time.

Steffi’s skating, meanwhile, was improving beyond anyone’s wildest expectations. She passed her gold freestyle test—the “final exam” that allows a skater to compete at the senior level nationally. She was one of the hardest workers anyone at the Broadmoor had ever seen. At 4:30 a.m., she rose from sleep, went to the rink, and practiced for three hours until it was time for school. She immediately returned to the rink after school and spent another two to three hours practicing. From there, she went home, ate dinner, practiced piano, and did her homework. If she was lucky, she might have enough energy left to attend a school dance or see a movie. But that kind of luck was rare. With the 1961 U.S. Nationals looming in the distance, Steffi could not afford to relax and give up any training time. With her mother always at her side, it would have been difficult to slow the pace.

Stephanie and mother Myra Westerfeld.

For several years now, Steffi had been living without a father figure in the house. More and more, she looked at coach Edi Scholdan as the predominant male influence in her life. He believed in her. She respected him. She relied on this relationship even more when life took a sour turn.

About a year before the 1961 Nationals, Otto stopped sending those vital checks. Myra inquired, but Otto could never give a straight answer. If Myra suspected he was having an affair, she certainly did not humiliate herself by mentioning it publicly. With no money coming in at the most critical time in Steffi’s burgeoning career, the Broadmoor Figure Skating Club pitched in to pay for Steffi’s ice time and lessons. Edi would sometimes instruct her for free. To pay for Steffi’s training and other family expenses, Sherri, now a college graduate, took a job at a local jewelry store. Sherri had aspired to be a choreographer with the Ice Capades, but she put her own dreams on hold to help her sister.

Myra, accustomed to being affluent and comfortable, suddenly found herself taking handouts—from her own daughter and from anyone else who sympathized with their sudden plight. This humbled her, and made her even more dependent on her daughters for both emotional and financial stability. Somehow, Steffi had to block out the lingering questions about her parents and the embarrassment over finances to train for her big moment, just months away. Even small distractions can translate into dangerous mistakes on the ice, so her unraveling family fortune had terrible potential to interfere with her training.

Finally, Otto Westerfeld announced he was divorcing Myra and marrying another woman—a much younger woman, barely older than twenty-four-year-old Sherri. Though the Westerfelds had physically lived apart for several years now, the stigma of divorce was hard to swallow for them. In that era, divorce rates were low, largely because of gender roles that required women to simply accept whatever their husbands decided. Myra’s largest sphere of influence centered on her daughters and their skating. With her marriage ending, her last chance to succeed at anything depended on Steffi. The pressure must have been suffocating, but Steffi remained composed and mature throughout the ordeal, although she did occasionally show the depth of her feelings, usually by confiding in her older sister.

Steffi (left) and Sharon Westerfeld in 1960.

It is not clear when Otto began romancing the younger woman. Regardless, it seemed that there had always been three members of the Westerfeld marriage. Skating was the mistress, its seductive lure of future glory pulling the Westerfeld family apart at its once-solid foundation.

Otto’s role in Sherri and Steffi’s lives declined sharply after the divorce proceedings began. Sherri felt especially betrayed, and a rift developed. It was during these trying times that Sherri’s life took an interesting turn. She married her boss at the jewelry store, an Italian immigrant named Roberto Agnolini. As far as family and friends knew, there had been no courtship, no developing romance. Differing accounts exist as to the nature of this marriage, which seems to have been done to secure Agnolini’s ability to stay and work in the United States. Sherri never moved in with her husband, and there is some question about whether Myra or Steffi even knew about the marriage. Sherri may have kept it a secret, particularly from Myra.

Steffi, meanwhile, through her loyalty to her father and desperate need of his approval, found herself caught between two battling parents. Making the situation even worse, Myra began to blurt out hateful things about Otto at the rink. This new and very public disdain for Otto, combined with Myra’s constant vigil over and commentary about her skating, annoyed Steffi, who by nature was both a private person and one who set very high standards for herself. Arguments between the teenager and her mother grew more frequent. Sherri, always ready with a cheerful phrase to encourage her sister, was the mediator in these arguments. Sherri was the calming influence in Steffi’s life, and the two sisters, though eight years apart in age, grew closer through the turmoil.

Steffi found solace on the ice, where younger pupils often followed her around asking, “How do you do such lovely tricks?” Edi had to remind the youngsters that Steffi needed time for her own practice.

One bright spot during these painful times was the presence of a new family pet. The Westerfeld women named the black French poodle “Seric,” which was short for “Sir Eric of Broadmoor.” Myra and Sherri kept the dog with them at the rink sometimes, and he became the Broadmoor’s unofficial mascot.

The Westerfelds had one last shot to make it to the World Championships and the Olympics. Steffi’s success would validate the enormous sacrifices that had been made and show that they had been, in the end, worth making. Yes, the 1961 Nationals were three full years away from the next Olympics, but following any Olympic year, there is always great anticipation about who will fill the shoes of former champions. The top performers, including Steffi and Laurence, were eager to stand out in a mostly unknown competitive field and to fill the places left open by those who had moved on from the sport.

Steffi and Laurence both did the same jumps and spins, but they had vastly different styles. Steffi’s skating was perhaps more pure than Laurence’s emotionally nuanced routines. Steffi had a gentle style that had a universal appeal. On the ice, she was like a Monet painting—soft lines, gentle shades, an airiness. Laurence, on the other hand, was like a Picasso—bold, unpredictable patterns, strong colors, very abstract. The skating purists of the world likely would have found Steffi more pleasing to watch, but Laurence skated with such remarkable panache she captivated an audience.

The stage was set for a dramatic showdown between dozens of competitors, but the stakes seemed highest for two families, the Owens and Westerfelds, whose members, in many ways, were mirror images of each other. Devoted, driven, and dynamic single mothers far ahead of their time, set out on a daunting, lifelong quest to achieve the best result for their overachieving daughters in the face of family tragedy. The elder daughters, often the mediators in their frenetic worlds, set the pace in skating, but never reached the skill level of the younger siblings, on whose shoulders the most thrilling golden hopes rested. On January 25, 1961, the lives of these women would be forever changed as they pursued what only one could have—the gold medal, and the royal title of America’s new ice queen.