The Sport of Commissars

East of the Iron Curtain last week, the odds were that the average German horseplayer would have a hard time getting up enough cash to get down a bet. But well-heeled horseplayers were as necessary as well-bred horses if the "International" race meeting in Berlin's Soviet zone was to pay off, so East Berlin bureaucrats "cordially invited" their prosperous West German cousins.

West Germans responded like gamblers drawn to the only wheel in town. By the thousands they flocked to the famed Hoppegarten track.

A Shot of Schnapps. Old timers could recall Hoppegarten in its heyday, the white grandstands looming above the green of the track, the white Rhineland gravel on the paths, the bright flags from all of Europe. Hulking Uhlans and tall, trim Hussars marched with their ladies between training ovals, stopped now and then for champagne or a quick shot of schnapps. Great horses from the royal Graditz stables raced against some of the finest thoroughbreds in the world in those good days before World War I.

Under Hitler Hoppegarten enjoyed a kind of ghostly glory: Goebbels and the bemedaled Goering strutted about the grounds, and Franz von Papen brought the top-hatted diplomatic corps to the betting booths. There were still some good horses. But World War II ended everything. "When the Russians found a good horse," said a sad West Berlin trainer last week, "they either ate it, shipped it to Russia, or tied it to a plow."

There were rumors that the Russians were breeding some of the thoroughbreds but no one ever had a chance to check up. Last week West Germans saw what had happened to their stolen horses.

A Poor Pig. The once white gravel of Hoppegarten was grey and unkempt. In place of the old gay flags were monotonous red banners. Instead of champagne, there was weak beer; instead of flower girls, old women hawking Communist "reconstruction lottery" tickets. The wives of Communist functionaries walked up and down munching garlic sandwiches.

Horsemen could have forgiven the poverty; they would never forgive the horses. "Look at that poor pig," said one stable owner as he pointed to Lampass, a Russian two-year-old. "Doesn't he look like a great Graditz stallion with the head of a Russian plow horse?" Everywhere, observant horsemen could see signs of fine bloodlines fouled by careless breeding. As if to embarrass the Russians still further, a Czech horse romped off with the grand prize.

By week's end, before the Hoppegarten meeting was over, even East zone bettors had taken their meager supply of marks to the betting booths of West Berlin's Mariendorf trotting track. For a true horseplayer, this was a terrible comedown.

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