“I’m lonely,” I called out as I knocked. He opened the door. I dropped my fur to the floor and stood there naked until he pulled me into his arms and into his bed.
“Teddy,” he whispered, “you never, ever need to be lonely again.”
I awoke at noon. I could hear Paul talking on the phone in the next room. There was a pair of his pj’s on the chair beside the bed. I picked them up and went into the bathroom. I ran cold water over my face, swished some Lavoris around in my mouth, brushed my hair, put on the pj’s, and quietly walked into the living room of the suite. Paul was still on the phone, but motioned me to come in and sit down at the table, where breakfast was waiting for me. He was speaking to someone in California. I wondered who it was until he said, “Good-bye, Dave, just send the papers to Rome.” I knew then it was his lawyer.
He hung up, turned to me, and smiled. For a minute he said nothing, then, his eyes bright with amusement, he asked, “Young lady, tell me . . . How are we going to get you back to your room without everyone in the hotel knowing you crashed here this morning at dawn, barefoot, and stark-naked under a fur coat?”
I looked at him. Was he teasing me, or was he serious? For just one minute, I couldn’t tell. Then I answered, “It’s a puzzle I’ll have to solve, Mr. Getty, but I need your help.”
“It’s solved.” He came over to the breakfast table, leaned down, kissed me, took me by the hand, and said, “We’ll go together.”
“You mean you’re going to walk with me down the hallway all the way to my room? Paul, this is crazy. Can’t we wait till nighttime?”
“No. Come on.”
“Like this?” I said. “In your pajamas?”
“Yes,” he answered emphatically. “But wait, I have something I must get in the closet.” As he opened the door, I saw that it wasn’t a closet, but a bedroom and there on the floor was my luggage. “I had it moved here this morning. It’s better than walking down the hall, isn’t it? Now, go put on some slacks and a sweater, and we’ll go sightseeing before we leave for Grindelwald.”
The little town of Grindelwald was at least two thousand feet higher than Interlaken, and was entirely surrounded by the Alps. The Bear Hotel was enchanting, reminding me of a gingerbread chalet, and our rooms looked directly out at the majestic Jungfrau. Paul decided we should stay there and wait for the threat of war to subside. The weather was perfect. We played tennis and swam, and walked through the green countryside, stopping to look at the grandeur of the snowcapped Alps, which gave out such a feeling of protection.
Late one night, Paul and I, a barmaid and a chimney sweep black with soot, and a mountain climber and his guide sat in the bar having drinks and listening to the news broadcast from London. Suddenly, the commentator said, “A year ago this month, Hitler told the world that if Czechoslovakia does not give Germany the territory marked as Sudetenland, ‘I will act by October first.’ ” The reporter continued, “Not one of us who listened to that speech can ever forget or forgive the famous words of this so infamous liar when he shouted, ‘The Sudetenland is the last territorial demand I have to make in Europe.’ Today, just one year later, Nazi mechanized legions moved into Poland.”
We were stunned. It was September 1, 1939. Two days later, September 3, on Sunday afternoon, quietly, yet dramatically, over the airwaves came Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain’s declaration, “Great Britain is at war with Germany.” Later that same day came France’s declaration.
We waited in Switzerland until Paul was certain that it was safe, then we took the train back to Rome. Italy was still neutral and Rome quiet, but there was tension and anxiety on everyone’s faces. Hoping Italy would stay out of the war, I went back to Moreschi.
One warm evening in October, Paul and I were flying along the winding roads on our way back to Rome in a little rented car, after having spent the afternoon going through the excavations of the Emperor Hadrian’s villa and roaming the Tivoli Gardens. I had a feeling of concern and told Paul. “Concern about what, darling?” he asked.
“About our friends in countries that are now at war.”
Paul turned and looked at me. “Teddy, dear, I’m concerned about them, too, but I’m more concerned about us. We’ve got to make plans.” He turned from me just in time to slow the car down to a near stop. A huge wine cart had suddenly appeared in the road before us. It moved slowly, a tiny oil lamp swinging at its back. Under the canopy, the driver was sound asleep, but his tired, faithful donkey was methodically plodding along, right down the center of the road.
As we followed the cart, Paul continued, “I have to go back to America soon, and I know you want to stay here with Moreschi for another two or three months. In case anything happens, like war, I would feel safer about you if you were my wife. I know we had planned to be married at Herstmonceux, but that’s out of the question now. So, darling, I’ve already set the wheels in motion for us to get married right here. I’ve talked to the Italian officials about it, and one of these days I’ll just call you and say, ‘It’s today, let’s get married.’ ”
“You mean . . . just get married?”
“Yes, just get married.”
A month later it happened. The ringing telephone awakened me. It was Paul. “This is it,” he said.
“This is what? It’s only eight o’clock.”
He repeated, “Teddy, this is it.”
“What is it? What do you mean? Is Italy at war?”
“No, but get ready . . .”
“For what?”
“Darling, this morning we are going to get married.”
“Wow.” I jumped out of bed. “But what am I going to wear?”
“Just put on something and meet me right away.”
“But, Paul, I haven’t got the right clothes.”
“Put on anything. They came through.”
“What came through?”
“The papers permitting us to get married here, and that prenuptial agreement. We have to sign as citizens of the United States; the authorities here had to approve, too.”
It was noon when we started for the Capitol of Rome. We had a lawyer and we signed the papers, but on the way, Paul stopped the cab while he dashed inside a jewelry shop.
When he came out, he said, “I bought a wedding ring.”
“What happened to the one you bought from Paul Flato?”
“I don’t know. It’s in my luggage somewhere. I looked for it this morning. Couldn’t find it, and we can’t wait.”
“Eccola . . . siamo qui,” the cabbie said. “E grazie,” he added as Paul thrust a handful of lire in his hands.
The driver dropped us at the base of the famous grand stairway that led to the seat of the Italian government. At the top of the steps, to the right and the left of the balustrade, were two colossal statues of Castor and Pollux, standing beside their horses.
“This is the Piazzo del Campidoglio. Look at this huge statue of Marcus Aurelius on horseback. That building behind it with the clock tower is the Palazzo Senatorio. Just think, Teddy, Michelangelo was responsible for this entire magnificent square.”
It was truly magnificent. I felt somehow I had seen it before and for a moment, as I stood very still, the sun shining on my face, I felt like I was one of the statues, too. The next moment, I was aware Paul had grasped my hand and was gently pulling me toward the entrance of the Capitol.
He smiled and said, “Come on, darling,” and we walked inside and into the great hall where we were to be married. The Italian officials and our lawyer were waiting for us. They reaffirmed our citizenship and status, completed the necessary paperwork, and instructed us to take our seats—two huge chairs that resembled thrones, as if we were the emperor and empress of Rome. My heart began to beat faster. The ceremony was not like we had expected, so we put ourselves in the hands of the men who were there to instruct us in the Italian civil ceremony. I felt as if I was onstage, being given lines and cues.
“Here comes the magistrate,” whispered Paul, as a very elderl
y, dignified gentleman in judicial robes entered.
“Who’s the little fellow with him?” I whispered back. “And why is he dressed up in that ornate, bright blue costume? And why the epaulets, ribbons, and medals?” I laughed. “And that tricornered hat . . . It’s so silly, and the sword . . .”
“Shhh, Teddy,” Paul said. “Now remember, when the magistrate asks you questions, just answer ‘Sì.’ ”
When Paul placed the ring on my finger, the ceremony began. It was held in rapid Italian, and took about ten minutes. I dutifully said “Sì” to everything I was asked. Paul did, too. Then, with a great flourish, the little man in his epaulets and medals presented me with a leather-bound book, saying, “Bella signora, this is your family-to-be.” I took it as graciously as I could, opened it, and saw that it contained spaces for at least twelve children.
“This is your Libro Matrimonio,” the man said with dignity. Then he kissed me on both cheeks, after which the other officials hurried over and proceeded to do the same.
“Adesso voglio baciare la signora,” the magistrate exclaimed, and kissed me.
“Me, too!” shouted Paul. Then he took me in his arms and kissed me solidly on the lips, to their wild applause. At that, the doors opened and two little girls ran in, quite out of breath, carrying armfuls of wildflowers, which they presented to me.
As we walked out into the beautiful sunlight, Paul said, “Teddy, dear, let’s send your mother a cable and tell her we’re married.”
At midnight, we stood in the curve of the open French doors of our suite at the Excelsior. Beneath us was a great silence. All at once, peace was shattered by a bell . . . it was the telephone. It rang so loudly, so insistent, so demanding, it had to be important. A great fear gripped me. Was this the call that might mean Paul would have to leave for New York?
I suddenly felt cold, and wrapped my negligee tightly around me. We’d had such a fabulous day, it couldn’t end like this. Over lunch, we’d spoken of where we would spend the next summer . . . a beach house by the sea. Next winter, the apartment in New York. Or wherever I was singing, or he was digging. And we had laughed and joked about the fact that now that we were married, maybe making love would have lost its charm . . . only to find out that very afternoon that married love was sweeter, more exciting, than ever before.
Paul answered the phone. I could see by his reaction that it was the call I had dreaded. We looked at each other . . . neither spoke.
I went to him. “Do you really have to go?”
He nodded.
“How soon?”
“Immediately, and you are coming with me.”
“No, Paul, I can’t. I have to stay two more months, as you and Moreschi agreed I should. Otherwise I’ll never get beyond being a student. I’ll never sing in opera like I want to, and like you want me to. I’ll just be a failure.”
“I love you, Teddy. I love your voice and I want you with me, but you must decide. In the meantime, please help me pack and then we’ll get your things.”
I started to cry as I realized that, much as we both knew I had planned to stay, I had never actually faced the fact that my decision would have to be made this soon. I wanted to accomplish what I had started out to do—not just for myself, but because I wanted Paul to be proud of me. I was mindlessly stacking his books in a duffel bag when Paul came over, took me in his arms, and said, “Darling, I’m so proud of you. I love your courage, and whatever you decide, I’m all for it. But, until you make up your mind, Mrs. Getty, will you please dry those tears and join me for breakfast downstairs.”
The next few hours flew by. I finally made the decision. I’d stay. The concierge got Paul passage on the Conte di Savoia leaving Naples the next morning. Arrangements were made for me at the American Express with the manager, Mr. Fornacca. We lunched between business calls to California, dined between business calls to New York, and then, as night fell, I drove with Paul to the railroad station, his luggage strapped precariously to the top of the taxi. Neither of us had time to think, we just rushed. The train, crowded with American tourists fleeing the country, was about to leave without him when we finally arrived and we both raced down the platform. With the warning whistles shrill in our ears, we reached the last car just in time. He kissed me good-bye. The porters caught his luggage. He turned back to me and smiled. I don’t think Paul ever looked as good to me as he did at that moment. I was already agonizing over parting, and seeing myself alone again.
“Darling, I love you,” he shouted over the noise, the steam from the train pouring out and up into our faces. I don’t know whether he kept waving or not. I couldn’t see through my tears.
As I turned from the departing train, I was met by a fast-running squadron of Mussolini’s elite troops, the Bersaglieri. They never walked; they ran, their capes flowing.
Paul’s train now gone, another arrived. The crowds, the loud hooting, and the noise of whistles made me feel even more alone and so scared that I ran through the station and hailed a cab. When I got back to my hotel room, I burst into tears.
It must have been at least two hours later when Paul called from Naples. “I miss you terribly,” he said.
“I miss you, too, Paul.”
“Good-bye, Teddy.”
“Bye, Paul.”
No sooner had I hung up the receiver than I placed a call to my mom in Greenwich. “Teddy, darling,” she said, “we just received your cable. Congratulations. We’re so happy for you both. Let me speak to Paul.”
“He’s gone, Mother.”
“Gone where?”
“He’s gone to New York.”
“You mean he’s gone and left you all alone in Italy?”
“I wanted to stay here.”
“You wanted to stay there. Why, Teddy? Why?”
CHAPTER 18
SHATTERED DREAMS
The approach of war in Italy was not a sudden thing. It may be hard to understand in hindsight, but, in the early months of 1940, war seemed unlikely to those of us who lived in Rome. Even though there were shortages and groups of Nazis appearing in the city, war was something that was going on “somewhere else” . . . “it would end soon” . . . “it had to” and even if it didn’t, we were sure “war couldn’t possibly come to Italy . . . certainly not to Rome.”
I didn’t notice warning signs because I was still upset at having made the decision to stay and study instead of leaving with Paul. I kept telling myself, He believes in me . . . He’s given me this opportunity . . . I mustn’t fail . . . If I do, at least I’m going to try my best. I so wanted to make him proud . . . to please him. Foolish girl? Maybe. And so I spent every day studying. I’d write Paul of my progress, telling him there was no panic in Italy . . . that, as soon as I was ready and Moreschi made the arrangements, I was going to make my debut either in an opera or concert. “And hopefully you will be here. Remember, you said you’d return? Or did you just say ‘maybe’? Oh, darling, I do so hope you will . . .”
In America, it seemed the news of our marriage had already made the papers.
The Daily News wrote:
Romance bloomed from the first. When Teddy, one of the best of blue blood torch singers, was crooning into the mike at the Stork Club, Paul would sit quietly listening to her, his devotion so obvious no one was startled when their engagement was announced.”
Another paper wrote: “Paul has returned to New York to attend some urgent business, but Teddy intends to remain in Rome a while longer to continue her studies.”
From the New York Journal and Maury Paul’s Knickerbocker column: “Vivacious, talented Teddy Lynch became the bride of J. Paul Getty . . . in Rome.”
Nancy Randolph of the News wrote: “Teddy is the isolated case of a debutante turned café singer, who could really sing. And friends, who recently returned from Italy, insist the singer is making great progress in her studies and should give music lovers something to swoon about when she returns. She is expected to be back soon to join Paul.
Of course, I
never saw those articles until years later. Had I . . . I might have burst into tears, because I was really heartbroken at not being with Paul. I never knew at the time that Paul was negotiating to sell oil to Russia while in Berlin. In fact, I can’t remember ever asking him what he was doing, except I knew he was drilling for oil. What I did know was that I was heartbroken at not being with Paul.
It was terrible now living in Rome without him—his thoughts, his attention, his advice. I missed the way he looked when he looked at me, which sometimes made me feel like a child, sometimes like a woman. I guess this is the way one feels, if one truly loves. I did truly love him, and I damned myself for being so independent that I stayed on in Rome. All the time I was trying to cement an already exciting relationship by accomplishing what he thought I could do.
A tidal wave of reporters was waiting for Paul when the Conte di Savoia docked in the United States. He was surprised to find himself the most sought-after person on board. The press surrounded him not just because we had gotten married, but because of a major business deal Paul had been working on while in Europe. Reporters peppered him with questions about the deal he’d been negotiating to sell oil to the Soviet Union. Transportation in Russia was so bad that it was faster and cheaper to ship oil across the Pacific in tankers from California to Vladivostok than it was to send it from Russia’s own Baku oil fields.
Two days after he landed, Paul left New York with Ware to celebrate Thanksgiving in Greenwich with my mother and sisters. He wrote to say how much everyone missed me. I missed them, too, Paul most of all. We had been so close, when we were close, even though there were weeks and even months when we were apart.
About a month later, not wanting to live alone, I moved from the Ambasciatori Hotel to a very quaint penthouse apartment atop a palazzo overlooking the Piazza Argentina. I shared the apartment with two other girls: Magdaleine Snyder, aide to Mr. Marquis, the American delegate and vice president of the International Institute of Agriculture, and Nedda Brunette, a secretary at the British Embassy. Each of us had our own bedroom and bath, and shared an artist’s studio/drawing room with a lovely terrace overlooking the ruins of the Piazza Argentina. We also shared Maria, an excellent cook and housekeeper. Once a week she would take possession of the terrace, undo her floor-length hair, wash and dry it, then put it back up on top of her head in time to make supper. She reminded me of Mrs. Danvers, the housekeeper in Rebecca.
Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty Page 11