“You mean, this morning?”
“Yes, I want to sing. They can stop me from singing in public, but they can’t stop me from singing with you.”
That afternoon, Maestro and his wife persuaded me to take a very small penthouse apartment on the Janicolo Hill, to be closer to them. My former maid, Maria, came to take care of me, and I waited for the days to pass when I would return for my exit permit.
While I waited, I began to notice more Nazis on the streets of Rome. They were buying everything of value they could get their hands on. They swarmed the restaurants and the theaters, many of them in the guise of tourists. Their excessive buying, plus the reckless purchases of some wealthy Italians, made the shortages worse, and fed the black market. Though I can’t say I really noticed this at the time. Although things were getting tighter for average Italians, I still didn’t fully realize how serious the situation was because somehow Maria always managed to return from the butcher and grocer with enough for us to eat.
Exactly one week after I’d first appeared at the Dipartimento di Immigrazione, I stood face-to-face with the same officer. He said, “No exit permit today, signora,” and walked away. For a second, I just stood still. I felt trapped. Again I was denied my exit permit without any explanation. Why?
I dashed back to my apartment, a lump in my throat, greatly concerned, and for the first time, very fearful. I opened the door and froze. My rooms had been searched. The drawers and closets had been opened and my things were strewn about. Someone had read all my letters from Paul. The phone was already in my hand and I was dialing the police when the door opened and Maria entered, her arms loaded with grocery bags. “Maria, I’m calling the police. Look what happened!”
Seeing the disarray of the apartment, she exclaimed, “Please, signorina, un momento.” She dropped the bags and dashed about, checking drawers and special places where she kept her few valuables. Finding them, she said, “Nothing stolen, signorina. It’s the secret police. Calmati.”
Secret police? “Maria, what does all this mean? Today, for the second time, I was denied my exit permit with no explanation, and now this. Am I under suspicion of something?” Oh, how I wished that I had not been so independent and that I had gone home with Paul.
ILLUSTRATIONS 1
Me at age seven, in the “secret” garden at my grandfather’s house, Thorncroft, also known as Henry Ware House, in Martha’s Vineyard.
Thorncroft.
My grandmother Louise Stevens Ware.
A poster from the Stork Club, 1937. (Photo by Herbert Mitchel)
A photo of me at the opening night party for Leonard Sillman’s New Faces on Broadway, printed in the New York Evening Journal.
Paul at Wild Acres in Martha’s Vineyard.
Photo by a young George Hurrell. I didn’t like my fat stomach so I penciled in a better line.
A publicity photo in which I’m wearing my Paul Flato engagement ring.
Paul’s mother, Sarah Getty.
On the terrace of my apartment in Rome, with a friend and Maria, my maid, who has made us lunch, 1939.
On my terrace in Rome, during the war, in 1940. I’m holding an American flag and the Donald Duck that Paul gave me.
With Paul at the Beverly Hills Hotel on my first trip home from Italy.
“11 Out of Every 12 Night Club Marriages End in Reno”: Paul and me at the Stork Club, from an unidentified newspaper, 1939.
“The girl he left behind.” This was taken the day after we married.
Our wedding announcement in the New York Herald Tribune, November 17, 1939.
My teacher Madame Cahier calls me “highly talented” in the New York Telegraph, May 9, 1940.
My teacher Marchesi’s last performance in London at seventy-five years old, 1938.
My journalist’s passport, issued in Italy, 1940.
Signed declaration that I was of the Aryan race (“razza ariana”), issued by the State Department in Rome.
My lover Kostya.
On our way to the ship that would take us home. With Livingston Pomeroy, 1942.
In Siena under house arrest, 1942.
In Siena, under house arrest with fellow reporter John Cianfarra, 1942.
Secret police erned correspondents across the Piazza del Popolo, Editor and Publisher, December 1942.
Paul being rushed by reporters on the Conte di Savoia after he made his oil deal with the Russians, November 23, 1939.
“Oilman J. P. Getty Sells to Russians,” the New York Mirror, November 24, 1939.
“Liner with Diplomats Arrives from Lisbon”: The Swedish Drottningholm, the ship that brought us home. I slept on the deck for most of the trip.
My brother greets me as I disembark the Drottningholm, Newsreel, June 7, 1942.
“Mrs. Getty Tells of Privations in Italian Jail,” the New York Herald Tribune, June 7, 1942.
Photo from my profile in Time, written upon my return.
CHAPTER 19
PASSPORT TO FREEDOM
It was comforting to be awakened from sleep each morning by the sound of the church bells of Rome, but more than that I longed to be awakened from sleep each morning by the sound of the telephone bell and Paul’s voice saying, “Hi, darling.”
One morning the telephone bell did actually awaken me, and a typical American male voice said, “Hi. Teddy? This is Allen Raymond of the New York Herald Tribune, and I want to take you to lunch today at Caffé Greco. See you there at noon.” And with that, he hung up.
But . . . how did he know I could make it?
Precisely at twelve noon, I dashed into Caffé Greco on the via Condotti. I stood for a moment, but before I even had a chance to look around the room, a voice at my side said, “Hi, Teddy?” It was Allen Raymond, a very handsome, very knowing individual with a great sense of humor and a marvelous, hard-hitting voice—a typical American newspaperman.
Swiftly he moved me through the crowded room to a table right inside the second arch. After ordering for us, he said, “Have you ever lunched here before? No? It’s world famous. Since 1760, Caffé Greco has been the meeting place of artists, poets, and writers of all countries. And in the next room, the walls are lined with autographed portraits of Byron, Shelley, Goethe, Keats, Gounod, Bizet, Berlioz, Wagner, Rossini, Mendelssohn, Schopenhauer, King Ludwig of Bavaria, and many other celebrities. In fact, we’re sitting at the very same table where Shelley and Keats sat when they wrote poetry on the menu.” Then, very pointedly, he said, “Teddy, I know you can sing. But can you write?”
“Well, Allen, with an apology to the great masters Shelley and Keats, I fearlessly admit, I write poetry.”
“I’ll drink to that,” he said, “but Teddy, seriously. I want you to work for me. I want you to write a series of articles on the hardships of wartime living, as seen from the Italian woman’s angle.”
“Allen, I don’t know much about that. Maria, my maid, gets everything we need.”
“Well, find out how she does it. And what about Signora Moreschi?”
“I don’t know. I never asked her.”
“Find out what she needs, and why she can’t get it. That will be your first article.”
“Oh, Allen, I’d love to do it, but I don’t think I should, because I’m expecting to get my exit permit. I desperately want to go home to my husband.”
“Teddy, if you don’t take this assignment, you may not go home for a long time. I already know you have been refused an exit permit. Twice. And who knows when you’ll get it? If the United States becomes involved in the war, being an American, it would be even more difficult for you to get out—at all. You’re in a tight situation . . .”
“Tight situation . . . Do you know that last night, when I came home, I found my apartment ransacked? Drawers opened, letters from Paul read . . . Nothing stolen, but everything thrown about. Maria said she was sure it was the secret police. Allen, why did they do that?”
“Teddy, it looks as though you’re under suspicion.”
“
Suspicion. Me? But I love Italy.”
“Well, so do we all. But there’s a war going on. Naturally, you haven’t completely realized it, because you’ve been devoting your life to music. You’ve been floating on that beautiful pink cloud. But you need protection, Teddy, and the only way to get it is to take this job I’m offering.
“It’s this simple: you write the articles, I’ll accept them. Then we can go to the American Consul and have your passport changed from ‘Student’ to ‘Newspaper Correspondent.’ This at least will furnish the maximum possibility that if America does enter the war, you can go home with the rest of the journalists. Just working in the office as my assistant would not give you the accreditation necessary to put you on the preferred list.
“Teddy, you naturally are wondering how and why I am involved in protecting your welfare. Well, here’s the story. It seems your husband and your brother Ware became very concerned when they received your last cable in which you said you were ‘trying to get an exit permit.’ After discussing it at length, they decided that Ware would contact the Herald Tribune to see if the paper could arrange to put you on as a correspondent. The newspaper agreed, and yesterday, via coded conversation, our New York boss, Mrs. Grace Allen Bangs, told me what I have just told you. ‘Put the new correspondent to work,’ she said. So, Teddy, get busy now and write.” Then laughing, he added, “No poetry . . . only facts. Here’s a key to our office, and the address. Try to bring the first article to me tomorrow afternoon. If I’m not in, just leave it on my desk. Now, let’s have some coffee.”
As he looked up to summon the waiter, he called out, “Norman!” And over to our table came a handsome, very confident-seeming man, Colonel Norman Fiske, U.S. military attaché. After Allen introduced us, Colonel Fiske said, “Teddy, I’m glad to meet you. A friend of your mother’s, Ambassador Alexander Kirk, has been trying to contact you. He promised your mother that he would try to influence you to go back home. He left for America yesterday.”
Allen interrupted. “Norm, don’t worry about it. Teddy is going to work for me. With luck, we’ll get her passport status changed. Let’s drink to that.”
As Colonel Fiske drove me to my apartment, in a strictly matter-of-fact voice, he said, “It is not really necessary that you worry about the possibility of your being tailed, but it is necessary that you realize that there are about fifty thousand secret police in Rome. In fact, look over here in the rearview mirror . . . there are two of them following us right now. Let’s have some fun and try to lose them.” He pushed the accelerator to the floor and we sped up the Janicolo Hill, leaving the little Fiat way behind. But when we reached the top of the hill and pulled up in front of my apartment, saying good-bye, up came the Fiat. “Start writing, Teddy,” Norman said. “I’ll take the gremlins with me. I’ll call you . . . Good luck!” he shot back as the two cars raced down the hill.
The next afternoon at four o’clock exactly, I entered the Rome office of the Herald Tribune with my first article. Allen read my copy, his face completely expressionless. When he finished reading, he suddenly broke into a wide smile and said, “Damn good, Teddy. You’re hired.”
“Oh thank you, Allen, and bless you for saving my life.”
In addition to news gathering for my articles, I continued to study faithfully with Moreschi, whose students had by this time dwindled down to a very few. His great Greek tenor had to leave when Mussolini declared war on Greece. Only Ethi; Signora Delphi Valiani, a beautiful Italian woman whose husband owned the restaurant in the Roma Termini, the city’s main train station; Assia de Busny, a Hungarian movie star; and myself remained. The war had robbed Moreschi of his livelihood, and he was suffering, as were all the artists, painters, and scholars, for Rome was empty of gaiety, the people disheartened, and there were no foreigners who wished to study or to buy. All that was left was the daily sickening infiltration of the Nazis, who virtually took over the Italian government—their secret police everywhere.
Foreigners were not allowed to visit the seaside. As gasoline became rationed, only those of us who were close to the diplomatic corps could drive. The only way I could go swimming was to take the train to Ostia. But with all of this, on weekends, Moreschi and his little band of students made happy trips to Fregene and Frascati, where we had picnics and sang, before we returned to sad, empty, blacked-out Rome. Bit by bit, even the museums were closing, and there was no more open-air opera at the Baths of Caracalla. Our only contact with the evening glamour of Rome was our visits to see the moonlight shining on the Coliseum, and carriage rides through the Borghese gardens.
The deterioration of the standard of living, the shortages of coal, the rationing of spaghetti, olive oil, rice, and milk made life very hard for the women in Rome. Every day they waited in long lines to buy the day’s food. Tensions ran high, and inevitably arguments would spring up between those who were able to buy certain foods and those who were not, ending many times in pushing and shoving. There was always a policeman near the line, watching, and his presence seemed to add to their frustration. I was amazed that my maid, Maria, had no trouble getting food for us.
“Maria, how is it that you can get food for us when everyone else is struggling?” I asked.
“Oh, signorina,” she replied, “I just tell them that my signorina is in a situazione estraordinario.’’
“Which means I’m pregnant. Maria, how long have you been telling them that?”
“Oh, ever since I work for you, I tell them that.”
“Maria, you’ve been working for me for over a year. And, besides, I’m a signora. What do they say when you tell them that?”
“They say, ‘Bravo.’ They hope it’s a boy.”
“But, Maria, how long can you keep on telling them this story?”
“Oh, I tell them this till the end of the war.”
My main daytime activity, in addition to writing about how women fared in Italy under the austerity, was to climb the flights of creaking stairs to the Herald Tribune office. There, over a small radio that Allen had set up for me, I’d listen to foreign radio broadcasts and gather news for him. I’d nearly reached my limit under this restricted routine. But one day, all of my frustration was replaced with enthusiasm, hope, and gratitude, when Allen took me up to the American Embassy and brought me in to see the consul.
“Mr. Cole,” he said, “this is Teddy Lynch Getty. She is an accredited newspaper correspondent with the New York Herald Tribune, and I would like her passport changed from ‘Student’ to ‘Journalist.’ ” Immediately, Mr. Cole issued my revised passport.
This was my passport to freedom. Soon, I could go home. To celebrate, I took Allen to lunch at the Casina Valadier in the Borghese gardens, and to our surprise, we discovered that rationing had found its way even into this elegant restaurant. We could have fish or meat. Not both. Personally, I was so grateful about my new passport, I didn’t care whether it was fish or meat. I was just plain happy.
CHAPTER 20
KOSTYA
It was at this time that Ethi, the lovely coloratura from Salzburg, was asked to report to the Questura, then a branch of the military police associated with Immigration. Now Mrs. Rodney Jennings, married by proxy to an Englishman, Ethi found herself in a difficult situation. She was an English citizen in enemy country, in dread of being put in a concentration camp for the duration of the war. I offered to drive her to the police station. Signor Arguesci, the head of Rome’s police, was very busy that afternoon, and we were detained for hours in the waiting room. Suddenly, we became aware of a very handsome young man sitting in the corner, smiling as he listened to Ethi complain bitterly in English. “Mein Gott,” she said, “look what I’ve done. Now that I am Rodney’s wife, I cannot go to him, nor can I sing here, for I am now the enemy.”
“May I interrupt, fräulein?” said the young man in perfect German, as he walked over to where we were sitting. Ethi broke into one of her most beguiling smiles and delightedly recounted her whole sad story in her native tongue to
this willing listener. Then she presented me.
“Who are you, and where are you from?” I asked.
“My name is Kostya Berispek. I am a Turkish citizen, and you, you are an American, yes?” He smiled. “Are you studying singing, too?” I nodded.
“Well, when may I have the pleasure of hearing you divas sing?”
“You may come to our maestro’s studio this afternoon, if you wish,” Ethi cut in. “We’ll be there at five thirty.” And, at that moment, she was called into Arguesci’s office.
“Teddy,” he started, “that’s a boy’s name, no?”
Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty Page 13