Mrs. Kennedy and Me

by McCubbin, Lisa;Hill, Clint

  COULD YOU NOT HAVE VETERINARIAN EXAMINE HIM IN NEW YORK AND SAY HE WAS FREE FROM ALL DISEASE AND HAVE HIM GO STRAIGHT TO GLENORA.

  IT WOULD BE LIKE LEAVING LEE IN QUARANTINE TO PART WITH HIM – ESPECIALLY AS HE HAS BEEN SO FRIGHTENED PAST FEW DAYS BY PHOTOGRAPHERS – AND PLANE TRIP WILL UPSET HIM.

  YOU CAN LEAVE TIGER CUBS IN QUARANTINE AS THEY ARE TOO FEROCIOUS TO PLAY WITH – SO WARN CAROLINE. PLEASE GET ORVILLE FREEMAN TO LET HIM IN QUICKLY – THEY HAVE PRINCE PHILLIP’S POLO PONIES. PHILLIP TOOK THEM RIGHT HOME – SO REALLY THINK THERE WOULD BE NO CRITICISM AND IT WOULD BE (UNFAIRLY) CRUEL TO ANIMALS IF YOU LET HIM BE LOCKED UP IN NEW YORK FOR THIRTY DAYS. HE WILL GET SICK THERE. ALL PRESS WILL SAY YOU WILL LOSE ASPCA VOTE FOREVER IF HE CAN’T COME STRAIGHT TO GLENORA.

  LOVE JACKIE

  I could just picture President Kennedy getting this message. He would read it and by the end he’d be laughing hysterically. Leave it to Mrs. Kennedy to find a political reason to convince the president to intervene on behalf of her beloved horse. He would read the note again, shaking his head in comic disbelief, and then he would do exactly what she wanted. There was no doubt in my mind that Sardar would be grazing at Glen Ora within a week. Hell, the damn horse would probably be in Washington before I was.

  THE NEXT MORNING, we were off to the legendary Khyber Pass. We traveled from Peshawar up to the pass with a motorcade convoy of about ten cars occupied by staff and press. Riding in one of the cars near the back was Mrs. Kennedy’s personal assistant, Provi Paredes. Poor Provi had a difficult time with heights, so when we began traveling up into the mountains on primitive roads with sheer thousand-foot drop-offs, she panicked. I was told later that she was screaming and carrying on so badly that the driver had no choice but to turn the car around and return her to Peshawar. She never saw the Khyber Pass.

  Mrs. Kennedy, on the other hand, thoroughly enjoyed the thirty-four-mile thrill ride through the rugged mountains. Accompanied by the governor of West Pakistan and President Ayub Khan’s military aide, she was in a cheerful mood as we carefully navigated the hairpin turns. She thought it was a fantastic adventure.

  We first arrived at the mud-walled Jamrud Fort, where bearded tribal leaders, wearing gun belts and daggers, greeted Mrs. Kennedy. Our two advance agents had worked out the details of our short visit with the Pakistan government representatives and the tribal leaders, and had agreements as to exactly what would happen. In honor of Mrs. Kennedy’s visit they had erected a large, multicolored tent at the point where the tribal territory began, and had a traditional welcoming ceremony in which they presented Mrs. Kennedy with some special gifts.

  Agent Ron Pontius was one of the agents I had assigned to advance this portion of the trip. He was from the south side of Chicago, tough as nails, and I figured his previous experience was as good as any for dealing with these tribesmen. Just as the gift presentation was about to begin, Pontius pulled me aside.

  “Clint,” he said. “We have a bit of a problem.”

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Well, they had told me they were going to present Mrs. Kennedy with some gifts. They’re going to give her an antique dagger in a decorative case . . . and a lamb. A baby lamb.”

  “Oh crap. Not another damn animal to get back to the United States,” I said.

  “Well, that’s what I thought. But I just found out that they’re going to present her with the lamb and then sacrifice it in front of her.”

  “Oh, God. Kill the lamb in front of her?”

  “Yeah. That’s what they said. They consider it an honor.”

  If that happened, I’d be on the next plane to Washington, following in Jeffries’s footsteps.

  “Ron, listen. We absolutely cannot let that happen. You’ve got to tell them they can present the lamb to her, but they cannot kill the damn thing until after we leave. You guard that lamb with your life, and do not let her know what is going on.”

  I stood close to Mrs. Kennedy as they presented the dagger and she accepted it graciously. What the hell do they think she is going to do with a dagger? I thought.

  Then they brought out the lamb, all dressed in a colorful silk costume. She touched it on its nose and then thanked them for their thoughtfulness as the tribal chieftain led the animal away.

  I hurried Mrs. Kennedy into our car, and as we started back onto the winding road to the Khyber Pass, I could hear the poor animal bleating as it was sacrificed in her honor.

  As we progressed over the winding mountain roads, armed tribesmen and members of the Khyber Rifles, the Pakistan army’s paramilitary force responsible for securing the border, escorted us. It was a crystal clear day and you could see for hundreds of miles across the rugged terrain that formed the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan. Our convoy was being carefully watched throughout our journey to the Khyber Rifle outpost, and off in the distance, at various intervals, I could discern men with rifles standing guard as we passed the various checkpoints. The Pakistan government wanted to make sure that nothing would happen to mar the visit to the Khyber Pass.

  We drove through the town of Torkham, to the border separating Pakistan and Afghanistan, to the Khyber Pass, where the Pakistan and Afghanistan military faced each other eyeball to eyeball. It was here that the Khyber Rifles maintained control. Looking out from this point at the Hindu Kush mountains, one can feel the presence of Genghis Khan and his horde of Mongol tribesmen as they rode through these mountains. The soldiers of Alexander the Great had passed this way, and based on the number of blue-eyed people we saw along the way, it was apparent they had left descendants behind.

  Mrs. Kennedy was wearing the cap President Ayub Khan had given her, and I was sure it was the first time anyone had ever worn the cap with a tailored jacket, skirt, and pumps.

  Mrs. Kennedy commented on what a beautiful sight the view was and we then went to Landi Kotal, the headquarters of the Khyber Rifles, to have lunch at the Khyber Rifles Mess. Ron Pontius and I exchanged glances when they brought out a big platter of roast lamb—thankfully not the same animal that had been presented as a gift a few miles back.

  Our last night in Pakistan was spent back in Karachi and there was one last thing Mrs. Kennedy wanted to do. The year before, Vice President Lyndon Johnson had visited Pakistan and made a big deal out of meeting a camel cart driver named Bashir, whom he had stopped to shake hands with by the side of the road. In typical LBJ fashion, the vice president casually remarked, “Why don’t y’all come see me sometime?” Bashir accepted the invitation, and the friendship between the American vice president and the Pakistani camel cart driver turned into a media spectacle as Bashir toured the United States and became an overnight celebrity.

  Mrs. Kennedy had brought a letter from Vice President Johnson and wanted to personally deliver it to Bashir. So it was arranged for Bashir to bring his family and his now famous camel to visit her at the president’s residence in Karachi, with the full ranks of press in attendance.

  Of course the press wanted a photo of Mrs. Kennedy with Bashir and the camel. They were snapping away like mad when Mrs. Kennedy suddenly turned to Bashir and asked, “May we ride your camel, Bashir?”

  Oh dear God. Riding the camel was not in the program. Mrs. Kennedy and Lee were both wearing knee-length sleeveless dresses with high heels—not exactly camel-riding attire—and I thought, that’s all we need is for you to fall off a camel with the press catching it all on film.

  Bashir looked nervously at the president’s military aide for permission. Then the military aide turned to me. “What do you think? Is it okay, Mr. Hill?”

  Mrs. Kennedy and Lee were laughing and having such a good time, I thought, what harm can it do?

  “If Mrs. Kennedy wants to ride the camel, go ahead and let her ride the camel,” I said.

  So Bashir got the camel to kneel, and while Lee required some assistance getting on the camel’s back sitting sidesaddle, Mrs. Kennedy turned her back to the camel, put her hands on the saddle, and effortlessly hoisted herself up. S
itting side by side, Lee and Mrs. Kennedy were just laughing and laughing. But this wasn’t enough for them. No, they wanted to ride the camel, not just sit on it.

  “Up, up!” Mrs. Kennedy said as she motioned with her hands to Bashir. “Make him stand up!”

  Bashir was so nervous he was sweating. He knew that a camel does not get up very gracefully and with the two women sitting sidesaddle, they were perched rather precariously on the camel’s back. He looked at me again, and I nodded.

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  As the camel slowly got up—first its back legs, and then its front legs—I called out to Mrs. Kennedy, “Hold on!”

  So there they were high atop the camel, Lee in front and Mrs. Kennedy at the back, laughing and just having the best time as the photographers were snapping away like crazy. Bashir led the camel around at a slow pace, and then Mrs. Kennedy said to Lee, “Hand me the reins, Lee.”

  Fortunately Bashir did not let go of the lead, and despite Mrs. Kennedy’s best efforts to get the camel to take off in a gallop, Bashir retained control. I stood there and watched with amusement, not saying a word, as Mrs. Kennedy laughed and laughed.

  THE TRIP TO India and Pakistan had been tremendously successful for Mrs. Kennedy personally as well as politically. Ambassador McConaughy would write a note to President Kennedy expressing the enormous impact she had: “She has won the confidence and even the affection of a large cross section of the Pakistani populace who feel that they know her and know that they like her. I believe benefits to our relations with Pakistan will be reflected for a long time in ways intangible as well as tangible.”

  12

  André Malraux and Marilyn Monroe

  Mrs. Kennedy and André Malraux at White House dinner

  The trip to India and Pakistan had truly been an adventure and Mrs. Kennedy couldn’t stop talking about it. For three days, she stayed in London, at Lee and Stash Radziwill’s posh townhouse at No. 4 Buckingham Place, not far from Buckingham Palace, and while there was one official visit with Queen Elizabeth, mostly it was meant to be a few days of relaxation before returning to the United States.

  Mrs. Kennedy and Lee regaled Stash with stories of their adventures, and when Stash would be disbelieving about something, Mrs. Kennedy would turn to me and say, “Tell him, Mr. Hill. Didn’t it happen just as we said?”

  She seemed to recall every detail of every fort and palace she had visited, and was still in awe over the magnificent Islamic architecture, the splendor of the Taj Mahal, the opulence of the Indian president’s residence. During one of these conversations, I must not have responded in the way she expected to something she had said, because she suddenly turned to me and asked teasingly, “Doesn’t anything ever impress you, Mr. Hill?”

  I remember looking at her lounging on the sofa in casual slacks, a cigarette in her hand, laughing, so relaxed with her sister and Stash. I wanted to say, “You know what impresses me, Mrs. Kennedy? You. Everything you do impresses me. The way you handle yourself with such grace and dignity without compromising your desire to enjoy life and have fun. You don’t even realize the impact you have, how much you are admired, how you just single-handedly created bonds between the United States and two strategic countries far better than any diplomats could have done. And you did it just by being curious and interested and sincere and gracious. Just by being yourself. No politics. No phoniness. Just you being you.”

  But I was there to do my job, and my job did not entail saying things like that to her. So all I said was “I guess it takes a lot to impress me, Mrs. Kennedy.”

  WHEN WE RETURNED to Washington on Thursday, March 29, the president was waiting at Washington National Airport to greet Mrs. Kennedy. There were lots of press and it was a heartwarming homecoming. As it turned out, Sardar had not yet arrived, but arrangements had been made for the horse to be delivered on a Military Air Transport Services (MATS) plane a couple of weeks later. Somehow President Ayub Khan had convinced someone to allow Sardar’s trainer to accompany the horse on the long journey, with specific instructions not to leave Sardar until he was delivered to Mrs. Kennedy. So when Sardar showed up at Andrews Air Force Base in the middle of the night, poor General Godfrey McHugh, President Kennedy’s military aide who had been charged with handling the rather delicate arrangements, was in for quite a shock when the trainer, all decked out in his military attire—the red jacket with brass buttons, white jodhpurs, boots, and turban—got off the plane with the damn horse.

  When we returned from the India and Pakistan trip, it was back to our normal routine of Middleburg on the weekends, with Mrs. Kennedy returning to the White House for special functions.

  After ten days in Palm Beach for Easter, we returned to the White House the day before another historic dinner honoring Nobel Prize winners from the Western Hemisphere. Impressive as it was to host forty-nine Nobel laureates in her home, Mrs. Kennedy was far more concerned with and excited about a dinner two weeks later honoring André Malraux, the French minister of culture.

  While many Americans might not have been familiar with Malraux, he was one of Mrs. Kennedy’s idols, and she had become enamored with him during her trip to Paris the year before. Malraux had led an extraordinary life: he was an adventurer/explorer, a Spanish Civil War veteran, a World War II resistance leader who had escaped from a Nazi prison, and had served in the de Gaulle administration since its inception. But Mrs. Kennedy, with her degree and interest in French literature, knew him best for his prizewinning writings.

  Malraux had escorted Mrs. Kennedy through several Paris art museums during the 1961 trip, and even though I was merely on the sidelines at the time, there seemed to be a strong connection between the two of them as they chatted comfortably together in French. Tish called their relationship a mutual “intellectual crush” and that, I think, summed it up perfectly. During one of our many discussions about the Paris trip Mrs. Kennedy said, “Mr. Malraux is so interesting. He has been everywhere, knows everyone, and has done so many things. He is a real hero of France.” Mrs. Kennedy wanted this dinner to be the most special one yet, and the guest list was the top priority.

  Mrs. Kennedy had a yellow legal pad devoted to the Malraux dinner on which she kept all her notes and ideas, and as the date drew nearer, she would be so excited to tell me which guests had replied and would be attending.

  “Oh, Mr. Hill, you won’t believe it. Listen to who we have now.” She would rattle off names of the writers, poets, artists, and actors who had responded: “Arthur Miller, Thornton Wilder, and Tennessee Williams; Lee Strasberg, Julie Harris, and Geraldine Page; Andrew Wyeth and Mark Rothko; George Balanchine and Leonard Bernstein!”

  President Kennedy had made one specific request for the guest list: Charles Lindbergh—who would soon celebrate the thirty-fifth anniversary of his solo, nonstop flight to Paris from New York City—and his wife, an aviator and author herself, Anne Morrow Lindbergh. When Mrs. Kennedy found out that the Lindberghs had accepted the invitation, she was over the moon.

  The dinner was a huge success. Mrs. Kennedy appeared in a strapless shocking pink ball gown with white gloves up to her elbows, and from the moment she walked into the East Room, it seemed no one could take their eyes off her. I had never seen her look more lovely. She was the belle of the ball, and once again she had orchestrated an event the likes of which had never before been seen at the White House.

  Despite the amazing collection of people representing the arts, however, Charles Lindbergh was the big hit of the party, and he and his wife ended up staying overnight at the White House. For Mrs. Kennedy, the highlight of the evening was when Malraux promised to bring a collection of French masterpieces to the United States for a special exhibition at the National Gallery of Art.

  “He even promised La Giaconda—the Mona Lisa!” she told me the next day. “I’ve always felt that I was so fortunate to be able to see these great works of art, and now the American public will have the same opportunity. Isn’t it wonderful, Mr. Hill?”

&
nbsp; The Mona Lisa had never before been outside of France. And now she was coming to America. I was impressed.

  IT WAS NOW back and forth between the White House and Middleburg, and since I was now the only agent permanently assigned to the First Lady’s Detail, it was just Mrs. Kennedy and me. The weekend of May 18, we were back at Glen Ora, as usual. The weather was beautiful this time of year, and Mrs. Kennedy longed to take advantage of every opportunity to ride Sardar. Additionally, she had entered the Loudon Hunt horse show and was scheduled to ride the Sunday of that weekend. The president had been opposed to her competing in the show, thinking it wouldn’t look good politically, but in the end he had acquiesced. Thus far it had been kept a complete secret from the press, and she was really looking forward to it. She was in a particularly happy mood.

  As we were driving along one of the secluded country roads, smoking and talking, as usual, Mrs. Kennedy told me about her upcoming plans.

  “I’m thinking of spending some time in Italy this summer,” she said casually.

  “Oh? Where in Italy?”

  “Perhaps on the Amalfi Coast. I have some friends there, and I’ve never been. There’s a village on the coast called Ravello I’ve been told about. Have you been there?”

  “I’ve been to Italy, but no, never to the Amalfi Coast. I would imagine it is beautiful.”

  “Yes, Lee and I are talking about taking her son, Tony, and Caroline with us. Caroline is old enough to travel abroad I think, and it would be a wonderful experience for her. What do you think?”

  “Summer in Italy? The Amalfi Coast? What’s not to like?”

  She laughed and said, “Oh, Mr. Hill. I know you will enjoy it, but do you think it will be all right for Caroline?”