by Ivana Trump
Another regular meal they shared was Wednesday dinner at Peter Luger, the legendary German steak house in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. The restaurant is rustic, with long farm tables and sawdust on the floor, and waiters dressed in black with long white aprons. We’d take over three whole tables and order porterhouses that came on sizzling-hot platters. The waiters cut the meat off the T-bone into slices, the juices pooling on one end of the platter for dipping with onion rolls. The best meat was close to the bone, but you had to pick it up and eat it with your hands. No one was going to do that at the restaurant.
One time, when the waiters were clearing the table post-meal, Donald said, “I’ll take the bone in a doggie bag.”
“But, Donald,” I said teasingly, “we don’t have a dog.” He was furious. (Of course, we did have Chappy, but his family didn’t know that.)
At four a.m., I found him in front of the fridge, gnawing at the bone. I couldn’t blame him. It really was that good.
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FIRST COMES MARRIAGE
In those early days in New York, I didn’t know anyone, or anything about how to live there. Where could I buy groceries or toilet paper? Where should I go to get my nails done? Donald wasn’t much help because he would go to work at seven a.m. and come home at seven p.m., and then we’d go out to dinner. He had no time to take me around the city and point out the important places I should know. So I spent my first month in New York exploring the city with my poodle at my side.
Donald was not a dog fan. When I told him I was bringing Chappy with me to New York, he said, “No.”
“It’s me and Chappy or no one!” I insisted, and that was that.
I’d put Chappy on his leash, and we’d walk around the neighborhood. He established some regular pee-pee spots, including the ivy planters outside Saint Patrick’s Cathedral—a hundred-year-old Gothic Revival church where the archbishop of New York presided—on Fifth Avenue. He’d do his business, I’d cross myself, and then we’d walk on.
Chappy figured out his favorite places, but I was clueless about mine. Fortunately, I met the ultimate New York guide in the form of a five-foot-tall, razor-sharp brunette spitfire named Nikki Haskell.
I met Nikki, a socialite, TV host, diet aid entrepreneur, gossip columnist, and boldface name of the seventies and eighties, at Elaine’s one night when Donald and I were having dinner there. She was seated one table over and just started talking to me, and we immediately hit it off. We’ve been best friends for forty years. She stays with me in Saint-Tropez and Aspen, and we still talk nearly every day. During Donald’s campaign in 2016, Nikki was part of a vocal, spunky group of Bel Air women (Bill Clinton’s mistress Gennifer Flowers among them) who called themselves “Trumpettes.”
One of the first things Nikki said to me was “Let me see your engagement ring.” I showed her. She said, “It’s barely visible to the naked eye! I need a magnifying glass!” It wasn’t that small. Another woman might’ve been offended, but I thought Nikki was hilarious. I could just look at her a certain way, and we’d both start cracking up. It was that kind of friendship. For years, the ring was a running joke between us. She’d say, “When are you going to upgrade that speck?” I never did because, under my layers of toughness, I do have a sentimental heart.
With my fiancé, my dog, and a new best friend, New York started to feel like home.
While Donald worked, Nikki, Chappy, and I went everywhere together, laughing and pee-peeing (one of us) all over the Upper East Side. She introduced me to other women at La Grenouille and La Goulue during my very brief “ladies who lunch” period, when I was part of the socialite circle of women who met for grilled radicchio and shaved fennel salads to gossip and drink all day. Problem: I was never much of a drinker. A glass or two of wine with dinner is fine, but martinis in the afternoon? Not for me. Also, I couldn’t stand the lateness. Like the Trumps, I am a punctual person. In those circles, being on time was the biggest waste of time. I’d wind up sitting at La Côte Basque, waiting for forty-five minutes for pampered housewives who didn’t even have jobs. No discipline. When they finally arrived, they’d say, “The traffic was terrible!” but they lived three blocks away! I’d managed to be on time, and I had no idea where I was going.
Meanwhile, Donald and his secretary were taking care of most of the wedding plans. I didn’t know who to call for the cake or the flowers or where to book the service or the reception, but Donald did. He booked the church and the ‘21’ Club for dinner afterward. He hired the florists, and I went in to approve the arrangements. The only thing I took care of myself was the dress. I called my friend John Warren, a Canadian designer, to make my gown.
Of the six hundred people who came to my April 7, 1977, wedding at the Marble Collegiate Church on Fifth Avenue and West Twenty-Ninth Street, where the Trumps had been going for decades, I knew six of them: my girlfriends from Montreal, Nikki, my aunt, and my father. My mother wasn’t feeling well and had to stay in Czechoslovakia. The wedding was the first time Donald and Dedo met. They liked and respected each other immediately, though the conversation was stilted at best: Dedo’s English wasn’t very good yet.
Donald and his family invited businessmen, Mayor Abe Beame, and hundreds of others. I was scared out of my mind at the idea of standing up there in my gown (white, ruched, strapless, and formfitting), reciting my vows with my thick accent in front of all these VIPs. To make matters worse, the flowers didn’t arrive! The florist called to say she was running late (do not get me started . . .), and I was so freaked-out with bottled-up nerves that I locked myself in the antechamber next to the chapel and cried. My father came into the room to calm me down. “You can do it, Iva,” he said, using my nickname. If it weren’t for Dedo’s pep talk, I might never have left that room.
The florist finally showed up with my bouquet and we got started. My father walked me down the aisle and delivered me to Donald. Pastor Norman Vincent Peale (author of The Power of Positive Thinking) officiated the ceremony. The reception was at the ‘21’ Club. Joey Adams, the comedian and husband of gossip columnist Cindy Adams, was the master of ceremonies. It was all a blur of smiling strangers introducing themselves and congratulating me, taking bites of food and sips of wine.
Our honeymoon in Acapulco, Mexico, lasted only two days. We had to rush back to New York so my husband could finalize the deal to buy the Commodore Hotel and convert it into the Grand Hyatt. It was a big risk for Donald, but I told him, “Take risks now when you’re young, because you’re not going to do it when you’re older!” He proved me wrong there. Spending his own money to run for president was an even bigger risk. The biggest!
Incredibly, I got pregnant on the honeymoon. Why so incredible? At the time, I had an IUD implanted in my uterus. The odds of conceiving with the coil were minuscule. I always thought I was a one-in-a-million woman, but this was ridiculous. However, Donald and I were not unhappy about it. I was twenty-eight; he was thirty. We took two seconds to get over the shock and realized the pregnancy was an unexpected joy. I was going to be a mom! I was going to create a family in New York that would make my parents in Czechoslovakia proud. Family is my number one priority—always has been and always will be. I didn’t know what motherhood would entail, but I knew I would handle it like everything else: with determination and confidence.
Donald and I moved to a bigger place in the Olympic Tower on East Fifty-First and Fifth Avenue, which I decorated with the passion and excitement of an expecting newlywed. Spending all my time barefoot and pregnant in my new kitchen, however? Absolutely not. I wasn’t even there that often, just to sleep and have breakfast. Donald and I went out for dinner every night, and during the day, I was working full-time at my new job at a construction site.
Soon after we got back from our honeymoon, Donald had appointed me the vice president of interior design and rebranding at his new hotel. I was tasked with transforming the historic Commodore Hotel on East Forty-Second Street into the Grand Hyatt. Until then, I’d been a competitive skier, a
ski instructor, and a model. Why did he make me the boss of this important project when he could have hired a dozen people with more know-how? When it came to hiring, Donald used his instincts. He knew that although I lacked experience, I had confidence, a great sense of style, unbound enthusiasm, strength, and a strong work ethic. He insisted I take the job and trusted that I could do it, so I agreed. I wasn’t concerned about mixing business and family at all. Donald’s was a family business, and, as a new member of the family, it made sense to put me to work.
Hit the ground running? I broke ground on day one.
At first, the co-owners, the Hyatt Corporation, owned by Jay Pritzker, didn’t like me for the job, but Donald insisted and he got his way. Fred Trump wasn’t so sure about me, either, and he kept a close eye on me. If the work fell even one day behind, he’d complain to Donald. But I stayed on top of my crews and always met my deadlines.
Every single decision, big or small—from the towels to the flooring, who to hire and fire, the completion timeline—was up to me. I would spend my day talking to marble people, drywall people, electricians, and plumbers. Taking on two huge projects—creating the aesthetic for a hotel and nurturing a human life—immediately after we’d moved and married didn’t faze me. I was a natural at making quick, smart decisions. Donald told me I could go to the site whenever I wanted, and that turned out to be seven days a week. Meanwhile, he was starting the financing on our other new project, Trump Tower, and was also working constantly.
It was a heady, happy, busy time. To many people, starting a new job as a pregnant newlywed would be a lot. But I thrived in a high-activity atmosphere. Having so much to do, and so many responsibilities, was exhilarating. I was going a million miles a minute and felt comfortable with the pressure. My friends asked me if I felt overwhelmed. Nope. As the tornado swirled around me, I was calm at its center. I think if I had stayed at home and watched TV, I would have been climbing the walls with antsy anticipation.
Regarding pregnancy, I hated it! Compared to some of my friends’, my pregnancy wasn’t so horrible. I didn’t get morning sickness or other digestive problems. I only gained twelve pounds. Some women make pregnancy the excuse to eat ice cream nonstop. I was too busy for cravings and five meals a day. For black-tie events, I had to put aside my sexy Versace for Yves Saint Laurent sheaths that were straight columns from shoulders to hips. My feet and ankles were painfully swollen, but I stuck with my heels until the eighth month before switching to flats. Even though I wasn’t vomiting or ballooning, I found pregnancy uncomfortable and wanted to get it over with as soon as possible.
When the holidays rolled around, I was increasingly worried about going into labor at work in a building without elevators, on a floor with no one but plumbers and electricians, or while traveling. Plus my hands and fingers had puffed up so much, I could barely find the diamond on my finger. (Nikki said, “Told ya.”) But the holiday came and went, and the pregnancy endured. Merry Christmas? Mine was cranky.
I reached the end of my rope. I called my doctor, Robert Porges of NYU Medical Center, and said, “I can’t take it anymore!”
He said, “Okay, I’ll induce you. See you at the hospital at five p.m.”
It was New Year’s Eve, the one-year anniversary of the night Donald and I got engaged. I checked the time. It was noon; I had only five hours before I was due to report to the hospital to become a mother. I took a meeting at the hotel and then went to get a pedicure and manicure before heading home to pack an overnight bag. At five p.m. on the dot, Donald and I were in the hospital room, and I was ready to go.
Dr. Porges came in with a needle full of a drug that would start my contractions. He said, “It might take some time before it works.”
Two minutes later, I had my first contraction, and then one after another, without a break between them. There was no chance to give me an epidural. People always say that you forget the pain, but I will never forget it! My back was killing me, and they gave me a pill for that, but it was brutal nonetheless.
Ten minutes later, it was time to push.
I kicked Donald out of the room. Let him witness the birth? Never. My sex life would be finished after that. I know some people videotape their children’s births, but I didn’t even want the nurses to see mine. I threw everyone out of the room. This was between me and my doctor.
He said, “Push!”
I know my body well from being an athlete, so I contracted all the right muscles. I think other women bear down in the wrong places, like their earlobes or necks or cheeks. I put my energy where it counted. Ten minutes later, my son was born. The clock on the wall said five twenty p.m. Start to finish, my entire labor and delivery lasted twenty minutes. I love speed in skiing, driving, and giving birth, but that was really fast, even for me—but not too fast. Twenty minutes was plenty of time to experience the pain and satisfaction of giving birth. It would be the same for each baby: a horrible, mercifully brief, and beautiful experience.
The nurses were allowed to come back in and take care of the baby while Dr. Porges sewed me up. (I had to sit on an inner tube for a week because of those stitches.) Only after the doctor finished sewing was Donald permitted into the room again, and we held our baby for the first time. He was adorable, warm, perfect, with dark Zelnicek eyes. I saw my father in him, my mother, and my husband, too. I’d hated pregnancy, but I loved the end result.
Donald said, “What should we name him?”
“Donald Junior,” I said.
“You can’t do that!”
“Why not?”
“What if he’s a loser?”
“I carried him for nine months. I get to decide on the name! He’s Donald.”
We took turns holding him, and talked about the things we’d do and what a fabulous, happy life he was going to have. We also talked a little business. Even in those first hours of being new parents, we couldn’t help ourselves. The business mind ran in the blood. As I said, I got mine from my grandmother Katrine, and it blossomed in my marriage with Donald. I was sure that little Don had it in him, too.
I felt bad that I was keeping Dr. Porges from his New Year’s Eve party, so I sent him home. Donald stayed until eight p.m., and then I sent him home, too. Nikki stopped by with champagne, and then she had a party to go to. I knew one of my girlfriends was on another floor of the hospital recovering from back surgery, so around ten p.m., after the nurses took Don into the nursery to sleep, I put a boa and my mink over my nightgown and went to visit her. My friend and I rang in the New Year together, and then I went back to my room.
A medical student rushed in, looking panicked, and said, “I’m looking for Mrs. Trump.”
“That’s me.”
He looked me up and down and said, “You can’t be Mrs. Trump. She gave birth a few hours ago.” I found out that they thought I’d been kidnapped! The staff had been frantically searching all over the hospital for me.
My employees at the Grand Hyatt were thrilled to hear that I’d given birth to Don over the weekend. I’d been tough on them about deadlines, and apparently some of them liked the idea that I’d be out of commission for a month postpartum. On Monday, January 2, I greeted the workmen at the hotel by saying, “I’m back! Did you miss me?”
I didn’t breastfeed any of my children, not because I have anything against it. I just couldn’t imagine having a kid clamped to my chest for hours a day. It didn’t mesh with my work schedule. People said, “You could pump the milk.” Forget it. Besides the fact that hooking up a machine to the nipples is totally unsexy, how would I manage it? Go into a construction site Port-A-John to pump my breasts every three hours? No. Formula was fine. All of my children grew healthy and tall on it.
For birth control, I considered going on the Pill, but I knew I’d forget to take it at the same time every day. With some misgivings, I had another IUD put in. Three years later, the same thing happened! I got pregnant with Ivanka despite having the device. We named our second bundle of unexpected joy Ivana after me
and called her Ivanka, which translates as “little Ivana.” Everyone assumes her nickname is her given name. Donald floated the idea of naming her Tiffany because he’d just bought the air rights over Tiffany & Co., the jewelry store on Fifth Avenue next to Trump Tower. I vetoed that. He had Don, and I had Ivanka.
A new IUD went in, and the doctors swore up and down it was going to work this time. “Ivana, you will not get pregnant!” they said.
A year and a half later, Eric was conceived.
Donald and I had a cottage in East Hampton by Georgica Pond for summer weekends. It was a beautiful house, a haven, and it always smelled like roses. If the ocean was calm, I’d take Don and Ivanka to the beach to swim. They’d spend hours playing with their toys in the sand, digging and building castles. If the ocean was too rough, they’d play by the pond, catching frogs and sailing toy boats. I cultivated a vegetable garden and coaxed tomatoes, cucumbers, and carrots out of the ground. We’d have so many tomatoes at the end of the summer, I couldn’t give them away fast enough—and, believe me, I tried. Don and Ivanka had their own bedrooms, and so did my parents, who came to stay with us all summer long. My father played with the kids, and my mother cooked dinners using the vegetables from my garden. I have many happy memories with the kids in the Hamptons. We’d go biking and strawberry picking, and buy fresh corn and potatoes from farmers markets and then put them on the grill along with steak and lobsters for Sunday barbecue lunches.
We had a dune buggy. I’m crazy about speed and would tear around the beach, jumping dunes, catching air. I took out the buggy when I was four months pregnant with Eric on one of the last days of summer. I might’ve taken some jumps that were higher, and spins that were faster, than I should have. I rode home and handed off the buggy to Donald for his last ride of the summer. I went to change out of my beach clothes, and I saw blood in my shorts. My heart leapt into my throat and I thought, I’m losing the baby.