Raising Trump

by Ivana Trump

  We compromised on Greenwich, but only if the mouse lived in a cage in the garage. The kids set up a beautiful home for the mouse and spent whole days in the garage playing with her. The groundskeeper fed her whenever we weren’t there. As soon as we arrived at the house on Friday, the kids ran straight out there to see her. After about a month, they brought the cage into the house and made me look. Inside, there were a dozen baby mice, white with red bulging eyes.

  I screamed, “Get them out of here!” If one got loose, I’d be chasing mice all over the house forever. Sure enough, one of them did get out of the cage, and Patrick the houseman and the kids were scurrying around trying to catch it. Thank God they were able to find it on the carpet. The house was huge, fifty thousand square feet. If they hadn’t caught it, we’d have wound up sharing the place with thousands of the critters. That one daring escape was all I could handle. As soon as school started again in the fall, the mice went back.

  We adopted a stray duck once, too. We found him in Greenwich on the side of the road. The kids named him Wobbly and he followed us everywhere. He did wobble pathetically because he had a damaged leg, and I’m pretty sure he’d been hit in the head. We took him to our vet, who made Wobbly well. While he healed, he had a cushy month in Don’s bathtub. When he seemed good to go, we took him to the pond by the house and said, “Fly! Be free!” but Wobbly wasn’t going anywhere. He insisted on following us around, on walks, to the beach, right alongside the dog. Eventually, Wobbly gave in to the call of the wild and flew away. I can only imagine the stories he told the other ducks about us.

  • • •

  My last poodle was also named Chappy, also black, and just as sweet as his predecessor. He nearly gave me a heart attack in 2000 when he escaped the town house when a florist came to deliver flowers. My boyfriend at the time, Roffredo Gaetani, and I searched high and low for him in Central Park and up and down the avenues, calling his name for hours. I put up dog posters offering a thousand-dollar reward all over the neighborhood, frantically asking everyone if they’d seen him. I called the police, the New York Post, anyone and everyone who could help me find him.

  In the afternoon, the doorbell rang. I ran to open it, and there was Chappy, in the arms of a doorman from my veterinarian’s building! I was thrilled and so relieved. “How did you find him?” I asked.

  Apparently, Chappy was initially found on Park Avenue by a dog walker, who brought him to a nearby building and handed him off to two doormen. They took care of him for a few hours before they delivered him to the nearest veterinarian, who happened to be Lewis Berman, my own vet. Since Chappy wasn’t wearing his collar, Dr. Berman didn’t recognize him at first, but then his receptionist went to get some lunch and saw my posters. The next thing I knew, my vet’s doorman had brought Chappy home to me. I couldn’t track down the dog walker, but I gave $1,000 each to the doormen. One made a dent in the reward by taking his wife out to a very nice dinner, and the other one gave his reward money to charity.

  From that day forward, Chappy wore his collar no matter what. We got very lucky that day. The combination of the posters, spreading the word, and having kind neighbors made our one-in-a-million reunion possible. New York may seem like a big, scary city, but in many ways, it’s a small town.

  My last dog to date was Tiger, a Yorkie. He was slightly more intelligent than Dodo and just as freaking adorable. We were constant companions for eleven years. When I got my hair done, Tiger went to his doggie salon. When I went for a checkup, Tiger saw the vet. When I flew first-class to the South of France, Tiger sat right next to me in his carrier or on the seat and was an absolute champ about never peeing on the plane or inside the airport. I don’t know how he could hold it for ten hours, but he did. Such a good boy!

  • • •

  Of the three kids, Eric followed in my footsteps to become a through-and-through dog person. He and his wife, Lara, adopted a miniature beagle named Charlie from a rescue, and they dote on him. Eric wasn’t so sure if they would adopt at first because he spends so much time on planes away from home, but Lara convinced him, and Eric fell instantly in love with Charlie, whose tail is always wagging. He’s their little baby, and they post photos of him on social media constantly. Charlie has a new brother, Ben, a full-size beagle with a beautiful face, recently adopted from a rescue. When Ben arrived at the shelter, he was in terrible shape. He’d been abused and was afraid of people, especially men. I think their original idea was to foster Ben to socialize him before helping place him with another family. But you know what happens when you live with a dog that gazes up at you with those big brown eyes. He only wants two things: affection and food. It’s a pure relationship and you can’t help but fall in love. Eric and Lara worked to gain Ben’s trust, and now he’s doing fabulously well. He and Charlie are best friends and they’re a family of four—soon to be five! Eric and Lara are expecting their first child in September 2017.

  Don has two Havanese, a toy breed, that he calls “little monsters.” His house, with five kids and two yapping dogs, is a happy chaos.

  Ivanka is holding off on getting a dog just yet, but I think she’ll come around soon. Her kids can be very persuasive, just like she was at their age.

  PART FOUR

  SURVIVING THE WORST OF THE WORST

  -16-

  HOLDING US TOGETHER

  I’d heard some whispers.

  Cindy Adams had asked me if the rumors were true, that Donald was cheating on me, at a party at the Waldorf Astoria the week before. I was so angry that she’d even suggest it that I didn’t speak to her again for years. Apart from gossip, which you always have to take with a kilo of salt, I had no reason to suspect him of straying. Donald hadn’t lost weight or changed his hair. He wasn’t dressing better or making mysterious charges on the credit cards. He acted exactly the same as he always had at home.

  On December 30, 1989, the day before Don turned twelve, Donald, the kids, and I were in Aspen, having lunch at Bonnie’s, a popular restaurant at the ski resort, when this young blond woman came up to me out of the blue and said, “I’m Marla and I love your husband. Do you?”

  I said, “Get lost. I love my husband.”

  It was unladylike, but I was in shock.

  The kids were next to me on the food line, watching the whole exchange. My heart sank into my ski boots. All three have since told me that they barely registered this confrontation with the interloper, but later that night, they must have heard Donald and me fighting back at the chalet. We’d originally planned to stay in Aspen for another few days, but my instincts told me to run, to get far away from the place where my life had turned upside down, the same impulse that sent me out of Czechoslovakia after Jiří died.

  The press knew about the confrontation at Bonnie’s—many people were there to see it and the gossip was spreading—and were watching our every move. We decided to return home when originally planned and act as if everything was normal. I was very careful around the kids, but they definitely sensed that I was upset and were affectionate with me to cheer me up. When Eric gave me a hug or Ivanka held my hand, I struggled to control my emotions. I was shattered and shocked. Putting on a brave front for the kids during those first few days was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

  Back in New York in January 1990, Donald and I slept in the same bed, watched TV together, and talked about work. He would try to put his arm around me, but I wouldn’t let him. I didn’t file for divorce until March, but as far as I was concerned, the marriage ended that day at Bonnie’s. How could I continue if every time he said he was going to play golf, my first thought would be, Is he lying? Is he meeting someone? I couldn’t live like that. After fourteen years, countless challenges and triumphs, three children, and so much love, our marriage was over.

  • • •

  Looking back at the first year after the split, I can only shake my head about how insane it was. The media tsunami put my private sorrow on the front page of the Daily News and New York Post for nin
ety days in a row. “Trump vs. Trump” was the longest-running front-page story in tabloid history until O. J. Simpson led cops on a low-speed car chase a few years later.

  The headlines were poisoned arrows: “Split!” “Love on the Rocks!” “They Met in Church,” “Separate Beds,” and the topper, “The Best Sex I Ever Had.” Every day, a mob of reporters camped outside Trump Tower. They hounded my children at their schools and at friends’ houses. I couldn’t turn on the television without hearing my name. “Ivana” had been synonymous with glamour, elegance, and success. And then, for a time, it was associated only with being a cheated-upon wife.

  Through it all, I had faith in myself. I was mentally tough and I knew I’d survive. But the destruction of my marriage wasn’t only about me. I had to guide Don, twelve; Ivanka, eight; and Eric, six, through a firestorm that no one could have imagined or prepared for. But we were in it, and I had to come up with a plan to get myself and my children through this nightmare with minimal emotional damage.

  I made two rules for myself: (1) Never show panic in front of the kids. If they saw me fall apart, they would, too. Of course, I was vulnerable and heartbroken. There were very dark moments, and sometimes, I just wanted to scream. But I always waited until I was alone, or with my mother and father, to cry. (2) Never speak a bad word about Donald. Even an eye roll or a strange look would send the wrong message. No matter what my husband had done to me, he was still their father. The children had happy memories of our life together, and one angry word from me could make them see our history in a different light. My goal was to keep their love for me and for him intact, no matter how I felt about Donald at the time. Thinking long-term was extremely difficult while suffering in the moment, but I’d seen how badly friends of mine had handled their divorces with the kids. I didn’t want that to happen to us.

  Guided by my two rules, I got us through a 24/7 living nightmare that didn’t let up for a year. I didn’t create the chaos that my separation caused, but I did confront it by being firmly in control of my behavior at all times. Divorce is never easy for children. It’s a disaster every time. But my family came out of an excruciating split just fine, which I consider one of my greatest accomplishments as a parent.

  How did I pull off that miracle? Day by day, dignity came first.

  • • •

  I had to tell the children what was going on before they heard about it from someone else. It was agony to speak about what was happening, even to my friends, and talking about my heartbreak to the kids would only happen if I stuck to the facts. I focused on the goals of avoiding drama (no slamming doors or raised voices in my home ever) and reassuring them that everything was going to be okay.

  I spoke to each child separately. I told Eric, “Your father is not living with us anymore. He’s moving to another apartment, his parents’ one on the twenty-ninth floor. I’m still your mother and he’ll always be your father. You can see him anytime you want.” Eric accepted the news. He probably had questions, but when I first explained the situation, he just went back to what he was playing with.

  Don was old enough to want to know more, and, after careful consideration, I decided he could handle hearing the truth. I kept my feelings in check and said, “Your father had a mistress and I can’t be with him anymore. We’ve decided to live apart and get a divorce. But you’re not divorcing him. I am.” Don was protective of me. After that initial talk, he took it upon himself to monitor my feelings. He always asked how I was, hugged me, and stayed up late with me. He was furious with his father and didn’t speak to him for a year. The last thing he said to Donald, before icing him out, was “How can you say you love us? You don’t love us! If you loved us, you wouldn’t have done this.”

  Ivanka had friends with divorced parents, so she understood the concept, but she was still very young and there was no reason to air her father’s dirty laundry. She got the same speech as Eric. Her only question was “Is there any chance you’ll make up?” It was hard for her to understand what was going on. After all, Donald and I didn’t fight and there was never tension around the dinner table or on vacations (until Aspen). From her perspective, we were a close, happy family. I felt just as blindsided as she did.

  I said, “I’m sorry, sweetheart. But your father and I will never get back together.”

  To me, loyalty is the most important quality in a person, and trust is the most valuable asset in a marriage. If the trust is broken, the marriage is finished. I have never wavered on that. I know many people stay in bad marriages because they think it’ll be good for the kids. Others feel their children would have a better chance with happy parents who live apart than miserable parents together.

  Nowadays, I look at political wives who stand by their cheating, lying husbands at press conferences with a glazed look in their eyes, and I can’t believe they put up with it. How do they explain it to their children? I’m thinking of one particular political wife who became a politician herself. Not too long after my divorce was finalized in 1992, I attended a speech given by Hillary Clinton. At the time, her husband’s chronic unfaithfulness was all over the news, and it would get much worse before he left office. I went up to her and asked, “How do you deal with it?” She knew I was talking about the cheating. She just looked at me and walked away. I’ve often wondered what course her life would have taken if she’d left Bill after the Monica Lewinsky scandal.

  The first thing Donald and I sorted out was that I would have sole custody of the children and that he would take them every other weekend. He continued to see them twice a day, once in the morning before school, and once in the evening, as usual. As far as the kids were concerned, the only change in their home life (besides the reporters camping out in front of the building) was that their father didn’t sleep in my bed anymore. They were still in the same apartment, slept in the same bedrooms, played with the same toys, wore the same clothes, went to the same schools, rode in the same cars, and took the same vacations. Predictability gives children a sense of security. I also made sure that they understood their other relationships would not change. Bridget and Dorothy weren’t going anywhere. Babi and Dedo would always be their grandparents and love them as much as ever. Our well-established routine would not waver. Staying busy and on schedule was the best therapy for them.

  I shielded them from a lot. One day, while riding the private elevator going to our triplex, I noticed a security camera in the ceiling that hadn’t been there the day before. I put a glob of Krazy Glue on the tip of an umbrella and smeared it on the lens. Every move I made was being watched by the doormen and security personnel, and reported back to the man who signed their paychecks. I’d experienced the same kind of scrutiny from the communists, and the triplex started to feel like a palatial prison. If anyone—whether they were friends or deliverymen—was coming to see me, I asked them to give their name to the Trump Tower concierge as Mr. or Mrs. Brown. I knew he’d been instructed to call Donald and report in about all of my visitors. Whenever I pictured Donald asking, “Who the hell is Mr. Brown?” I always smiled.

  As I’ve said, loyalty is everything to me, and nothing hurt more than being stabbed in the back for money. In the midst of the divorce—at one of the lowest points of my life—someone who’d worked for me for eight years went to the press. I heard that she was paid $10,000 to sell me out. The next thing I knew, a tabloid was calling me the worst mother of the year.

  We all know that fathers get a standing ovation for every teeny tiny thing they do for their kids, and mothers are barely acknowledged for moving mountains on a daily basis. I’d taken care of every aspect of the kids’ lives since birth while working full-time at one Trump property or another. Donald loved his children, was affectionate, and was a good provider. He took them to Elton John concerts at Madison Square Garden or to Yankee Stadium to hang out with George Steinbrenner. But he’d be the first to admit that he had no idea how to engage the kids at their respective ages and converse on their level. The children didn’t know h
ow to relate to him, either. Ivanka always said that her big breakthrough with Donald happened when she was old enough to talk about business. Meanwhile, I’d been engaging, relating, working with, managing, and molding my children all along. I tried to ignore the papers, but that unfit-mother headline really got to me.

  Don expressed his pain with anger, and he was really angry about the tabloid slamming me as a bad mother. He wanted to call the paper and tell them they were wrong and that their source lied. I sat him down and taught him a lesson he’d have to learn again and again: it’s hard not to take the headlines personally, but you can’t let them define you. I said, “You know who you are and who we are. The press is just noise.”

  Reassuring the kids became the third part of my survival plan, along with putting on a brave face and never trashing their father. I would sit them down, look them in the eye, smile, and say, “We’re okay,” and then wrap them in a big, safe hug. There were times when I didn’t know if I was reassuring them or myself.

  The day after the unfit-mother headline, Donald sent a bodyguard to the triplex with instructions to bring Don—who was still not speaking to his father—down to his office on the twenty-eighth floor. I didn’t think anything of it because the kids visited his office every day, so off Don went with the bodyguard.

  A few minutes later, my husband called and said, “Ivana, I’m keeping Don. You’re not getting him back. I’m going to bring him up myself.”

  “Okay, keep him,” I said. “I have two other kids to raise.”

  Dead silence. He hung up, and ten minutes later, the bodyguard brought Don back. Donald never had any intention of keeping his son. It was a tactic to upset me. His plan backfired, though. I felt a bit stronger.

  • • •

  At home, I kept the TVs off and hid the papers and magazines from the kids to limit their exposure to the media onslaught, but they still had to walk through the gauntlet of reporters and photographers outside Trump Tower every day. They followed the kids to school, shouting inappropriate questions about the intimate lives of their parents. Some of Don’s and Ivanka’s classmates showed them newspapers and asked them what was happening at home.