Raising Trump

by Ivana Trump

  There was an incident at Buckley, Don’s school. The headmaster called me to say Don had gotten into a fight with two older students—and beaten the daylights out of them. Apparently, they’d said something unsavory about me to him. I told the headmaster that I don’t approve of violence and would tell my son not to hit other kids. Privately, I was proud of him for defending me. To Don, I said punching wasn’t the answer no matter how mean those boys were. It was better not to give them the satisfaction of knowing they’d gotten to him. Don took my advice to heart and never punched anyone again.

  Eric was only six, too young to understand why there were reporters outside, but he felt the strange energy around the house, much as I tried to sweep it out. His kindergarten teacher called to tell me that three or four times a day, Eric, usually an eager, involved learner, would stare out the window and lose the thread of the lesson in the classroom. If he’d also stopped eating and sleeping well, I would have been alarmed and taken steps. But the teacher and I discussed it and decided it was normal for a child to check out for a bit, especially if there was a change at home. We watched him closely for any sign of real trouble. Fortunately, trouble never reared its head.

  Ivanka was having a hard time at Chapin, too. Some mean girls teased her about the headlines, but she kept her head high and went about her business. Ivanka despised the reporters with a passion, but somehow, she didn’t once reply to their relentless baiting. She wasn’t angry with her father like Don was. In fact, she visited him in his office more often and played on the carpet for longer periods. She’s said that after he moved out, she didn’t take her father for granted anymore and made a point of spending more time with him.

  With the army of reporters outside, I couldn’t casually walk in and out of the main entrance to, say, take my dog for a walk. I had to sneak out through the loading dock. For my forty-first birthday, a few dozen of my friends threw a party for me on Valentine’s Day at La Grenouille, a fantastic French restaurant at Fifth Avenue and East Fifty-Second Street. I was so touched by the show of support from Barbara Walters, Liz Smith, Nikki Haskell, Chessy Rayner, my sister-in-law Blaine Trump, and my mother-in-law, Mary Trump. The press got wind of the luncheon, and the street outside the restaurant was mobbed. Total mayhem. The police closed off the street. People were screaming my name and saying things like “Take him to the cleaners!” My bodyguards had to create a path for me to get to my car to leave. The crowd was definitely on my side, but I didn’t take comfort in it. My family was destroyed. It was nothing to cheer about.

  Columnist Liz Smith gave me great advice about how to handle the media and recommended a publicist. With someone else fending off media requests (I didn’t do a single interview for over a year), I could focus on my number one priority: maintaining a bubble of normalcy for the kids at home.

  I read the columns and articles and I appreciated how many writers (and readers) of the press seemed to take my side. Liz’s profile cast me as a symbol of female strength and dignity. “Ivana is now a media goddess on par with Princess Di, Madonna, and Elizabeth Taylor,” she wrote. The praise was better than a punch in the stomach, but it didn’t change the fact that my world had collapsed.

  I never once played the victim. I have always been a fighter, faced whatever life threw at me head-on, and refused to sink into sadness, grief, or misery, no matter what happened. I would do it again this time, too, not only for my sake, but for my children. I was a Lion Mom who was prepared to do anything to protect her cubs.

  • • •

  Two days after my Valentine’s Day birthday luncheon, the Post ran its infamous “The Best Sex I Ever Had” headline, accompanied by a story detailing what the showgirl apparently said about my husband, accompanied by a picture of Donald, smirking.

  It was the last straw. Any semblance of “normal” was no longer possible. Before that day, a hundred photographers were following us. After that cover, it was a thousand, and they were pushier and more obnoxious than ever. The whole city of New York had gone crazy! For the physical and emotional safety of my children, we had to get out of town immediately and sequester ourselves. It was a few weeks before spring break. I figured I’d pull them out of school early and they’d just do their homework from a safe, private location and fax it in. But where could I go with Don, Ivanka, Eric, Babi, Dedo, Bridget, Dorothy, the dog, and all of our luggage without being swarmed?

  I knew just the place.

  I didn’t make a big deal about it so as not to frighten the children. The staff and I just quietly, methodically moved our stuff out of Trump Tower, into cars, and to the airport. We got on a private plane and touched down in Palm Beach a few hours later. Mar-a-Lago is an enormous property with a private beach and excellent security. No one could get to us there, and I knew nothing upsetting could filter in if I didn’t want it to. The kids would be totally insulated from the hysteria surrounding their parents. In our sanctuary, I upheld the “no crying, no drama” rule, and encouraged the kids to spend time in the sunshine, swim, play, and, of course, keep up with the homework assignments their teachers sent every morning.

  In the past, our Mar-a-Lago retreat had always been alive with people running around and having fun. But that February and March, no one was allowed to come over, not even the kids’ friends. I couldn’t risk anybody talking about us, even to say we were fine and doing well. Providing grist for the gossip mill would defeat the purpose of our escape to Florida. None of our neighbors were invited over, either, although they knew we were there. Circling paparazzi helicopters were a dead giveaway.

  I was very cautious about the household personnel, too. Only key staffers were kept on during those months. Even if something simple and innocent got out to the tabloids, it would have felt like a violation. The first couple of weeks in Palm Beach were difficult. I was reeling and struggled to keep up a brave face for the kids. My only emotional outlet was my parents. I spoke (and cried) only to them about my feelings. They were extremely angry at Donald, whom they’d always loved. As furious as they were, they upheld my rule not to bad-mouth him to the kids. I don’t know what I would have done without their love and support. Being with them reminded me of what I’d already survived. I knew I’d be okay this time, too. I might have to downsize. So what? I could work and get a job outside the Trump Organization. I was smart and passionate; I could support myself and my kids if need be. My parents helped me focus my thoughts on what I had going for me, and my bedrock principles, instead of letting me spiral down into panic and misery. They kept saying, “You did nothing wrong.” So why should I dwell on what I might’ve done differently in my marriage? I’d been a loyal, loving wife, and there was no reason to blame myself for what he did. I’d bounce back from this. One day, I’d be fine, I told myself. For now, I thought, Don’t sit around and think about things you can’t change. Focus on being in control now, and in the future.

  For Don, Ivanka, and Eric, Mar-a-Lago was heaven. They knew why we were there to some extent, but as far as they were concerned, it was an unexpected vacation. They went swimming and played tennis every day, went to the beach, and spent a lot of time under the sun. My father took the kids fishing and my mother made incredible meals for us. I don’t think the kids missed their friends because they had each other. They became a tight little unit in those months and took it to heart that they had to stick together, because, at the end of the day, family is all you’ve got. I think the bonding they did during the spring of 1990 cemented their closeness.

  If the kids ever had a shaky moment or felt overwhelmed, I reminded them what really mattered. “Your father and I love you,” I said. “That will never change.” As complicated as divorce can be—and mine was at the top of the all-time list—the explanations I gave my kids were pretty simple. Were they safe? Did they feel loved? Was it between the parents and not them? Yes, yes, and yes. Even though I answered their questions about the state of my marriage, they were curious to know more. They knew I was holding things back from them. A few
times, I’d go into a room to take a private phone call from a lawyer, and I’d hear sounds in the hallway. I’d open the door to find the kids bent over like they’d had their ears pressed against the wood. They were trying to spy on me! Once caught, they ran away with Chappy chasing after them. It was hard to believe that in such a large home, privacy was nearly impossible. I issued an ironclad house rule: if I was in my room with the door closed, no one was allowed to come in or to go anywhere near it.

  My friends called constantly and sent letters and gifts to Florida, which I appreciated—but I didn’t always call or write back. I had to walk a very fine line with what I said, even to trusted allies. I didn’t want to be paranoid, but more people—a ski instructor, one of my managers at the Plaza—were crawling out of the woodwork to sell their stories about me to the press, and that made me overly cautious. A select few friends came down, including Shirley Lord. Shirley, a beauty editor at Vogue, convinced me to be on the cover of the May 1990 issue of the magazine. Photographer Patrick Demarchelier and the Vogue team of hair and makeup people came to Florida for the shoot in late March, I believe. I got a new hairstyle and posed by the swimming pool. The interview was about style and fashion only, so I didn’t have to lay my soul bare, which was a relief. I’m not usually a fan of photo shoots, but this one was a welcome distraction. It turned out to be a fun day for everyone.

  • • •

  In early May, my parents went back home to Czechoslovakia and the kids and I returned to New York to finish the school year. I plunged immediately into divorce depositions and got through them thanks to my secret weapon: Ira Garr, my charming but tough attorney. During the hours of depositions, he did the talking while I put on my headphones and cranked Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive.” The lawyers were going back and forth, and I was singing in my head, “Did you think I’d crumble? Did you think I’d lay down and die?” Well, that was not going to happen. I would survive. (Hey, hey.) That song has probably helped millions of women get through some very rough times. It worked for me.

  Don was set to switch to the Hill School, a boarding school in rural Pottstown, Pennsylvania, near the abandoned Bethlehem Steel plant. I’d painstakingly chosen it for him based on the recommendation of a family friend who told me it was a structured but nurturing place. I toured the school a few times and checked out the surrounding area. If Don was going to live away from home at boarding school, it had to be just the right place for him. He’d been excited about gaining some independence and getting out of New York, so I was surprised when he told me that summer that he wasn’t sure he wanted to go. He was afraid that if he wasn’t around to support me, I would fall apart. It was the sweetest thing I’d ever heard. I assured him that he had his own life to lead and that I’d be okay. In hindsight, though, I think Don may have been right. The kids were my inspiration to stay mentally tough.

  I’d had some time to think about what had happened between Donald and me. The very thing that made me a role model for my children and gave me so much personal gratification and pride—my career—probably doomed the marriage. My huge professional wins came at a personal cost. My husband I became more like business partners than spouses. We’d talk about work all the time, about the bottom line, the high rollers coming in that weekend, what was going on at the Plaza. He loved what I did for his company, but, on the other hand, he was frustrated that I spent so much time working.

  Behind every successful woman, there is a man in shock. I was too successful to be Mrs. Trump. In our marriage, there couldn’t be two stars. So one of us had to go.

  I resigned in July 1990 from the Trump Organization after a fantastic thirteen-year run. I didn’t leave the Plaza high and dry; I stayed for six months so they had time to find my replacement. Most of my handpicked staff left when I did, but I wasn’t worried about them. They were well trained with great résumés and I knew they’d land on their feet. The vice president of food and beverage became the manager at the Peninsula. The vice president of operations went to the Pierre.

  Immediately after giving notice, I took a six-week vacation to Europe, first taking the kids to my parents’ in Czechoslovakia for their annual visit, and then by myself to London for some fashion shows and to reconnect with friends. On that trip, the fog of divorce started to lift. Coming out of hiding was the best medicine for me. My friends supported me and were behind me. I realized that the divorce was truly liberating. I didn’t have to answer to a man, at work or at home.

  September, as always, felt optimistic. It was the start of a new school year for the kids and a new life for me. It’d been nine months since the Bonnie’s incident, and the press in front of Trump Tower had dwindled to just a handful of jackals. I dared to let myself believe that the worst was behind us.

  The feeling was short-lived. My children and I were hit out of nowhere with a devastating loss just one month later.

  -17-

  DEATHS IN THE FAMILY

  After helping us through the springtime Mar-a-Lago lockdown, my parents returned to their mountain cottage in Moravia where I’d learned to ski and had so many happy memories. The A-frame house sat right on the border between Moravia and Slovakia—in fact, the line ran right through the living room. We joked that it was no-man’s-land, a country of our own, and, because it wasn’t in one or the other, my parents didn’t have to pay taxes!

  One evening in October 1990, my father didn’t feel well, so Mom and a neighbor took him to the hospital. The doctors said he’d had a heart attack and checked him in. For decades, Dedo had smoked forty cigarettes a day, but he’d quit ten years earlier and, as an unfortunate result, put on a lot of weight. My parents made a plan for Dedo to start exercising and eating better as soon as he was released from the hospital. But he never left. The next day, he had a second heart attack and died at sixty-three. If he’d been in an American hospital, maybe the doctors could have saved him, a thought that would torture me for years to come.

  My mother called with the tragic news, and I almost couldn’t believe it. I would never see my father again? It didn’t seem possible that my first love, my hero, the greatest man I’d ever known, was gone. I told Babi that we would fly to her as soon as possible. My assistant at the time, Lisa Calandra, got on the phone and started dealing with the logistics, calling Don’s school, arranging a car to pick him up, organizing our travel plans. I called Donald to tell him what was going on. Pre-split, he and Dedo had always been very close. Donald was shocked and saddened by the news, and immediately offered his private plane to take us to Europe.

  I had a little time to compose myself before Ivanka and Eric got home from school and Don arrived by car. They knew something was going on, and Don wanted to know why he’d been pulled out of school. I sat them down and said, “My father passed away this morning. He had a heart attack in the hospital and they couldn’t save him.”

  Their reaction was instantaneous, an explosion of crying and hysterical freaking out. Children’s emotions are raw and open. They don’t have the layers of defensiveness that adults do. Seeing their pain brought mine to the surface. We hugged and sobbed together.

  The next day, we flew to my mother. By the time we landed, she’d already arranged the funeral, which took place three days after the death. As soon as Donald’s plane dropped us off, the pilot turned around to go back to New York to get Donald. I was very touched that he brought his mother, Mary, with him for the funeral. She was a kindhearted, generous woman, and it meant a lot to me that she came to pay my father her last respects. (I paid my respects to her at her funeral in 2000, and to Fred Trump the year before hers.) Even though Mary was Scottish and Dedo was Czech, and they came from different worlds and backgrounds, they had a warm relationship. The other mourners were from all eras of my father’s life, his friends and colleagues, and our neighbors. Dedo was beloved by so many.

  My memories of the funeral in Zlín are blurry at best. I was still in shock. Somehow, the boys put on their suits and Ivanka and I got into our dres
ses. Dad had an open casket, his body plainly visible, and I was worried that the kids would be afraid or confused. They hadn’t experienced loss yet or seen a dead body. Eric was too small, only six, and didn’t ask any questions. Ivanka and Don understood that although Dedo’s body was in the coffin, his essence and spirit were not there anymore.

  Pallbearers carried the casket into the cemetery in the woods nearby, and we said our prayers and threw flowers on the casket as it was lowered into the ground. I remember my kids’ faces, crushed with suffering. I did my best to comfort them, but there was little I could say that would ease the pain of losing someone they were all so close to. Don had spent summers at the chalet, just him and Dedo, for years. At that time, he was only barely speaking to Donald. Looking back, I can hardly believe what Don went through in that one calendar year: the split, the media onslaught and public divorce, moving away from home to boarding school, and then the passing of his beloved grandfather. All the while, he was constantly aware and concerned about how his siblings and I were coping. Throughout that horrible day, he kept one eye on Ivanka and Eric. Don’s strength at twelve amazes me to this day.

  The boys would like to say a few words about Dedo:

  * * *

  ERIC

  Dedo was a huge influence in our life. In Florida and Greenwich, we spent countless hours fishing with him. He bought me my first BB guns and a 50cc Suzuki dirt bike, which Don and I treasured. Dedo was an engineer, and he loved working with his hands. If he could design it, he could build it.