Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty

by Theodora Getty Gaston

  “Yes and no,” I began to explain. “It’s my nickname.”

  “Oh, like me—Kostya for Constantine.”

  “Yes, but Constantine isn’t a Turkish name, is it?”

  “No,” he said, “it’s Russian. My father was Russian and my mother Turkish. My real name is Constantine, Constantinovitch Prokofieff. My father died in the Revolution. He was the captain of the czar’s guards. My mother brought me up in Turkey and then, when I graduated from university, I went to live in Hungary. I have my own home there, in Budapest. Have you ever been to Budapest?” I shook my head. “No? Well, you will come one day, and you will love it.”

  “I’m sure,” I replied, wondering what made him think that. His eyes twinkled as though they held a secret. They were brown, and so was his hair, which was darker and slicked back, very European. He had a great smile. He was tall, taller than I. I asked him where he had learned to speak English and he answered quite casually, “At school. I speak six languages fluently and understand two others.”

  “Really?” I figured that was one more than Paul. “And is that helpful in business?”

  “Definitely. You see, I am in the export-import business. But, please, Teddy, may I not come to your maestro’s home to hear you girls sing this afternoon?”

  “Yes. Call us there, and we’ll ask him. Here is his number: Roma 582211.”

  Precisely at that moment, Ethi reappeared, happy that Signor Arguesci was going to allow her to live freely in Rome, as long as she reported to him once a month.

  Overjoyed, we said good-bye to Kostya, ran out of the Questura, jumped into my car, and raced off to get lunch. Ethi looked back and said, “Mein Gott, Teddy, that Kostya is so handsome. And do you know, all the time he and I were talking, he was looking at you.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Ethi,” I replied. But it was nice to hear. It had been so long since anyone had looked at me.

  We were in the middle of the second act of La Bohème when the telephone in the hall rang. The maid poked her head in the door and said, “Scusi, Maestro, c’è qualcuno chi vuol parlare con la signorina americana.”

  Ethi was in the middle of singing “Musetta’s Waltz.” When she finished, I went to the phone. It was Kostya. I asked Moreschi to speak with him, and Moreschi invited him over.

  He appeared in minutes at the front door. We decided he must have phoned from the corner café. Ethi and I then sang our arias, and he listened, applauded, and complimented us. Moreschi, too. Then Kostya very gallantly invited everyone to dine with him at the Taberna Ulpia, one of the most glamorous restaurants still operating in Rome.

  After descending stairs carved out of rock, we found ourselves in the subterranean ruins of ancient Rome, which had been transformed into a gorgeous dining room. It was a magical evening, and we all sang in the carriage going home.

  I didn’t plan for Kostya to become such an important part of my life. It just happened. I was heading home after my lesson late the next afternoon. It was getting dark. Kostya had asked me to meet him for a drink at a little bistro near my apartment. Suddenly, the sirens started to wail. Air raid wardens swarmed the streets, forcing people into the shelters. I didn’t want to spend time or die in some underground with strangers, so I started running down the center of the corso in an attempt to reach the bistro. I could hear the planes as they roared overhead and saw the bursts of antiaircraft fire, but I kept running through the screaming crowds and clouds of ash till I saw the door of the bistro.

  I dashed through it, straight into the arms of Kostya, so scared and so grateful that I just hung on to him. I didn’t want to let go. We stood there, his arms around me, for a long, long time. When the sirens stopped and the raid was over, I looked up at him and he kissed me.

  It was so good to be held and kissed. I’d almost forgotten what it was like, and I kissed him back. I was so glad to be alive. I could still hear the planes as they roared away, the screaming people, the flashes of antiaircraft fire. All at once, the war became very real for me. The thought that at any second I might just be blown up, that life might end, made the moment I knew I was still living seem so precious, even if it was in the arms of a stranger.

  I became aware of those around us, children crying, men swearing, everyone very conscious that for this night, at least, we were the lucky ones. I couldn’t stop trembling, so Kostya pulled me over to the bar, where he ordered brandies. I drank mine in a hurry, but it didn’t have as good of an effect as having his arms around me, which felt like being in the arms of a great big bear, but a handsome one with a beautiful mouth. And what an entrancing smile he had. But right now he looked anxious. Was he afraid the planes might return? I knew I was.

  We moved to the door. It was dark outside, the streets filled with ash and smoke. People were tripping over each other as they hurried along to their homes. Kostya took my hand and we made our way through the crowd and up the Janiculum Hill to my apartment, climbing the six flights of stairs to my little penthouse. I opened the door, but there was no electricity, so I found some candles. Then, starving, we raided the icebox for whatever Maria had left for my supper: cold chicken, salad, grapes—and a bottle of Frascati that Kostya found hanging off a nail in the kitchen.

  We tried calling Moreschi and Ethi, but all the phones were dead. We walked out onto the terrace, where the night sky, devoid of moon or stars, showed from time to time flashes of far away antiaircraft fire, way beyond the mountain range, southward toward Naples.

  Below, the city of Rome seemed quiet, except for an occasional whistle or cry of “luce,” when someone’s lights could be seen. Even in the dark, we could make out the Tiber river, as it wound its way through the city and down to Ostia, Anzio, and the sea.

  Candlelight showed faintly through my windows and, not wanting an air raid warden to fine me, we went inside and let down the wooden shutters. It was cold and damp. I went into my bedroom for a blanket. Kostya followed and, like it was the most normal thing to do, we lay down on the bed, pulled the blanket up around us, and held each other for I don’t know how long. Still scared the French might come back again, that we might really be hit and die, I shuddered. But when Kostya kissed me, this time I responded as passionately as he, and found myself wanting to make love with him. To defy death in this terror of war. To belong, no matter what and in that moment, you just need to make love. And we did. I shall never forget the peace it brought me. I was no longer afraid.

  And thus began the most passionate relationship I ever had. Absolutely wrong, I know, for I was married to a wonderful man, whom I loved and longed to be with, but hadn’t seen for more than a year. A man who believed in me, in my talent, who had given me such a wonderful opportunity to study, who made exquisite love to me . . . but not like this.

  I shouldn’t have, but I fell under the spell of this young Russian-Turkish boy, who was only a few years older than I, and who, in the next few weeks, absolutely convinced me that we were made for each other, to be together forever. And when I was with him, I believed it, too.

  “If Paul loved you, as I do,” Kostya would say, pacing up and down, “he’d be here to take you back to America. Divorce him, Teddy. Marry me and come with me to Budapest. Please, I can take care of you.”

  “Kostya, I can’t. I have a job. Anyway, I don’t need to be taken care of. I’m a singer. I want to sing.”

  “Then I go to America and see your Paul. He must give you up.”

  “I think he already has, for the way I’ve acted, but, no, Kostya, I’m the one who must go back to America and see Paul.” I looked at Kostya. “I was hurt by him, but I’m not anymore. Paul’s just not like me. We’re different, but he’s a wonderful man.”

  “I’m sure he is,” interrupted Kostya. “Still, he doesn’t love you the way I do. Remember the first day we met?”

  “You mean at the police station?”

  “Yes. I felt from the first moment that you were the girl meant for me, and now . . . now I know it.”

  I smiled. �
��How strange, Kostya.”

  “What is?”

  “I felt the way you looked at me, when you looked into my eyes, like we’d known each other somewhere before. That we were meant to meet again.”

  “You did?”

  I nodded.

  “Well,” he added, “now that we have, how can you even think of leaving me? We were meant to be together, Teddy. This I know. You may be married to Paul, but you belong to me. It’s my heart that speaks.”

  WE WERE HAVING a caffè with Moreschi. I had just finished my lesson, and Kostya had come for me. He was very excited about news he had just received from the head of the Budapest Symphony Hall. They were interested in the concert Moreschi and Somma had offered them, which meant that Ethi and I would be part of a group of artists going to Budapest within a few weeks. I couldn’t believe that, in this time of war, there would be an interchange of artists between these two countries, but Ethi and I were overjoyed at the possibility. When she left the studio to tell Moreschi’s wife the news, Kostya turned to Moreschi and asked, “Maestro, tell me, is Ethi Jewish, by any chance?”

  “No, she is pure Austrian, why?”

  “Well, she could be, and that might make a difference in her going to Budapest. I don’t think they would accept her. She might even be in danger.”

  “But she is now an English citizen,” I said. “I was there when she gave up her German passport. In fact, I’ll never forget the look on that consul’s face when she threw it on the floor at his feet.”

  “Let me go and speak with her,” Moreschi said.

  When he left, I looked at Kostya. “Do you remember you said to me not so long ago, ‘I love you, Teddy. It is my heart that speaks’?” He nodded. “Well, what would your heart say now . . . if it knew that the girl you loved was part Jewish?”

  “Are you serious, Teddy?” He looked shocked, dismayed.

  “Very serious.”

  “You never spoke of this before.”

  “You never asked.”

  For a moment, he couldn’t speak. Then, almost choking, he said, “I would say to this girl, ‘I’m leaving.’ ” He picked up his hat and coat and started for the door. “And, if for some reason I don’t come back in time to pick her up for supper, it means—” He broke off. “You see . . .” He looked at me with tears in his eyes. “I was brought up to hate Jews. So this is the worst, the most disturbing problem my heart has ever had to face in its life.” And with that, he left.

  I stood there beside the piano, not believing that this was happening. I just wanted to die. Why, I asked myself, do people hate each other because of their blood or color of skin? When did this start, and why can’t it be stopped? My mother claimed I wasn’t a Jew, because she wasn’t. She believed this to be true, but then, why did she never allow us to mention the Lytton family? Was it because, if she had, her friends in Greenwich would have thought less of her? Was it that she couldn’t have bought the house in Belle Haven, because no Jews were allowed to buy there? I always wondered who these other people were, whose opinions were so important that they could decide who could or could not live in their community. They weren’t better people, or wiser people, or more devoted to God than we. I never was told why I was supposed to hide this side of my family. It made me sad and diminished my self-esteem, because I knew in my heart that I was as much a child of God as everyone else in the world. I thought of Paul’s words: “I’m proud to be marrying the granddaughter of Henry Charles Lytton.” It was Grandfather’s qualities Paul admired, not his blood. Many times Paul would say, “Remember, Teddy, before God we are all equal.”

  Maybe Paul thought he was smarter than most people, and he proved it by working harder than most, but he never ever made religion or blood a reason for hating people as Hitler did. When I finally returned to America, I was astonished to hear that some people thought Paul was a Nazi sympathizer. He wasn’t. How could he be? He married me!

  Then I thought of what Kostya had said: “I was brought up to hate Jews.” What a terrible upbringing, to be taught to hate. And that was what was happening all over the world. You’re one of them, Kostya, I thought to myself, and you don’t even know it.

  I stopped, for Moreschi had come back into the room, shaking his head. “No, Ethi is not Jewish, Teddy, but my asking brought her to tears, for her best friend, Edie von Portheim, in Salzburg, was tortured and murdered . . . Poveretta,” he muttered.

  Then, sitting down at the piano, he started to play the introduction to the aria “Pace, pace, mio Dio” from the opera La forza del destino. Turning to me, he said, “Andiamo alla battaglia con la musica, Cara.”

  As the thrilling introduction of the aria began, I took a breath and started to sing. It was almost like a prayer for the world to stop hating, and though I didn’t realize it, I no longer thought of just Kostya alone, but of those who would die in this ghastly war of hate. It was as though Moreschi and I were attempting to dissolve Hate with Love. Suddenly, I became aware that Kostya had come back into the room and was now standing beside me.

  As the aria came to a dramatic end, there was a moment of silence. Then the kitchen door burst open and Ethi and the signora rushed in, applauding wildly. Kostya, leaning down, whispered, “Forgive the fool I’ve been for even recalling words of hate I was taught as a child. I love you, Teddy, now and forever. You are my love, my soul mate.” Then he kissed me tenderly, and I realized everyone was staring at us.

  Ethi broke the silence with “Bravo, Teddy. See what your voice has done to this young man? Just wait till the world hears you.”

  And with that they all applauded. I smiled, but I wanted to cry.

  CHAPTER 21

  THE RIGHT TO GO HOME

  Rome in November can be very cold and damp. As the days grew shorter, I’d awaken to find it still very dark outside. Kostya had received word that his mother was ill and he had been called back to Ankara. I had been with him the night he left by train and, though he promised that nothing could keep him from returning to me, I had a premonition that we’d never meet again. It had been eight days since I had stood on the station platform and watched as the train pulled away. With no word from him since, I’d lie in bed alone and wait for the sun to rise beyond the mountains and flood my terrace with its blessed warmth.

  One morning very early, the phone rang. It was Allen. He told me that he might be leaving at any minute. He was waiting for orders. Someone would take his place. I was to keep writing and, above all, “Don’t be afraid, Teddy,” he said. “No matter what happens, you are protected.”

  I had no sooner hung up than the phone rang again. It was the Maestro. “Something wonderful has happened,” he said excitedly. Moreschi had arranged for me to sing over the shortwave radio to America the following week and, thanks to Allen and the Herald Tribune, I was able to get word to my family and Paul, which made me very happy.

  The day of the broadcast, I was told to be at the studio at 3:30 A.M. for rehearsal. Moreschi himself would be my accompanist. The show would start at 4 A.M. My excitement couldn’t be dampened even by the possibility that this broadcast may have been the Italian government’s attempt to lull America’s shortwave listeners into complacency. Paul might be listening and, even though I would not be able to speak to him, I could at least reach out to him through song. Hopefully, he might just think I had improved.

  As the minute hand moved toward the hour of four, the red light suddenly went on. “Hello, America, this is Rome, Italy,” the announcer began. “And tonight we proudly present the lovely singer Miss Teddy Lynch, from the famous Stork Club in New York. She will sing for you the aria ‘O mio babbino caro’ from Puccini’s Gianni Schicchi, and ‘Pace, pace, mio Dio’ from Verdi’s La Forza del Destino.” Then, with great verve, Moreschi thundered into the opening overture, and suddenly I was on. I sang from my heart, and I knew I did my best.

  The next morning, Allen called. “You were great,” he said. “Come on over to the office, I’m trying to get a call through to Paul in Ca
lifornia.” I was astonished. I threw on my clothes and ran all the way across Rome to be there if the call really went through.

  And it did! Hearing Paul’s voice say, “Hello . . . is that you, Teddy? Darling . . . you were marvelous!” made me want to cry.

  “Hi,” I said, nearly in tears, “I’m so glad.”

  “Guess who was with me?” He went on . . . “Maria Jeritza, the great Tosca, and her husband, Winnie Sheehan, the Hollywood producer. They’d invited me to dine with them. About a half hour before your broadcast, we went out to my car and turned on the shortwave band, but there wasn’t enough power. So Sheehan said, ‘Let’s dash over to my studio and get an engineer to turn on the shortwave set there!’ We got there just in time to hear the announcer say, ‘Hello, America.’ I didn’t listen to anything else he said, just waited breathlessly until you sang your first tone. It was truly beautiful, darling, I’m so—”

  Suddenly, there was a click and the phone went dead. Complete silence. I looked up at Allen. He just smiled and said, “This is war, Teddy.”

  “I know,” I answered, “but he heard me.” Years later, I found a recording of that shortwave broadcast.

  Hans Hasl, the handsome young Austrian pianist I’d met at Madame Cahier’s, often came to my little apartment to accompany me when I needed to rehearse my roles. Exactly one week after the broadcast, while we were working on the opera Otello, there was heavy knocking on the door. Maria opened it, and there stood two scowling members of the Gestapo. They pushed past me and walked up to Hans, demanding his passport.

  “You have no right here,” I said. “This is the home of an American.”

  “We are Germans,” the heavier of the two said. He wore the uniform of an SS officer. “We have jurisdiction everywhere.”

  “But not over me,” I said, placing myself between them and Hans.

  The heavyset officer, who was also the oldest, stared at me. I felt his hate and contempt for everything American in his voice as he screamed, “Hans Hasl, get to your feet!” Hans, a musician, was still an able-bodied Austrian male, which meant he was supposed to be in the army of the Third Reich.