Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty

by Theodora Getty Gaston

  “I’m an American,” I said. “Italy has declared war on my country.”

  She was shocked. A nun who saw us speaking came quickly over and herded us to five o’clock Mass. As we walked along, the woman whispered, “I’m the nurse to Princess Pallavicini’s children. I’m Irish. Maybe that’s why they imprisoned me.”

  “Shush,” the nun said. “Talking is forbidden.” She guided us toward the chapel.

  After Mass, we were herded into a line and served black bread and a bitter coffee called orzo (burnt barley). I was then put in a cell with four other women. One was a Nazi agent, seemingly too unimportant for her government to bother releasing her; another was an Austrian Jewess, imprisoned for her failure to declare jewelry as she left her country; the third was a young Italian girl, who was serving the eighth month of a life sentence for attempting to steal food during a blackout; and the fourth, an abortionist.

  At the end of the week, I asked if I could take a bath. Like the other women, I had been using the hole in the floor at the end of the corridor as a toilet, with other prisoners looking on. I was desperate for some privacy. One of the nuns gained permission for me to go up to the top floor of the prison, to the infirmary, a huge room with an antiquated bathtub standing in the center. The nun handed me a bar of yellow soap (the kind we used for cleaning floors back home) and a large worn towel. “Put your clothes in the outer room,” she said. “I’ll come back later and meet you there.” I bathed, wrapped myself in the towel, and came out to find that someone had stolen my slip.

  During the first few days, I hadn’t eaten any of what they called food, but gave it to the women who were still nursing their babies. About thirty of them had been packed into a cell right across from mine. At mealtime, the women, all holding their babies in their arms, would push and shove their way close to the bars, frantically trying to elbow one another away from the front. Those who made it would hold their bowls out between the bars and yell out to me, “D’ai a me.” (“Give it to me.”) One day, a poor woman, holding her infant in her arms, yelled out, “Give it to me, Signorina, I need it more. I have another baby inside.”

  Each night in our cell, much to our astonishment, the Nazi prisoner disrobed and washed herself completely in the ice-cold water. She was belligerent to us all, but especially to the Austrian girl, who was very frightened. I became deeply concerned about the girl’s situation, as she had been seized by the Gestapo when her plane had stopped at the Rome airport, en route from Salzburg to Montevideo, Uruguay. “I was thrown in jail because I didn’t declare an antique gold ring of my grandmother’s,” she told me. “It has no monetary value, just sentimental. I am so frightened they will kill me.”

  On the seventh day of my imprisonment at about twelve noon—just after our usual horrible bowl of soup, which by now I had to eat to stay alive—the door to our cell opened and the guards walked in. After looking all of us over, they pointed at me and said, “Le signorina americana e’libertà.”

  “Not before I finish my soup,” I cried out, holding on to the bowl as if it were the exquisite soup served at 21. I sat there hunched over, gobbling that soup, thinking it might be my last meal on earth, glancing up occasionally to see if I could determine from the guards’ facial expressions what they were going to do to me. Was I really to be freed, or was it a trick to take me out and have me shot?

  After I’d embraced my cellmates, they led me away. As I walked down the corridor, the cries of fellow prisoners followed me.

  “Teddy, don’t forget to tell them about me.”

  “Call Fernando. He will get me out of here,” yelled a voluptuous girl named Giovanna. “He is with the opera.”

  Another, pounding her breast, cried, “They let you out. While a faithful Italian is left to die.”

  I was taken to the police station and brought before Cavaliera Aguesci, chief of the Rome police—the same man who had allowed Ethi to stay in the city as an enemy alien, as long as she reported to him on a regular basis. Now that seemed like a lifetime ago. He greeted me with a smile and asked, “How do you like our prison, signorina?”

  Frightened at what he might decide to do with me, I boldly answered, “Fine, thank you, Excellence. I’ll write about it when I get home.”

  “Until then,” he said, “I’m sending you to be with the other American journalists. How’s that?”

  “Oh, thank you, sir,” I managed to say as I was escorted out of his chambers by two officers.

  CHAPTER 23

  SIENA

  It was getting dark as they drove me through Rome, down the Corso Umberto, to a third-rate boardinghouse, the Pensione Suquet, which I believe had once been a brothel.

  After climbing six flights of stairs, I was presented to the detectives, who sat in the hallway, guarding the Americans. Once they got all my papers straightened out, the officers left. The detectives opened the door, and I was pushed inside a huge room filled with smoke. There in the half-light I could barely make out the silhouettes of six men sitting around a table. One of them, Reynolds Packard, quickly got up, came to the door, and stared open-mouthed as I stumbled into his arms. “My God!” he yelled. “It’s Teddy Lynch!” And with that they surrounded me, firing questions. “How are you?” “Where’ve you been for the last week?”

  Astounded that I had been imprisoned longer than they had, Packard jokingly conceded that I had a better story than theirs. “Not really,” I said, hastily telling them all that had happened to me.

  Herbert Matthews and Camille Cianfarra of the New York Times; Richard Massock of the Associated Press; and Robert Allen-Tuska, Livingston Pomeroy, and their chief, Reynolds Packard, of Rome’s United Press . . . these were my cellmates. God love them. They were wonderful to me.

  After giving me food and drink, they showed me to a bedroom guarded by a detective, down the hall but close enough to them so that I could yell if attacked. This made me feel safe for the first time since Pearl Harbor. And for the next five days, I felt secure.

  Then on the sixth day, at 6 A.M., the head of the police came to see us. We were herded into the main salon and told to get ready to leave for Siena. Everyone but me, that is. Almost immediately they left, and I was alone.

  For the next four days I saw nobody, except for a visit from Monsignor Hugh O’Flaherty. I had a cold and was in bed when he came to see me. He told me not to worry, because he was “in touch with Wadsworth.” Pulling his chair up close to my bed, he leaned over and whispered, “Kiss me.”

  Thinking I should kiss his ring, I took his hand and put it to my lips. But he reached over, pulled me roughly to him, and tried to kiss me on the mouth. I pushed him away, frightened and horrified. Then I looked at him, smiled, and said, “The day I’m free, I’ll kiss you, monsignor,” and he left.

  A week later I was taken to my apartment, where I packed my clothes, then taken to board the night train for Siena with a police guard. When we arrived just before midnight, the town was blacked-out, quiet. We drove to the police station, but the chief was not there. It was December 31, 1941. Finally, after calling all over town, they located the chief in bed with his girlfriend, and asked him to come to the jail.

  He arrived within the hour, furious and swearing at everyone. “Rome wants you to put her with the other Americans,” the guard said.

  The chief picked up a pen from his desk and threw it at the guard, piercing his hand, and screamed, “Rome cannot dictate what I do! This is Siena, idiot. I’ll decide what to do with her. Meanwhile, put her in a cell.”

  This brought me to my feet. I went to the chief. “Please, Excellence,” I pleaded through tears I could not control, “please let me go with the other Americans.” Seeing my tears, he finally consented. In minutes, Reynolds Packard was called. Under police escort, he took me to the Excelsior Hotel, where I was reunited with the other American war correspondents.

  I was given a key to a bedroom on the second floor, next to a large room that we used as a clubroom. We dubbed it the Club Suquet, where w
e’d start fires in the fireplace, play bridge, read, or sit around and talk about the war, our families, and home. Down the hall were the bedrooms of the other journalists. Everyone chipped in on wine and tortellini, but I bought the chocolates. We ate fairly well.

  On the third day we were called before the chief of police and told that we stayed up too late disturbing other guests. I was accused of wearing slacks in the hotel, which was against the law in Italy for women at that time. Two in the group were accused of “smoking pipes in the hotel lobby in an arrogant manner.”

  Months went by, and the uncertainty of when we would be allowed to leave caused a terrific strain. My situation was the worst, since no one knew whether or not I was to be included on the diplomatic train with my fellow journalists. In February 1942, I wrote Mr. Wadsworth to have someone get in touch with my husband, brother, and the New York Herald Tribune to reassure me I was on the list. He never replied. It wasn’t till late April that I was told I’d be included.

  On May 3, all of us were transferred from Siena to Rome in an already overcrowded train. It only stopped at one station, where a whole brigade of German soldiers rushed aboard. Running madly down the aisles, they smashed everything as they stormed by. I cried as they crushed a cage of birds I’d been keeping, killing them.

  Arriving in Rome, we were put up in the Grand Hotel until the morning of May 13, when we left the city with the embassy staff, aboard the last diplomatic train for Portugal. In Portugal we were to be exchanged for Nazi and Fascist diplomats and journalists being returned from America.

  As I stepped onto the train, a very tall, attractive Army captain walked up to me and handed me two packets wrapped in blue and pink ribbons. I immediately recognized them as letters from Paul and Kostya, which the police had taken from my apartment six months earlier, the night they put me in jail. Smiling he said, “Buon viaggio, signorina.” Then, lowering his voice he whispered, “Confidentially, which one do you really love?”

  I looked up at him and smiled. “Capitano,” I replied. “You, an Italian, asking me? Why, I love them both, of course!”

  Our diplomatic train traveled through a very dismal, unoccupied France and Spain, finally stopping at Portbou, Spain, where we pulled down our windows and tossed all our bread out to the hungry little children below. When we finally arrived at Estoril, Portugal, by the sea, we were all put up at a hotel. There was a cable waiting for me from Paul at the American Embassy, but I wasn’t able to reach him by transatlantic phone. Ware, who was at the Herald Tribune office in New York, did call and, through our laughter and tears, he told me not to speak to anyone, but to write my article for the paper and be ready to leave on the steamship Drottningholm, which would arrive in Portugal in a few days. “Give my love to Paul, Mom, and the kids,” I screamed, but the phone went dead.

  Estoril, a free port, was wild. Every nationality was there—American, French, Greek, German, Italian, Japanese, Russian, Spanish, Swedish, English. The gambling casinos were jammed each night, as were the restaurants. Several nights, when we dined, we were seated right next to the enemy, a table of Nazis or Japanese.

  It was strange and scary, and my group wouldn’t let me go anywhere alone. During a late supper I excused myself from the table and headed for the ladies’ room. Suddenly, I heard a voice behind me saying, “Not so fast, Teddy. Don’t worry, I’ll wait for you here.” It was Bruce, one of the English journalists.

  “Thanks, I won’t be long,” I replied.

  At that moment, two very tall nuns in heavy black habits rushed by us and disappeared into the ladies’ room. I followed, took a stall, and closed the door. I couldn’t help but hear some sort of rustling in the stall next to me. Looking down, I was amazed to see a nun’s black robe being pulled up to reveal . . . boots—army boots! And they were straddling the toilet. This was no woman, but a man dressed as a nun. What was he doing here? And where was the other one? Was this a trap? Was it me they wanted? Oh my God . . .

  Suddenly, a group of young girls burst into the ladies’ room, laughing and screaming. This was my chance . . . I had to get out. I made my way through them to the door, and threw myself into the arms of Bruce telling him, “Those nuns aren’t nuns! They’re soldiers!” As he rushed me back to our table, I turned and saw that the nuns were now completely surrounded by the girls.

  Finally, the Drottningholm arrived. We boarded her and headed out to sea, toward America. I slept on deck all the way across the Atlantic because my stateroom was way down in the depths of the ship, and I couldn’t breathe there. I wrapped a blanket around myself and lay down on the deck, behind a bulwark and out of the wind. Livingston Pomeroy usually joined me.

  The nights were absolutely beautiful. There was a tiny moon and many stars. It was summer. The sea was calm, winds warm. For our protection we were lighted from bow to stern with the words Diplomatic and Red Cross painted on either side of the ship. Several times during the crossing, a German submarine emerged off our bow at night. Like some gigantic predatory shark, it glided beside us through the dark waters for a few miles, then suddenly disappeared.

  Just for fun, I wrote this little ditty to the tune of “Home on the Range,” and sang it to everyone in the bar.

  O please take us home on the old Drottningholm,

  Where the unemployed diplomats play.

  Where seldom is heard an intelligent word,

  And the bar stays wide open all day!

  O . . . Say can you see. If you can you’re more sober than we.

  For we’re out on a toot and we don’t give a hoot

  Till we land in the Land of the Free.

  We arrived in New York like conquering heroes. The harbor was jammed with boats coming to welcome us. As we passed the Statue of Liberty, my heart skipped a beat. I wondered if Paul would be there to surprise me. Rushing down to my stateroom, I grabbed my handbag and the article I’d written for the Herald Tribune. I noticed that my luggage had already been picked up, and I hurried back up on deck, just as the ship made its way into port.

  As we drew closer, I could see my brother Ware out on the pier, waving to me. Paul wasn’t there. Then a woman officer touched my arm and said, “Come with me, young lady.” Obediently, I followed her down several flights to a room with two other women officers. They closed the door and said, “Give us your handbag and take off your clothes. You are to be searched.”

  As I started to take off my coat, tears came to my eyes. I was in shock. They must think I’m a spy, I told myself. The idea of me being anything but an American who would give her life for her country, and who was now being interrogated as the enemy, broke my heart. I told them this as I undressed. But they just stared at me.

  I took off my suit coat and dropped my skirt, still crying. As I started to unbutton my blouse, the door opened and a senior officer walked in. “You can stop now,” she said. “Put your things back on. You’re free to go.”

  Turning to the other officers, she said, “We found the girl.” Then she walked out.

  I put my clothes on and, as I left, I was handed my pocketbook. “Be careful who sees the postcards you have in here, they are very startling,” said the first officer with a smile.

  “Pompeii?” she questioned.

  “No . . . Herculaneum,” I said and hurried out.

  Down the gangway to the pier, I was photographed by many of the reporters, but finally seeing Ware, I ran to him and threw myself into his arms. We jumped into a waiting limo and drove uptown, straight to the Pierre, where my mom and sisters were waiting for me.

  What a reunion! I was beyond happy, even though Paul hadn’t come to meet me. He was in Tulsa, as Ware explained, assigned by the War Department to build planes and to train pilots for the navy.

  He phoned. It was strange to hear his voice, but it excited me. “Teddy,” he said. “I wanted to meet you, but I couldn’t leave, you understand?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Are you with your mother and the girls?”

  “Y
es, Paul, and I’m so excited. I still can’t believe I’m here.”

  “Well, you are, thank God. Will you come to Tulsa?”

  “Do you want me?”

  “You know I do!”

  “Then I’ll come.”

  “Soon?”

  “As soon as you wish.”

  “Make it Saturday. That will give you time to be with your mother and sisters. I’ll pick you up at the station. Bye, darling . . . Are you sure you’re all right, Teddy?”

  “Yes, I’m all right. Bye, Paul.”

  “Bye, Teddy.”

  As I put the phone down, I thought back to the last time we’d said good-bye to each other, in Rome at the railway station. He’d been leaving on the train for Naples and here we were, two years later, and he was going to meet me at the train station in Tulsa.

  To be free in my own country was absolutely overwhelming. To sleep in a nice bed, eat fresh bread and butter, drink fresh orange juice, sip good coffee, munch Hershey bars, and eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches . . . and, best of all, to eat a great lunch ending with a vanilla ice cream sundae covered in chocolate sauce . . . what a treat!

  Everyone I saw, even though we were still at war, seemed so free, so hearty, so full of life. It made me so happy to be home again. I couldn’t help thinking how lucky we were to live in America, and what a fabulous city New York was.

  I had to laugh at the maid doing our rooms at the Pierre. She was astounded at finding bread that I had hidden all over the place. Mom explained to her that it had become automatic for me to put leftover bread in my pockets, fearing I might not get more. The Italian maître d’ at the Cotillion Room seemed to understand and, before I left, handed me a loaf wrapped in silver paper. “Signora Getty, don’t worry, there’s plenty more bread here.”

  After being interviewed by Life magazine, submitting my article to the Herald Tribune, and meeting Wild Bill Donovan of the CIA and being questioned by him regarding what I knew about the Italians, I said good-bye to Mom, my sisters, and Ware and left on the train for Tulsa, Oklahoma.