Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir

12

André Malraux and Marilyn Monroe

Mrs. Kennedy and André Malraux at White House dinner

The trip to India and Pakistan had truly been an adventure and Mrs. Kennedy couldn’t stop talking about it. For three days, she stayed in London, at Lee and Stash Radziwill’s posh townhouse at No. 4 Buckingham Place, not far from Buckingham Palace, and while there was one official visit with Queen Elizabeth, mostly it was meant to be a few days of relaxation before returning to the United States.

Mrs. Kennedy and Lee regaled Stash with stories of their adventures, and when Stash would be disbelieving about something, Mrs. Kennedy would turn to me and say, “Tell him, Mr. Hill. Didn’t it happen just as we said?”

She seemed to recall every detail of every fort and palace she had visited, and was still in awe over the magnificent Islamic architecture, the splendor of the Taj Mahal, the opulence of the Indian president’s residence. During one of these conversations, I must not have responded in the way she expected to something she had said, because she suddenly turned to me and asked teasingly, “Doesn’t anything ever impress you, Mr. Hill?”

I remember looking at her lounging on the sofa in casual slacks, a cigarette in her hand, laughing, so relaxed with her sister and Stash. I wanted to say, “You know what impresses me, Mrs. Kennedy? You. Everything you do impresses me. The way you handle yourself with such grace and dignity without compromising your desire to enjoy life and have fun. You don’t even realize the impact you have, how much you are admired, how you just single-handedly created bonds between the United States and two strategic countries far better than any diplomats could have done. And you did it just by being curious and interested and sincere and gracious. Just by being yourself. No politics. No phoniness. Just you being you.”

But I was there to do my job, and my job did not entail saying things like that to her. So all I said was “I guess it takes a lot to impress me, Mrs. Kennedy.”

WHEN WE RETURNED to Washington on Thursday, March 29, the president was waiting at Washington National Airport to greet Mrs. Kennedy. There were lots of press and it was a heartwarming homecoming. As it turned out, Sardar had not yet arrived, but arrangements had been made for the horse to be delivered on a Military Air Transport Services (MATS) plane a couple of weeks later. Somehow President Ayub Khan had convinced someone to allow Sardar’s trainer to accompany the horse on the long journey, with specific instructions not to leave Sardar until he was delivered to Mrs. Kennedy. So when Sardar showed up at Andrews Air Force Base in the middle of the night, poor General Godfrey McHugh, President Kennedy’s military aide who had been charged with handling the rather delicate arrangements, was in for quite a shock when the trainer, all decked out in his military attire—the red jacket with brass buttons, white jodhpurs, boots, and turban—got off the plane with the damn horse.

When we returned from the India and Pakistan trip, it was back to our normal routine of Middleburg on the weekends, with Mrs. Kennedy returning to the White House for special functions.

After ten days in Palm Beach for Easter, we returned to the White House the day before another historic dinner honoring Nobel Prize winners from the Western Hemisphere. Impressive as it was to host forty-nine Nobel laureates in her home, Mrs. Kennedy was far more concerned with and excited about a dinner two weeks later honoring André Malraux, the French minister of culture.

While many Americans might not have been familiar with Malraux, he was one of Mrs. Kennedy’s idols, and she had become enamored with him during her trip to Paris the year before. Malraux had led an extraordinary life: he was an adventurer/explorer, a Spanish Civil War veteran, a World War II resistance leader who had escaped from a Nazi prison, and had served in the de Gaulle administration since its inception. But Mrs. Kennedy, with her degree and interest in French literature, knew him best for his prizewinning writings.

Malraux had escorted Mrs. Kennedy through several Paris art museums during the 1961 trip, and even though I was merely on the sidelines at the time, there seemed to be a strong connection between the two of them as they chatted comfortably together in French. Tish called their relationship a mutual “intellectual crush” and that, I think, summed it up perfectly. During one of our many discussions about the Paris trip Mrs. Kennedy said, “Mr. Malraux is so interesting. He has been everywhere, knows everyone, and has done so many things. He is a real hero of France.” Mrs. Kennedy wanted this dinner to be the most special one yet, and the guest list was the top priority.

Mrs. Kennedy had a yellow legal pad devoted to the Malraux dinner on which she kept all her notes and ideas, and as the date drew nearer, she would be so excited to tell me which guests had replied and would be attending.

“Oh, Mr. Hill, you won’t believe it. Listen to who we have now.” She would rattle off names of the writers, poets, artists, and actors who had responded: “Arthur Miller, Thornton Wilder, and Tennessee Williams; Lee Strasberg, Julie Harris, and Geraldine Page; Andrew Wyeth and Mark Rothko; George Balanchine and Leonard Bernstein!”

President Kennedy had made one specific request for the guest list: Charles Lindbergh—who would soon celebrate the thirty-fifth anniversary of his solo, nonstop flight to Paris from New York City—and his wife, an aviator and author herself, Anne Morrow Lindbergh. When Mrs. Kennedy found out that the Lindberghs had accepted the invitation, she was over the moon.

The dinner was a huge success. Mrs. Kennedy appeared in a strapless shocking pink ball gown with white gloves up to her elbows, and from the moment she walked into the East Room, it seemed no one could take their eyes off her. I had never seen her look more lovely. She was the belle of the ball, and once again she had orchestrated an event the likes of which had never before been seen at the White House.

Despite the amazing collection of people representing the arts, however, Charles Lindbergh was the big hit of the party, and he and his wife ended up staying overnight at the White House. For Mrs. Kennedy, the highlight of the evening was when Malraux promised to bring a collection of French masterpieces to the United States for a special exhibition at the National Gallery of Art.

“He even promised La Giaconda—the Mona Lisa!” she told me the next day. “I’ve always felt that I was so fortunate to be able to see these great works of art, and now the American public will have the same opportunity. Isn’t it wonderful, Mr. Hill?”

The Mona Lisa had never before been outside of France. And now she was coming to America. I was impressed.

IT WAS NOW back and forth between the White House and Middleburg, and since I was now the only agent permanently assigned to the First Lady’s Detail, it was just Mrs. Kennedy and me. The weekend of May 18, we were back at Glen Ora, as usual. The weather was beautiful this time of year, and Mrs. Kennedy longed to take advantage of every opportunity to ride Sardar. Additionally, she had entered the Loudon Hunt horse show and was scheduled to ride the Sunday of that weekend. The president had been opposed to her competing in the show, thinking it wouldn’t look good politically, but in the end he had acquiesced. Thus far it had been kept a complete secret from the press, and she was really looking forward to it. She was in a particularly happy mood.

As we were driving along one of the secluded country roads, smoking and talking, as usual, Mrs. Kennedy told me about her upcoming plans.

“I’m thinking of spending some time in Italy this summer,” she said casually.

“Oh? Where in Italy?”

“Perhaps on the Amalfi Coast. I have some friends there, and I’ve never been. There’s a village on the coast called Ravello I’ve been told about. Have you been there?”

“I’ve been to Italy, but no, never to the Amalfi Coast. I would imagine it is beautiful.”

“Yes, Lee and I are talking about taking her son, Tony, and Caroline with us. Caroline is old enough to travel abroad I think, and it would be a wonderful experience for her. What do you think?”

“Summer in Italy? The Amalfi Coast? What’s not to like?”

She laughed and said, “Oh, Mr. Hill. I know you will enjoy it, but do you think it will be all right for Caroline?”

“Oh, I think it would be a great experience for her,” I said. “And very relaxing for you, too. Just let me know when you finalize your plans because the sooner I know, the better.”

TYPICALLY, PRESIDENT KENNEDY would join Mrs. Kennedy at Glen Ora on Saturday, but this particular weekend he was in New York City, and wouldn’t arrive until Sunday evening. A Democratic fund-raiser had been organized at Madison Square Garden on Saturday night, May 19, in which fifteen thousand donors paid $100 to $1,000 for a ticket to see a lineup of entertainment that included Ella Fitzgerald, Jack Benny, Harry Belafonte, and Marilyn Monroe. President Kennedy’s forty-fifth birthday was ten days later, and the show was billed as a birthday celebration. Mrs. Kennedy despised these kinds of functions, and it was not at all surprising for her not to attend. She was much happier spending the weekend at Glen Ora with her hunt country friends than making shallow conversation with political donors.

The morning after the event, it was reported in newspapers across the country how Marilyn Monroe had sung a “sultry rendition” of “Happy Birthday” to the president, after which he had quipped to the audience, “I can now retire from politics having had ‘Happy Birthday’ sung to me in such a sweet, wholesome way.”

I read the article and I’m sure Mrs. Kennedy did, too, but neither of us ever brought up the subject. It was never discussed.

I WAS PLEASANTLY surprised to find out that the president and Mrs. Kennedy and the children were going to spend the Fourth of July weekend at Camp David. We had just returned from a highly successful trip to Mexico, where more than two million people had lined the streets in Mexico City to see President and Mrs. Kennedy. After one night at home—just enough time to unpack and repack my suitcase—I was back at the White House the morning of July 2.

Mrs. Kennedy and the children would fly ahead to Camp David, and the president would join them the evening of the Fourth, after some events in Philadelphia.

Maud Shaw had brought John and Caroline down to the Diplomatic Reception Room to wait for the helicopter that would be landing shortly on the South Lawn. Little John was twenty months old at this time, and boy did he love helicopters. He was bouncing around the room, so excited he could hardly contain himself. It wasn’t often that he got to ride in the chopper, so today was a special day.

“Hey, John,” I said, as I squatted down next to him. “You ready to ride in the helicopter?”

“Yeah!” he squealed in his little-boy voice, jumping up and down. Just then the unmistakable sound of the helicopter rotors could be heard overhead, and he ran toward the doors. “Copter!” he yelled. “Copter!”

It was quite a spectacular sight—to see a helicopter land in your backyard.

Watching John’s reaction as we lifted up and flew away from the White House toward the Washington Monument was a joy in itself. Sitting on his mother’s lap, his nose pressed against the window, he could barely sit still. His innocent enthusiasm was precious, and a reminder of just what a privilege this was.

I HAD SPENT considerable time at Camp David during the Eisenhower administration and for me it was like going home. All familiar territory. Mrs. Kennedy had been there only briefly the previous year, and I had come to learn that one of the reasons she hadn’t been enthusiastic about spending time at Camp David was that there were no stables for her horses. So, as was her way, she managed to have stables built at the presidential retreat. Sardar and Caroline’s pony, Macaroni, were transported by trailer and were there waiting upon our arrival.

As we were walking along one of the pathways through the woods on the property, Mrs. Kennedy said, “Oh, Mr. Hill, you were right. Camp David is wonderful. It is so secluded and private.”

“I thought you would like it here,” I said. “It’s a great place to relax and get away from the Washington scene.”

“Yes, and you know how much I need that,” she said with a laugh. “That reminds me, I have finalized the dates I’ll be in Italy. Caroline and I will leave during the first week of August, and I think we may be gone three weeks. Lee, Stash, and their children will be joining us in Ravello.”

I had been wondering if the trip was going to materialize, since I hadn’t heard anything since she’d first mentioned it to me in Middleburg.

“Three weeks in Italy. Sounds wonderful,” I said with a smile. “I better brush up on my Italian.”

She laughed and said, “Oh, is your Italian as good as your French?”

“I’m afraid not.” I laughed.

“Well, I’m not worried about that,” she said. “I have decided, however, that the only staff I’m bringing with me is Provi.”

She stopped and turned toward me to make a point. “You know, Mr. Hill, I realized that I really don’t need anyone but you—you handled everything so well on the trip to India and Pakistan. I’d much rather have you deal with the press and take care of personal things that come up. You understand how I like things done. Do you think you can handle that?”

I was somewhat surprised by this—that she wanted me to handle the kinds of details normally taken care of by her personal and social secretaries—but I also understood why. It gets tiresome having people around you all the time, and she wanted this to be a very private vacation.

“Of course, Mrs. Kennedy. I’ll do the best I can.”

She smiled and said, “I know you will, Mr. Hill. You always do. There is never any question about that.”