Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir

14

Traveling with Mrs. Kennedy

Ravello

Clint Hill leads Mrs. Kennedy through the constant crowds in Italy

On August 8, 1962, Mrs. Kennedy, Caroline, Provi, and I departed from New York’s Idlewild Airport on a Pan American World Airways regularly scheduled overnight commercial flight for Rome. The excellent relationship that the White House transportation office and the Secret Service had with the major airlines enabled me to handpick most of the Pan Am crew. There were certain pilots and stewardesses we had flown with before who we trusted to provide not only reliable service but also a confidential environment. Mrs. Kennedy attracted so much attention wherever she went that the last thing I wanted was to have passengers and crew members bothering her on the flight. For additional privacy and comfort, we had reserved extra seats in the first-class section so that Mrs. Kennedy and Caroline could lie down across four seats. Provi and I sat across the aisle in our own first-class seats, both of us appreciative of the fact that we could never afford to travel like this on our own. There were certainly fringe benefits to our jobs.

We landed in Rome early the next morning and boarded a privately chartered aircraft for the short flight to Salerno. Agent Paul Rundle was there to greet us, along with Prince and Princess Radziwill, a group of cars, a police escort, and, thank God, no press in sight.

Ravello was only about a ten-mile drive from Salerno, but that was an adventure in and of itself over hazardous hairpin-turn roads high atop the cliffs along the Amalfi coast. There were stretches in the road where only a single car could pass, and even though the Italian police had blocked off the route to normal traffic for our arrival, it was still a nail-biter of a ride, as one minor swerve would send you careening into the sea below. The views were spectacular, however, with colorful stucco villas terraced into the steep and rugged terrain, with the sparkling acqua water below. Mrs. Kennedy loved it.

As our small motorcade entered the main piazza in Ravello, it was like we were driving into a festival—all in honor of Mrs. Kennedy and Caroline. Colorful hand-painted Welcome Jacqueline signs hung outside nearly every shop and restaurant, and the cobblestone streets were lined with townspeople and tourists, all waiting to catch a glimpse of Mrs. Kennedy and Caroline. We were greeted by the mayor, a group of dancing children, a live band, and, much to my dismay, an army of photographers. There must have been seventy-five or eighty photographers jostling and shoving each other to get in better position for their shots, and the police were having a difficult time keeping them behind the police lines that had been set up. While Mrs. Kennedy waved and smiled graciously, I could tell that she had the same immediate concerns that I did. Creating the privacy she desired on this trip was going to be an even bigger challenge than we had anticipated. We were going to have to do something about the press.

Finally we made our way through the chaos to the Villa Episcopio, where Mrs. Kennedy, Caroline, and the Radziwills would stay for the next two weeks. Perched high above the Mediterranean Sea, the nine-hundred-year-old stone villa was solidly built into the steep rocky hillside, like an eagle’s nest, overlooking the stunning beauty of the Amalfi Coast. Originally a bishop’s residence, and once occupied by King Vittorio Emanuele III, the villa with its stone archways and wrought-iron entry gates was like something out of a fairy tale.

As we walked through the cavernous living room, out to the veranda, it was like we were suspended one thousand feet above the crystal blue sea with a panoramic view of the entire area. Mrs. Kennedy turned to her sister and said, “Oh, Lee, it’s just magnificent.”

Lemon and orange trees grew all across the hillside, filling the air with their fragrant aroma, while red and fuchsia bougainvillea grew in long draping vines up and around the archways and gates. In all my travels, I had never seen a more beautiful setting.

While the villa had unmatched views, it was a long way from the water, so an additional house had been rented that had beach access. The Conca dei Marini beach was not an expansive strand like those in Cape Cod or Palm Beach, but a small spit of pebbly sand surrounded by high rocky cliffs. The beach house was actually more like a cliffside cottage, built into the rocks about one hundred and fifty feet above the beach, accessible by a narrow and very steep stone stairway. It was much smaller than the villa, but very comfortable, and its key purpose was to be used as a place to get out of the sun, for changing in and out of beach attire, bathroom facilities, and midday meals.

In order to get to and from the main villa and the beach house on the steep, windy roads, we had acquired the use of two open-air motorized beach buggies that held six or eight passengers. Made by Fiat, they were fun little vehicles—kind of like a cross between an oversized golf cart and a Volkswagen beetle. I’m not sure who enjoyed them more—the agents or the children.

All of the agents, meanwhile, had rooms at the Hotel Palumbo, which was conveniently located just a short walk down the street from the Villa Episcopio. Like most of the places in this elite area, the Hotel Palumbo was quite pricey, but the advance agents had arranged a deal with management that made it affordable for us. We were living with and among the rich and famous, but we had to do it on sixteen dollars a day.

Unlike the official state visits, there was no set schedule for this trip. Advances could only be conducted once Mrs. Kennedy told me what she wanted to do, and I knew often we would have no advance notice at all.

“Just come to the villa each morning, Mr. Hill,” Mrs. Kennedy told me, “and we’ll take each day as it comes.”

I was deeply concerned about the press—especially the overly aggressive Roman freelance photographers, the original paparazzi. Fortunately the Italian police were just as concerned, and they immediately laid down some ground rules for the overzealous photographers: no beach, water-skiing, or swimming pictures; no photographs at the entrance to the villa; photographers will be allowed to stand in the public garden forty meters from Mrs. Kennedy; they may photograph her from a distance in Ravello or boarding a speedboat in nearby Amalfi.

Clint Hill in working attire, Ravello, Italy

I had seen how these paparazzi operated, however, and I was not convinced they would follow the “rules.”

The morning after our arrival, I got up, had a quick breakfast of a biscotti and espresso, and packed a bag to bring along with me. There would be no need for a suit and tie, but I had to be ready for waterskiing, a cruise on a yacht, or anything else Mrs. Kennedy might want to do. There was no agenda. Once we left the area of the villa there was no opportunity to go back for something you forgot or to change clothes, so I had to be prepared for just about anything. I dressed in a black golf shirt with black trousers, and filled an airline flight bag with everything I might need: bathing suit, my Secret Service Commission book, diplomatic passport, and extra ammunition. I slipped my handgun into my holster and wore my shirt on the outside to cover it, but when I wore my swimsuit, the gun would have to go in the airline bag, too. The last thing to go in the bag was a bar of chocolate and a small package of nuts I’d stashed away from the flight. One of the first things you learn as an agent is to eat whenever you have the chance, and use the bathroom whenever the opportunity presents itself. There were plenty of days you’d go for ten or twelve hours without a chance to do either, and a bag of peanuts often became lunch or dinner.

When I arrived at the villa, Benno and Nicole Graziani were there, and everybody was sitting around drinking coffee, laughing, and telling stories. It was nice to see Mrs. Kennedy so relaxed, among friends and family with whom she didn’t have to put up any pretense. The group had decided to go to the beach that morning, so we called the police to let them know the plan. Police boats would patrol the coast, and both uniformed and plainclothes officers would be scattered around the area.

We piled everybody into the umbrella-topped beach cars and headed down the steep, curvy streets to the seaside town of Amalfi, where we would then take a boat to the Conca dei Marini. The children loved the miniature cars and everybody was laughing and kidding around.

We had arranged to have a boat available for waterskiing, sightseeing, and just getting from one point to another. This boat was not your average rental boat, however. It was a Riva—a sleek Italian-made Chris-Craft type boat about twenty-four feet in length that had a highly varnished mahogany hull and an extremely powerful engine. The boat was named Pretexte and came with its own operator, who was on standby for the duration of our stay. He spoke very little English, but we managed to communicate in a sort of charades-type system in which I tried to act out what it was we wanted to do, and he would respond by nodding his head and rattling off in Italian. Somehow it worked.

By the time we got the beach cars down to Amalfi, word had gotten out, and there was a line of photographers waiting on the pier. Their cameras were snapping away as they called out, “Jackie! Jackie! Look here! Over here! Smile Jackie!”

It felt like we were being surrounded by a swarm of locusts.

“Just ignore them,” Mrs. Kennedy whispered to Caroline. “They’ll tire of us soon enough.”

I knew better. Jacqueline Kennedy had become an international star—more popular than Elizabeth Taylor, Sophia Loren, and Grace Kelly all put together—and these photographers knew that a picture of the First Lady of the United States of America in a bathing suit was worth big money. The question was, how to get them to stop? Obviously the “rules” set out by the police weren’t working.

When Mrs. Kennedy emerged from the beach house in a dark green one-piece bathing suit with a low-cut back, the photographers went crazy. Some were snapping pictures from balconies in villas perched above the bay, while others were hazardously zipping around in motorboats trying to get a different angle. Benno Graziani, Mrs. Kennedy, and Lee were wading in the water with the three young children trying their best to ignore the circus-like scene that was getting worse by the minute. Benno wasn’t taking any pictures, but his mere presence was creating a problem.

Agent Paul Rundle had been trying to resolve the situation with the police and the photographers, and he had learned that the other photographers felt that Graziani had exclusive access to Mrs. Kennedy, which was unfair to the rest of them. They refused to back off. So Rundle and I came up with an idea. What if we got Mrs. Kennedy to give them ten minutes of photos if they would agree to back off and leave her alone after that? The photographers thought that sounded reasonable. Now I had to get Mrs. Kennedy to go for the idea.

I waded into the water to Mrs. Kennedy, who was pushing Caroline and Tony around on a raft. Her hair was pinned up in the back, with her long bangs hanging wispily in front of her eyes.

As soon as she saw me, she said, “Oh Mr. Hill, these photographers are horrible. Can’t you do something about them?”

“That’s what I came to talk to you about. Apparently they are upset that Benno has almost unlimited access to you, while they are restricted to distant shots. They’ve agreed to stop this aggressive behavior, and promise to give you some privacy if you will just pose for one good photo in your bathing suit.”

“Do you really think they’ll do as they say with just one photo session?”

“I honestly don’t know, but I will tell them that one session is what they get and then they must withdraw and quit harassing you. If they don’t comply, we will make their lives miserable.”

“Oh Mr. Hill, can’t you make their lives miserable without me having to pose?” she asked.

I knew this was asking a lot of her, and was so outside of her comfort zone, but there didn’t seem to be an alternative, other than have her spend the entire holiday inside the villa.

“I think in all fairness, Mrs. Kennedy, you have to give them something or the harassment will only continue to get worse and worse.”

This still didn’t satisfy her. She looked at me pleadingly.

“Can’t you just round them all up and have them sent away somewhere?”

I wanted to laugh, but she was dead serious.

“Unfortunately, Mrs. Kennedy, they have a right to be here, too, because it’s public property.”

Remembering President Kennedy’s instructions to me, I knew he wouldn’t be thrilled about seeing his wife posing for the cameras in her bathing suit, but the alternative was that someone was going to get a shot of Mrs. Kennedy in an awkward position, and that would be even more embarrassing and potentially humiliating.

“All right, if you think it will work, I’ll allow a brief photo session.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said. “I’ll arrange it and we’ll try to just get it over with.”

A short while later, Mrs. Kennedy posed on the landing area just below the beach house, in front of a big Welcome Jacqueline! sign the locals had hung from the rocks. The photographers had a field day. She was very cooperative and when they asked for photos of her with the children and Lee, she even agreed to that.

Agent Rundle even got into the action and posed in his bathing suit next to Mrs. Kennedy, the children, Benno Graziani, and the caretaker of the beach cottage.

The next day, hoping the photographers were going to be less intrusive, Mrs. Kennedy decided to go water-skiing.

Mrs. Kennedy poses for paparazzi with Tony, Caroline, and Lee

“It’ll just be Caroline and me,” she said.

Pointing to the water skis and motioning out to the water, I tried to explain to the Italian boat captain what we wanted to do. I spoke in English with my best Italian accent, hoping that perhaps some of the words might sound familiar. Mrs. Kennedy was doubled over with laughter as both of our hand motions got bigger and our voices louder in an effort to communicate. Finally, Mrs. Kennedy interpreted, and off we went.

The police had closed a stretch of water near the beach house so that other boats wouldn’t be a nuisance, and we had Secret Service agents in another couple of boats, but this in itself created attention, and soon traffic was snarled on the hilly road overlooking the bay. I kept watch in the back of the Pretexte as Mrs. Kennedy, wearing a one-piece black bathing suit, easily popped up out of the water on a slalom ski. She skied back and forth across the wake, pulling tight on the rope, leaning back, in complete control, as the growing audience ashore whooped and hollered.

Not wanting to encourage the crowd, Mrs. Kennedy simply ignored them. We made a few loops around and then she gracefully let go of the rope and slid into the water. We raced around to pick her up, but instead of climbing into the boat, she looked at Caroline and said, “Do you want to ski with me, Caroline?”

“Yes! Yes!” Caroline squealed.

Oh God.

“Mrs. Kennedy, I’m not so sure this is a good idea. How are you going to do this?”

“Oh, Mr. Hill, don’t worry. She can stand on top of the skis. Toss me the other ski.”

I knew there was no way I was going to talk her out of this, so I motioned to the agents in the other boat that Caroline was getting in the water.

Little Caroline was such a good swimmer that even though the water was a bit choppy, she had no problem treading water while the driver slowly pulled the boat around to get the rope taut. Mrs. Kennedy put Caroline in front of her on the skis, and, with bended knees, leaned slightly forward so Caroline could hold on to the wood handle of the towrope.

When the rope was taut and straight, I called out, “Are you ready?”

“Ready!” Mrs. Kennedy yelled.

The captain put the boat in gear, and as he accelerated, Mrs. Kennedy popped out of the water with Caroline balanced on the top of the two skis. It was a photo-perfect picture and the press who witnessed it were having the time of their lives.

The ski duo didn’t last but a few seconds, though, as they hit a small wave and both of them toppled into the water. Caroline wasn’t keen to try again, but she didn’t want to get back in the boat, either.

“I’m going to swim all the way to shore, Mummy,” she proclaimed.

Not wanting to squelch her daughter’s enthusiasm, Mrs. Kennedy agreed to let her go, provided she have the inflatable ring, and of course a Secret Service agent.

I motioned to the other boat and yelled, “Caroline wants to swim back.”

Agent Paul Landis immediately jumped into the water and swam with Caroline back to shore, while Mrs. Kennedy did a bit more water-skiing.

Sure enough, one of the press photographers with a very long telescopic lens on his camera had caught Mrs. Kennedy and Caroline together on water skis, and the next morning they were front-page news around the world. It ended up causing quite a controversy, especially in Great Britain, where one London newspaper ran the headline:

PLEASE MRS. KENNEDY, DON’T DO IT AGAIN!

The article proclaimed that mothers everywhere were cringing at the picture, and “water skiing is hazardous for grown-ups. For a 4-year-old girl it’s madness.”

I knew what an accomplished water-skier Mrs. Kennedy was, and how strong a swimmer Caroline was, so I never felt they were in any danger. Just as the president wanted to pass along his love of sailing to his daughter, Mrs. Kennedy wanted to expose Caroline to the sport that she loved. Nonetheless, I got the feeling that Mrs. Kennedy may have received some strongly worded advice from her husband either by telegram or telephone shortly thereafter. Caroline did not water-ski with her mother again during our stay in Italy.

It became our routine to go to the beach house around ten o’clock each morning, and have a swim and then lunch, followed by an afternoon activity ashore or on the boat. When Mrs. Kennedy was at the beach house, the Italian caretaker and his wife handled everything. This middle-aged Italian couple adored the children and were eager to do anything for their famous guests. The wife cooked lunch every day while her husband hauled the beach toys, towels—and often the children—up and down the steps.

One day I was standing on the boat landing, when the husband came down the stone steps, carrying a big bowl.

“Buongiorno!” he said with a huge smile.

“Buongiorno!” I replied.

That was about the extent of our ability to converse with each other, so I just smiled and let him do whatever he needed to do. I watched as he knelt down on the concrete landing and peered into the water below. All of a sudden he thrust his right arm into the water and when his hand came out he had hold of a baby squid.

Mama mia! Did he really just do that?

He immediately put the squid’s head into his mouth, bit it off and spit it out. I couldn’t believe it. Never in my life had I seen such a thing.

He put the headless squid into the bowl and proceeded to repeat the procedure four or five times. He looked at me, and smiling broadly, said something in Italian, and then took the bowl of fresh squid and raced up the stairs.

A short while later, a wonderful aroma came wafting down the stairs. I looked up and saw the caretaker coming down the steps with a pasta bowl in his hands. He handed me the bowl, with a fork and big spoon, and indicated that I should eat it now. The homemade linguine was drenched in a flavorful garlic and olive oil sauce, all mixed together with a generous portion of fresh calamari. It was absolutely delicious. Just thinking about the slightly sweet, nutty flavor of the freshly caught baby squid in that garlic sauce still makes my mouth water.

THE PAPARAZZI WERE much less intrusive after Mrs. Kennedy posed for the bathing suit photos, but they never completely went away. They really resented the continued presence of Benno Graziani, and the situation became even more complicated when a man named Gianni Agnelli arrived.

We were up at the villa when a magnificent yacht sailed into the Bay of Salerno. The eighty-two-foot-long, two-masted yawl glided in like a prima ballerina making her grand entrance onstage, with its spinnaker flying. It was unlike any other sailboat I had ever seen. The mainsail, spinnaker, and smaller mizzen sail were all a deep red color, like a fine Chianti, and as the yacht cut through the water, its sails stood out against the blue sea like beautiful scarves, flying in the wind.

I soon learned that this was the Agneta, and she belonged to the chairman of Fiat corporation, Gianni Agnelli. Agnelli and his wife, Marella, ran in the same circles as the Kennedys, and had known them for several years, but I had no previous knowledge that the Agnellis were meeting up with Mrs. Kennedy in Ravello. The yacht was anchored quite a ways from the shore, and it was then that Mrs. Kennedy came to tell me her plans.

“My friends the Agnellis have arrived on their yacht, and Lee and Stash and I are going to go aboard. They’re sending a small boat to the dock to take us out to it.”

“Okay, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said. “I’ll alert the police and let them know.” I tried to play it cool, but I was really looking forward to getting on that beautiful yacht.

I had never met Gianni Agnelli before, but he had a reputation for being a man with great charisma and impeccable style, a trendsetter. The Agneta with her long, lean lines, teak decks, and magnificent, richly varnished mahogany hull was every bit as sleek and classy as her owner.

Gianni Agnelli was standing on the deck of his yacht as we approached. Once we boarded, he gave Mrs. Kennedy and Lee each warm hugs. He was gracious and kind, and immediately introduced me to the three crew members, who gave me a tour of the yacht so that I could familiarize myself with the layout of the boat. They treated me like a guest as they showed me the master suite with a small marble fireplace, the two twin cabins and a Pullman berth, the main salon, galley, and several heads. The interior was as elegant as the exterior. When I returned to the deck, Mrs. Kennedy was so relaxed, laughing with her sister, Stash, Gianni, and his wife, Marella. It seemed her entire demeanor changed as soon as she boarded the yacht. It was so peaceful being out on the water, so far from the crowds and the constant flashes from the ever-present cameras. I had the feeling we were going to be spending considerable time aboard the Agneta.

Mrs. Kennedy and Gianni Agnelli followed by Clint Hill

As it turned out, Agnelli offered Mrs. Kennedy the use of the Agneta for the rest of her stay in Italy, and while he and his wife would join Mrs. Kennedy on occasion, much of the time he wasn’t there at all. The Italian police organizations—the Questura and Carabinieri—provided security coverage in addition to providing a chase boat and crew for our agents. To give Mrs. Kennedy and her guests as much privacy as possible, I was the only agent that stayed aboard the yacht.

One day Mrs. Kennedy decided she wanted to go to Paestum, an ancient Greco-Roman city about forty miles down the coast from Ravello, so we sailed down the coast on the Agneta, her red sails flying, creating a dramatic sight for the people ashore. When we got to Paestum, the captain had to anchor the yacht a hundred yards or more from the rocky shore. The only way to get ashore was by rowboat. I was somewhat concerned because the boat they hauled into the water was not much bigger than a bathtub. I didn’t see how we were going to get Mrs. Kennedy, Lee, a female friend who had joined us, me, and the oarsman all into that tiny boat, but rather than make two trips, we all crowded in, and the crewman rowed us to shore.

Founded in about 600 B.C., Paestum was originally called Poseidonia, in honor of Poseidon, the Greek god of the sea. In 273 B.C., the Romans, after taking control of the area from the Greeks, changed the name to Paestum. The area is known for its well-preserved temples, which rival the Parthenon in size and beauty, and this is what Mrs. Kennedy wanted to see and explore. She had read the history of the area and was regaling the rest of us with stories about the ancient civilizations as we walked through the temples and ruins. She took a deep interest in history and it never ceased to amaze me how much she knew about not only American history, but also the histories of so many other regions of the world.

After walking around the large site, we headed back to the coast, where the crewman was waiting for us with the rowboat.

There had been a few paparazzi following us around as we toured the ancient city, and they of course followed us as we made our way back to the shore. The sea was a little bit rougher than when we had arrived and in order to get into the boat, we had to take our shoes off, roll up our trousers, and wade into the water.

The oarsman was seated in the middle of the boat and I tried to hold the boat steady so Mrs. Kennedy and the two other women could get in gracefully.

“Do you need me to give you a hand, Mrs. Kennedy?” I asked. I was worried she might slip and the photographers would have a field day.

“No, thank you, Mr. Hill. I can do it just fine,” she said as she hoisted herself into a seated position on the edge of the boat and then swung her legs around. She was laughing, completely ignoring the photographers, just having a great time. By the time we all got into the boat, it was sitting quite low in the water, and as the oarsman struggled to get the boat in motion against the surf, it felt like we were going to flip over. A few of the photographers had waded into the water, and were snapping away.

“For Christsake!” I yelled. “Put down your goddamn cameras and somebody give us a push before we swamp!”

Meanwhile, Mrs. Kennedy was laughing just as hard as she could. I don’t know if she was laughing at me or whether she thought it would be hilarious if we actually did flip over.

Finally someone gave us a push and we got out beyond where the waves were breaking so we could get some momentum.

“Oh, Mr. Hill,” she said. She was laughing so hard she could barely speak. “If you could have seen the look on your face when you thought we were going to tip over! I hope one of the photographers caught it. I would pay to have that shot!”

As it turned out, one of the photographers did get a shot of that look on my face and he gave both Mrs. Kennedy and me a copy of the picture. It was such a great snapshot of a moment in time, a photo that captures the mischievous, adventure-loving woman I had come to know so well, to care for so very much. It was a moment when she was carefree, enjoying life to its fullest.

WE USED THE Agneta more and more as a mode of transportation to get to the places Mrs. Kennedy wanted to see because it was a respite from the prying eyes of the press and the gawking public. On the yacht, her privacy could be maintained. Mrs. Kennedy would read, or write, or sketch at her leisure, and simply enjoy the company of her sister and friends. Most of the time Gianni Agnelli was not on the yacht, but on one of the first evenings that he was, he introduced everyone to a new drink.

“What is that?” I asked Mr. Agnelli the first time he served the cherry-colored drink to Mrs. Kennedy.

“It’s an aperitivo. We call it Negroni,” he said.

“Here, try it,” he said as he handed me a glass.

I took a sip and handed the glass back to him.

“Not bad,” I said. It had a bitter, sort of sweet taste to it. “What’s in it?”

“Campari—that’s what makes it red—then it’s mixed with sweet vermouth, and garnished with a slice of orange.” He took a sip from his glass and then added, “Oh yes, and just a dash of gin for a bit of an extra kick.”

I laughed. There was definitely more than “just a dash” of gin in that drink.

“It’s very refreshing,” Mrs. Kennedy said. “I rather like it. I’ll have to remember to have Campari on hand at the White House for our Italian guests.” She laughed.

Aperitivo time was a way to wind down after a day out on the water, and as the sun went down, when the bottle of Campari came out, it signaled the evening’s activities were about to begin.

ONE EVENING, WE took the Agneta to Capri, a stunning island that rises dramatically out of the Tyrrhenian Sea. It was a beautiful sail, and after anchoring at the port, we transferred to the Riva motorboat, the Pretexte, because Mrs. Kennedy wanted to cruise along the shoreline. She had been invited to dinner at the villa of Silvio Medici De’ Menezes and his fashion designer wife, Princess Irene Galitzine, who were friends of the Agnellis. They had a lively al fresco dinner served at midnight, and it wasn’t until after two o’clock in the morning that we returned to the Agneta and sailed back to Ravello.

A couple of days later, Mrs. Kennedy came to me and said, “Mr. Hill, I need you to do something for me like you did in Palm Beach. You know the problems we had with people when I wanted to go shopping on Worth Avenue? Well, I would really like to go shopping at the boutiques in Capri, but I’m sure the same thing would happen.”

“Yes, you’re absolutely right, Mrs. Kennedy. I have no doubt you would be hounded by not only tourists, but also those damn paparazzi. I’m afraid it would be much worse than what we experienced in Palm Beach.”

She sighed. “I agree. So, I came up with an idea.”

As she said that, she looked at me and I could see the mischief in her eyes, like a little girl asking her daddy for something she knew Mummy wouldn’t approve of.

“Would you go to Capri for me, Mr. Hill?”

“What exactly is it you want me to do?” I asked.

“Well, Irene Galitzine offered to go shopping for me. I’d like you to take the motorboat there and accompany her—you know the kinds of things I like—and then you can bring back the clothes to me here.”

This is way outside my job description, and you know that, I thought to myself. But just like in Palm Beach, I would be keeping her out of exposure to large numbers of people. It seemed like a good protective move.

“Oh, Mrs. Kennedy,” I said, shaking my head. I tried to look serious but I couldn’t keep from smiling. “Yes, I will go to Capri for you. But don’t you dare tell anyone that I’ve done this.”

She laughed and said, “Oh, I won’t tell anyone, Mr. Hill. It will be our secret.”

I explained to Agent Paul Rundle, the advance agent, what I was about to do, and he assured me he would take care of everything until I returned. The bigger problem was trying to explain to the driver of the Pretexte what I needed, but somehow he seemed to understand, and the next day we took off for Capri.

We hugged the coastline until reaching a point where we had to cross a considerable distance of open water in the Tyrrhenian Sea to get to the island. It was a windy day, and the water was filled with whitecaps and very choppy, and every time we went up over a wave and crashed down hard, it felt like we were being punched over and over again. I had never felt seasick before, but this time I was very close. It seemed to take forever but finally we reached the marina, and fortunately I managed to avoid being sick. I disembarked and proceeded to the villa to meet Princess Irene Galatzine—I was a bit windblown and sunburned, but no worse for the wear.

The princess was a strikingly beautiful woman, very tall and elegant, and I felt somewhat like the hired help, literally just off the boat, but she was extremely gracious, and eager to go shopping for Mrs. Kennedy. I had never heard of her before the previous night’s dinner, but Mrs. Kennedy had informed me that she was famous for designing trousers for evening wear, known as “palazzo pants.” Apparently she was quite well known in the fashion world. So, there we were, Princess Irene Galatzine and me, shopping together in the upscale boutiques on the Isle of Capri.

We selected an assortment of dresses, trousers, gauzy blouses, jewelry, shoes—you name it. We had a whole damn wardrobe for Mrs. Kennedy. By the time we finished and returned to the villa, it was getting dark, so going back to Amalfi across that rough body of water was out of the question.

“You’ll have to stay here at the villa,” the princess said. “I’ll make sure the boat driver is informed and have him available for you first thing in the morning.”

“Well, thank you very much,” I said.

She showed me to a guest bedroom and told me to make myself at home. “And you must have dinner with me, Mr. Hill.”

“Oh, no,” I protested. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“I insist,” she said. “Truly, it will be a pleasure.”

I hadn’t intended on staying overnight and I had no clothes to change into for dinner, so I just went into the bathroom and washed up as best as I could.

When it came time for dinner, I was surprised to find that it would just be the princess and me dining alone. It was a simple meal of seafood and pasta with a salad and excellent Italian bread. Princess Irene made me feel comfortable, but being a participant—rather than an observer waiting in the wings—was something I wasn’t used to.

So, that’s how I ended up spending the night at the home of Princess Irene Galitzine. My life had been one adventure after another. It sure was a long way from the North Dakota Children’s Home to the residence of a princess on the Isle of Capri. I felt like the luckiest man in the world.

In the morning, after some juice, extremely dark coffee, and a biscotti I was ready to leave. I now had in my possession a large trunk filled with purchases the princess had made on Mrs. Kennedy’s behalf. We loaded it on the boat and off to Amalfi I went. The trip back was smoother than the one to Capri, no whitecaps, and we made good time. Arriving at the beach house, we were met by the caretaker, who carried the trunk up to the house. Mrs. Kennedy and Lee were there and very glad to see me, and especially the trunk full of goodies. It was as if Christmas had arrived in August.

Mrs. Kennedy insisted I stay as she and Lee went through the various items of clothing. When I began to tell them about the wild boat ride across the choppy waters, they started laughing hysterically.

“I want you to tell me everything, Mr. Hill,” Mrs. Kennedy said with childlike delight in her voice. “From the moment you left here. Every detail. What Irene said, where you shopped, what you ate for dinner. Don’t leave anything out.”

So, as Mrs. Kennedy and her sister gave me an impromptu fashion show, I regaled them with details of my adventure on the high seas, and the night with the princess on the Isle of Capri.

Clint Hill and Mrs. Kennedy in Italy

THUS FAR, I had managed to protect Mrs. Kennedy while also keeping things in line with the president’s instructions. Then one evening Mrs. Kennedy informed me that she, along with Lee, Stash, and their guests, was going to go to Positano—to a nightclub.

The president’s words immediately popped into my head. And above all, no nightclub pictures.

“Okay, Mrs. Kennedy, whatever you want. I’ll handle it,” I said.

We left Ravello and traveled down the coast to Positano, yet another picturesque town on the Amalfi coast. We had alerted the police and advised them to provide a contingent of officers dressed in plainclothes, to make our large group, which included Mrs. Kennedy, several friends, and several Secret Service agents, as inconspicuous as possible. The nightclub was crowded, and while Mrs. Kennedy did not go unnoticed, we managed to keep the paparazzi outside. Everyone was dancing and laughing, having a great time, into the wee hours of the morning. I remember watching Mrs. Kennedy enjoying herself so much with her friends. Oh how I wished I could be out there on the dance floor with them, a participant rather than a bystander.

Paul Landis escorts Mrs. Kennedy in Positano

AS THE DAYS went by, everybody fell more in love with Ravello. It was so picturesque, so charming, the people so warm and friendly. Finally, on August 31, we bid farewell to Italy. The three weeks on the Amalfi coast had been nothing less than enchanting, and all of us, especially Mrs. Kennedy, were sad to leave. When I think back and remember those special times, one of the things that stands out is the memory of the view in the evening, looking down the coastline. Anchored in the harbor at Amalfi, a thousand feet below Ravello, the fishing boats and private yachts were decorated with strands of tiny white lights throughout the rigging, so that it looked like a hundred thousand candles dancing in the water. It was magical.