Soon after this, Paul received a wire calling him to the continent on business. He left for Paris, then went on to Zurich, Rome, and Berlin, arriving back in London in time for the auction of the Mortimer Schiff collection, which Christie’s had placed on sale in June.
Mitchell Samuels, a well-known art dealer and an associate of French & Company of New York, was in London, and it was he who helped Paul choose some fine pieces, mostly eighteenth-century French furniture, an exquisite Savonnerie carpet, silverware by Paul de Lamerie, and a desk by Molitor, created for Louis XV. Mitch was not only knowledgeable, but he became a trusted friend and adviser. In time, Paul was as well informed as he.
In July of 1938, Paul took me with him to the Colnaghi gallery, where he bought the portrait of James Christie, founder of Christie’s, painted in 1778 by Thomas Gainsborough, in which Christie is seen holding a painting by Gainsborough, apparently auctioning it off. I found this fascinating, and wondered why the Christie family had allowed it to be sold.
At the July 20 auction at Sotheby’s, Paul bought Raphael’s Madonna of Loreto for $200 and a portrait of Louis XIV by Rigaud for $725 from the collection of HRH Princess Beatrix de Bourbon-Massimo. Paul was one of the few people who believed the Madonna was a true Raphael, and after many years, the painting was declared to be an authentic work of the Master. This pleased Paul beyond words, not only that the value had soared, but that he had known from the beginning it was a true Raphael.
While Paul was in London, I went for my singing lesson each morning. Then we’d meet for lunch and spend afternoons at the Tate, the Wallace Collection, or at the Victoria and Albert Museum. I learned a great deal and was enchanted by the provenance of each work of art Paul bought or showed me. Each piece told a fascinating story of people who had lived, enjoyed, and used these objects in another time. Which king had sat at this magnificent desk? Whose mistress had used this charming little side table of rosewood with the inlaid Sevres plaque? They all joined in my mind with the operatic stories I was learning from Marchesi, so I couldn’t help but romanticize them. Paul was enveloping me in a world of great music, paintings, furniture, architecture, and literature—all created by the great masters of their day—and I loved it!
One thing that surprised Paul that summer was the notable absence of buyers. Most who attended the auctions were Americans; others just came to look. People seemed preoccupied by events that were slowly developing in far-off places. War clouds were gathering across Europe, but that didn’t stop Londoners from going to the theater or to the opera at Covent Garden. The nightclubs were jammed.
I wasn’t focused on the pending war. I was in London to study. But I did listen to Paul and his friends when they spoke of what they felt was inevitable, unless Hitler could be stopped. Germany had already occupied Austria in March, but none of them thought it would end there. Hitler seemed to be eyeing the Sudetenland in Czechoslovakia, but what country could stop him? Other than Germany, no one else had prepared for war. For the moment, the world just waited.
On July 24, I was awakened early in the morning by a phone call from New York. It was Gene Berton. He was so excited I could hardly understand what he was saying. Finally, I realized he was about to board the Europa, and wanted me to know that Paul had invited him to come to London and take some lessons from Marchesi, so he and I could work together later back home. What a surprise! Paul had not mentioned this to me. I thought it was pretty wonderful of him, and told him so.
Gene arrived, had his first lesson on Friday, July 30, then Paul joined us and listened approvingly to my progress. Gene stayed in London for two weeks, took twelve lessons, and left for the States on the Europa. I was grateful to Marchesi for working with him, grateful to Paul for the trip, and frightened to death by the realization that Gene, being Jewish, was on a Nazi ship. Fortunately, he arrived safely in the United States.
On August 20, Paul left again for more business meetings on the continent. He hoped to make an oil deal with the Arabs. It had been years since he’d decided it was important for his company to gain a foothold in the Middle East, where he was convinced great reserves of oil could be found. Someone had persuaded him not to pursue it, and he’d lost a great opportunity. Now he was determined to try.
The BBC radio and the newspapers were filled with news of Hitler threatening the world. London seemed to be preparing its citizens for a siege—we experienced our first “brown out.” Each day, radio alerts warned that all civilians who could, should leave the city. Children were separated from working parents and hustled off to families in the North.
Gas masks were issued—everyone in London was supposed to have one. Madame Marchesi refused. When the civil defense workers arrived at her studio, she turned them away. “I didn’t wear one in the First World War,” she declared, “and I refuse to wear one now.” Most of Marchesi’s students had left, but I still went to her every day.
I was walking home through Hyde Park. It was later than usual because Marchesi had asked me to stay for an early supper, and Zenia’s spaghetti alla bolognese was too much of a temptation to refuse. As a result, I was only halfway home when it grew dark. I became a little frightened and started to run. I ran right into a tall man in a dark suit who seemed to have come out of nowhere. He was wearing a homburg and carrying a briefcase, which flew out of his hand, as did all of my music. He excused himself, speaking English with a definite German accent. I became terrified; my heart almost stopped beating. What is this German doing in Hyde Park? I thought. And in such a hurry? He looked me over, then quickly leaned down and started picking up my music.
“Young lady is a singer?” he said with a smile, as he handed me my scores.
“Yes,” I replied as calmly as I could. “I’m an American.”
“So . . . and I am Austrian. My name is Rudolf Lothar, and I am afraid I am lost in Hyde Park.”
Thanking God he wasn’t a Nazi, I asked him where he wished to go. “Lancaster Gate,” was his response.
“I’ve just come from there,” I replied. “Take the path to your right. You can’t miss it. What number are you looking for?”
“Seventy-five,” he said.
“Why, that’s Marchesi!” I almost screamed.
“Yes! Her son is my best friend,” he said, smiling.
“Well, Madame is my teacher.”
“You are then a fortunate young lady, and good luck,” he added, then picking up his briefcase he turned. “I must hurry . . . Good-bye, Miss America.”
“Take care,” I called out to him, and he was gone.
Marchesi told me at my next lesson that he had called on her with news of her son, Baron von Poppa. Lothar was the librettist of the opera The Queen of Cyprus, which he’d written with the composer Eugene d’Albert. She reminded me that she had already given me the exciting aria “Medieval Hymn to Venus” from that opera. How strange, our meeting in the park . . . I never saw him again, nor did she.
I reached my apartment just as Jeannie arrived back from visiting friends in Scotland, and was I happy to see her! We spent the rest of the night talking about the war . . . Was it really coming? Was it safe to stay in London? Suddenly she asked, “Where’s Paul?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He told me he’d call back in a few days. He was on his way to Switzerland, then Germany.”
“How long has that been?”
“Almost a week.”
“Teddy, you’re mad. He probably can’t get through to you. We’d better get out of here.”
“No, Jeannie, if Paul said he’d call, he will.”
And that night, he did. Over a poor connection, he shouted, “Teddy, get out of London! At once! I’ve a seat for you on the KLM flight leaving for Amsterdam at ten tomorrow morning. Get to that plane and get on it! I’ll meet you there.”
“But, Paul, there are no taxis.”
“Then walk to the airport!” he ordered. “And get on that plane!”
“I can’t leave Jeannie. She just returned from Scotland.”
“Well, bring her with you. I’ll get her a seat. Just come.” He sounded frantic.
Luckily, the next morning we found a taxi, boarded the plane, and in a matter of hours were flying over the countryside of Holland with its canals, dykes, and fields of flowers. So many tulips . . . so much beauty . . . so peaceful . . . so helpless. It was hard to imagine, if war really came, how much terror and devastation this little country would suffer. Our plane arrived on time and I was in Paul’s arms, safe again.
While driving to the Amstel Hotel in the center of Amsterdam, Paul told us what happened to him. He had been staying at the Hotel Adlon in Berlin, and had heard Hitler’s saber-rattling speech at the Sportpalast. Right after that, friends warned him to leave Germany. He quickly packed his bags, paid his bill, filled the gas tank of his car, and headed for Holland.
Just before he crossed the border, several German plainclothesmen leapt onto his car, showed their badges, and ordered him to the police station at the frontier town of Bentheim. Paul was held there for hours. He was searched, as was his car and his luggage. Then he was released with an apology. “Times are unusual,” the police explained. They sent him on his way over a mined bridge into Holland.
That evening we dined at the home of a charming Dutch couple, friends of Paul’s. The entire conversation was, of course, war and the fear of it. Later that very evening, October 1, the news came over the radio that Hitler had marched unopposed into Czechoslovakia. No one knew where he would go next . . . nor could anyone stop him.
The underlying hysteria was incredible. One could feel it everywhere, yet the proud people of Holland were seemingly unafraid. The next morning, to keep Jean and me from being frightened, Paul took us to the Rijksmuseum, where we spent thirty minutes in front of Rembrandt’s magnificent Night Watch. It was cold and windy when we walked together later in Rembrandt Square. The only movie house open was showing a German film, but we wouldn’t see it. At dawn, we drove twenty miles to picturesque Volendam and Veendam, where Hollanders, dressed in quaint costumes, posed for pictures in front of their thatched homes. Paul presented each of us with a pair of wooden shoes.
Our last night at the Amstel Hotel, we dined with a crowd of happy and carefree young couples and danced to the music of a very American-sounding orchestra. After visiting Rembrandt’s studio, we drove out of the city among hundreds of bicyclists on their way home from work. We headed for The Hague, then Antwerp, and finally Paris. By ten that night we were safely in a suite at the Hotel Lotti.
Paul took me to the Bal Tabarin, but Jeannie spent the evening on the phone, trying to get passage on the next ship leaving for New York. She’d figured out that it was Bill Gaston, not war, that she longed for.
That night is one I will remember forever. The Bal Tabarin was jammed with people who acted as though it might be their last night on earth. Fear seemed to sweep across the dance floor, but I felt safe when Paul took me in his arms and held me close. We didn’t speak, just danced, and then he took me back to the hotel. Jeannie was gone, having left a note on my night table. She was on her way by train to Le Havre; the Queen Mary was sailing at dawn.
Paul and I ordered breakfast sent up, and I climbed into his bed. We were in the middle of a world gone mad with the threat of war. No one really knew what was going to happen, or when it would happen, but everyone was certain that war was inevitable . . . and Paris was wild with rumors and predictions.
Three days later, Paul decided it was safe to return to England. I knew Paul was leaving soon for New York, but I couldn’t go with him, much as I wanted to. I couldn’t—I’d only been studying for eight months. I simply had to stay and finish that year with Marchesi. I felt honor bound. After all, I had been given a great opportunity by Paul, and I loved what I was doing. I wanted to be the best that I could be, not only for myself, but also for him.
I think Paul realized I was truly serious. I think he admired that quality in me, my determination to reach my goal. He himself set a great example, working sixteen or more hours a day, many times canceling dinners, dates, parties. Instead, he’d go back to his apartment or hotel room and work on a project through the night, or until his desk was cleared. I knew he hated failures, and I didn’t want to be one.
He also hated tardiness, and transportation fascinated him. He noted exact times of arrivals and departures, and what trips were like. He couldn’t understand why trains, ships, and planes issued exact schedules, and then were invariably late. He sailed on the Normandie in mid-October, but called me every day during the crossing. After he left, I think he missed me almost as much as I missed him.