The approach of war in Italy was not a sudden thing. It may be hard to understand in hindsight, but, in the early months of 1940, war seemed unlikely to those of us who lived in Rome. Even though there were shortages and groups of Nazis appearing in the city, war was something that was going on “somewhere else” . . . “it would end soon” . . . “it had to” and even if it didn’t, we were sure “war couldn’t possibly come to Italy . . . certainly not to Rome.”
I didn’t notice warning signs because I was still upset at having made the decision to stay and study instead of leaving with Paul. I kept telling myself, He believes in me . . . He’s given me this opportunity . . . I mustn’t fail . . . If I do, at least I’m going to try my best. I so wanted to make him proud . . . to please him. Foolish girl? Maybe. And so I spent every day studying. I’d write Paul of my progress, telling him there was no panic in Italy . . . that, as soon as I was ready and Moreschi made the arrangements, I was going to make my debut either in an opera or concert. “And hopefully you will be here. Remember, you said you’d return? Or did you just say ‘maybe’? Oh, darling, I do so hope you will . . .”
In America, it seemed the news of our marriage had already made the papers.
The Daily News wrote:
Romance bloomed from the first. When Teddy, one of the best of blue blood torch singers, was crooning into the mike at the Stork Club, Paul would sit quietly listening to her, his devotion so obvious no one was startled when their engagement was announced.”
Another paper wrote: “Paul has returned to New York to attend some urgent business, but Teddy intends to remain in Rome a while longer to continue her studies.”
From the New York Journal and Maury Paul’s Knickerbocker column: “Vivacious, talented Teddy Lynch became the bride of J. Paul Getty . . . in Rome.”
Nancy Randolph of the News wrote: “Teddy is the isolated case of a debutante turned café singer, who could really sing. And friends, who recently returned from Italy, insist the singer is making great progress in her studies and should give music lovers something to swoon about when she returns. She is expected to be back soon to join Paul.
Of course, I never saw those articles until years later. Had I . . . I might have burst into tears, because I was really heartbroken at not being with Paul. I never knew at the time that Paul was negotiating to sell oil to Russia while in Berlin. In fact, I can’t remember ever asking him what he was doing, except I knew he was drilling for oil. What I did know was that I was heartbroken at not being with Paul.
It was terrible now living in Rome without him—his thoughts, his attention, his advice. I missed the way he looked when he looked at me, which sometimes made me feel like a child, sometimes like a woman. I guess this is the way one feels, if one truly loves. I did truly love him, and I damned myself for being so independent that I stayed on in Rome. All the time I was trying to cement an already exciting relationship by accomplishing what he thought I could do.
A tidal wave of reporters was waiting for Paul when the Conte di Savoia docked in the United States. He was surprised to find himself the most sought-after person on board. The press surrounded him not just because we had gotten married, but because of a major business deal Paul had been working on while in Europe. Reporters peppered him with questions about the deal he’d been negotiating to sell oil to the Soviet Union. Transportation in Russia was so bad that it was faster and cheaper to ship oil across the Pacific in tankers from California to Vladivostok than it was to send it from Russia’s own Baku oil fields.
Two days after he landed, Paul left New York with Ware to celebrate Thanksgiving in Greenwich with my mother and sisters. He wrote to say how much everyone missed me. I missed them, too, Paul most of all. We had been so close, when we were close, even though there were weeks and even months when we were apart.
About a month later, not wanting to live alone, I moved from the Ambasciatori Hotel to a very quaint penthouse apartment atop a palazzo overlooking the Piazza Argentina. I shared the apartment with two other girls: Magdaleine Snyder, aide to Mr. Marquis, the American delegate and vice president of the International Institute of Agriculture, and Nedda Brunette, a secretary at the British Embassy. Each of us had our own bedroom and bath, and shared an artist’s studio/drawing room with a lovely terrace overlooking the ruins of the Piazza Argentina. We also shared Maria, an excellent cook and housekeeper. Once a week she would take possession of the terrace, undo her floor-length hair, wash and dry it, then put it back up on top of her head in time to make supper. She reminded me of Mrs. Danvers, the housekeeper in Rebecca.
In addition to my singing lessons with Maestro Moreschi, I decided to study the history and literature of Italy. I thought it would help me prepare for my roles as a singer. Remembering that Marymount, the Paris school/convent where I had been a student as a teenager, also had a branch in Rome, I looked it up and drove out on the Via Nomentana for a visit. Imagine my surprise to find that Mother Brendon, who had been the Mother Superior at Marymount in Paris when I was there years earlier, was now the head of Marymount in Rome. She greeted me with great warmth and, after a quiet talk, arranged with the headmistress for me to have private lessons each morning. They usually ended with a short visit in her lovely garden, along with cookies and a glass of milk. The school was housed in a beautiful villa on the Via Nomentana, formerly the home of an ambassador, and was directly across the street from the Villa Torlonia, the residence of Il Duce, Benito Mussolini.
Days now were not so difficult. I had my lessons, and I started memorizing roles, putting all my energy and thought into the characters I was to portray. But evenings were a torment. I was lonely for Paul. At first he’d call, telling me he loved me and missed me. Then, as time went by, he’d cable me. I still have all of his cables tied up in blue ribbons, along with his letters.
“Come home,” he’d say. “Right now.”
“I can’t,” I’d reply. “You know I can’t . . . remember? We promised each other that you would come back when I was ready. Well, it won’t be long now, that’s what Moreschi says.” And that’s what I was looking forward to . . . the day Paul would return and I’d be ready to sing—as a lyric soprano.
Some nights Moreschi would invite me to join his family and other students at the Cisterna, a simple little restaurant in Trastevere, where, after much fettuccine and wine, we would all sing. Ethi Junger, a beautiful coloratura soprano from Salzburg, was among Moreschi’s most promising students. Madly in love with an English boy, Rodney Jennings, and unable to leave Italy for England, she managed to get permission to marry him by proxy (Moreschi stood in as the proxy).
On the day she married and received her British passport, she asked me to drive her to the German legation. On being presented to the German consul, Ethi took out her German passport and threw it on the floor, right in front of him, declaring, “Today I have married an Englishman. I am now a citizen of Great Britain, and I give you back your passport with joy. Mein Gott,” she cried, “how happy I am to be free of you Nazis!”
And with that, she grabbed my hand and hurriedly pulled me out the door. I must say I was grateful they didn’t shoot us.
One late afternoon, Moreschi asked that I sing for Maestro Bonaventura Somma, the leading director of the renowned choir of Santa Cecilia, who brought with him the directors of the Bari and Formia opera companies. I sang Mimi’s aria from the first act of La Bohème, “O mio babbino caro” from the comic opera Gianni Schicchi, and “The Willow Song” from Otello. They were extremely pleased, and definitely agreed with Moreschi that I must study further, learn several roles, and make my debut in Italy if I could, before returning to America. Maestro Somma was adamant that I first do a concert tour. The group planned to meet within days to see what schedule could be arranged.
When they left, I raced out of Moreschi’s studio to call Paul and tell him the good news. Running down the street, I was followed by my little clique—the impoverished and forgotten children of Trastevere, who listened to me every time I had a lesson. They would stand, rain or shine, on the sidewalk and applaud when I sang one of their favorite arias. They were always out there on the street, seemingly homeless, deserted by their parents. When I asked Moreschi’s wife about them, she said very sadly, “Children of Jewish mothers who are illegitimate. They sleep in cellars, eat what people give them, and the government doesn’t care.”
But I cared, and they knew it. After my lessons, they followed me to the small café at the end of the street, where the buses stopped. After ordering hot chocolate for everyone, with their cries of “Grazie, signorina” and “a domani” ringing in my ears, I found an empty seat on the next bus, which swerved and careened across the Ponte Garibaldi to the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele, and dropped me off right in front of our apartment in the Piazza Argentina. I ran up all six flights of stairs just to get to the phone to call Paul.
After what seemed to be hours, the call went through and I could hear him saying, “Hello, hello . . .”
I was so excited to hear his voice! “Paul, it’s me,” I yelled. “I just sang, and they liked me.”
“Darling!” I could hear the excitement in his voice (I loved his voice). “How marvelous . . . When did you sing? I can hardly hear you . . . tell me . . . what did you sing?”
“I sang three arias . . . about an hour ago,” I yelled back into the phone.
“I’m so proud of you, Teddy! Tell me more,” he said.
“I just finished telling you, Paul,” I cried.
“Yes, but I want you to tell me again.” He sounded happy.
“I won’t till I hear you say you miss me, because I miss you, Paul, so much. Do you miss me?”
“What a question, darling, of course I do!” he said. “Now, write me the details of your audition. When will you sing? Because I want to be there, and maybe I can. You know I love and miss you, sweetheart.”
“Well, I love you and miss you more,” I said. And, as I spoke, we were abruptly cut off, and there I was in the dark of my room, holding a dead telephone in my hand.
I felt so let down, even though I knew he was proud of my progress and we were both so excited talking to each other. I think it was that word “maybe” that frightened me. When he left, he had been so positive that he would return in three months. What was it in his voice that caused me to doubt this now? Perhaps he couldn’t return due to business, which for Paul always came first. And how could I blame him, for I had done the same thing months before when I had put my studying ahead of going home with him. I simply had to believe he would come back to me as he promised, if he could. I immediately sat down and wrote him the details of my audition, ending my letter with a little poem I composed in Italian . . . and sent it off the next day.
Paolo, torno presto, carissimo Amore
Non ti scordar di me
Ti voglio troppo bene
Per vivere lontano da te.
Paul, come back quickly, dearest love
Please do not forget me
I love you much too much
To live so far from you.
The following week, I was amazed to receive a long letter from Paul, written in Italian, which took me one whole afternoon to translate. Starting with Mia Carissima Orsacchiotta (My Dearest Teddy Bear), he went on to describe what he’d been doing. Apparently, he had stayed in New York far longer than he had planned, then went out to Tulsa, Oklahoma, and on to Los Angeles to see his mother and sons, George, Ronny, Paul, and Gordon. Deciding to visit Mexico City on business, he drove there with his cousin, Hal Seymour. After sightseeing and being entertained by the president of Mexico, the two drove to Acapulco, which was virtually unknown to North Americans at that time. The most famous landmark, of course, was La Quebrada, the cliff from which Mexican divers would plunge one hundred feet down into the swirling whirlpool below.
He also became enamored of the natural beauty of the land down the coast from Acapulco, an untouched forest and a beach called Revolcadero, its surrounding land owned by a tribe of Indians. He made an offer, bought the land, built a hotel right on the beach, and called it the Pierre Marques. He described the sand as so white and soft, the sea so blue and clear, and the waves so high that at times one could see giant sharks swimming right through them. It sounded wild to me and, oh, how I wished I could have been there.
Instead, I was seated at a table on the fashionable terrace of the Hotel Ambasciatori in Rome. It was June 10, 1940. Maestro Moreschi, our accompanist Hans Hasl, Ethi Jungar (now Jennings)—our Musetta—and the Greek tenor, who was to sing the part of Rudolpho with us, were celebrating our last rehearsal before leaving on a little concert tour arranged by Maestro Somma. I barely nibbled my food; I was excited, for we happened to have ringside seats for “History in the Making.”
As usual, Mussolini’s son-in-law, Foreign Minister Count Ciano, was there. Beside him was an oddly striking, blond woman, clearly the wife of a German high official. Guests of the restaurant were accustomed to Ciano’s presence. Still, they glanced nervously at him, because they sensed he was at that moment playing a major role in the threat of war, which was daily becoming more ominous. He left before we did.
Just an hour later, our little group stood in the Piazza Venezia, looking up at Mussolini as he addressed the nation. From his historic balcony, he shook his fist and shouted his declaration of war on France—still reeling from the blitzkrieg and all but defeated—and England, much beleaguered and now fighting alone. Il Duce had decided to get his share of the spoils after Hitler had made the kill. At first, most people around us just stared up at him, bewildered, some frightened, others disappointed. But the thousands of university students and young Fascists in the Piazza went absolutely wild, yelling themselves hoarse. Then, suddenly, as if on cue, they set off through the streets like hoodlums.
To avoid being trapped in the swarming mob, we ran to my little car, which I’d parked on a side street. As soon as we were all inside, I turned onto the Corso Vittorio Emanuele, only to come face-to-face with the demonstrators. They surrounded us, bombarding us with sticks, flags, paper bags, and a sort of confetti. Then they kicked the car and started rocking it to try to overturn it. That’s when the Maestro stood up and yelled for them to stop. Realizing the car was our best weapon, I put my hand on the horn, threw the car into gear, and pushed the accelerator to the floor. With a screeching start, the car lurched forward, throwing the Maestro to his seat. As we gained speed, the mob scattered.
Arriving at his studio, we were met by his child and his wife, who was crying hysterically, “Julio, Julio, siamo in guerra.” (“Julio, Julio, we’re in war.”) To which he replied, “Stai zitta. Calmati, amore.” (“Be quiet. Calm yourself, love.”)
That night was frightening. Rome was blacked out for the first time. When the French planes flew over the city and the air raid alarms went off, we all ran down to the shelters. No bombs were dropped, but the buildings shook each time the antiaircraft guns blasted at the planes. Within the next few days, France had collapsed to the Germans but England carried on, alone. In Rome, we were isolated, our only concern our immediate safety.
In spite of this, I was still fired with the anticipation of our approaching concert tour when, three days later, Moreschi received the following message:
Due to regulations issued yesterday, no foreign artists will be allowed to appear in Italy at this time. We deeply regret not being able to present the great talents of your students, but expect that this ruling will be lifted within the next few months, so please be patient and express to your students our sincere thanks for the privilege of hearing them and know that I shall do all in my power to arrange a future date for their concert tour and opera debuts. Sincerely, Bonaventura Somma.
When Maestro read the message to us, it was as if a special bomb had blasted my fondest hopes. Everything that was me—my dreams, my hopes, my efforts—all had been with one thing in mind: to do what both Paul and I had felt I should and could do. This had been the only reason I had stayed in Rome—with the hard work, the exercises, the daily struggle to study and learn the roles—letting the man I loved return home without me. And now it looked like I’d done it all for nothing.
The war had shattered my dreams. There was nothing more I could do but go home . . . and yet, looking around the studio and seeing the same look of disappointment on the faces of the other students, I wondered whether I should not give up. Maybe Maestro Somma could still arrange a tour. He wouldn’t have said so if he hadn’t thought he could. It was a chance we’d have to take. That wonderful saying “Qui ne risque rien, n’a rien” kept coming to mind. So maybe, just maybe, if we didn’t give up, we would soon be booked on a concert tour and be given roles in an opera. We just had to pray and wait, and that’s what we did.
The next eventful few months moved swiftly. My roommates left Italy—Nedda for England and Magdaleine for America. I accepted an invitation from Ruth Ricci, an American journalist, to share her home on the Via Clitunno. Ruth had already applied for her exit permit from the Italian Dipartimento di Immigrazione, and recommended that I do so, too.
Although I planned to stay on with the other students, I decided to call on Signor Fornacca at the American Express Company on the Piazza di Spagna. He had always been so helpful to me. When I told him my plans, he suggested that I get my exit visa at once, even though I expected to stay in Italy until Maestro Somma arranged for the concert tour. “You’re an American, Teddy,” he said. “You really have nothing to worry about. America is not at war. But get the exit permit at once. Then go to the Swiss or Portuguese legations for visas to pass through their countries. Then come back here, and I’ll arrange for your passage.”
Hurriedly, I headed for the immigration offices. The Dipartimento was crowded. After standing in line for a while, watching the relieved faces of those who had been in line ahead of me as they received their permits, I finally faced the officer in charge. I presented my passport and said, “I’m planning to leave Italy soon, and would like an exit permit, please.”
He looked at me, then at my passport, and went into an inner office and closed the door behind him. I stood there, hopeful that with my exit permit I might still be able to make it back to the legations before they closed for the day. Then tomorrow I would see Mr. Fornacca, get my ticket, and arrange my itinerary.
The chimes of the large wall clock roused me out of my daydreaming, and I realized that it had been nearly a half hour since the officer had gone into that room with my passport. What was he doing? Why was it taking so long? I looked around. Only two people were waiting in line behind me. Just then the guard locked the main door and turned off some of the overhead lights. Obviously it was closing time.
Suddenly, the door opened to the inner office. The officer came out, handed me my passport, and said, “I am sorry, signora, but your permit has been denied.”
“Denied? Denied why?”
With great finality he said, “Come back next week,” and motioned to the person behind me to step forward.
I was stunned. I can’t remember how I walked out of there, or how I got home. I do remember the fear that gripped me. Why had my exit permit been denied? Why must I wait till next week? Would I get it then? Ruth had hers. Why was I singled out to be denied what was rightfully mine? With each question, my fear increased, so much so that when I arrived at the house, I grabbed the telephone. I had to talk to Paul. “Sorry,” the operator said, “there is a five-hour delay on all transatlantic calls.”
Disappointed, I said, “Okay . . . keep the call in. I’ll wait.”
A few moments later, there was a light tap on my bedroom door. I knew it was Ruth. She had just returned from Attilio’s, the beauty salon in the Piazza di Spagna, her hair beautifully coiffed, ready for her trip home in a few days to join her doctor-husband. She was radiant. “This came for you today,” she said, handing me a cable. It was from Paul. It read, I love the voice, but I love the woman more. Come home at once.
“ ‘Come home at once’? How can I, Ruth? The Italian officer refused to give me my exit permit today. He said, ‘Come back next week.’ ”
Trying to calm me, Ruthie said, “Don’t worry, Teddy. That’s just a formality. You’ll get it next week.”
The telephone rang. Maybe my call had gone through. The operator said, “I am sorry, but on your call to New York, there is now a nine-hour delay.”
“Okay,” I said, “keep the call in. I’ll wait.”
“Come on, Teddy,” Ruthie said. “Let’s go out on the terrace and have our supper. We can hear the telephone from there.”
The terrace was unusually dark. The sky was moonless and our hurricane lamp gave off only the barest of light, in conformity with the blackout regulations. Ruth was quiet all during supper. Suddenly she blurted out, “Teddy, I’m leaving tonight. I got the last seat on the train for Switzerland, and from there I’ll take whatever transportation they’ll give me. Just so I get home to my Ricci.” I was staggered by the news. She sensed it and said, “I’m so sorry to leave so suddenly, but please don’t worry. You’ll be leaving next week, I’m sure.”
I wasn’t reassured. There was something wrong. I couldn’t define it, but I felt it. And now that I would be alone, I felt it more. At midnight her cab arrived as ordered. After wishing her Godspeed and watching the cab disappear in the darkness, I went up to my bedroom to wait for my call. I waited all night. The call never came through.
At dawn, I cabled Paul: Due to regulations, concert canceled. Moreschi hopeful next month. If it happens, will you come? If not, will try to arrange to leave for home. Miss you, Mother, and family. Love, Teddy.
My cable, I later learned, was deciphered at once as “Teddy is in trouble.”
Beniamino Gigli, the great Italian tenor, lived directly in back of Ruth’s house. Each morning, when Ruth and I had our coffee out on the terrace, we could hear him vocalizing. It was always a tremendous privilege, like having box seats at a private concert. The morning after Ruth left, I was having my breakfast out on the terrace, and as usual Gigli was vocalizing. But now I took no pleasure, no inspiration from hearing his beautiful voice. Instead, it had become a horrifying reminder that, “due to regulations,” my own singing had been silenced. I not only agonized because I couldn’t reach Paul by phone, I was also apprehensive about being in Ruth’s big house by myself. Worried by the thought that my own country might somehow become involved in the war, I tried to drink my coffee, but I couldn’t swallow. I telephoned Moreschi. “May I have a lesson, Maestro, right now?”
“You mean, this morning?”
“Yes, I want to sing. They can stop me from singing in public, but they can’t stop me from singing with you.”
That afternoon, Maestro and his wife persuaded me to take a very small penthouse apartment on the Janicolo Hill, to be closer to them. My former maid, Maria, came to take care of me, and I waited for the days to pass when I would return for my exit permit.
While I waited, I began to notice more Nazis on the streets of Rome. They were buying everything of value they could get their hands on. They swarmed the restaurants and the theaters, many of them in the guise of tourists. Their excessive buying, plus the reckless purchases of some wealthy Italians, made the shortages worse, and fed the black market. Though I can’t say I really noticed this at the time. Although things were getting tighter for average Italians, I still didn’t fully realize how serious the situation was because somehow Maria always managed to return from the butcher and grocer with enough for us to eat.
Exactly one week after I’d first appeared at the Dipartimento di Immigrazione, I stood face-to-face with the same officer. He said, “No exit permit today, signora,” and walked away. For a second, I just stood still. I felt trapped. Again I was denied my exit permit without any explanation. Why?
I dashed back to my apartment, a lump in my throat, greatly concerned, and for the first time, very fearful. I opened the door and froze. My rooms had been searched. The drawers and closets had been opened and my things were strewn about. Someone had read all my letters from Paul. The phone was already in my hand and I was dialing the police when the door opened and Maria entered, her arms loaded with grocery bags. “Maria, I’m calling the police. Look what happened!”
Seeing the disarray of the apartment, she exclaimed, “Please, signorina, un momento.” She dropped the bags and dashed about, checking drawers and special places where she kept her few valuables. Finding them, she said, “Nothing stolen, signorina. It’s the secret police. Calmati.”
Secret police? “Maria, what does all this mean? Today, for the second time, I was denied my exit permit with no explanation, and now this. Am I under suspicion of something?” Oh, how I wished that I had not been so independent and that I had gone home with Paul.