Rome in November can be very cold and damp. As the days grew shorter, I’d awaken to find it still very dark outside. Kostya had received word that his mother was ill and he had been called back to Ankara. I had been with him the night he left by train and, though he promised that nothing could keep him from returning to me, I had a premonition that we’d never meet again. It had been eight days since I had stood on the station platform and watched as the train pulled away. With no word from him since, I’d lie in bed alone and wait for the sun to rise beyond the mountains and flood my terrace with its blessed warmth.
One morning very early, the phone rang. It was Allen. He told me that he might be leaving at any minute. He was waiting for orders. Someone would take his place. I was to keep writing and, above all, “Don’t be afraid, Teddy,” he said. “No matter what happens, you are protected.”
I had no sooner hung up than the phone rang again. It was the Maestro. “Something wonderful has happened,” he said excitedly. Moreschi had arranged for me to sing over the shortwave radio to America the following week and, thanks to Allen and the Herald Tribune, I was able to get word to my family and Paul, which made me very happy.
The day of the broadcast, I was told to be at the studio at 3:30 A.M. for rehearsal. Moreschi himself would be my accompanist. The show would start at 4 A.M. My excitement couldn’t be dampened even by the possibility that this broadcast may have been the Italian government’s attempt to lull America’s shortwave listeners into complacency. Paul might be listening and, even though I would not be able to speak to him, I could at least reach out to him through song. Hopefully, he might just think I had improved.
As the minute hand moved toward the hour of four, the red light suddenly went on. “Hello, America, this is Rome, Italy,” the announcer began. “And tonight we proudly present the lovely singer Miss Teddy Lynch, from the famous Stork Club in New York. She will sing for you the aria ‘O mio babbino caro’ from Puccini’s Gianni Schicchi, and ‘Pace, pace, mio Dio’ from Verdi’s La Forza del Destino.” Then, with great verve, Moreschi thundered into the opening overture, and suddenly I was on. I sang from my heart, and I knew I did my best.
The next morning, Allen called. “You were great,” he said. “Come on over to the office, I’m trying to get a call through to Paul in California.” I was astonished. I threw on my clothes and ran all the way across Rome to be there if the call really went through.
And it did! Hearing Paul’s voice say, “Hello . . . is that you, Teddy? Darling . . . you were marvelous!” made me want to cry.
“Hi,” I said, nearly in tears, “I’m so glad.”
“Guess who was with me?” He went on . . . “Maria Jeritza, the great Tosca, and her husband, Winnie Sheehan, the Hollywood producer. They’d invited me to dine with them. About a half hour before your broadcast, we went out to my car and turned on the shortwave band, but there wasn’t enough power. So Sheehan said, ‘Let’s dash over to my studio and get an engineer to turn on the shortwave set there!’ We got there just in time to hear the announcer say, ‘Hello, America.’ I didn’t listen to anything else he said, just waited breathlessly until you sang your first tone. It was truly beautiful, darling, I’m so—”
Suddenly, there was a click and the phone went dead. Complete silence. I looked up at Allen. He just smiled and said, “This is war, Teddy.”
“I know,” I answered, “but he heard me.” Years later, I found a recording of that shortwave broadcast.
Hans Hasl, the handsome young Austrian pianist I’d met at Madame Cahier’s, often came to my little apartment to accompany me when I needed to rehearse my roles. Exactly one week after the broadcast, while we were working on the opera Otello, there was heavy knocking on the door. Maria opened it, and there stood two scowling members of the Gestapo. They pushed past me and walked up to Hans, demanding his passport.
“You have no right here,” I said. “This is the home of an American.”
“We are Germans,” the heavier of the two said. He wore the uniform of an SS officer. “We have jurisdiction everywhere.”
“But not over me,” I said, placing myself between them and Hans.
The heavyset officer, who was also the oldest, stared at me. I felt his hate and contempt for everything American in his voice as he screamed, “Hans Hasl, get to your feet!” Hans, a musician, was still an able-bodied Austrian male, which meant he was supposed to be in the army of the Third Reich.
I stood between them. “You can’t do this. We are in the middle of an aria. This man is a great musician, and I am a singer.”
“All right, Miss America. If you are a singer . . . then sing!”
I put a hand on Hans’s shoulder and he sat down and began, knowing that it would be the last time. I sang with defiance, but with joy at my own freedom—with joy at being an American.
When it was over, the officers were silent. I felt I had never sung better in my whole life, nor had Hans played with greater feeling. Suddenly, the younger officer applauded. The older one demanded that Hans go with them. I started to protest again, but Hans whispered, “Don’t interfere, Teddy. You’ll get in trouble. This is my problem.” They took him away.
Late that same night, after Maria had gone home, I thought I heard a light knocking at the door. Petrified that it might be the two Germans returning, I slipped on my robe and, as silently as I could, made my way to the kitchen. Pulling the blind aside, I could see in the half dark a tall man in the brown robe of a monk standing there. He was carrying a sack of something. Again he knocked. I remained still. Then I watched as he slipped a piece of paper under the door and, turning quietly, went down the stairs, carrying the sack with him.
It was a letter, dated December 1, 1941, and it was from Kostya. I could hardly wait to open it . . . almost tore it in my haste. He wrote that he was sending me sugar and soap and candy. That he had asked this monk to bring it to me. That he loved me, but he couldn’t come back to Rome. They had taken away his papers. What papers? I didn’t understand. He was in Ankara with his mother.
. . . but you . . . my love . . . you must leave Italy at once. I fear for your safety. Please, I want you so much to come to me here, but if you can’t, you must go home and I shall come to you. Only right now . . . take care.
Kostya.
P.S. If by chance something should happen to me . . . remember YOU are my LOVE . . . Now and Forever.
Clutching the letter, I ran back to my bedroom, jumped into bed, pulled the covers up, and started to cry. I was scared for Kostya, and I was suddenly very scared for myself.
Early that morning, I quickly dressed and ran down to the office, where I found a rather nervous Allen packing his notes and preparing to leave on his new assignment in Africa. No one was coming to replace him. He confided that he had gotten his exit permit, and he advised me to get mine, also visas for both Portugal and Spain. I went immediately to the immigration office, but was told that all issuances of exit permits for Americans had temporarily ceased.
The next days, waiting for the embargo on American exit visas to be lifted, were terrifying. Rome was chaotic. I went to sleep afraid and awakened with the same fear. I dreaded turning on the radio to listen to the news, but I equally dreaded missing the news if I didn’t turn it on.
I awoke early on the morning of Monday, December 8, turned on my shortwave radio, and heard President Franklin Delano Roosevelt speaking these words:
Yesterday, December seventh, 1941—a date which will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan . . . With confidence in our armed forces—with the unbounding determination of our People—we will gain the inevitable triumph—so help us God. I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, December seventh, 1941, a state of War has existed between the United States and the Japanese empire.
I was in shock. America was at war. I was afraid for my country, and afraid for Paul and my family, who were living in California. I visualized the Japanese pouring onto the beach at Santa Monica. I wanted to be there to help, but here I was all alone in an Axis country about to be at war with the United States, and I had to get to the American Embassy at once.
As I approached the grounds of the embassy, I could see it was jammed with excited Americans wanting to know what to do. I could see them inside the entrance. I was stopped by a member of the consulate.
“What do you want?” he said.
“I want to see the consul, please.”
“Who are you?”
I wasn’t listening. All I could think of was what our president had just said. “I’m an American,” I said, showing him my passport.
He looked at it. “What’s your name?”
“Teddy Lynch Getty.”
“I don’t know you,” he answered, still barring the way.
“I don’t know you, either. That isn’t important. I’m an American and I want to speak to the consul right now.”
I walked past him into the building. He looked after me, shaking his head. The hallways were a chaos of people, who, like me, were in a panic, anxious to be helped. I ran up the steps and literally bolted into Mr. Cole’s private office. He looked up quickly, and in a curt voice said, “Yes?”
“I’m Teddy Lynch Getty. Remember me, Mr. Cole? Allen Raymond introduced us.”
He looked up again, poised his head at an arrogant angle, and looked down at me with inexcusable haughtiness. “What do you want?”
“I want to go home.”
“We told all Americans to go home months ago,” he said with contempt.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to do,” I replied, “but my exit permits have been denied. Mr. Cole, I’m here today to present my press credentials, and to be sure that my name is on your list of accredited newspaper correspondents. Since my former chief, Allen Raymond, left Italy this past week, I’m the only remaining staff member of the New York Herald Tribune in Rome. Please, Mr. Cole, I must know—am I on your list?”
“I don’t know,” he mused deliberately. “I don’t know whether you are or not.”
“But I have to be on that list.” I took out my passport. “Here. Look at it. You issued it to me. It has your name on it. See, it reads ‘Correspondent.’ To be on the list of American accredited correspondents is my only hope of getting home.”
“Well, I’ll look into the matter.” The finality in his voice indicated he wanted to terminate our meeting.
“But, Mr. Cole, if you don’t put me on that list, the Italian Foreign Ministry will consider me suspect. Here is the letter, which Allen Raymond wrote to Ambassador Rocco of the Ministry of Popular Culture. In fact, he wrote it the day you issued my journalistic passport.”
“As I said before, Mrs. Getty, I will look into the matter.” He turned away, and it was obvious that our interview was over.
I didn’t know why Mr. Cole was being so evasive, and acting so un-American in denying me help, or at least hope.
I SPENT THE next two days packing and listening to the radio. On the night of December 10, Berlin broadcast that Hitler would make an important announcement to the Reichstag the next day at three.
The morning of December 11, 1941, I was awakened by the telephone. It was Norman Fiske. “Teddy,” he shouted, “get out of Italy.”
“I can’t,” I shouted back.
“Then come here,” he said.
A half hour later, I arrived at the Grand Hotel. I went to Norman’s apartment, tried his door, it was open. I found myself in his living room.
“Norman, where are you?” I cried.
“I’m here in the bathroom,” he shouted. “Taking what may be my last bath.” He came out, wrapped in a huge white towel, looking like a Roman emperor in a toga. He walked around nervously, grabbed a cigarette, picked up a revolver from his desk, and checked that it was loaded. Then he stopped and looked at me. “Teddy, what’s happening with you?”
“I’m about to be thrown to the wolves by Mr. Cole,” I replied. “Please, can you help me?” I was near tears.
“Cole is a bastard,” he said. “I’ll take care of him.”
I was about to go when Norman said, “Do you have any money?”
“No.”
He searched the top of his bureau. Stretching out his hand, he gave me twenty thousand lire. “Here, take this. Now go home, and don’t worry.”
Walking out of the hotel, I saw a mob heading for the Piazza Venezia. One man yelled to me, “Come on, II Duce is making an important speech.” I was swept up by the crowd heading for the square, which was already filled with thousands of students. I stood directly beneath the famous balcony, as the French doors of the Palazzo Venezia suddenly opened and Mussolini stepped out. His short, heavy body was covered by his familiar black tunic. His gray breeches were held in place by a black leather belt, and he had on tall black leather boots. He scowled at the crowd from under his black cap, with its golden eagle emblem of the Roman Empire. Two others moved out next to him. One man wore the navy blue of Hitler’s civil service. The other was a Japanese man dressed in a frock coat and silk hat. Mussolini flung his hand into the sky and then spoke into microphones that carried his voice throughout the world: “Italy is now on the side of the heroic Japanese against the United States of America.” He continued on about something to do with the united front, but I didn’t wait to hear. My only thought was to get back to the American Embassy.
I ran most of the way, and somehow managed to break through the circle of police surrounding the embassy and get inside. Everything was chaotic. There was the smell of smoke, apparently from the burning of documents in various offices. I ran up to Mr. Cole’s office. The door was open. He was talking excitedly to his staff. It was obvious that the office was being dismantled. I know he saw me as I stood in the doorway, but he completely ignored me.
I cried out, “Mr. Cole, am I on that list?”
Looking at me as if he had never seen me before, he said, “Not yet.”
I hurried out and ran right into Mrs. Wadsworth, wife of our chargé d’affaires, whom I recognized, but who didn’t know Paul or me. “Mrs. Wadsworth, I need your help.”
“Who, may I ask, are you?” she said airily.
“I’m an American, Mrs. Wadsworth. My name is Teddy Lynch Getty. I’m a singer, and I work for the New York Herald Tribune.”
“What are you doing in Rome?” she managed, as if about to swoon with the nuisance of having to address a mere nobody. But how could I expect her to know me? I had made no effort to join her local social register, even though I was in the one back home.
I ignored her attitude. “Mrs. Wadsworth, Rome is the seat of art and music, where for centuries musicians and artists from all over the world have come to study.”
“And do you really expect to go home with us?” Her hand swept the room to take in the elite, whom it appeared had her royal blessing.
“I most certainly do,” I said.
I tried to sound confident, but inwardly I was heartsick. It was all so un-American. Right here in my own American Embassy, Mr. Cole and now Mrs. Wadsworth acted as if I didn’t have the right to go home.
I cry at parades. I stand for our national anthem. My ancestors fought in wars against the French and the British to free our country. I felt one hundred percent American, and I had always been proud that I was. But that day I was ashamed of what a few people who represented my country were doing. God help all those other poor besieged Americans, I thought as I hurriedly swept out to fight my own battle.
Paul had read that only accredited journalists would be immediately returned, along with diplomats. In New York, Ware was getting assurance from the powers that be at the Herald Tribune that I would be among those listed as their accredited representatives.
I ran up the steps to the office of Herbert Matthews, chief of the New York Times. He was alone, sorting out the last of his papers. He seemed surprised to see me. I told him about my meetings with Mr. Cole, and the experience I’d just had with Mrs. Wadsworth. He was very annoyed with Cole, and excused Mrs. Wadsworth, saying, “Forgive her . . . She’s a bloody bore. I’ll speak to Mr. Wadsworth. And I’ll do everything I can to get your name on the list. Now, go home, and I’ll be in touch.”
I went to my maestro’s studio. I asked him if he could reach someone, anyone he might know in the Swiss legation, so that I could get word to Paul of my insane predicament. He said he would try, then added, “Teddy, you know Monsignor O’Flaherty at the Vatican. Call him.”
So I did. “Help me, monsignor, if you can.” He promised he would speak with the Wadsworths, with whom he played bridge almost every night.
A few minutes later, Maria called. “Signorina, there are two men waiting here for you.” She was in a panic.
“Are they Germans?” I asked.
“Only one.”
“Give them some coffee, and tell them I’m coming home now.”
“Va bene,” she said, and hung up.