Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir (35 page)

“They are such brave men,” she told me. “I wanted John and Caroline to meet them so that when they are old enough to understand, they will remember them, and the sacrifices they made.”

As the group left, President Kennedy thanked them once again for their valor and added, “I hope someday to visit a free Cuba.”

Two days later, we flew to Miami on the presidential helicopter to the Orange Bowl so that President and Mrs. Kennedy could publicly honor all the 1,113 Bay of Pigs survivors who had just been freed. I was surprised when Mrs. Kennedy told me she would be joining the president to this very public event, making an appearance before a mass audience, and it was a clear indication of how close the two had become during and after the Cuban Missile Crisis. Additionally, she knew that her ability to speak Spanish to the crowd could only help her husband in overcoming what remained the biggest regret of his presidency.

Some forty thousand people jammed the Orange Bowl stadium to welcome home the brave freedom fighters, all of whom were dressed in their khaki uniforms—many of them missing arms and/or legs. The ceremony was wrought with emotion as President Kennedy was presented with the brigade’s war-torn flag, which had flown during the three-day battle at the Bay of Pigs, and which had been carefully saved as “their most treasured possession.”

As he graciously accepted the flag, President Kennedy stepped up to the microphone and boldly proclaimed, “I can assure you that this flag will be returned to this brigade in a free Havana.”

The stadium erupted into a thunderous roar.

Then Mrs. Kennedy stepped to the microphone and spoke, without notes, in fluent Spanish.

There was barely a dry eye in the audience as she concluded her brief remarks, and again the audience roared with applause. Then the president and Mrs. Kennedy got into a white convertible and as the car slowly drove out of the stadium, they stood and waved to the exuberant crowd.

At Orange Bowl, Agents Jerry Blaine, Ken Giannoules,
Clint Hill, and Paul Landis work left side of car

I and the other agents jogged alongside the car, constantly scanning the crowd for any sign of disturbance or disruption, as we headed toward the waiting helicopter outside the arena. I helped Mrs. Kennedy out of the car, and as we walked toward the helicopter, the president came alongside her.

“You were wonderful, Jackie,” he said with a beaming smile on his face. “They loved you. Your remarks were just perfect.”

Under normal circumstances, I would never interject myself into a conversation like this, but I had to quell my curiosity.

“Mrs. Kennedy,” I said, “you got such an ovation that I have to ask . . . what exactly did you say?”

She and the president laughed and before she could answer, President Kennedy said, “Great question, Clint. I’d like to know myself.”

I knew that, more than likely, Mrs. Kennedy had shown her husband her intended remarks prior to the speech, so he was just ribbing her, and she knew it.

We reached the helicopter and as soon as we got aboard, Mrs. Kennedy pulled out the piece of lined yellow paper on which she had handwritten her remarks, and read them, in English: “It is an honor to stand here today with some of the bravest men in the world—and to share in the joy of their families who
have hoped and prayed and waited so long. I am proud that my son could meet your officers. He is too young to realize what you did—but I will tell him your story as he grows up. My hope for him is that he will be a man a fraction as brave as the members of Brigade 2506.”

It was a lovely and heartfelt sentiment. Brief, but extremely meaningful and personal. Finally, it seemed, the president could put the failed invasion behind him, and move forward with a renewed sense of purpose and pride.

On New Year’s Eve, President and Mrs. Kennedy attended a lavish party, for the second year in a row, at the residence of Charles and Jayne Wrightsman. It was the social event of the season. The Dom Pérignon was flowing, and the party lasted until three o’clock in the morning. As we entered 1963, it seemed there was much to celebrate.

There was something different about Mrs. Kennedy, though. I wasn’t exactly sure what it was, but there was a sparkle in her eyes, like she was keeping a secret.

O
n January 8, 1963, we returned to Washington on Air Force One, and arrived back at the White House by helicopter just a few hours before President and Mrs. Kennedy were due at the French Embassy for an eight o’clock dinner in honor of the unveiling of the
Mona Lisa
at the National Gallery. I barely had time to go home, shower, and change into my tuxedo before returning to the White House.

When Mrs. Kennedy came out of the elevator from the residence on the arm of the president, she looked more stunning than I had ever seen her before. She wore a flowing, pale pink gown and no jewelry but for a pair of exquisite diamond earrings that hung like sparkling raindrops from her ear to her jaw. The dinner at the French Embassy was an elegant affair for about one hundred people, hosted by Ambassador Herve Alphand and his wife. The guests included France’s minister of culture, André Malraux, and his wife, as well as many members of the Kennedy family, among them the president’s mother, Rose. After the dinner, the schedule called for everyone to be transported to the National Gallery of Art, where more than one thousand other invited guests were waiting to see the unveiling of the most famous smile in the world.

Everything was going like clockwork until we got into the elevator at the gallery. The poor elevator operator took one glance at Mrs. Kennedy, and I could tell he was really flustered. He pushed the wrong button and then got even more flustered and somehow the elevator wouldn’t budge. We were on a tight time schedule, and the president said, “Well, I guess we’ll just have to walk up the stairs.”

Mrs. Kennedy’s dress was designed so that it hung nearly touching the floor in the front, and actually had a short train in the back that dragged along the ground. She had on high heels, and I was worried that she was going to trip.

“Mrs. Kennedy,” I said as we approached the narrow stairwell, “I’m going to hold your dress up in the back to make sure you don’t step on it, okay?”

I could tell that she was a bit put out by having to climb the stairs, but as soon as I said this, she seemed to relax.

Smiling, she said, “Oh, thank you Mr. Hill,” and we proceeded up the stairs, with me behind her, uncomfortably holding her dress like an attendant at a wedding.

Mona Lisa
’s visit to the United States was an enormous success, both politically and culturally. After three weeks in Washington, she was transferred to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, and by the time she returned to France, more than one and a half million Americans had personally viewed Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece. Mrs. Kennedy was absolutely delighted with the outpouring of interest in this important work of art. Her lobbying efforts with President de Gaulle and Minister Malraux had paid off, and the result was that there was a renewed appreciation of culture and fine arts in America.

A few weeks after the
Mona Lisa
’s arrival, I was walking with Mrs. Kennedy at Glen Ora when she shared some exciting news with me.

“Mr. Hill, I suppose you have noticed that I haven’t been horseback riding like I normally do.”

“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy, I had noticed that.” I looked at her and smiled. “And also that you didn’t water-ski when we were in Palm Beach.”

She broke into a big grin and said, “I can’t keep any secrets from you, Mr. Hill, can I?”

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Kennedy. I know you too well. I’m so happy for you. When will the blessed event occur?”

“Doctor Walsh says sometime in mid-September.”

“That’s wonderful news, Mrs. Kennedy.”

And that’s how I found out that the president and Mrs. Kennedy were expecting their third child.

Nineteen-sixty-two had been an amazing year—filled with wonderful memories and historic events which I had the privilege of witnessing. With the political successes of the previous months, and now the news of the impending birth of the Kennedys’ third child, it seemed that 1963 was only going to be even better.

Mrs. Kennedy had informed me that she wanted to keep the news of her pregnancy quiet for the time being, so few people outside the close family knew about it beyond Paul Landis and myself. She did make it clear, however, that she was planning to curtail her activities quite a bit.

“Sorry, Mr. Hill,” she told me one day, “but I don’t foresee any trips to Ravello or Greece in the near future.” Then, smiling, she added, “You’ll just have to suffer with me in Palm Beach and Hyannis Port.”

I laughed. “That will be just fine, Mrs. Kennedy.”

The trips we had taken over the past two years had been wonderful, but I was glad to hear that she planned to take it easier now that she was pregnant. What I did notice, however, was that she was walking more than she ever had before. Any time she could find an opportunity to walk, she would walk. I didn’t ask her directly, but I assumed that since she could no longer water-ski, ride horses, or play tennis, she was concerned about keeping fit, and not gaining excess weight. Thus, she walked. And when she walked, I walked.

Being physically fit was something that was important to President Kennedy as well. Shortly after he was elected, he published an article in
Sports
Illustrated
titled “The Soft American,” in which he noted how the television set, the use of cars to travel everywhere, and a myriad of other modern conveniences had resulted in a generation of people who were not used to strenuous physical activity. He ended the article noting that parents must be responsible for instilling this in their children. “We do not want our children to become a generation of spectators. Rather, we want each of them to be a participant in the vigorous life.”

President Kennedy and Mrs. Kennedy, and indeed every member of the Kennedy family, lived by this philosophy. Whether it was swimming, playing tennis or touch football, horseback riding, waterskiing, or taking a vigorous walk, exercise was part of their daily lives.

In those early months of her pregnancy, when Mrs. Kennedy and I walked together, we talked about all sorts of things, and this was frequently when I found out about her upcoming plans. A few days after telling me she was going to curtail her activities, and that we weren’t going to travel much this year, she informed me that she planned to take Caroline to New York City the first week of February.

“We’ll just visit friends and do some shopping. I think Caroline is old enough now that she will really enjoy it,” she said. The one thing she insisted on, however, was that the trip be kept as quiet as possible. She had always been private, but now that she was pregnant, I sensed a vulnerability in her that I hadn’t seen in the past two years. It went unsaid, but I knew that there was always the underlying fear that she might lose the baby she now carried. And if God forbid it did happen, she certainly didn’t want to have to deal with it in the public eye.