Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir

She looked up at me with her big blue eyes and grinned. “Thank you, Mr. Hill. But my daddy did most of the work.”

The president and I looked at each other and laughed.

It was a beautiful day on the waters off Cape Cod, as the president, Caroline, and I sped off to join Mrs. Kennedy and the ambassador on the Marlin for lunch.

“Clint,” President Kennedy said to me, “I wanted to mention a few things to you before you leave for Italy.”

“Yes, Mr. President?”

“You know we aren’t sending staff over with Mrs. Kennedy to handle the press, but obviously there are going to be photographers there and they will be constantly trying to get pictures of her.”

“Yes, sir. Unfortunately that seems to be the case no matter where we go.”

“The beach is not secluded and I don’t want to see photos of her at luncheons with eight different wines in full view or jet-set types lolling around in bikinis. Do what you can to remind her to be aware of that.”

“I’ll do what I can, Mr. President.”

“Jackie has invited Benno Graziani and his wife, Nicole, to stay with her and Lee in Ravello,” President Kennedy continued. “Benno is a lot of fun, but he’s always got his camera in his hand.”

The Italian Graziani had become good friends with Mrs. Kennedy prior to her marriage, when she was a photojournalist for the Washington Times Herald, and now he had become a well-known photographer for Paris Match magazine.

“Do not let Benno talk Lee and Jackie into letting him take pictures for the magazine,” the president said emphatically. “And above all, no nightclub pictures.”

I had met Benno Graziani several times before. He was a lot of fun—always clowning around—and I think he was a relief from the political types that dominated their circle of friends. He was one of the few people with whom Mrs. Kennedy let her guard down, and because they had known each other prior to her becoming the wife of John F. Kennedy, she trusted him.

About this time we reached the Marlin, and transferred the president and Caroline into the bigger yacht from the jetboat. As I slowly pulled away, the president’s words played over and over in my head and I realized that while he wouldn’t be joining his wife on this holiday, he was going to be aware of everything she did. With no other staff or press people on the trip, it was clear that he was counting on me to protect Mrs. Kennedy’s image as well as her physical safety.

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.”