The Hiltons: The True Story of an American Dynasty

Begin Reading

Table of Contents

Photos

Newsletters

Copyright Page

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

For my family

PROLOGUE

It was Monday morning, June 11, 1979. “Conrad Hilton is rolling over in his grave right now,” Zsa Zsa Gabor was saying to the attorney Myron Harpole. The two were on the telephone, discussing the details of a sworn deposition Zsa Zsa was to give later that week about her relationship with her late husband, the international business pioneer and hotel magnate. “Oh, how he would love to be able to control what I say about him,” she observed wryly.

“I don’t know if that’s true,” Myron said carefully. He had been Conrad’s attorney for more than thirty years, and even now, six months after his client’s death, was still protective of him.

“Oh, Myron,” she said, laughing. “You know that if Conrad could be there, sitting right behind me and whispering in my ear, he’d love it.”

It was true that throughout his lifetime Conrad Hilton had been a man used to being in complete control—of himself and, some might argue, everyone around him. As one of the most successful businessmen in the world, he had made hundreds of millions of dollars, with hotels around the world bearing his name. He certainly didn’t carve out such a niche by allowing others to impose their will upon him. Generally speaking, though, he was well liked and had a stellar reputation among his colleagues. He was a good man, known as much for his philanthropy as for his hotel empire. Privately, though, he did have his eccentricities, not the least of which was his stringent attitude about his wealth and the manner in which it should be distributed to immediate family members.

It had long been Conrad’s belief that merely being related to him should not guarantee his heirs a carefree, privileged life. He had made his money in what he called “the good, old-fashioned way,” meaning he had earned it. A product of the Great Depression, he wanted his relatives to inherit his work ethic, not his money. A loan might be given from time to time to one of his four children, but failure to pay it back would result in a breach of trust not easily remedied.

Now that Conrad was gone, some of his family members had serious reservations regarding his last will and testament. With hundreds of millions of dollars on the line, the stakes were high. There were hurt feelings, many questions. A legal effort to redress some of these grievances was the reason Zsa Zsa was now being compelled to share her private memories of Conrad with a battery of attorneys.

“Tell me, Myron, will you be at the interview?” Zsa Zsa asked.

“We’ll see,” Myron answered. “And, by the way, it’s a
deposition
, my dear,” he reminded her. “Not an interview.”

“Well, when people ask me questions,” Zsa Zsa said, “I give them answers. For me, that’s an interview.” Indeed, for the last three decades, she had been a staple on television talk shows, flamboyantly chatting it up with Merv Griffin and Jack Paar, Steve Allen and Johnny Carson about her life and times, often embellishing the truth for the sake of a good laugh. Zsa Zsa was flippant, irreverent, and entertaining, her thick Hungarian accent and uncommon beauty distinguishing her almost as much as her rapier wit.

“But, remember, you will be under oath this time,” Myron said.

“Myron, please! You know me,” she responded. “I always tell the truth!”

Three days later, at noon on Thursday, June 14, Zsa Zsa Gabor walked briskly past the front desk of the Beverly Hills Hotel, her head held high. Wearing a billowing red-and-gold-striped caftan and matching spiked heels, she tried to act oblivious to the stares of everyone she passed. She would have to admit that she loved the attention, though, and she didn’t have to work hard to generate it. At sixty-two, she was still quite beautiful. Her skin was flawless, full of health and vitality, her teased hair a light ash blonde. Her steely and determined blue eyes were hidden behind oversized celebrity sunglasses. As she walked, her gait was one of real purpose, as if nothing could ever get in her way. Of course, this had always been her story.

Since arriving on the SS
President Grant
, overcrowded with refugees such as herself from Hungary, almost forty years earlier, Zsa Zsa had always known exactly what she wanted out of life: success, happiness, wealth… the so-called American dream, in all of its red-white-and-blue splendor. She would do a lot to get it, too, as she would prove many times along the way, even if that meant marrying for prosperity—which she did more than a few times. Including Conrad Hilton, seven times, to be exact. So far.

Zsa Zsa’s footsteps echoed sharply as she marched across the marble foyer of the Beverly Hills Hotel. She nodded at the concierge; he touched his cap in recognition. She then walked quickly down the red-carpeted hallway, past the famous Polo Lounge restaurant, out a pair of French doors, and then through a lovely flower garden in the direction of a nearby bungalow. As she entered the bungalow where her deposition was to be conducted, she immediately switched on her stage persona and played to the audience at hand. “My God! Just look at all of these
gorgeous men
!” she marveled as she swept grandly into the room. Four attorneys and a male court reporter stood before her with big smiles. “I
love
being surrounded by gorgeous men,” she enthused. “Everyone knows that about me by now.”

“Zsa Zsa, how wonderful to see you,” said Myron Harpole as he emerged from the group to greet her. A solid Harvard Law School graduate in a fastidiously neat dark suit, he extended his hand to shake hers, but she brushed it aside and embraced him. “Myron, can you believe that we are here?” she asked, looking around. “Why, my Connie used to
own
this hotel!” A tangle of gold bracelets on each wrist made clinking noises every time she used her hands to express herself, which was often.

“No, my dear, actually he didn’t,” corrected the lawyer. “He owned the Beverly
Hilton
Hotel, not the Beverly
Hills
Hotel.”

She looked at him with a quizzical expression. “No, I think he owned this one, too,” she insisted.

The lawyer smiled patiently and, with a small smile, shook his head no.

“Well, I can’t blame you for not knowing,” she said with a dismissive wave. “He owned so
many
hotels, who could keep track?” It was true. Zsa Zsa’s ex-husband had either owned or managed luxury hotels all over the world, most of them—such as the famed Waldorf-Astoria in New York City, which he considered the favorite among his legion—were extraordinary when it came not only to ambiance but also to service. Hilton wanted his guests to be pampered and treated with the utmost respect. For him, it was as much a personal endeavor as it was professional. Therefore, a Hilton hotel would always be a cut above the competition, at least as long as Conrad Hilton had anything to say about it.

Just as Zsa Zsa and Myron Harpole finished their conversation, another lawyer representing the Hilton estate, Ralph Nutter, entered the bungalow. He would be the one asking most of the questions on this day. He greeted Zsa Zsa and quickly took his seat. After Zsa Zsa was sworn in, the deposition began.

The first subject raised had to do with the birth of Zsa Zsa’s only daughter, Constance Francesca—known to all as Francesca. In preparation for what she suspected was coming, Zsa Zsa rummaged through a large leather handbag and extracted from it a copy of Francesca’s birth certificate of March 10, 1947, in New York City. “As you can see, she was named after her father,” she explained as the court reporter took down every word. “That’s where the Constance came from. Conrad.” She then took from her purse a copy of the baptismal certificate: “And she was baptized in her father’s favorite church,” she continued. “St. Patrick’s Cathedral, on May 4, 1947.”

“So, Mrs. O’Hara, is it your testimony today that Constance Francesca Hilton is Conrad Hilton’s biological daughter?” Ralph Nutter asked, addressing Zsa Zsa by her present married name.

“Yes, of course,” Zsa Zsa answered quickly. Now she was serious, displaying a no-nonsense demeanor. This was not a frivolous matter, and she knew it.

“Did Mr. Hilton have reason to doubt that this was true?”

She paused. A wistful look crossed her face, but then it hardened. “Exactly what is it you are trying to say to me?” she asked with an arched eyebrow.

“I’ll rephrase,” offered Ralph Nutter. “Mrs. O’Hara, did you have any reason to believe that Mr. Conrad Hilton felt that Francesca Hilton was not his biological daughter?”

“Well, Mr. Hilton was a complicated man,” Zsa Zsa answered, clearly hedging.

“That does not answer the question,” Ralph Nutter observed.

She fixed him with an icy glare. “That is not an easy question to answer,” she remarked, glancing at the court reporter. That her responses were being memorialized seemed to unnerve her.

Taking a deep breath, Ralph Nutter paused to gather his thoughts. “Okay, Mrs. O’Hara,” he said, beginning anew, “is it your testimony, then, that Conrad Hilton believed Constance Francesca Hilton to be his biological child?”

“I can only tell you,” Zsa Zsa began, “that never once to my face did Conrad Hilton ever question the paternity of our daughter.”

“Are you certain of that?”

“Yes.”

“Why, Mrs. O’Hara? Why are you so certain?”

She looked him in the eye. “Because if he had, I would have killed him,” she answered.

The attorney searched her face as if trying to discern if she was joking. He then looked at Myron Harpole for a reaction. Harpole just chuckled to himself.

“How, then, would you describe your relationship with Mr. Hilton?” Ralph Nutter asked.

Resurrecting her smile, Zsa Zsa took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “It’s harder for me to talk about this than I thought it would be,” she answered. “Conrad Hilton was not an easy man to understand. So religious. Always with the nuns, the church. Every day going to the church or praying on his knees in the bedroom to a shrine. In some ways, I think it’s the reason why we are here today,” she said, motioning to their surroundings. “He would rather the nuns have his money than his own family. I don’t think he would disagree with my saying it, either.”

“Mrs. O’Hara, what were your first impressions of Mr. Hilton?”

“My first impression was that I was meeting someone completely different from other men,” Zsa Zsa Gabor answered. “He was… he was just”—she paused as if reaching for the right word—“I guess you could say he was the most
interesting
man I had ever met.” Now she seemed to relax into her chair, appearing eager to tell her story. “I had known European royalty before him, do not forget, but this man was special,” she continued. “In some ways, he reminded me of my father—the same strong features, the same color of his eyes, the close-cropped gray mustache. The way he carried himself was big and strong, self-confident and powerful. He was a take-charge kind of man. Someone you sensed would always take care of you. He was so solid… so…
American.
He seemed to me everything that was American. So, yes,” she decided, “I knew as soon as I met him that never would I be able to forget him. Of all men, I knew that Conrad Hilton would be the one I would remember…”