The Hiltons: The True Story of an American Dynasty (40 page)

In fact, Nicky did once live with Conrad, after his divorce from Elizabeth Taylor. Then, after he moved out, Conrad refurnished the guest house at Casa Encantada for him, though Nicky chose not to move back into the estate at that time. While Conrad most certainly did want his sons to be independent, it wasn’t likely that he would have turned them away if they really needed a place to stay. He wasn’t one for company, that was true, but his sisters had actually visited quite often. He was fine with that, too, as long as they didn’t stay long. However, Francesca was apparently a different story. He really didn’t want her at Casa Encantada.

“I do hope that I did not hurt her,” Olive, who found herself stuck right in the middle of this Hilton domestic dispute, wrote to Zsa Zsa. “She was sweet, but she seemed upset and a little bewildered and confused. I do wish I could help her more, but I know that you realize that I do all that I can and that my hands are tied.”

Olive closed sweetly by asking for Zsa Zsa’s forgiveness “if I have interfered. But thought you might like to know.” She signed it, “with love, Olive.”

“Zsa Zsa Who?”

W
hen Zsa Zsa Gabor received Olive Wakeman’s letter, she responded to it immediately. “My dearest Olive,” she wrote, “in no way would I ever feel that you are intruding in my life or in that of my daughter’s, Francesca.” She continued by saying that she was actually relieved that Francesca had gone to Olive for help. Moreover, she was grateful to Olive, she wrote, for acting as “an intermediary between [Francesca] and her father, because God knows it has never been easy for me to play that role.” She noted that raising a child “in this day and age” was especially challenging given her status as a single mother with a busy show business career. However, she hastened to add that she did not wish to make excuses for herself or her daughter. In fact, as soon as Conrad returned to Los Angeles, she wrote, she intended to call him and make an appointment so that the two of them could sit down and discuss Francesca’s problems. “Thank you again for caring about Francie,” she added. She signed the note, “All of my affection, Zsazsa.” In a postscript, she wrote, “Let’s do have lunch soon, Olive. There is much to catch up on. You may have heard that I have had one or two husbands since last we dined.”

Once Zsa Zsa knew Conrad was back in Los Angeles, she called, as promised, to make an appointment to see him. After several unreturned calls, she decided to take matters into her own hands and visit him at Casa Encantada, showing up without an appointment. She was told by Conrad’s butler, Hugo Mentz (who had replaced Wilson some time earlier), that Conrad wasn’t home. He was at the office. So Zsa Zsa hightailed it over to Hilton’s office at 9990 Santa Monica Boulevard in Beverly Hills.

When Zsa Zsa walked into Conrad’s office, she found Olive Wakeman at her usual station in the reception area right outside Conrad’s door. The two greeted each other warmly; Zsa Zsa complimented Olive, saying she looked “
luffly
.” She then explained that she had just gotten back from Europe two days earlier and was leaving again in the afternoon. She was therefore in a bit of a hurry. “Be a dear, won’t you, and tell Connie that the dragon queen is here,” she said, laughing. She was certainly in a good mood.

“Of course.”

Olive then walked into Conrad’s office. “Zsa Zsa is here to see you,” Olive announced to Conrad, who was sitting behind his desk. He looked up at her wearily. “Zsa Zsa who?” he asked. “Zsa Zsa
Gabor
,” Olive clarified with a chuckle. “Who else?”

Because the door was open, Zsa Zsa was able to hear Conrad’s question. It alarmed her. Was he serious? Did he not know who she was? Likely he was just being facetious or maybe even sarcastic, but that’s not how Zsa Zsa took it. “Something is wrong with him,” Zsa Zsa said to Olive when she came out of Conrad’s office. “Tell me this instant, what is wrong with Connie?” she asked, being dramatic.

“Why, nothing at all,” Olive said.

“But that was strange, Olive,” Zsa Zsa continued, not wanting to let it go. “He didn’t know who I was, did he? Oh my God, is he going senile?” she asked urgently. “Tell me, Olive,” she demanded. “I am family. I have a right to know.”

Olive shrugged. “Oh, Zsa Zsa,
please
,” she said, now exasperated. “I don’t know what to tell you,” she added, clearly wanting to stay out of it. “But he will see you now.”

Olive escorted Zsa Zsa into Conrad’s office. “My dear
Connie
!” Zsa Zsa exclaimed, greeting him. “Look how
handsome
you are,” she said, flirting with him, as always. She sat on the corner of his desk, crossed one leg over the other, and made herself comfortable. Olive closed the door, leaving them alone.

Since there were no witnesses to their private discussion, it’s not known exactly what was said. However, Zsa Zsa would later claim that Conrad refused to listen to her plea that Francesca stay with him, “even for a week.” He would not be swayed from his feeling that Francesca was her mother’s responsibility, and he wasn’t going to allow the status quo to be altered in any way. There was nothing she could do to change his mind, she said. Therefore, because Eva Gabor had business on the West Coast and had to vacate her home in the Hamptons, Zsa Zsa would have to take Francesca with her back to Europe. According to what she would later recall, before they left the States, Zsa Zsa sat down with Francesca and tried to reason with her. “I am your mother and whether you believe it or not, I do love you very much,” she told her. “I don’t want to see you constantly get hurt by trying to get your father on your side. “You must accept the relationship you have with him as it is. Just as I did a very, very long time ago.”

The Simple Life

I
t was a chilly afternoon, the first week of November 1966, in a suburban West Los Angeles neighborhood. A woman in a long gray wool coat and yellow babushka walked very slowly up two flights of stairs to the door of a modest-looking stucco apartment building. Though she was just fifty-nine, she seemed much older than her years, each step very labored and deliberate. Despite her simple clothing, she had a distinct air of breeding about her, a certain dignity that commanded respect. She was followed closely by a well-dressed young lady who watched her carefully, both hands at the ready in case the older woman should stumble backward. After the two stopped at the door, the older woman began to rummage through her purse in search of her keys. After finally finding them, she slowly opened the door to a quaint two-bedroom unit. “Home sweet home,” she said with a smile.

Though neatly kept, the place was humbly furnished, as if being rented by someone who could barely afford to make ends meet. There was a twin bed in one of the bedrooms, along with a bureau, two dressers, and two lamps. In the second bedroom was nothing but a daybed, a table, and a lamp. There were four windows—one in the living room, the kitchen, and in both bedrooms. “I sure wish I had a window in there,” she said, motioning to the tiny bathroom. “But I’ve learned to live without.”

“Living without” had been this woman’s custom for many years. It was always difficult for neighbors to reconcile that this simple dwelling was the home of the first wife of one of the wealthiest, most influential, most famous men in the world. This was the home of Mary Saxon—Conrad Hilton’s first wife and the mother of the three young men he proudly called his sons.

“I like it here,” Mary Saxon said matter-of-factly to her daughter-in-law Trish Hilton as she took off her coat and hung it on a gold hook behind the front door, “even though this place isn’t much to look at.” Mary pointed out that the brown shag carpeting was new, “maybe three months old, and oh, the battle I had with the landlord to get that put in,” she said with a laugh. “And then he wanted to charge me! Well, you can be sure I didn’t pay. Not one red cent,” she said with indignation. The walls around her were painted dark green. A couch, coffee table—upon which was a stack of
Daily Racing Form
newspapers—and two matching side chairs all looked as if they had seen better days.

The centerpiece of the living room was a black-and-white Zenith television in a wooden cabinet supported by four spindly wooden legs. “Have you seen this?” she asked, walking over to it. She said it was new, bought by her son Eric as a birthday present. He had intended to buy her a color set, she explained, but she told him, “Absolutely not!” She wouldn’t think to have him spend his money on such a thing. “Color TV is so ridiculous,” she exclaimed. “If I want to see color, I’ll look out the window. This one is just fine.”

On top of the television set was an arrangement of photographs in simple gold and silver frames, all of which were carefully placed on a large white doily. Mary pointed to Barron and Marilyn on their wedding day, and to Eric and Pat on theirs, and commented on how lovely everyone looked. Then, picking up one of the frames, she said, “This is of me and Mack when we got married. I miss him so much.” Clutching the framed photo to her bosom, she mentioned that she and Mack had once been expecting twins. “But I lost the babies,” she said sadly. This was a shock. In all of the time she had been a Hilton wife, Trish had never once heard that Mary had miscarried twins; apparently it was a tragedy people in the family just didn’t discuss. “I had no idea,” she said, at a loss. “Well, it was a long time ago,” Mary told her. Abruptly, she put the picture back in place, picked up another and handed it to Trish. It was of Trish and Nicky shortly after their marriage. “Just look how beautiful you are, my dear,” Mary remarked.

Trish Hilton took the framed picture from Mary. Holding it in front of her, she peered at it closely for a long moment and was drawn back to a very special time. “My God,” she exclaimed. “This seems like a lifetime ago. Nicky was so handsome, wasn’t he?” she observed. “Still is,” Mary said matter-of-factly as she gently took the picture from her daughter-in-law and put it back in its proper place.

“And as you can see,” Mary said, as she extended her hands to the rest of the display, “I have pictures of all of my beloved grandchildren here as well.” She then ticked off the name of each smiling child as she pointed to the corresponding image, announcing each name with great satisfaction as if to prove that she was up to the task. She loved all of her grandchildren, she said, each one bringing her much joy. “And there you have it,” she concluded, standing proudly in front of the television cabinet and gazing down at all of the collected Hilton family history, “every single person I have ever loved in my whole life is right here on top of this TV. Isn’t that something?” As the two women took in the display, Trish couldn’t help but notice that one family member was noticeably absent from the display: Conrad.

Some people who knew Mary Saxon felt that Conrad Hilton could have done more for her after their divorce so many years earlier. Of course, the primary reason they felt that way was because he was a man worth at least $100 million by 1966; he could well afford to subsidize a grander lifestyle for Mary than what she was now living in West Los Angeles. It was easy to feel that something wasn’t quite right when comparing the glorious estate in which Conrad lived to Mary’s simple and modest apartment. It wasn’t that he held a grudge against her for the way their marriage had ended, either. It was just that he had worked hard for his wealth and he wasn’t giving it away to anyone—even his own children, let alone one of his ex-wives.

Mary Saxon never asked Conrad for money anyway. “The boys gave her everything she wanted,” her daughter-in-law Pat Skipworth Hilton recalled. “She’d call one of her sons if she ever needed anything—and it wouldn’t be money as much as some necessity. Like, when she needed an air conditioner, she called, I think, Nicky, and he bought one for her and put it in. The boys kept a close eye on her, as did we wives.” It was Nicky, though, the son who was most like her, who took the best care of her. “She never wanted for anything,” said one of her relatives. “Nick took care of her because Nick was her favorite.”

“She was like no other mother I had ever known,” Trish Hilton recalled of her mother-in-law. “She loved going to the races. She loved playing cards. She could shoot dice. She loved a good joke, loved to laugh. I don’t know what she was like as a young woman, but as an older woman I thought she was marvelous. She didn’t have a venal bone in her body. I sensed that she had a hard life, though. I think she had her regrets. I would sometimes wonder, if she had to do it all over again would she change anything? But never would I return her to a place of pain or sorrow by asking her such a personal question. We were close. I loved her very much.”

“It’s Going to Be Okay, Brother”

I
t was Trish Hilton whom Mary Saxon called one fateful Sunday morning, November 20, 1966. Nicky had just left the house to play golf when Trish picked up the telephone. “Something’s not right, Trish,” Mary told her. “I’m in terrible pain!” Alarmed, Trish told Mary to go and lie down immediately. “I’ll be right over, Mary,” she said, already grabbing her hat and coat.

When Trish arrived at Mary’s apartment, the door was ajar. She walked in with great hesitation and took a quick look around. Thinking she would probably find her on the couch, her heart skipped a beat when Mary wasn’t there. She was on her way to Mary’s bedroom when she passed the spare room and, glancing in, noticed Mary sitting on the daybed, staring straight ahead. “Oh my gosh! Are you okay?” she asked her mother-in-law. “What’s going on?” Mary didn’t answer. She just shook her head. Trish ran into the kitchen and called for an ambulance.