Raising Trump Page 3

  George and I talked about how we were going to escape. His opportunity came sooner than either of us expected. His father was an architect and was designing the Czech embassy in London. When his family came back to Prague from England, they told George they were going to defect and wanted to bring him with them. Who could blame him for choosing to go?

  Before he left, George came up with a plan for me. We were friends with an Austrian skier named Alfred (Fred) Winklmayr. If Fred and I got married, I’d have an Austrian passport and would be able to leave communist Czechoslovakia legally and still be able to see my family. The marriage wouldn’t be real, of course, and Fred had no illusion that it meant anything. It was only for me to get the necessary papers. Why did he go along with it? He was a friend and he wanted to make a noble gesture to help someone flee an oppressive regime. He came to Prague and we married in a government building in 1971 when I was twenty-two. (We stayed married for two years to fool the government, and divorced in 1973 as soon as it was safe.) After the ceremony, Fred returned to Vienna and I waited for a month for my Austrian passport to arrive. George was at the wedding, but he left shortly after to meet his parents in London and went on to Canada from there. Our farewell wasn’t a time to cry or be sad. He was getting out! Instead, we celebrated his freedom.

  When he left Prague, I lost my best friend and felt very alone, but I was relieved and happy for him that he got out. Even though I had a new passport, I couldn’t leave yet. I was halfway toward getting my master’s, and I couldn’t walk away now. I was the only child in my family, and my parents counted on me. I needed that degree to elevate myself, and then I’d be in a position to help them. I loved George and missed him, but I didn’t dwell on my loneliness. I stayed focused on my goals for myself and my duty to my parents, and looked ahead to the future, when I would hopefully see him again. Whenever the loneliness crept into my thoughts, I pushed it away by keeping busy. I worked harder at school and continued to ski. When a friend’s pet poodle had puppies, he gave me a little black one. I named him Chappy, and he became my constant companion.

  Soon enough, loneliness stopped being an issue at all. I had my dog, and several months after that, I fell in love.

  I met Jiří Štaidl, a musician and a poet, through mutual friends. His brother Ladislav (Lada) wrote the tunes, Jiří wrote the lyrics, and legendary Czech singer Karel Gott recorded them, earning the brothers respect, fame, and money. Jiří wasn’t an athletic type at all. He was kind of chubby and had no discipline for sports or exercise. But he was talented and sweet, and he made me laugh. We were deeply in love, and I became his muse. We’d often go to Lada’s villa in Jevany on the weekends. While I studied, he’d be at the typewriter. From the other room, I’d hear tap, tap, tap, and I knew he’d found the words for a new song, probably about me. We were both swept up in our romance, and being with Jiří made me realize that what George and I had was a very close friendship but not true love. Jiří was the real deal. Even though I had my escape papers, I couldn’t leave him behind.

  In 1973, I had to go to Vienna to complete some paperwork related to a skiing competition and made the short trip by myself. When I got back to Prague, I went to my police interview as usual—“Yes, Austria is pretty. Yes, women wear nice clothes and perfume. Here’s a bottle for your wife!” Then I went to the bistro where Jiří was picking me up so we could drive to Jevany together, where we could have peace and quiet. He had ten songs to write and I had exams to study for. But he never arrived. I soon learned that, while driving around on some errands, he’d gotten in a car accident and died.

  The details of the accident were murky and I couldn’t get an explanation of what had happened from his family. It’s possible he’d had a drink or two before he got behind the wheel, but I don’t know for sure. He was only thirty and so talented. It was a horrible, tragic end to a bright young life.

  I was devastated, just destroyed. The man who had made life a song, who had made living under communism bearable, was now gone. I’d lost my love in a moment, and because of the mysterious circumstances of his death, I didn’t have closure. One minute, he was there at my side, and the next he was gone, and I wasn’t supposed to ask or talk about it. I was very young, in my early twenties, and a loss that big was more than I could handle. I suffered panic attacks and thought I was dying of a broken heart.

  I returned to the pillars of strength that had gotten me through every hardship thus far (and the ones yet to come): my parents. I went home and cried on their shoulders and let them comfort me. My father reminded me of my goals: to finish my education and to leave legally so that I could have a better life in a free country. That had been their plan for me since I was born. After Jiří’s death, the only thing tethering me to Czechoslovakia was my parents, and they wanted nothing more than for me to start from scratch somewhere else. Once I got settled, they could visit me. Having this clear plan gave me something to think about other than my pain. The deep loss was always there, but at least I could escape it by fantasizing about a new life.

  In the fog of heartache, I waded through the last of my classes. I put on a brave face because I had no other choice, and because that was what I’d been conditioned to do for so long. I got through Jiří’s funeral but I couldn’t bear seeing the musicians, artists, and painters who were our friends in the weeks afterward. I didn’t want to go to the same places or eat at the same restaurants. Some of Jiří’s friends actually tried to make a move on me, and it made me hate them all, hate Prague, and feel desperate to leave. Even after all these years, recalling that time is deeply upsetting. I’ve sent flowers to his grave on the anniversary of his death every single year.

  The day Jiří’s life ended, so did my life in Prague. As soon as I got my degree, I grabbed my passport, put my suitcase in the Fiat, drove to the airport with Chappy, and we were off: first, a short stop in Vienna, and then, eventually, to my new home.

  -3-

  WELCOME TO AMERICA

  Dreaming of freedom got me though Jiří’s death more than anything else. The question was, where in the world should I go? I could move to Europe. I knew people through the skiing community, but that wouldn’t be a complete break. The gravitational pull of my parents so close by would have tempted me to come home to them, and then I might have wound up staying forever. Czechoslovakia is a beautiful country, with great food and wonderful people, but after the invasion of Prague and my lover’s death, I needed to put an ocean between us.

  My father’s sister and her husband lived in Toronto, Canada, in a big house in the prestigious part of town called Forest Hill. They offered to let Chappy and me stay with them for a while. Touching down in Toronto, I felt only relief that my old life was over and excitement about starting a new one. The farther I got from Prague and memories of Jiří, the easier it was to breathe.

  Driving through the city from the airport, I noticed that in some neighborhoods the houses were smaller and closer together. In others, they were larger and farther apart. I’d never seen suburban class divides before. Unlike Czechoslovakians, the people there weren’t locked into one class from birth to death. You could conceivably change your life in the West if you had a big idea, a big job, or big dreams. It was all about BIG.

  The scale of everything, from the houses to the streets, seemed supersized. In Europe, the streets are narrow and many of them can only fit one car at a time. But in Canada, there were four-lane highways, giant trucks, brawny people, skyscrapers, shopping malls that were the size of a whole city block, and ten-story parking garages. You could walk from the garage into the mall, spend a whole day there, go back to your car, and never once step outside.

  Everything was new to me. The excitement of it all kept me from feeling homesick, and it helped that, because I’d left legally, my parents would be permitted to visit me. (After Czech tennis superstars Martina Navratilova and Ivan Lendl defected, they didn’t see their families for years.) The first goal for my new life was to get a job and make enough m
oney to send my parents plane tickets. They had to see all this.

  My uncle was an architect, and my aunt ran Costa Line, a Toronto-based cruise line that gave tours in Europe and the Caribbean. They took me on a Caribbean cruise shortly after I arrived. On the first night, there was a costume party on the boat. I was twenty-four, really cute, and dressed as a Playboy Bunny—and I won first prize! I met a sailor on the cruise who was very attentive and I was pretty sure he was flirting with me, although my English wasn’t so great then. I needed friends, so I agreed to go on a date with him. Despite everything I’d learned about being on guard in Czechoslovakia, this sailor had me fooled. I thought he was just a nice boy who would treat me with respect. Instead, he invited me to his cabin and tried to rape me. As soon as the door was closed, he rushed at me, put his hands all over me, and tried to rip off my clothes.

  I’d never been assaulted before, and it was much scarier than any communist interrogation. I was literally trapped. This sailor meant to do me physical harm. My life was under threat, and this experience was a new kind of fear. I started screaming, “Let me go!” and used every muscle I had to fight my way out of the cabin. I ran into the corridor, still screaming, and found my way to the safety of my own cabin.

  I learned that night that freedom had many textures, and some of them were rough. I’d been fighting against a big nebulous enemy for so long—communism—and that night, I realized there were individual, more concrete threats that could also do terrible harm. Just because I was in a free country didn’t mean that I could ignore certain aspects and terrors of life. I’d never been physically threatened before. I learned a hard but important lesson: you have to be on your guard and protect yourself, and politeness and naïveté could put you in scary situations. As strong as I was mentally and physically, I was still vulnerable. From that day on, I honed my instincts regarding people and trained myself to listen to my inner warning system.

  For the year and a half I lived with my relatives, I studied English and started modeling. I’d done some modeling in Prague already and hadn’t thought of pursuing it in Canada—but opportunity knocked when a nicely dressed woman came up to me in a coffee shop in Toronto and introduced herself as an agent with William Morris. “I’d like to represent you,” she said. I thought, Why not? I checked her out to make sure she was legitimate, and then I started taking jobs in Toronto. She suggested that I could get even more work in Montreal. So, at twenty-six, I moved again.

  George (remember him?) lived in Montreal with his parents, so Chappy and I went to live with his family. I hadn’t seen him in a few years, but it was like we’d never parted. We rekindled our college romance, half-heartedly at best. Our friendship was as strong as it had been when we were teenagers, though, and it was the most natural thing to be together again. His parents made me feel loved and welcome, too.

  On winter weekends, George and I went to Jay Peak resort in Vermont, a two-hour drive from Montreal. American skiing was very different than competing in Europe. The snow is dry here, and much lighter than in France or Italy. I was used to pushing around heavy, wet powder. The powder in Vermont was up to my waist, but it was so light, I could ski circles around the Americans. In no time, I became a ski instructor at Jay Peak and taught kids how to race.

  Canada, in case you don’t know, is freaking cold! The temperature could drop to sixty-four below with the windchill factor. I drove a Fiat X1/9 sports car, praying all winter I wouldn’t get stuck in a snowbank or skid into a ditch. On the mountain, I shivered constantly in my skimpy ski suit, with a sleek jacket and tights underneath the pants. I could have worn warmer clothes, but I don’t participate in a sport if I can’t look elegant. To warm up, I just skied harder.

  George and I rented a chalet with three other couples for weekends and vacations. I always brought along Chappy. That caused some tension in the house because the other couples refused to let him sleep inside. I had to leave him in the car buried under piles of blankets overnight. In the morning, the windows on the inside were frozen with ice from his breathing. We cooked dinners for eight in the chalet, and I showed off my mother’s recipes for goulash and chicken paprika. In the summers, we’d go get fresh lobsters, but I refused to cook the lobsters myself. When you throw them into the boiling water, they squeak. I couldn’t stand the sound, but succulent lobster with melted lemon butter was fabulous.

  The modeling agent was right: I had a lot of opportunities in Montreal, starting with a full-time job at the Vali showroom. The designer, Audrey, was also from Czechoslovakia, and we bonded instantly. My job was to model her clothes in the showroom for department store buyers. They’d look at me in the dresses and place big orders. My agent also connected me to Yolande Cardinal, the woman in charge of booking all the models for fashion shows in Montreal. (Yolande and I remained friends. I once helped her find a doctor in America when one of her children had a health crisis. She still writes to me and keeps me up-to-date on her family.) A furrier in Montreal hired me to be the face of his company, and I modeled his coats and jackets in advertising campaigns, as well as in magazine and newspaper articles about the company.

  When I wasn’t skiing, modeling, or helping George at the little sports shop he opened to sell and repair skis in the winter and bikes in the summer, I took some English classes at McGill University. We were doing very well and had enough money to move out of George’s parents’ house and into a rental apartment in Château Maisonneuve, a cute place in a nice neighborhood. I didn’t care about being wealthy. If I had a job, could pay my bills, and wasn’t poor, I was happy. I didn’t have career goals or a five-year plan. Whatever my job was, I would do my best. If I were a salesperson at the Eaton mall, I’d put my Czech into it, and in six months, I’d be a manager. In two years, I’d own the place. George and I had a good life. I wasn’t thinking about getting married and becoming a Canadian hockey mom or learning to sugar my own maple syrup. I was just settling into my freedom.

  A few years after I immigrated, my agent booked me as part of a group of eight models for a show of Canadian designers to promote the ’76 Montreal Summer Olympics. It sounded like a good gig, so I said yes. Then they told me that we had to go to New York for a weekend and do the show there, and I said no. My father had just arrived from Czechoslovakia to be with me. I wasn’t going to leave him, even for a few days. But the booker said that the show was choreographed, which I knew, and that they couldn’t find anyone to replace me. If I didn’t go, I’d ruin it for everyone else.

  What could I do? I said good-bye to my father and George, packed my bags, and got on a plane bound for New York City. I had no idea what—and who—I’d find there.

  PART TWO

  BECOMING A TRUMP

  -4-

  HOW I MET THEIR FATHER

  It was love at first sight, the powerful, instant thrill of realizing we were born to be together and that our passion would never fade.

  I’m talking about New York City, of course. As soon as I saw it for the first time, I knew I’d found a place with an energy that matched my own. It was just spectacular. I thought the skyscrapers in Montreal were impressive, but the ones in New York put them to shame. I was a typical tourist, staring up at the tall buildings, the yellow cabs, the incredible diversity of the people on the street. I wanted to explore every block, the art museums, discos, concert halls, restaurants, and stores. New York was pure adrenaline: big, bold, and loud. I wasn’t sure about living there (yet), but I was thrilled to visit.

  Our travel for the fashion show was all taken care of: flights, hotels, everything. We were booked at the Americana on Seventh Avenue, a hotel with fifty-three floors and a storied history. The Beatles once performed at the on-site nightclub, and scenes from The Godfather were filmed there (by that point, I’d learned about rock music and gangster movies, so I was impressed). The other girls and I spent the day walking around the city in the July heat, which was exciting and exhausting. When we got back to the hotel that first evening, I was ready for air-c
onditioning, room service, and bed. We had early rehearsals the next day, but my friends really wanted to go out and see the swinging seventies singles scene. “Come on, Ivana! We’re in New York City!” they said. I let them convince me, but I wasn’t fully into it.

  We went to Maxwell’s Plum, which was the hottest restaurant in the city at the time, famous for its chili, burgers, and celebrity clientele. The girls were hoping to see Warren Beatty or Barbra Streisand, and maybe meet some sexy American men, but I didn’t care. I was living with George, happy with my life, and not on the hunt for true love or a fling. Really, I wasn’t interested in anything but dinner.

  Isn’t it true of life that when you’re not looking for something, it walks right up and taps you on the shoulder?

  While we stood at the maître d’ stand, the girls scanned the crowd for cute guys, and I took in the chaotic, decadent décor—red velvet; crystal; Tiffany chandeliers; a stained-glass ceiling in crazy, colorful patterns; stuffed tigers and animals hanging from the walls; packed tables; a crush of people at the bar, everyone done up to the nines in slinky, sexy dresses and glam makeup.

  I was wearing a red minidress with three-quarter sleeves and high heels. My blond hair was long and straight, swinging all the way down to my waist. All of the girls in the group looked great. The maître d’ practically rubbed his hands together with glee when he saw us. I could see the wheels turning. Eight beautiful models, together? I knew he’d try to keep us there all night, as visible as possible. Sure enough, when we asked for a table, he brought us to the middle of the bar and said it’d be a bit of a wait. I was tired and hungry, and my mood was going from bad to worse.