The Hiltons: The True Story of an American Dynasty (13 page)

The resistance and resentment that Hilton endured with the strollers and seat-takers in the lobby of the Roosevelt was nothing compared to the all-out war the dwellers of the Plaza seemed prepared to wage when they got wind of his ownership. Here Hilton was faced with a clientele that was much more conservative and more bound up in tradition. They were convinced that any connection Conrad Hilton had with their beloved but decaying hotel might signal the end of their world. And it was quite a world.

For generations, the likes of the Astors, the Vanderbilts, and the Goulds had made the Plaza the center of their business, political, and social activities and their residence of choice. It was a weekend destination for Young Turks from the Ivy League and a safe haven for well-heeled eccentrics and socially prominent denizens, who paid as much as $27,500 a year for their apartments (an exorbitant price for apartment rental in 1943). They were blind to the dilapidated condition of the hotel, with its peeling paint, its unattended woodwork, its tarnished metalwork, its grimy carpeting, its dull, sandblasted, pockmarked marble, its faded, dirty tapestries, and its out-of-commission plumbing and electricity. Every time Hilton tried to go about the business of refurbishing the old girl, however, petitions would be raised by its permanent tenants in an effort to stop the interloper from doing any work on the hotel.

Whereas Conrad had not let criticism of him and his roots bother him in the case of the Roosevelt, when it came to the Plaza he seemed particularly sensitive. One business associate recalled a meeting about the Plaza renovations at Conrad’s Bel-Air home. Present were two of the family’s attorneys and two representatives of Atlas. Recalled the business associate, “My memory of it is that Conrad was upset, and uncharacteristically so because he usually didn’t get so worked up, at least not unless he found himself on the losing end of something.”

“Why, I oughta just let the hotel just fall apart at their knees,” he said of the Plaza residents who were unhappy with any alterations. “Because that’s what’s going to happen to it if we don’t do something. The place is a wreck.”

“Who cares what anyone thinks?” asked one of the Atlas representatives, according to one recollection of the meeting. “It doesn’t make a bit of difference to me.”

“Well, it does to me,” Conrad said, raising his voice. “Public relations is important. I can’t have those New Yorkers spreading the word that Conrad Hilton is a country hick who doesn’t know what he’s doing. It affects business. We need to remodel that place, but I don’t know how to sneak any renovations by them. Perhaps… at night?”

It wasn’t a bad idea. Of course, it would be next to impossible to do much of the renovations after the sun went down, simply because of the noise generated by such serious remodeling. However, as it would happen, a great deal of the makeovers (especially the polishing of old marble and the replacement of curtains and other fabrics)
could
be done in the middle of the night. Somehow, not having to constantly look at the workers as they did their jobs did seem to ease tensions among tenants in the building. Throughout the entire process, remodeling the Plaza would prove to be a delicate dance, one that would require tact, patience… and a great deal of money. It also required a man in charge; after Hilton ponied up $6 million, he charged his longtime associate J. B. Herndon with effecting the renovations.

Commanding Herndon’s attention immediately were the lobby and the Oak Room, which had been occupied by a broker paying $100 a week. He was promptly relegated to the mezzanine and his office was turned back into “that most mellow and inviting of New York bars.” The lobby’s early décor was retained, its museum-quality brass lamps casting a glow, bringing a shine to the floor and a gleam to the marble and woodwork. In the basement below, the cobwebbed storage space became the Rendezvous Room. Turned from trash into treasure, it would come to gross $200,000 a year, as would the Oak Room. Mindful that these changes being made in restoring the Plaza to its former glory were giving the old residents pause, Hilton kept the lobby’s elevator doors within clear vision. As the residents emerged and saw what was taking place, Hilton studied the faces carefully. Soon he noticed that people stopped complaining, and when all was said and done they began to come to him to tell him how pleased they were with what he’d accomplished.

Now that the Oak Room, with its high Gothic arched ceilings, elaborate wooden crests, and square columns, was polished and scrubbed to its original luster, its custom of years gone by was reinstituted: that it only be open to men until the closing bell of the stock market sounded. Women were welcome, but only after Wall Street had shut down for the day. Famed architect Frank Lloyd Wright, a regular patron, was so impressed by the stunning new look that he pronounced it “the finest single hotel room in America.” When Atlas and Hilton took over the Plaza, it had 61 percent occupancy. After its makeover, the historic edifice was almost always filled to capacity. It was just another in a string of successes for Hilton, somehow making the disappointment of the Stevens just a little—though not entirely—easier to take.

An Ominous Sign

W
hat is
this
?” Zsa Zsa Gabor asked, her eyes wide as saucers.

Conrad Hilton stood before his wife with an elaborately wrapped box, silver and gold paper artfully pulled together by an enormous matching bow. “It’s for you, my dear,” he said, handing it to her. “I know I can be a bit of a bore at times with all of my hotel nonsense. I’m hoping you’ll forgive me, Georgia.”

“Well, that depends on what’s in
here
,” Zsa Zsa said with a wink. She opened it quickly, gaily tearing the paper with abandon and tossing it all about like a little girl on her birthday. From the box, much to her delight, she pulled a full-length navy blue beaded and laced gown, by her favorite designer, Hattie Carnegie, from Vienna. “Wear it this evening and you’ll be the most gorgeous creature in the room,” he told her. “And wait! There’s more,” he said. “Look inside.” Zsa Zsa reached into the box again, this time extracting two jewel-encrusted black silk opera gloves. “Oh, the perfect match,” she said. She kissed him again.

“It’s going to be a wonderful night, my love,” he told her.

“Your night, Connie,” she said. “You earned it. I’m proud of you, my husband.”

He beamed at her. She really was quite lovely to look at, and she so enjoyed the role of Mrs. Conrad Hilton that there seemed little reason for her to show any ambition and go to Hollywood to audition for anything else.

The party Conrad Hilton hosted to celebrate his purchase of the Plaza Hotel took place one Saturday night in February of 1944 at, of course, the grand hotel herself. For the happy festivities, the main concourse of the lobby was festooned with red-and-blue streamers and balloons and packed to capacity with press people from across the country, as well as New York’s finest, all the cream of the crop of Manhattan’s high society. As the night wore on, Conrad and Zsa Zsa moved through the crowd effortlessly, accepting congratulations and making small talk. Zsa Zsa was in her element. Leave it to Conrad to buy her an ensemble he knew would perfectly match the party’s décor. As well as the dress—a strapless little number with a wide swath cut from the middle so that both luscious legs were on full display—Zsa Zsa wore the elegant gloves, which ascended way past her elbows. Her hair, upswept and copper red, perfectly framed her gorgeous face and sapphire earrings. She was all personality—gracious, charming. He seemed proud to be at her side, eagerly introducing her to all of his business associates. “
This
is your wife?” asked E. F. Hutton, the American financier and cofounder of E. F. Hutton & Co. “How in the world did a guy like you manage to nab a dish like this?” he asked, ribbing the hotelier. “Just blind luck,” Conrad said. “Well, I sure wish some of that luck would rub off on me,” joked Hutton.

Based on their showing together on this important night, there seemed no reason why the Hiltons couldn’t make a go of it as a couple—except for, perhaps, one. As Zsa Zsa recalled it, toward the end of the night, a priest approached them and began speaking to Conrad. Suddenly, Zsa Zsa felt invisible at his side. Conrad wouldn’t introduce her to the priest. It was an awkward moment. Was it an oversight on his part? Perhaps he didn’t recall the priest’s name? Finally, Zsa Zsa extended her hand. “Father, I’m Mrs. Hilton, Conrad’s wife,” she said with a gracious smile. Conrad seemed to flinch. He recovered quickly, though. “Uh… yes, Father, this is my wife,” he said haltingly. The priest seemed happy to meet Zsa Zsa. He expected that she was affiliated with St. Patrick’s Cathedral and invited her to attend mass there anytime she liked. She said she would “
luff
to,” and that was the end of it. He was then absorbed into the bustling crowd.

Zsa Zsa turned to Conrad. “
Dah-ling
, be a dear and fetch me a gimlet,” she said with a frozen smile. Seeming happy to have an excuse to get away from her, Conrad took off and said he would return shortly. Actually, she just needed time to think. What had that odd moment been about with the priest? Should she address it, or wait until later? She decided to wait; why take a chance on having an argument on such an important night? However, when he returned with her cocktail, she simply couldn’t help herself. “Why wouldn’t you introduce me to that priest?” she blurted out.

“What, dear?” he said, feigning innocence.

“That was so strange, you not introducing me to that priest,” Zsa Zsa told him, according to her memory of the conversation.

“Oh, that was nothing, Georgia,” he said, pulling her closer to him. “I’m just so very tired.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I love you,” he told her. He then reminded her that he was proud to have her at his side, almost as if he suspected she might now think otherwise. “Let’s just have a wonderful evening,” he concluded.

Zsa Zsa studied her husband carefully. “Spare a cigarette?” she asked him. He produced a pack of Kools and lit one for her. She pouted. He put it between her lips and smiled at her. But she could tell that something was off with him. It was as if he was ashamed of her, or… she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, as she would later recall it, but “it was almost as if he felt somehow
guilty
about being with me. Like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I knew something was wrong.”

The rest of the night went off without a hitch. It had a been a terrific party. Afterward, the Hiltons spent the evening in an enormous suite of the Plaza Hotel, together—and not in separate bedrooms. It was as if they were actually husband and wife… or at least it felt that way to Zsa Zsa Gabor. As long as she didn’t think too long and hard about it, anyway.

A Priest’s Visit

F
rom there, things began to unravel quickly. Before leaving for New York, Conrad had mentioned that a priest would be coming by to talk to Zsa Zsa. She had almost forgotten about it, until one morning she awakened to a note: “My love, Father Kelly will come today to speak with you. Love, Conrad.”

A heavy rain had been falling steadily since early morning, so when the priest showed up at the estate without an umbrella, he was soaking wet. Zsa Zsa took his coat and instructed Wilson the butler to bring him a towel with which he could dry his face. They then repaired to the parlor. Sitting down on two heavily upholstered chairs facing each other, the two stared into each other’s eyes for what seemed like an eternity.

“I don’t want you to misunderstand,” the priest finally said, breaking the silence between them, “but you do realize that in the eyes of the church, you and Conrad are not married.”

This was the first Zsa Zsa had heard of the problem presented by Conrad’s faith since it was brought up to her before their marriage. She didn’t know if Conrad had gotten the dispensation or not—he’d never said one way or the other—but she’d suspected that he hadn’t.

“You know that Conrad’s wife is still alive,” Father Kelly said. Of course, Zsa Zsa knew as much. “Conrad loves you,” the priest continued, “but you must realize that in the eyes of the church, he is not really married to you.”

Now Zsa Zsa didn’t know how to react. “What is it you are trying to say to me?” she asked, her eyes searching his face for answers.

The priest was silent for a moment. “Conrad suffers a great deal knowing that he is living in sin with you,” he said. “Yet he cannot bring himself to speak to you about it.”

“But…” Zsa Zsa was at a loss for words. “What are you saying, Father? Just tell me!”

“I am saying, my dear, that as long as Mrs. Hilton is alive, Conrad is not married to you. At least not in the eyes of the church.”

As Zsa Zsa would later recall it, her throat tightened with a rush of emotion. “Are you saying we should divorce?” she managed to ask.

The priest stood up. “My dear, I have said what I came to say,” he concluded, his tone abrupt. He appeared to have no compassion at all for her confusion. “And now I will take my leave,” he said. As he stood up, he looked at Zsa Zsa in a way that suggested judgment, as if she had done something wrong, as if she was a sinner. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away from her. After retrieving his coat from Wilson, he left the premises.

What did all of this mean? Was her marriage over? As Zsa Zsa’s eyes swept around the elegant room furnished with vintage antiques and priceless oil paintings, she wondered where she would go if Conrad banished her. She was surrounded by all of the finer things in life, and she liked it. She found great joy in being Mrs. Conrad Hilton—she loved the parties, the people, the lifestyle. It was her identity now, and without it she didn’t have the faintest idea as to who she was.