A NOT SO DOLCE VITA

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Contents

Preface and Acknowledgements...............................xiForeword by Peter Hasselriis...............................xviiReflections in a Red Convertible...........................xxiThe Begettors..............................................1Rumblings..................................................5Asea.......................................................11Land Ho!...................................................17Cincinnati, Here We Come!..................................22Sundays In Cincinnati......................................28Country Day School.........................................33A Train Trip...............................................38Magnolia Beach.............................................42Return To Madison Avenue...................................46Christmas..................................................51A Cornwall Summer..........................................56Eleanor And Miss Chittenden................................60Measles And A Winter Trip..................................631944.......................................................66Camp Moy-Mo-Da-Yo..........................................72Going Home.................................................78The Return Voyage..........................................82Old Nettleden Farm.........................................88Settling...................................................95School.....................................................971945 Spring/Summer Visitors................................102Nancy Bernard Smith........................................105Pets, Riding Lessons, And An Incident......................107A Desperate Afternoon......................................110Another Such, But Far Worse................................112To Italy!..................................................115Early Days.................................................120Autumn, 1946...............................................124Villa Manzoni..............................................128Mob Scene..................................................134Villa Pacis And A Positano Christmas.......................136An English Summer—1947...............................141Il Poggio Imperiale, SS Annunciata.........................144Monte Circeo...............................................151Disturbing Events At The Poggio............................155Elba And Exit Tomasina.....................................161The Sacred Heart...........................................171Madre Immaculata...........................................173Excitement In Rome.........................................178Vuoi Sposarmi?.............................................181The Coltishness Of Youth...................................184Joy........................................................187My First Grownup Party.....................................189A Drive To Naples..........................................191Circe? At My Age? Hardly!..................................193Last Months................................................197Packing And Goodbyes.......................................203The Sad Departure..........................................205Back To America............................................207Ilario.....................................................212Return To Usa..............................................217Ithaca High School.........................................221A Birthday Party...........................................225Summer Jobs—1951 And Polio Scare.....................228Sophomore Year.............................................231Tom, With Virginity Lost...................................235Kent & Martha's Vineyard...................................239School Year 1952/53........................................244Summer 1953—Cos Cob..................................247Senior Year 1953-1954......................................253Fall 1954—Ithaca College And Rvw.....................260The Crestmont Inn..........................................268Fall/Winter 1955...........................................275The Wedding................................................282Re-Reflections.............................................291

Chapter One

It was not until the mid 1990's that I began to see that through no choice of my own, I had lived a rather unusual life. Children do not give thought to the lives of others, are only aware of their own, and assume all others must be pretty similar. Right? Wrong.

In the first place, it is miraculous we are here at all, derived as we are from primitive oceanic cells. Then, on to dry land to mutate again and again and yet again, to travel down eons of time, eventually to migrate out of Africa. Our particular clan settled in northern climes to become fierce Norsemen. My DNA tested so. Of course it is miraculous to have survived at all, what with endless wars, poisonings, illnesses, and antiquated medical practices often causing more harm than good. Then there were the plagues. In England in 1350, the Black Death killed half the population. It is sobering to realize that had any one of my forefathers succumbed to any of the above, causing them to miss their so-called appointment with destiny, I would not be here at all. Clarence Darrow, the famous lawyer, believed his very existence came about through one gigantic lottery, or as the wit Dick Cavett put it, "If your parents never had children, chances are you won't either."

So, my family is descended from murdering, marauding, plundering and philandering Norsemen or Vikings. That was their way of life. Adventuresome and artistic, they were said to be virile and handsome. It would have been interesting to meet some of this polyglot of ancestors, long ago settlers of England, Scotland and Ireland. On father's side, the Falkners (falcon trainers) belonged to the Keith Clan of the Scottish Sutherland and MacPherson tribes, and were connected to the earls of Kintore near Inverurie; some said from the wrong side of the blanket. The Celtic Irish side, the Clarks, fled from Ireland to England and America between 1846 and 1857, during that great agrarian crisis, the potato famine. In England, the Clarks married Wrights, Ports and Falkners. Most Falkners were a charming lot and, because of their looks and temperament, often tempted into affairs. It's only human after all, and one grows more tolerant as one matures.

On Mother's side the Fullards (silk and wool merchants) were from Norway, and, with untold others, settled in France in the area known today as Normandie. After the Edict of Nantes in 1685 declared Protestantism to be illegal, some 200,000 Huguenot families fled to England and other countries to escape persecution. The Fullards settled in London and aligned themselves through marriage with Divers, Parnells and Stannards. Interestingly, the Falkner/Fullard alliance came full circle when my youngest daughter, Jocelyn, married the Frenchman Freddy Canesse from Bethune, in Normandie. Was it another coincidence that my mother's favorite cousin, John Arnold Stannard, killed in World War I, is buried in La Pugnoi Cemetery (Plot T, Row E, Plat 6) in Bethune? I wish I had known this when Mother and I traveled there in 1988.

This interesting blend of blood lines and genes throughout the ages produced some talented family members. While there were several generations of career soldiers stationed anywhere from Crete to New Zealand (where a number of relatives still live), others were artists. The famous painter Joseph Wright of Derby (1724-1797) was one. There were numerous educators including Sir Ivan Port, founder of Repton School in 1557. Also, my father's mother, Alice Hannah Wright, an educator herself, was a direct descendant of Ports and Wrights, while her husband, John Charles Falkner, father's sire, was administrator and teacher for thirty seven years in Sawston, Cambridge. On mother's side, Alfred Diver (1824-1876), famous cricketer, who until his death was also a professional tutor to the famous Rugby School, a school that his relatives, my mother and her brother, the World War I Ace pilot Philip Fletcher Fullard, attended some forty years later. Mother, Christabel Margaret Fullard, (1902-1990), was a brilliant pianist who could have had her own career but elected to be her husband's accompanist in all things. My father, Donald Keith Falkner, (1900-1994), was the eminent bass baritone of the 1930s, acclaimed by the conductor Sir David Wilcox as the best singer of Bach for his time. Keith was also a world-class cricket player and could just as well have made this his career. He was an educator at Cornell University in upstate New York from 1950 until 1960, and then was appointed Director of the Royal College of Music, London, where he served, from 1960-1974. Mother, bound by the culture of her education and class, had her own travails to deal with. As a much loved, and I suspect, somewhat spoiled second child of Maud and Thomas Fletcher, Christabel was devastated at age five when her father died of pneumonia. Her brother*, five years older and a war hero, became her idol.

In the 1930s, it was my time to be born. I arrived under the sign of Capricorn, the Goat, on January, 10, 1936, with double Leo rising. No one gave a thought to this at 17:30 GMT, the afternoon of my birth. Father bustled in to hospital shortly thereafter to see his wife and baby daughter. In a hurry, on his way to sing at a concert that evening, he burst into the room with some flowers, kissed his wife, peeked at me and was away, never having much time for babies. So what had the fates ordained? What fairy-godmother gifts bestowed or evil bewitched brews to imbibe? Time would tell. Things were about to change; but on that day, I lay gently protected in my mother's arms.

RUMBLINGS

Babyhood had been kind but now, ominous vitriolic rumblings of war had begun to fill the air, to echo around the world. After World War I, the 1918 Treaty of Versailles had severely punished Germany, which country now sought vengeance, with calls for reprisals given added impetus by the Nazi party and its leader, Adolf Hitler. Ripe for war by 1939, Germany annexed Austria and invaded Czechoslovakia.

I was oblivious of course, my small world consisting of a strict nursery regimen, an "early to bed, early to rise" routine. It took time before I became aware of other things and other people, so, in a sense, we are born twice: first, that of birthing, then, of consciousness. My memories are few of this time with one exception, that of my "Gambu," daddy's father. "Gambu" must have greatly impressed for me to remember him at such a young age: to this day, should he happen to materialize, I would recognize him instantly, perhaps the reason I have a penchant for men who resemble him. This grandfather of mine and I adored each other, or so I was told; he often pushing my pram, taking us for long walks with daddy's dog "Bee," a Jack Russell, so named for being as busy-as-a-bee, when rabbiting. I was about two when "Gambu" died, his death caused by injuries suffered in a car crash, of which, he had had premonitions. From a reliable clairvoyant years later, I learned "Gambu," has been my guardian angel throughout my life, and I believe to be true for any number of reasons. Bee, on the other hand, stayed near me, and would be more protective than ever upon my sister's arrival two years later, and consider her an intruder in the nursery. Philippa would eventually win him over by dumping most of her porridge on Bee's head, which she, if not he, thought great fun. As for the other grandparents, my memories of Gran, Maud Diver Fullard, mother's mother, would come later. It was a great pity I never knew my paternal grandmother Alice Hannah, a good writer herself, who died on a trip to South Africa in 1927; nor, my maternal grandfather, Thomas Fletcher Fullard, who died in 1907.

Stories of baby and tot-hood were oft told over the years. A vague memory lingers, that of lying on the sofa listening to my father practice, often singing my favorite at the time, "Sheep may safely graze" from Cantata 208. Give me Bach any time! I have no memory of my sister's birth in 1938, but, before her arrival I have a hazy memory of walking with mummy in a meadow when a ladybird landed on my arm. Mummy told me to blow the ladybug on her way as she recited: "Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home; your house is on fire, your children are gone." This made me cry as mummy tried to console me: was this a sign of things to come? Also hearing my parents talk about "Gambu's" untimely death, caused me to ask mummy, one evening as she gave me my bath: "Die with me Mum?" She about died then and there. Mummy always called me "Baa" (little lamb), and her emotions got the better of her again when I turned to her one day to exclaim: "Baa do love Mum! Baa do!" We shared this love, but it was never the same after our enforced separation.

Any time I balked, it was the parents' practice to tell me King George (VI) would want me to do whatever it was that I didn't want to do. As most children will, I soon picked this up. One evening, having been put to bed and not staying there, mummy, having come to the foot of the stairs to order me back to bed several times, gave up. Finally, daddy took charge: "Julia," said he, in his sternest voice gazing up from far below, "Get into bed at once or I shall come up and spank you!" "Oh!" said the pert little miss leaning over the banister, "And what would King George say to that!?" I can almost again see the grin on daddy's face as he beat a hasty retreat.

The rumblings in Europe were no longer rumbles: rather, no thanks to most Germans' belief in Hitler, the world plunged into its second world war in twenty-five years, this one to last six long years of atrocities and agony. On September 1, 1939, Germany invaded Poland, catapulting France and England into war on September 3rd. Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa joined in a few days later, the war escalating, so that, when finally over, some sixty million people would have lost their lives, leaving with much of Europe and Asia in ruin. It was between May and early June, 1940, that British forces fighting in France, became pinned down in France at Dunquerque (Dunkirk). By some miracle, 338,226 of those troops were transported safely back to England, by boats large and small, heavy equipment necessarily left behind. Uncle Phil, finding himself temporarily stationed in France, spent those last days and hours, helping to ditch military equipment and lorries into the English Channel, preventing use by the encroaching Germans. Returning to England, uncle declared it was only a matter of time before Britain was invaded by Germany, and he repeatedly urged our parents to accept offers for our safety which were then arriving from the United States and elsewhere, particularly Canada, Australia, New Zealand, America, even South Africa. Did our parents ever consider sending us to this last country? It was where Aunt Mercy, daddy's older sister, lived with husband Austin Sutton and son, John Keith. Alternatively did they consider Vancouver, to Aunt Kitty, with her two children, Alex and Ailsie, she the widow of Keith's older brother Ivan, dead from wounds suffered in World War I? In both cases, we would have been welcome; yet an imposition, for neither family could afford the extra expense. In later years, Ailsie told me she had been thrilled to think she might have two little sisters for the duration. As it was, the parents elected to accept the generous offers of great friends, the Jacobs in Cincinnati, and the Stantons, in New York City. So they set about to arrange our passage, to make sure we would be out of harm's way. They, on the other hand, chose to stay in England to do their bit for the war effort.

How the parents must have agonized that June, so fraught with anxiety over our future. According to Jessica Mann, author of Out of Harm's Way some parents "wondered why they had brought their children into the world only to be faced by this Germanic threat ..." The idea of sending children to the United States was daunting for many British, as it was said to be populated by Indians, movie stars, skyscrapers and mobsters. However, the parents knew more, so were easy in their thoughts. Up and down we went, to and fro, to London, to and fro to the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, where we sat for ages. Well trained, we sat quietly in our matching pinafores, Mary-Jane's and little white gloves, playing quietly on a small side staircase as Embassy staff marveled two such small children could sit so calmly for hours on end, waiting for bureaucracy to revolve. Every time I'm in that embassy, the sense of déjà vu overwhelms me.

For England it was time to again "batten down the hatches" as our stiff-upper-lipped nation calls it, and once again, King George was called upon in our family to help ease heartaches and troubles. This was small comfort to my few years though, for how could they make me feel better when I was about to be sent abroad, parted from my adored parents, for how long, perhaps forever? Winston Churchill, King George, and Queen Elizabeth would eventually do much not only to win the war, but also to back those at home and abroad where troubles were escalating in earnest.

Would Britain survive this threat of Germanic invasion? King George VI and Winston Churchill were trusted to bring the country safely through the war, the latter, newly in command since the resignation of the rather pitiful Neville Chamberlain privately referred to by Hitler as an "arschloch." Certainly, our uncle Phil doubted Britain's ability to withstand the invasion, doubting Churchill's assertions to the contrary. In the meantime, the citizenry, separating from their children, did all that was necessary; inner-city children were evacuated to northern parts of the country, as night after night, German bombing raids caused heavy losses inflicted upon the country; as night after night, gallant young men of the RAF fought them off, their emotions and the country's fired by Churchill's "V" for victory sign, and his rhetoric.

We were set to sail late June, 1940, part of the second wave of some three thousand children shipped overseas to welcoming hosts, this just before the increase of U-boat activity in the Atlantic. As it was, the crossing was perilous. Until that time, through June, submarine warfare had been somewhat sporadic, limited by the number of U-boats available to Nazi Admiral Karl Donitz. From July onwards, German Wolfpacks, consisting of multiple U-boats, began their prowls across the Atlantic in earnest. Formed of six or more, these packs would attack convoys at night, creating heavy losses to British lives and shipping.

At four, it was difficult for me, even with my good memory, to remember the trauma and disruption to our lives, perhaps blocking out the pain, as I continued begging not to be sent to America. The parents were often saying, along with King George, that we'd all be together again when the war was over. But, at my age, what did war mean? Such shocking upheavals at so young an age often sharpen the mind, fragments of images, fleeting moments, remembered by many of us who were evacuated during the war, hardening us to reality. Sad to realize, in hindsight, that all the turmoil, the upheavals of wrenching families apart for deportation, turned out to have been totally unnecessary, for the threat of an invasion of the British Isles was over by late June 1940. By then, we were already on the high seas, bound for America. I was four years old; my sister, Philippa, was two.

ASEA

As the day of departure had neared, poor Mummy had to put up with outbursts of, "But I don't want to go to America!" Almost unhinged, she patiently and lovingly reminded me King George wanted us to be safe. As soon as the war was over, she said, we would be together again, she having more faith than many at the time. War meant nothing to me, but I sensed urgency in the air.

In late June, before we departed, and, while we were still at home, Charles De Gaulle, the very symbol of French resistance, arrived in England following the dastardly occasion when Premier Marshal Petain, Chief of State for Vichy France 1940-1944, capitulated, choosing to align his country to armistice with the Germans. General De Gaulle then had broadcast, from Berkhamstead to France, the formation of the Free French Resistance Movement. A garden party had followed the occasion, and De Gaulle was introduced to my parents. As they talked, De Gaulle occasionally glanced down, smiling to pat me on the head, as I gazed upward. I thought him a giant as indeed he was at 6' 5", and not just to children.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from A NOT SO DOLCE VITAby Julia Falkner-Tompkins Copyright © 2012 by Julia Falkner-Tompkins. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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