In The Shadow Of A Monument

By Anthony D. Marshall

The only child of Brooke Astor, the "Queen of New York", (a powerful force who inherited the enormous Astor fortune), Anthony Marshall became a decorated Marine, a diplomat and US ambassador, a codebreaker, a covert spy with the newly formed CIA, a special assistant to the U2 program during the Cold War and dedicated to the global conservation of animal and floral habitat. Always interested in the arts, he and his third wife co-produced two Tony Award Broadway plays in the early 2000s. Marshall was the stepson of Vincent Astor, one of the wealthiest men in America, and witnessed the life of the ultra-privileged in New York City firsthand.

In 2006, his carefully directed life was on the verge of being destroyed by a criminal accusation from his own son. Heartbroken, Marshall read the formal wording of the accusation: "elder abuse" of his mother who was then one hundred four years old. What followed were years of constant tabloid sensationalism and negative press that destroyed Marshall's reputation and damaged his relationships with family and friends. After a six months long trial, he was sentenced to 1- 3 years in a New York State prison when he was eighty-nine years old.

Together with his beloved wife Charlene, he faced what he called "the greatest challenge of my life" since landing his Marine platoon onto Blue Beach at Iwo Jima on D+1. These two survived this brutal attack together with their souls intact and their love stronger than ever.

These are his stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781638858225

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Part 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

About the Author

cover.jpg

In The Shadow Of A Monument

Anthony D. Marshall

ISBN 978-1-63885-821-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63885-823-2 (Hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-63885-822-5 (Digital)

Copyright © 2023 Anthony D. Marshall

All rights reserved

First Edition

Back Cover

Brooke Astor, Bryant Park, New York, February 21, 1999

Photograph by Richard Avedon

Copyright © The Richard Avedon Foundation

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

Part 1

Chapter 1

Life in a Castle

As though it were just yesterday, I recall how I sprang out of bed, poured hot water from the pitcher that had been brought to me in a porcelain basin by the maid, Luiga. I washed my face and brushed my hair. Legging into a pair of blue shorts and slipping on my leather sandals, I was ready for dolce far niente, a do-little day, beach in the morning and maybe a walk or tennis in the afternoon. It had been a good summer, with motor trips from our home base in Portofino Mare, Italy, to eye-opening scenes of nature and living history in Europe.

I was ten years old, and this was my second summer at Il Castello Brown in Portofino Mare, which Mother, my stepfather, Buddie Marshall, and his sister, Evie Suarez (formerly married to Marshall Field), had rented in 1932 for ten years. The Castello, whose foundation was Roman, had seen so much history, good and bad. King Richard I The Lion Heart spent five days at the Castello in 1190, accompanied by Philip II, King of France, on their way eastward during the Third Crusade. Who slept in my room? Could it have been General Napoleon Bonaparte who headquartered his troops in the Castello when he fought against the Austrian forces in Northern Italy in 1796–97? At one dot in history pirates were rent-free, self-appointed proprietors of the Castello. They dug a tunnel from the cellar down to the rocks on Portofino's ocean side, providing the means to traffic clandestinely in stolen goods. Evidence remains on the cellar's walls that prisoners had been held in confinement, with death a strong probability. At another time in history a chapel, replete with a fresco, gracing the wall beneath what today is the Castello's lower gallery provided solace.

Brooke Astor singing with Fafner on the Terrace of the Castello.

During our stewardship in the 1930s, the Castello was the property of the father of Francis Yeats-Brown, author of The Lives of a Bengal Lancer, who had become its owner in 1870.

As I did each morning, I descended the marble stairs and headed for breakfast on the terrace in the shade of a large tree. Theresa Balma, our chief housekeeper, had set the table with fresh bread, jams, marmalade, honey, and a fruit basket, to the delight of the Italian bees. After breakfast Mario, a seaman who became a fisherman and subsequently our boatman for the summer, would meet us with his small blue boat with a putt-putt outboard engine to take us around a bend of land to the beach at Parragi for a morning swim. Mario's quiet manner was always positive; he spoke only when necessary and that was when he had something important to say. His thick dark hair was covered by a visored seaman's cap. His face was weatherworn, attesting to his years at sea, with a bushy, black mustache that gave him an aura of distinction. On special occasions, he would take me down the steep rocks on the ocean side of the Castello's peninsula to fish. It was an adventure that I relished. I was well aware that it was dangerous and liked it for that reason. I took his warnings and directions seriously. I knew that if I had an accident, Mother's fury would descend on Mario, and I didn't want my friend to have a problem on account of me.

I never told Mother about these expeditions. Mario gave me a bottle that he had worked on during a long sea voyage on a schooner as a young man. He had skillfully inserted a model of a boat into the bottle. Every so often, now—eighty-nine years later—I pick up the bottle, hold it in my hands, and think of Mario. To me, he was a hero.

***

Late one afternoon, when others, including house guests, were taking a siesta, walking through the vineyards, sipping a Campari or an American in the Piazza or off on some expedition of their own, Mother said she wanted to have a little talk with me. I knew what that meant. Mother had borrowed the term from her father; when he used it one always knew it was not a little matter at all, but a serious one. Mother stretched out on a yellow chaise longue on the terrace, motioning me to draw up a chair next to her. A boat was puttering its way into the protected harbor; otherwise all was quiet. Seated, I waited restlessly for the release of some grave news or perhaps, criticism.

Mother got down to the business at hand immediately with no pussyfooting around. Buddie and I had a little talk last night. He feels that you should go off to a pre-boarding school this fall. It would be better if you got out of New York. I had been attending Buckley School since graduation from kindergarten and was regally driven to school every morning in a baby blue Rolls-Royce, a wedding present from Buddie's mother.

The baby Blue-Rolls in New York City; Tony sitting next to Freedline at the wheel (right-hand drive) with Mim and Bulba on the sidewalk

I rather fancied staying in New York where there were so many interesting things to do, and where I could lounge about, play classical music and doodle at home. Mother had signed me up for Buckley's Saturday events, such as hide-and-seek at the fountain in Central Park or a peek at the African and other exhibits at the American Museum of Natural History. I really enjoyed these outings. Buckley gave these Saturday escapades a big push with the jingle, Rain or shine, snow or sleet, the Saturday Club is on its feet. A pandemonium of students enjoyed the foray, and surely the majority of parents were relieved by the temporary absence of their children.

I wasn't asked whether or not I wanted to go to Harvey. I didn't even know what it looked like or where it was—or why I should go to a preboarding school at all. There was no question-and-answer period. The decision had been made. I was to do what I was told to do; they knew what was best for me, so they said. Buddie had already enrolled me at Harvey.

When we returned to New York, I learned that Harvey was in Hawthorne, New York, some thirty miles north of the city. On schedule, I was driven up to the school, which was set at the base of a hill that rose behind a cluster of buildings. My roommate was a sympathetic fellow, Horatio Nelson Slater. I liked him from the beginning because of his nautical name; we got along very well. I fell into the orders of the day, and life progressed that fall until I received an unexpected pre-Christmas present that would abruptly end my time at Harvey. It nearly ended my life.

On a cold winter late afternoon, I found myself alone at the top of the hill, the rope of my sled in hand, worrying whether I should go down or not. I had a strong premonition that I should not, which disastrously delayed my decision. I stood up, sat down, and then stood up again. The surface of the snow was beginning to freeze, although it hadn't occurred to me that this might be a problem. What if someone saw me hesitating? That was the problem. It would be embarrassing. I would be teased.

I made my decision to go.

I lay down on the sled, pushed off with a kick, and held fast. Halfway down, I slid off course. A film of ice had formed on top of the snow. I was no longer in control. At the bottom of the hill, I slammed sideways into a tree. In a semi-conscious state, I heard the whining sound of the ambulance as it sped me to the hospital in nearby White Plains. Then—blank.

Mother and Buddie were in Florida. They were telephoned and returned as soon as they could, arriving at the hospital the next day. Buddie's sister, Evie Suarez, had rushed to the scene and sat in my room until Mother arrived. One kidney and my spleen were ruptured, and I had come down with pneumonia. An additional problem was a direct blood transfusion; the donor was a truck driver who had just eaten meat, which resulted in my whole body being coated with a rash. When Mother arrived the doctor drew her aside and gave her the news: I needed an operation immediately if my life were to be saved. He added that he seriously questioned whether I would pull through this ordeal.

Several days later, when I opened my eyes to the blankness of the ceiling and the bleakness of the room, Mother was there with words of kindness, reassurance, and love. I had an incision halfway around my waist, although I wasn't aware of it. I needed time to readjust to being alive. It was touch-and-go for a while, during which time I looked to inner strength and determination as my helpers in healing. The doctor had performed a miracle in my opinion, not only saving both my kidney and spleen, but also making it possible for my complete recovery.

This would not be my only close encounter with death.

As I lay in my hospital bed in White Plains, I was determined to live.

When I had sufficiently recovered I boarded the Rex and headed for Genoa. On other trips in the 1930s, I sailed on the Conte di Savoia, or sometimes on the German ship the Bremen, or its sister ship the Europa, 51,656 gross ton vessels, carrying 2139 passengers (811 first class, 500 second class, 300 tourist class, 617 third class), and 966 crew.

I loved those sea voyages. As a first-class passenger, the trip was one of carefree, relaxed days—shuffleboard, ping pong, bouillon from a cart midmorning while stretched out lackadaisically on a deckchair, a prize for the passenger who guessed the closest time of arrival in port, and the excitement of sighting first land on the horizon—which for the Rex was the rock of Gibraltar. Anchored off shore at Gibraltar small boats clung like leeches to our hull with vendors barking out their wares "Avviistare, Signora. Molto bello. Cheap. Cheap." Children dove to the seabed for small change tossed overboard by passengers more for their own amusement to see the small bodies dive to the depths than any consciousness of generosity.

It took an hour by car to drive from Genoa to Il Castello. We usually had our own car on board and simply stuffed our belongings into it and drove off the boat. Some summers Buddie's time at the Castello was delayed or interrupted by his responsibilities as senior partner of the brokerage firm of Butler, Herrick, and Marshall. Such was the case in 1935 when Buddie had to return to New York to deal with a serious problem that had reared its ugly head: a trusted employee and friend at the firm had been embezzling funds. Buddie, who demanded principles for himself as well as others, was severely shaken by this incident.

During his absence, Mother had an attack of loneliness and introspection although she had no shortage of Italian friends including Prince Gino Potenziani, governor of Rome, who was also a senator and president of the Agricultural Society. He had a flat on the quay of Portofino and frequently came to the Castello for swims with Mother off the Castello's rocks. He wore a three-inch wide gold band on his left arm which, as an imaginative youth, not only branded him as a prince but as a gladiator, a survivor from the Forum. I was very impressed.

In September 1939, Mother, Buddie, my parents' dachshund, Fafner, and I packed ourselves into our car (one of the only two cars that were allowed to park in Portofino) and headed north to Grindelwald, Switzerland, nestled in the inviting, multishaded green valley of trees and pastureland. The majestic Alps, giants of nature, peaked with white hats of snow, their rock faces chiseled by time and washed by weather has had a magnetic influence on me ever since my first visit in 1928, capturing my soul, drawing me back to Grindelwald over the years. This trip was exceptional.

On waking up on our first morning in 1939, I inhaled the refreshing breeze, which swept into the valley from the glaciers on the Eiger with its challenging and life-taking north face and the Jungfrau. Its summit (13,642 feet) was first climbed in 1811 by the Meyer brothers. We left the Belvedere Hotel after an unusually early breakfast so that we might have time for our walk. We drove to Interlaken, parked, and took the 64 percent gradient cog railway built in 1908 from Interlaken to the Harder Kulm at 2,644 feet, where we were treated to a 180-degree, panoramic view of snowcapped peaks. Rising from the valley below cowbells played an unwritten cacophonic alpine symphony. We adjusted our rucksacks and immediately started on our walk along a well-marked path, which led us through a forest of pine trees and ferns. As we climbed the tree growth thinned, opening up onto a mountain ridge meadow dotted with wildflowers. We could see in all directions as well as down the slopes on both sides, more than fifteen hundred feet below us. After walking for a few hours, Buddie suggested we should descend toward the valley rather than on the cog railway side. We examined the terrain. There was no path. We studied the map. If we could get down to the valley, we noted that there was a hamlet called Habkern. Perhaps we could get something to drink there. Fafner, his tongue hanging loosely from his mouth, clearly agreed. Before descending, we stopped for a picnic lunch that the Belvedere had prepared for us of hard rolls generously stuffed with cheese and ham, apples, and chocolate bars. Buddie poured water into a cup for Fafner who wagged his tail appreciatively, lapping it up then stretching out among a stand of multicolored Wiesenblumen for a short nap. Mother checked her pedometer; so far we had walked only eight miles. Occasional faint sounds created by humans reached us from far below. The air was enervating; the temperature was just right. Buddie had left business worries completely behind him. In the 1930s, a big day on the New York Stock Exchange was three million shares, not five billion shares traded today. All business was done in the back office where a bevy of clerks were rooted to their desks writing out all orders and statements by hand.

Engulfed by peace and beauty there was nothing to worry about. Not today. We started our wobbly march downhill, through brush but mostly over rocks; our canes prevented an abort. Stopping to catch our breath, we looked for Fafner. Quite far behind us, we saw a small brown spot, bravely portaging his body with difficulty over the rocks. We returned to his aid. Fafner curled his brown snoot into a wrinkled smile and signaled his appreciation with a slow metronome wag of his tail. The poor fellow was obviously exhausted. He was enveloped into my rucksack.

Eventually, we reached the valley floor, and referring to our map, we chartered our course around the mountain and back to the car. When we reached it, Mother checked her pedometer that registered twenty-three miles. We were accustomed to long walks, but this was a record.

It was dusk when we arrived back at the hotel. The concierge ran out to meet us, waving his arms. We were worried about you, he barked. Everyone has left the hotel. Hitler signed a Nazi-Soviet Pact in Moscow the day before yesterday. German troops are now reportedly moving toward Poland. All of Europe is afraid of what will happen next. The situation is critical. Pausing to catch his breath, he continued, The rumor—perhaps more than a rumor—is that the British and French will declare war on Germany within the next few days. Everyone has left the hotel. While Mother and Buddie packed, I explored the hotel, mainly out of curiosity. Had everyone left? The beauty of the Alps was there but unwatched. I headed for the basement where I found four nuns calmly playing a serious game of pool. One, cue in hand, snapped back the cloth of her habit for a better shot at the white ball. She glanced at me then, wordlessly, focused her concentration on the game. Their recreational preoccupation was disturbing. Perhaps they knew something we didn't know.

At dawn, we speedily headed, of necessity, to Portofino to collect what we could of our most treasured personal belongings. We were unwilling to accept the fact that we might not be returning to the Castello the following summer.

Our stay at the Castello was brief—one night. It was a tearful farewell. Theresa, the Castello's major domo was sobbing; our cook Angela, her black apron drawn to her forehead, moaned, and Angela's niece, plus Luigia and Isabella were howling at the castle door as we left. Theresa, who loved Fafner, nearly smothered the poor hound with kisses. "Pichou, she sobbingly whispered to him again and again, speaking to him in Genovese and calling him little darling. Our boatman, Mario, who had waited for us in the piazza, looked gloomy as though the whole thing was his fault. His black mustache appeared to be turning gray overnight. Arivedérci, Tonino" were his simple words of farewell.

We boarded the train to Paris where Buddie, with great difficulty, was able to obtain passage on the sixteen-thousand-ton Arandora Star, a British ship belonging to the Blue Star Line, which had been chartered to the Cunard Line and was scheduled to sail on September 1. The Arandora Star had been speedily prepared for the trip, painted gray until there was no more paint available, which left the hull its customary white. Portholes, windows, and glass deck doors were all painted dark blue. Life rafts had been taken from the boat deck and placed along the railing of the promenade deck where they were unhitched, ready to be lowered at a moment's notice. Jacob's (rope) ladders were bundled and tied securely from the ship's rail, ready to provide speedy access to lifeboats or a swim away from the sinking ship. All these preparations were made, just in case. Among the 441 passengers on board were 260 Americans including Elizabeth Montgomery, then six years old, and her brother Robert, the children of the actor Robert Montgomery. There were few children my age. However, one morning while taking a constitutional around the deck, I stopped to watch a boy about my age playing deck tennis by himself, bouncing a ball off the wall. He glanced at me, then stopped his solo act. Would you like to play a game? he asked. I don't remember who won; it wasn't important. I saw him several other times but I didn't ask or learn much about him. He was a quiet fellow, had good manners and looked a bit foreign with a dark complexion. His identity came to me as a considerable surprise when, a few days later, a steward knocked on the door of my cabin to deliverer a sealed envelope. I opened it. It read,

HH The Maharajah Manika of Tripura, KCSI

Requests the pleasure of your company

To take cocktails with him

In the Reading Room at 6:30 this evening

Friday, September 8, 1939

When I showed my parents the invitation I detected an itch of envy. They hadn't been invited. After all, they didn't know the son of the Maharajah, head of the Manika dynasty, which had ruled the princely state of Tripurna, the size of the state of Illinois, since 1923.

I joined a vigilante that took their posts on the decks at night to be sure that no light was visible from the ship. We were warned that even a cigarette could be seen at three miles on a clear night. We were also told to keep an eye out to sea and if we spotted anything to report on it immediately. I enjoyed the assignment and didn't give any thought to danger, mainly because I didn't know—we were not told—of the considerable danger surrounding us.

On September 11, we entered New York harbor. It was only then that we learned that the Arandora Star had been carrying $17,500,000 in gold consigned to the Federal Reserve Bank and that Captain Edgar Wallace Moulton had chosen a southern route for the Arandora Star rather than the usual northern route, following a zigzag course in order to avoid submarines. Nine submarines had come within range of the Arandora Star during our crossing although none of the passengers were aware of it at the time. On September 3, 1939, the SS Athenia, less than fifty miles from our ship, was attacked and sunk by a U-30 submarine. The Athenia was a 13,500-ton passenger liner carrying 1,103 civilians, included more than three hundred Americans who were heading home, as we were. One hundred and twelve died. It could have been our ship.

Chapter 2

The Embryo

I had not been born with the surname of Marshall. That came later. My father was John Dryden Kuser.

I was an only child and sometimes a lonely one. I was sensitive, shy, introvertish, and imaginative though unproductive and lazy. I was prone to sulks and an occasional volley of bad temper. I usually got what I wanted which was unfortunate. It gave me a groundless sense of accomplishment.

Mother had just turned twenty-two when she tried to induce my birth by gorging on chocolate cake, then repeatedly jumping off the kitchen table, to no avail. I revealed into this world as Mother was enjoying a Broadway play on the evening of May 29,1924. Mid-act, Mother rushed from her seat to a private hospital at Miss Lippincott's Sanitorium at 667 Madison Avenue in New York City on the seventh floor. A Vogue magazine article from the 1920s mentioned that Miss Lippincott's was the facility of choice for the Who's Who of Babies born in Manhattan. The article suggested the reason Miss Lippincott's was so in vogue was that the sanitarium was located just above the very popular Colony Restaurant. From their hospital rooms, the recovering mothers could order wonderful gourmet meals delivered to their room from The Colony, but it seems the real secret to the success of Miss Lippincott's Sanitorium was the champagne sent to each new mother in her room.

I was born the following morning at a hefty ten-and-one-half pounds. A few days later we drove to Denbrooke, home in Bernardsville, New Jersey, the name being a joining of my father's name John Dryden Kuser and Mother's name, Brooke. Father disliked his first name (too plebeian), calling himself by his middle name, citing an ancestral link to the English poet, with his lineage chart showing ties to the Germans, Swiss, and Italians. He was an unhappy adult, intelligent but unguided, whose parents had believed that his childhood should not be contaminated by contact with other children and therefore had him (and his sister Cynthia) tutored at home until he was discharged to college. His home was Faircourt, a large, depressing, forty-room stone house up the hill from Denbrooke at the end of a forsythia-lined driveway, which I remember well being driven to and fro in one of Grandfather's electric cars.

1912 Woods Electric Brough

I was immediately placed in the care of a temporary nurse who, in turn, was soon supplanted by a French governess, Mademoiselle Grummeau, a stony-faced creature whose language I learned simultaneously with English. I particularly remember her for her allergy to fresh air. For my first four years, I lay breathing heavily in the dark stuffy hours without the benefit of night air. No window was ever opened more than an inch, and no one challenged her Pompadorian authority. Mademoiselle saw to my lifestyle and daily schedule. I was her charge. She exercised her authority over all events including my eating regime. I can still recall—with a knot in my stomach—sitting, stubbornly in a large straight dining room chair, a plate of cold, solidified mashed potatoes before me. I had refused to eat the white mound of mush at lunch. "Mange! she declared. You will eat. If you don't, it will be your breakfast." I rebelled and as a consequence faced the coagulated potatoes at breakfast the following day. It must have been on one of her rare days off that Gallo, Dryden's chauffeur, took me to a bar in town and placed me on the counter. At the age of nearly three, I was excited by this out of the ordinary adventure and enthusiastically reported the event to Mademoiselle who in turn told Mother who was furious. Gallo still took me for pony rides but abstained from bars.

Denbrooke was my home for the next four years. My closest companion was Sandy McTavish, an Airedale who was acquired when my parents were in Princeton; he was not my dog and I was not encouraged to believe that he was he was mine. An ill-tempered German shepherd that had started to make clear moves to attack me wounded Sandy McTavish in his valiant defense on my behalf. He cared for me, and I cared for him. He remained in my loving debt.

I had a large bedroom on the second floor of a wing. My father's office was on the ground floor. I only remember Dryden inviting me into it one time. It was a small, dark room with a green desk lamp and papers scattered all over the place. A heavy, musty smell of lingering cigar smoke clung to all objects in the room. I spent most of my time in my room that was chock-full of toys, including a rocking horse, a nearly life-sized stuffed tiger (a present from a male admirer of Mother's) and even an operable oven for afternoon teas à deux with my nurse. Periodically, in the afternoons, I would be costumed into a cowboy's outfit, replete with feathers, and lifted onto the saddle of my pony, Rollo, who was then led leisurely around the property by Gallo.

Family History

Mother was born in 1902 in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to John Henry Russell Jr. and Mabel Howard. She was raised inside a military family. Her paternal grandfather was Rear Admiral John Henry Russell who served in the Navy during the Civil War. Her father became the sixteenth commandant of the Marine Corps. I am sure Mother also experienced some emotional abandonment as a child since her father was often away on duty for long periods during her childhood. I now believe that the many travails in her childhood and first marriage left her frightened, untrusting, and profoundly insecure. This would not be the Brooke Astor known to her society friends or the public. They came to know a woman whose power and bravado were cultivated over decades of giving money away.

At the age of fifteen, while Mother was living with her parents in Washington DC, she attended Miss Madeira's School for Girls (now known as The Madeira School) in McLean, Virginia. Her best friend, Janet Harlan, was to be taken to the Princeton Commencement Prom by her brother John (later to become an associate justice of the US Supreme Court), but when she came down with the mumps, John's parents then asked Mother to accompany John to the dance. Mother was both thrilled and terrified. She had never been to an exciting grown-up event.

At that time, Mother's father was in the Dominican Republic in command of the Third Marines, so the decision was left in the hands of my grandmother, who encouraged Mother to go. The dance was in the gymnasium and John had gotten all his friends to sign up on Mother's dance card. One dance partner couldn't dance at all, but his blue eyes and his statement that he was one of the seven neorealists studying under Professor Spaulding immediately captured Mother. A romance was hatched.

When it came time for John (he hated to be called John) Dryden Kuser to be shipped off to Princeton, he took with him his Stutz Bearcat, a chauffeur, a mechanic, and suitcases of inflated ego. Needless to say this neo-bravura impressed Mother when he picked her up for an evening out on the town. Their friendship sped into high gear. When Dryden asked Mother to marry him she was barely sixteen and still in school. Her father had been reassigned to command the first Provisional Brigade in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, where he was taking action against Haitian bandits, and therefore was unable to provide council to his daughter. At first, her mother was aghast but warmed up to the idea when she did a little research and discovered that the Kusers were very rich. She urged little Brooke at sweet sixteen-going-on-seventeen to marry Dryden. My mother abandoned her formal education to marry Dryden at that young age, which delighted her mother but distressed her father who was absent when the commitment was made. The Kusers were delighted as they hoped this sweet, innocent girl would take Dryden in hand and change his bad habits.

Mother and Dryden were married at St. John's Episcopal Church on Lafayette Square in Washington on April 26, 1919. On their honeymoon, Mother surprised her unembarrassed bridegroom on a stairway at the Greenbriar Hotel embracing and fondling kisses on a chambermaid. Dryden's flirtations continued, unabated, as did his penchant for alcohol. It was not a happy marriage. During her years in Bernardsville, Mother spent her time making lifelong friends, playing bridge and in doing her best to deal with the embarrassments as they enveloped her. At my third birthday party, a trained seal performed its miraculous ability to understand human commands, clapping its flippers and honking out replies to questions. I sensed an atmosphere of domestic discomfort. My father was absent.

Dryden was born in 1897 to an affluent New Jersey family with very respectable roots. My great-grandfather, Rudolph Kuser, was a mechanical engineer who was born in Zurich, Switzerland, in 1818 and came to the United States in 1837 with his wife, Rosalie Prieth, an Austrian. When he arrived, he became a partner of Baxter, Kuser, and Thompson, builders of the famous Baxter engine and boiler. He bought the Timothy Lord Farm in Hamilton Township, New Jersey, and began producing grain and raising cows as well as five sons and a daughter. My grandfather was one of a set of twins. Great-grandfather Kuser died in 1891, but one of his sons, my great-uncle, Rudolph Kuser, built the historic beaux-arts mansion known as the Kuser Mansion at Thomas Edison College.

Colonel Kuser

I remember my austere paternal grandfather Colonel Anthony R. Kuser, who received his military title as a member of Governor Abbett's staff, more from his surroundings than of the man himself. I have no memory of his displaying affection. My feelings for this elderly man (he was sixty-two when I was born) were basically awe—or was it fear, sprinkled with a touch of respect? He had done well in business as president of the South Jersey Gas and Electric Lighting Company and was a director of the Prudential Life Insurance Company. Along with his twin brother, he incorporated the Peoples Brewing Company of Trenton and the Trenton Hygeia Ice Company, and was deeply concerned with human welfare. This was a background to be proud of, but for my unrelationship with Dryden, who disgraced the name insofar as I was concerned. I later made the choice to go through life with the name of Marshall. Colonel Kuser's wife Susie's father was United States Senator John F. Dryden and founder of the Prudential Insurance Company.

It seemed that the Colonel displayed little affection for me although I still recall his taking me, alone, to a wing of Faircourt where dozens of resplendent, taxidermed pheasants were on display in beautiful natural settings behind a wall of glass. Colonel Kuser, a board member of the New York Zoological Society (renamed the Wildlife Conservation Society), financed an expedition for Dr. William Beebe, the renowned ornithologist and curator at the Bronx Zoo, who spent four years traveling fifty-two thousand miles to twenty countries in the Far East including Borneo, the Himalayas, China, Mongolia, and Japan, under the auspices of the society (but financed by my grandfather) and produced a large four volume monograph on pheasants. In the 1960s, Mother gave me the copy of the four-volume monograph that had been Dryden's. Every now and then, I take a volume off the shelf and scan through it. I am pleased and proud to have it and also to have met Dr. Beebe at my aunt Cynthia's apartment. The pheasants in my grandfather's house were mostly those Dr. Beebe had brought back with him when he came home. On his death, Colonel Kuser bequeathed the collection of pheasants to the Newark Museum. His interest in birds also led him to become a founding member of the New Jersey Audubon Society.

Soon William Fox started production of moving pictures in 1904, ten years after Thomas Edison invented his extraordinary visual art and the Fox Film Corporation was incorporated in 1915. My paternal grandfather loaned William Fox $200,000 (a vast sum in those days) for his venture. Fox merged with Darryl F. Zanuck in 1934 to become 20th Century Fox.

Across the road from Faircourt and Denbrooke lay my grandfather's fenced-in park where sheep were shed of their fleece, peacocks displayed and sounded their shrill cries, and pony cart rides were taken past a pond populated by bird life and through a forest where deer and other free beasts dwelt. With this background to draw on, one would have thought that Dryden would have created an exceptional life for himself. Unfortunately, this was not the case. He should have become an ornithologist. From his bed in the early morning, he could identify nearly thirty birds from their songs, and he wrote a small book on the birds of Somerset Hills, which was privately published. Dryden failed to latch onto any of his father's many interests and develop them as his own. He squandered his inheritance and his life. He was no role model for me.

Colonel Kuser supplied his son with whatever he wanted, with enough left over to pay his way to becoming a State Senator. Dryden, who campaigned during this time for a seat in the New Jersey State Senate, which he got, rarely saw me. Politics, with campaign posters, lots of talk supported by an injection of a substantial bundle of cash, was his overriding interest. The cash came from his father. Dryden's lifestyle was carefree, giving vent to his penchant for alcohol, gambling, and intimate fraternization with the opposite sex. With other free-living, same-minded friends, he would risk losing large wads of cash, frequently on trivial issues made important by high-figure bets, such as on which raindrop trickling down a windowpane would be the first to reach the bottom. Dryden usually lost, an omen of his kismet.

With Mother and Dryden variously occupied I rode my pony, Rollo, and played with a room full of toys including a rocking horse (the gift of an unpublicized beau of Mother's), a miniature kitchen with working hot plate and picture books. Sandy Mactavish roamed freely in and out of the house, but he was not my dog, and I was not encouraged to believe that he was. However, I am in debt to him for on one occasion he was wounded in defending me against an attack by an ill-tempered German shepherd.

I was very fond of Dryden's only sister, my aunt Cynthia, who was fourteen years younger than Dryden, and am saddened that we didn't see more of each other. I thought she was beautiful. Perhaps most of all she was interested in me: my life, what I was doing, what I thought. Geography separated us. She inherited Faircourt on her parents' death but only stayed there for a short time. She sold it to developers in 1962, moving west to her ranch in Castle Hot Springs, Arizona. Before her move, she had an apartment in New York City, and that is where and when I got to know her best. She was a translator at the United Nations; her Russian was fluent, as was her French, Italian, and German. I was impressed and admired Cynthia's talent in languages. She was a woman of the world and I respected her. She was also someone to whom I could talk and did. I told her things that were private and I hadn't shared with others. I discussed family associations: hers, ours, and mine. On one occasion that I will always remember was when, at the age of thirteen, she invited me to a cocktail party at her apartment. Her guests were practically all foreigners with a strong Russian presence. One of her guests was William Beebe with whom I had a chance to speak briefly. Just shaking his hand was a thrill. I had my first taste of vodka and felt the blood of Dostoevsky running through my veins. The previous summer, as I left for a summer abroad Cynthia gave me a Paillard 8 mm. movie camera. Compared to today's cameras and tecky gadgets, it was a Stone Age product. But at the time, it was fabulous photo hardware. I loved taking black and white pictures with my box camera, but a movie camera was magic. I took my Paillard when Mother, Buddie, and I went to Siena to participate as observers at the Palio where bareback riders race around the central square. The race, which still continues today, has no rules, knocking a rider off his horse is totally acceptable, even encouraged. Cheers rose from the swarm of observers packed into the center of the square. In the 1960s, I put the movies onto tape for posterity. Cynthia and I wrote to each other and sometimes spoke on the telephone. That wasn't enough. When she was in New York, she always looked me up; we usually had lunch. The last time I saw her was for lunch at Patsy's when I was in my thirties. She was still living in Arizona and to the best of my knowledge never came back east, or she would have called me.

Unfortunately, Mother's influence was insufficient to abate Dryden's drinking. He frequently slumped to the floor in a drunken stupor at dinner or while playing bridge. His shenanigans continued without interruption throughout their marriage.

Mother and Dryden had everything they wanted—except a happy marriage. Mother was too young and Dryden too wild. They were divorced in 1928 when I was four years old. But it was Mother who trekked out to Reno for a divorce so that Dryden could marry Vieva Marie Fisher Banks in 1930 and produce a daughter named Suzanne. Dryden and Vieva were divorced in 1935. A week later, Dryden married Louise Lattei Farry, and in 1958, he married his fourth wife, Grace Egglesfield Gibbons. I believe there were one or two additional wives. His last marriage was to the wife of the former resident caretaker of the house at High Point his father had given to the State of New Jersey in 1923. The house could have been Mother's and Dryden's, but ironically, it became his home with him receiving a paltry salary to care for the estate.

My father set no positive example for me to follow, and I realized that truth at an early age. He was a playboy in his youth—playing the game badly, influenced and damaged physically by alcohol and financially by gambling. I only heard from him when he wanted money.

I'm broke. I have no money. Send me $100.

Throughout the years, Dryden (he preferred it over Father or Dad)—would periodically contact me, Mother and his sister Cynthia for money, always with a tale of woe and always with a fabricated positive note that he was on the verge of a better life in the near future, such as a job, which never materialized, or a patent on a paint for warships that would perform miracles, or importing crabs from Oregon (in which he even tried to interest Vincent to buy for the St. Regis). In 1962, Dryden wrote to Mother asking her for a thirty-day loan of $250 to tide him over. Mother discussed the matter with her lawyer who wrote Dryden, referring to numerous past appeals for financial assistance and informed him that Mother was willing, without any commitment on her part, to send him $100 a month on the condition that she would not have any further communication with him, either in person, by letter or by telephone. The letter specified that if Dryden were to communicate with her further, any payments would be immediately terminated. Dryden wrote a thank-you letter to Mother declaring that it was swell of her.

My father Dryden Kuser, half sister Suzanne Kuser and me

On a rare occasion as I approached fourteen, Dryden invited me to lunch with him at the Ambassador Hotel on Park Avenue. We were given a nice table and ate a good meal. Then the bill came. My father signed it and handed it to the waiter who handed it back, telling him that his credit was no longer good. Without searching his pockets, Dryden explained to me without embarrassment that he had left his wallet at home. Questionable. My monthly allowance of $35 for all expenses including clothes, transportation to and from school, gifts, pleasure, and miscellaneous items was eaten up when I paid the bill. While Dryden held his head up and marched out of the dining room, I cringed with embarrassment and passed him quickly as I sped up the steps to the front door. My son Philip's features resemble Dryden's very closely, including his balding head. Dryden always blamed losing his hair on the showers at Princeton. I am sure my son Philip, the Buddhist, has an equally good explanation, while Dryden tooted his horn on being a neorealist.

Dryden later brought a lawsuit against me when I was twenty-one in the United States District Court Southern District of New York for all the funds in a $650,000 Trust at the Hanover Bank. The Trust had been established in my name as the crux of the divorce settlement agreement between him and my mother. Mother, allowing her emotions to dominate reality, told Dryden she didn't want a penny. Fortunately, Mother's father was on the spot at the time and said this wouldn't do, insisting that a trust be established in my name. Mother would receive income from the Trust until I was twenty-one. In court, Dryden claimed that the Trust had originally been $650,000 but had been reduced in value due to the unwise investments, resulting in heavy losses, although I couldn't see that this point (which was true) was a valid argument that would win the case for him. He wanted it all. I won the case and was rewarded by having to pay not only my legal fees but his as well totaling $100,000, which was paid out of the Trust, diminishing what was a wad of money in those days.

I had mixed feelings about Dryden's suit against me. On the one hand, I couldn't help but feel sorry for him although the mess he had created in his life was self-inflicted. As for suing me, I thought it was outrageous: a father suing his son!

If he could get money he would, which was the case with Christmas and birthday deposits in an account established by his father for me. On Colonel Kuser's death, the accrued sum in the Bernardsville Bank was $2,300. When I told Dryden I would like to withdraw the funds and establish my own bank account, he informed me that he had closed the account and spent the money.

In 1944, I received a letter from my father when I was at Camp Pendleton, about to leave the States for the Far East to be placed in danger's way as a Marine in combat. As I slit open the envelope and drew out the letter, I wondered why he was writing to me. Perhaps he was wishing me well and a safe return. I was horrified by the letter's contents. He noted that he knew that I was going into combat and asked me to take out a $1,000,000 life insurance policy with him as the beneficiary. I tore up the letter, not out of anger but in sorrow that a father would be driven to such an extreme. He didn't say a word of hope that I would come back to America safely.

In spite of Dryden's not caring a hoot for me, embarrassing me by taking me out for lunch and his being told that his credit wasn't any good, his repeatedly asking me for small sums of cash—which added up; his stealing (when I asked him, he told me he needed the money for taxes) the funds my paternal grandfather had left me in a banking account which he set up, his taking me, unsuccessfully, to court to obtain funds in a trust account his father had established when Dryden divorced mother and (betting) that I would be killed in action in the Pacific, and his asking me to take out a $1,000,000 insurance policy, I still continued to send him occasional checks for the rest of his life.

The last time I saw Dryden was in September 1963 when he called me from the Presbyterian Hospital in New York City where he had been admitted with emphysema. I hadn't heard from him for several years. He asked me to come to see him—and bring a bottle of whiskey, which was transparently the real reason he had called me—not because of any parental affection. I took a bottle to him. I learned of his death some weeks later when I arrived for the night at a Rest House at Onitsha, Nigeria, having just crossed the Niger River with my Landrover on a large wooden raft, replete with cackling chickens and restless goats. The manager of the Rest House had a message for me. Your office in Lagos called about your father.

Mother and me in Reno

What did they say?

He died.

What a very pathetic, sad, and wasted life!

My switch in geography—and daily schedule—was radically changed by my mother and Dryden's divorce. After a temporary stay of six months at the Ambassador Hotel on Park Avenue, Mother and I moved to an apartment at One Gracie Square overlooking Carl Schultz Park on the East River. I could see and hear the overnight boat on its way to Albany with bunk loads of people. Every evening at six, my ear was glued to the radio, appreciating the saccharine voice of Uncle Don whose program was geared toward entertaining children. One evening, believing he was off the air, Uncle Don cleared his mind, declaring that he had had enough of the little bastards. Uncle Don disappeared from the airwaves with supersonic speed. I graduated from kindergarten with only one memory: that of eating bacon sandwiches from my lunch box on a caged-in roof play area. I passed the test to enter Buckley school with flying colors when I correctly answered the only question I was asked which was to tell the difference between a quarter and a nickel. Which was more valuable? I knew.

Mademoiselle was replaced by a Scot, Jean Murphy, and now that she was divorced Mother spent considerably more time with me, reading to me, developing my appreciation for a sense of humor and teaching me the importance of good manners. Mother and I went on trips, the first of which was her divorce mission to Reno where we lived in a rented house on the outskirts of town with no close neighbors. Mother and a friend of hers checked my story when I told her that a ghost had visited me, and indeed I was proved right. On his first visit, the ghost had come upstairs and into my room. We had a brief forgotten conversation. I was not scared; on the contrary, I rather liked the fellow. Mother checked my story with a friend. Footsteps were unmistakably heard on the gravel walk leading to the house although nobody was seen on the path. We became quite accustomed to this friendly fellow who paid us frequent nocturnal visits, although he (or she?) must have been quite shy as we never learned their name.

Mother and me

Easter in Santa Barbara

The same year we spent Easter at a cottage only feet away from the Pacific Ocean on the Biltmore Hotel Estate in Santa Barbara, California, where I hunted for Easter eggs and collected beach-strewn, popable seaweed which I mischievously but neatly arranged on plates on tables in the dining room as an edible surprise for dinner guests.

The following year, Mother