Family Weekly
January 31, 1960
The Lindbergh of today is
able to lead a normal if
lonely life, unrecognized by
the once-adoring public.
At scott's cove, in a section of Darien, Conn., just
i off Long Island Sound, a large rambling house
built in modified Tudor style is hidden from passers-by
by tall trees. Three acres behind it, which
have been permitted to grow wildly, intensify the
sense of isolation.
To this ordinary suburb, the family which has
lived in this house since 1946 seems a mystery.
The children all have gone to public schools and
mingle freely in the community. But neither the
husband nor wife takes part in the Darien social
or community life. The man of the house greets
nobody, and the wife, though pleasant to every
body, is pleasant in a distant, shy way. Says one
neighbor: "She seems to tiptoe rather than to walk."
Neighbors note, too, that the family has an un
listed telephone number and that their children,
when questioned, don't seem to know what work
their father does. And, while Darien shopkeepers
talk of visits to their stores by such local celebri
ties as film star Madeleine Carroll and Lt Gen.
Leslie Groves, they do not talk of the residents of
this house.
But celebrities they are. Perhaps more than any
other couple, they have been adored and idolized
by the public and, at the same time, vilified and
harassed. For they are Charles A. Lindbergh and
Anne Morrow Lindbergh.
He is the same Charles A. Lindbergh who, on a
rain-soaked morning in 1927, took off from Roose
velt Field, N. Y., to make history's first nonstop
solo transoceanic flight
"Why this isolation?" the neighbors ask. The
answer lies both in Charles and Anne Lindbergh's
own natures and in the circumstances of their
lives. Even as a high-school lad in Little Falls,
Minn., Charles was regarded as a boy apart one
who was more interested in mechanical things and
in courting danger than in human beings. And Anne
THE HIDDEN LIFE OF
Idolized, then harassed and scorned, this famous flier
Lindbergh's classmates at Smith College remember
her as "a shy girl of most, unusual charm."
The famous flight that made him a public hero
only deepened Charles' wish to be alone. His mar
riage, in the spring of 1929, to Anne Morrow, daugh
ter of Dwight D. Morrow, then ambassador to
Mexico, was an ordeal by publicity. As the young
couple honeymooned in a boat, they were pursued
by newsmen and cameramen who followed in
launches and by airplane. At one time, their small
craft was rocked for seven hours by the wash of
a photographer's circling speedboat.
The couple sought many retreats. First, there was
a home in Hopewell, a remote mountainous part
of New Jersey where, instead of finding peace, they
met tragedy. A hostile outside world, in the per
son of Bruno Richard Hauptmann, intruded and
kidnaped their first-born son on March 1, 1932.
For nine terrible weeks, the couple lived alternately
in hope and despair, only to learn that Charles, Jr.,
had been murdered.
Next was a retreat to Long Barn in Kent, Eng
land, a 14th-century home where the couple fled
with Jon, their second son, born only a few months
after the kidnaping.
Later the Lindberghs' separateness became even
deeper when, at the request of the U. S. military
attache in Berlin, Lindbergh visited prewar Ger
many. He toured German air centers, accepted a
medal from Nazi air chief Goring, and made state
ments interpreted at home as pro-Nazi.
Returning to the United States, the Lindberghs
met with a cool welcome. Nearly all their former
friends held aloof from them.
Since that time, Lt Gen. Albert C. Wedemeyer
has made public the fact that Lindbergh had secured
valuable information for the U. S. during his un
popular German visit and, though he opposed U. S.
entry into the war, made a significant contribu
tion in combat flying and as a consultant to aircraft
manufacturers. Because he served his country,
yet was treated by friends as a traitor, Lindbergh
retreated even further within himself than before.
And his wife retreated with him.
At Darien, however, where the Lindberghs have
lived for 13 years, they have found a source of
solace and strength. Old wounds have healed, and
their five children Jon, 27, Land, 22, Anne, 19,
Scott, 17, and Reeve, 14 have matured.
This retreat is different from previous ones. For
one thing, the fame that plagued them has receded.
A measure of its ebb is the fact that in 1957 a movie
of Lindbergh's flight "The Spirit of St Louis," was
a box-office failure. In 1959, too, the eclipse of his
fame was clear when "The Hero," a biography of
him, fell short of the best-seller lists.
As fame has receded, the Lindberghs have lifted
the ban they once had on visiting. Special friends
come to dinner. And they, in turn, visit special
friends. But among Darien people, the visitors are
few. The postmaster seems to be the Lindberghs'
only local dinner guest He has become a friend
because he is protector of the Lindberghs' isola
tion. Together, in the postmaster's office, the two
men regularly return 98 percent of the mail ad
dressed to Lindbergh without opening it
From his Darien home, Lindbergh, who will be
58 next Thursday, sets out many mornings like
any other commuting husband and father for the
nearby railroad station. He is a consultant to Pan
American Airways, a general in the U. S. Army,
and currently is engaged in a top-secret project.
Though balding and gray, he looks a good 10
years younger than he is. There are few lines on
his face. His distance vision is still acute, and .his
175 pounds are well distributed as hard, lean mus-
4 Family Weekly, January 31, I960