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For this the U. S. press was largely responsible. Its original sin was omission—failure to tell what kind of man he was, to treat him with the customary cynicism with which it keeps public characters in perspective. Instead the press succumbed to mob psychology, augmenting it beyond belief. In Lindbergh's mind, however, the press became something far worse: a personification of malice, which deliberately urged on the crazy mob and printed lying stories about him.
First open hostility in the press showed itself on a rainy day in 1927 when Lindbergh took off from Washington for Mitchel Field, N. Y. As he swung his ship around, his propeller blast picked up pools of muddy water and showered it over newshawks.
Few weeks later Lindbergh was in Mexico, received with Latin enthusiasm by people who cheered him but did not want to paw him. At the U. S. Embassy, far from the maddened mob, he met earnest, poetic, adventurous Anne Morrow. With earnest, adventurous (but not poetic) Charles Lindbergh she had much in common. After their wedding at Englewood his war with the press grew more bitter. Newshawks and cameramen hounded them on their honeymoon. A few weeks later in a mass interview, a reporter asked Lindbergh whether his wife was pregnant yet. He whitened with anger.
Three years later when tragedy struck — 20-month-old Charles A. Lindbergh Jr. was kidnapped and murdered—newshawks assigned to one of the biggest stories ever to break on Page One felt there was no need to consider Lindbergh's feelings. He did not expect it, but the final act of the tragedy was also his final embitterment. The night after he had identified the body of his son in the Trenton morgue, two photographers got into the building and attempted to take pictures of the body.
After that other incidents meant little. Once photographers in an automobile crowded the Lindbergh car off a New Jersey road trying to get a shot at Baby Jon Lindbergh. Once there was another kidnap alarm because a canvas-covered truck, parked in front of the Morrow home in Englewood, drove away hastily when it attracted attention—police later discovered that it contained movie photographers. Finally on a December night in 1935 Charles Lindbergh and his family left the country. When they were at sea, his friend "Deke" Lyman of the New York Times broke the story of their exile. The U. S. press heaped ashes on its head, too late.
In England, after two weeks of pursuit by British newspapermen, the Lindberghs found peace. They went freely to the homes of friends, found they could go to London for dinner and the theatre without being mobbed. In Paris, where they moved after living for a time at Illiec, a secluded Breton isle, life was just as calm. At dinner in the Crillon, at the theatre, no one except an occasional American tourist gawked at them. There were no autograph hunters.
Working with Dr. Alexis Carrel on the mechanical heart (a job which he now regards as completed), Lindbergh found time for many a flying trip, to India, Russia, Germany. For three years he enjoyed peace.