There is a photograph taken sometime in the early 1950s. Frank Sinatra is sitting at a table, a cigarette burning between his fingers, his eyes somewhere far away, not looking at the camera, not looking at anything in the room. He looks like a man trying to remember something he’d rather forget. By that point, he had already lost nearly everything.
His voice, his record deal, his standing in Hollywood. The women who once screamed his name in theaters now barely noticed him. And the one woman he could not live without, the one who made him feel more alive than any stage ever had, was tearing him apart from the inside. What happened to Frank Sinatra in those years is not just a story about fame and failure.
It is a story about what happens when a man who can make a million strangers feel something cannot hold on to the one person who matters most. And it gets darker and stranger and more painful than most people know. Segment 10. The boy from Hoboken. To understand what Frank Sinatra became, you have to understand where he started because nothing about his beginning suggested what was coming.
He was born on December 12th, 1915 in Hoboken, New Jersey to Sicilian immigrants Antonino Martino Sinatra and Natalie Garaventa. The delivery was difficult. He came into the world weighing over 13 lb and forceps had to be used during the birth, leaving him with permanent scarring on his left cheek, ear, and neck. His grandmother held him under cold water to revive him.
He was placed on a kitchen table, presumed dead for a moment before he cried. His mother, everyone called her Dolly, was a fierce, sharp-tongued woman who ran the neighborhood with a kind of informal authority. She was politically connected, spoke several languages, and had no patience for weakness. His father, Marty, was quieter, a boxer turned firefighter who said little and worked hard.
Frank grew up in their orbit and he absorbed both of them, his mother’s ambition and his father’s silence. He was an only child, often left to his own devices while his parents worked. The neighborhood kids sometimes bullied him. He was skinny and small and wore nice clothes his mother bought him, which made him a target.
He spent a lot of time alone. He sang, not formally, not with lessons, just around the house, and then at local gatherings, and eventually in bars where his mother knew the owners. He never finished high school. He dropped out of A. J. Demarest High School after just 47 days. His mother was furious.
His father said nothing. Frank had already decided he was going to sing. In the mid-1930s, he was doing anything he could to get on stage. He sang for free, then for almost nothing. He worked as a singing waiter at the Rustic Cabin Roadhouse in Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, a place that paid him $15 a week, but had a radio wire, which meant people could actually hear him.
Harry James heard him. The bandleader signed him in 1939. Sinatra recorded a handful of songs with James’s orchestra, and then Tommy Dorsey came calling, a bigger name, a bigger band, a bigger opportunity. Sinatra took it. He learned from Dorsey in a way that no classroom could have taught him. Dorsey had an almost supernatural ability to sustain notes while playing the trombone, and Sinatra watched him and started training his lungs to do the same, taking long breaths through the side of his mouth while singing so the phrase
never broke. By 1942, Frank Sinatra was something no one had quite seen before. He was not a movie star or a comedian or a novelty act. He was a singer who made young women feel like he was singing directly to them, personally, in a room with no one else. He understood phrasing in a way that was almost conversational, as if the song was not something he performed, but something he was experiencing in real time.
When he sang about loneliness or longing, people believed him because it sounded true. The screaming started in October 1942 at the Paramount Theater in New York. He appeared as an extra added attraction with Benny Goodman’s band. The audience, mostly teenage girls, many of them with brothers and boyfriends already shipped off to the war, lost complete control.
They screamed through entire songs. They fainted. The police were called. The press called it mass hysteria. Some journalists suspected it was engineered, but it was not. It was just what happened when Frank Sinatra stood in front of a microphone and opened his mouth. They called them bobby soxers, the girls in ankle socks who followed him from show to show.
He became a phenomenon before that word was fashionable. Columbia Records signed him. Radio spots multiplied. His face appeared in magazines. And somewhere in all of that noise, the boy from Hoboken started believing he was exactly as important as everyone said he was. That belief would cost him more than he ever expected.
But before the collapse came the marriage, the first one, the one that was supposed to last. And the woman he left it for, who changed everything. Segment 9. Nancy, the wife he should have kept. Her name was Nancy Barbato. She was the daughter of a plasterer from Jersey City, and Frank met her at a beach party in Long Branch, New Jersey in the summer of 1934.
He was 18. She was 17. He sang to her, or rather he sang at that gathering, and she happened to be there, and it was enough. Nancy was steady and warm and loyal in a way that Frank genuinely admired, even when he could not reciprocate it. She believed in him before anyone else had reason to. When he was working for almost nothing at the Rustic Cabin, she was still there.
When he was telling people he was going to be the most famous singer in the world and they laughed at him, she did not laugh. They married on February 4th, 1939 in Jersey City in a ceremony that was modest and Catholic and straightforward, the kind of wedding that matched who they were at that moment, even if it did not match who Frank was about to become.
The children came. Nancy Sandra was born in 1940. Franklin Wayne, Frank Jr., arrived in 1944. Christina, called Tina, was born in 1948. Nancy was a devoted mother and she organized the household around Frank’s schedule, his needs, his career. She entertained his friends, managed his domestic life, and remained composed even as the rumors started.
The rumors were almost immediate. Fame had arrived and with it came access to parties, to film sets, to women who were dazzled by the voice and the suits and the blue eyes. Frank did not say no. He was not built for no. He had come from nothing and arrived at everything too fast, and he handled it the way a lot of men in that era handled it, by taking what was offered and assuming the rules that applied to ordinary people did not quite apply to him.
Nancy was aware of this. People around them were aware. But in the 1940s, especially in Catholic Italian-American communities, you stayed. You managed. You did not make scenes. Then Ava Gardner walked into his life and everything Nancy had managed carefully and quietly for nearly a decade became impossible to contain.
Ava was not a rumor. She was not a fling. She was something Frank Sinatra could not control, could not leave, and could not survive intact. And the way the two of them collided changed both of their lives in ways neither of them had prepared for. But to understand what Ava Gardner was to Frank Sinatra, you first have to understand what she was to the rest of the world. Segment 8.
Ava Gardner, the woman who arrived like a storm. She was born Ava Lavinia Gardner on December 24th, 1922 in Grabtown, North Carolina, a place so small it barely qualified as a town. She was the youngest of seven children. Her father, Jonas Bailey Gardner, was a tobacco farmer who struggled for most of his life.
Her mother, Mary Elizabeth, ran a boarding house to supplement the family’s income. They were not poor in the way that meant desperation, but they were never comfortable. Ava grew up quiet and strong and startlingly beautiful in a way she did not fully understand as a child. She had dark hair and green eyes and a presence that people noticed before she said a word.
She was not particularly interested in movies or fame. She planned, loosely, on becoming a secretary. What changed her life was a photograph. In 1940, her older sister Bappi’s husband, a photographer named Larry Tarr, took a portrait of Ava and displayed it in the window of his New York studio. Someone from MGM’s legal department saw it, passed it along, and shortly after, Ava Gardner was on a train to Hollywood for a screen test.
She was 18 years old and had never acted in her life. Her first screen test was so awkward, she had a thick Southern accent and stumbled through her lines, that the studio almost passed. But LB Mayer, who ran MGM, reportedly said the camera loved her face and that was enough. She was signed. She spent years at MGM learning her craft, taking diction lessons, doing small parts, and being groomed into the studio’s idea of a star.
The accent softened, the poise developed, the beauty, which had always been there, became something polished and deliberate. By the time she appeared in The Killers in 1946 opposite Burt Lancaster, Ava Gardner was not just beautiful. She was magnetic in a way that made audiences lean forward. She played a femme fatale, a woman of ambiguity and danger, and she did it with such conviction that people assumed she was naturally that way.
The truth was more complicated. Off screen, she was funny and profane and unpredictable and desperately afraid of being exposed as someone who did not belong in the world she had stumbled into. She had already been married once, briefly and disastrously. In 1941, she married Mickey Rooney, then one of MGM’s biggest stars, a whirlwind of energy and ego who pursued her relentlessly until she said yes.
The marriage lasted a year. Rooney was serially unfaithful and Ava, who had not yet built the walls she would later be famous for, was devastated. Then she married musician Artie Shaw in 1945. Shaw was brilliant and cold and intellectually domineering. He told her she was not smart enough, that she needed to read more, that she embarrassed him.
She tried to become what he wanted. She could not. That marriage collapsed after a year as well. By the time Frank Sinatra entered her world, Ava Gardner had already learned something important, that men who wanted her did not always want her. They wanted the image. They wanted the green eyes and the dark hair and what it meant to have her in a room.
She had spent years being acquired and discarded and she had developed, as a result, a kind of fierce self-protection that looked to the outside world like recklessness. She drank. She danced until 4:00 a.m. She told the truth in rooms where no one else did. She laughed too loud and said things she should not have said and refused to apologize for any of it.
Hollywood called her difficult. She called it surviving. When she met Frank Sinatra properly at a party sometime around 1949, after years of circling in the same social world, she was 26 years old, already twice divorced, and completely unimpressed by celebrity. Frank was 33, married, famous, and in the early stages of what would become one of the most spectacular professional collapses in entertainment history.
She did not fall for his reputation. She fell for something more dangerous than that. Segment seven. The affair that broke everything open. They had met before. Hollywood was not that larger world and people whose names appeared in the same columns tended to inhabit the same rooms. But 1949 was when it became something more than proximity.
What drew them together, by most accounts, was recognition. Ava had spent years being handled and shaped and presented. Frank had spent years being managed and packaged and sold. When they were alone, something in each of them relaxed. She did not treat him like a monument. He did not treat her like a trophy.
They argued constantly, loudly, sometimes in public, but the arguing was honest in a way that their more polished social performances were not. Frank was still married to Nancy. He made little attempt to conceal what was happening. He brought Ava to events. He was photographed with her. The columnists, especially Louella Parsons and Hedda Hopper, who held enormous power in those years, noticed immediately and the coverage began.
The public reaction was swift and ugly. Frank’s fan base, built largely on the devotion of women who saw him as a romantic ideal, felt personally betrayed. Letters poured in. His radio show lost sponsors. Theaters that had been selling out started struggling. The man who had made a generation of women feel seen was now the man who had cheated on his wife and family for a Hollywood actress and the press was happy to remind everyone of that every day.
Nancy filed for legal separation in 1950. The divorce was finalized in 1951. Frank and Ava were married on November 7th, 1951 in a small ceremony in Philadelphia at the home of a friend, Lester Sacks. There are photographs from that day. Frank looks like a man who has just won something he is not entirely sure he deserved.
Ava looks like she is deciding still whether this is a good idea. They were both right to feel uncertain because by the time they married, Frank Sinatra’s world was already coming apart. Not because of Ava, but in ways that Ava would witness, amplify, and eventually be blamed for. Segment six. The collapse. In the early 1950s, Frank Sinatra lost almost everything.
It happened with a speed that shocked people who had watched his rise and could not quite believe the fall was real. His voice, the thing that had started all of it, began to fail him. In early 1950, during a performance at the Copa in New York, he opened his mouth and almost nothing came out. A vocal hemorrhage had damaged his vocal cords.
He was advised to rest. He rested. He came back, but it was not the same, not immediately. The voice was thinner. The control was unreliable. For a man who had built an entire identity on the precision of what came out of his throat, this was not just a professional setback. It was an existential one. Columbia Records dropped him in 1952.
His manager had already left. His television show was canceled. Film roles dried up. MGM, which had been distributing his films, let his contract expire. The nightclub dates thinned out. The money, which had seemed inexhaustible, started to feel very finite. He was in debt. He was borrowing from friends. He was borrowing from people who were not exactly friends, men connected to organized crime, including Sam Giancana and other figures in the Chicago Outfit, who had long been part of the music and entertainment world and who Frank had
cultivated relationships with for years. Those relationships went back to his early days performing in clubs and theaters that were owned or controlled by mob-connected figures and Frank had never seen them as something to be ashamed of. In the world he grew up in, those were simply the men who ran things. But as his public image curdled under the press scrutiny of the early 1950s, every connection he had was being examined and reported with fresh suspicion.
The FBI, which had maintained a file on him since the 1940s, continued to add to it steadily. The press, which had elevated him, enjoyed the reversal. Columns ran with barely concealed satisfaction about his declining fortunes. He was called washed up. There were pieces wondering if he had ever really had talent or if it had all been hysteria manufactured for teenage girls.
He was 35 years old and he was watching himself disappear in real time. Ava watched it, too, and the way she watched it mattered enormously. She did not leave. She also did not smooth it over or pretend it was not happening. She was honest with him, sometimes painfully so, and Frank, who had surrounded himself with people who said yes to everything, did not always know what to do with honesty.
The fights during this period were legendary, even at the time. Their neighbors in various hotels and apartments across Los Angeles and New York knew them by the volume. Things were thrown, doors were slammed. They separated and reconciled so many times that people stopped counting. Frank would leave, then call, then appear.
Ava would take him back, then decide she could not do it, then relent. What made the relationship so combustible was not simply that they were both volatile people, though they were. It was that they needed the same things from each other and could not give them. They both needed to be the focus of the room. They both needed to be loved without condition and without restriction.
They both had wounds that went back much further than either of them was willing to discuss. And they had found in each other both the person most capable of reaching those wounds and the person least equipped to heal them. There were incidents. One, in 1951, involved Frank in a state of such profound despair that Ava called friends in a panic.
He had taken pills. The number and intent were never made fully public. And she was terrified. Friends arrived, a doctor was called, and the episode was managed quietly, as these things were managed in Hollywood in that era. It was kept out of the papers. But people who were there remembered it. Frank, later, was reluctant to discuss those years in any depth.
He described the early 1950s as the worst period of his life. He did not always specify why. And yet, in the middle of all of it, something happened that changed everything. Segment five, from the bottom. The story of Frank Sinatra’s comeback is one of those moments in entertainment history that gets told and retold because it is genuinely improbable.
He wanted the role of Maggio in From Here to Eternity, the film adaptation of James Jones’s novel about soldiers in Hawaii on the eve of Pearl Harbor. It was not a leading role. Maggio was a scrappy, funny, doomed private, small and Italian and expendable. Frank read the book and believed, with complete conviction, that he was the only person who could play that man.
Columbia Pictures, which was producing the film under Harry Cohn, was not interested. Sinatra was damaged goods, a fading singer with a failing marriage and a reputation for being difficult. The studio had other names in mind for the part. Ava Gardner went to Harry Cohn’s wife directly. She made a case for Frank.
Whether that conversation made the difference or whether it was one of several factors, Harry Cohn eventually agreed to test him. Frank flew to Africa, where Ava was filming Mogambo, to wait for the call. He screen tested for the role. He was paid $8,000, a fraction of what he had once commanded. He did not care.
He wanted the role more than he had wanted almost anything in his professional life. He got it. And when From Here to Eternity opened in August 1953, Frank Sinatra’s performance as Angelo Maggio stopped people cold. There was no artifice in it. He played a man on the edge, desperate, funny, proud, broken. And every frame of it looked like lived experience rather than performance.
The film was a sensation. It won eight Academy Awards. Frank won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor. He gave his acceptance speech and then stood in the wings and wept. The record deal that followed was with Capitol Records, and it was the beginning of the most artistically productive decade of his life. Working with arranger Nelson Riddle, Sinatra created a series of albums that redefined what a pop record could be.
Songs for Young Lovers, Swing Easy, In the Mood for Love, Where Are You, Only the Lonely. These were not collections of singles. They were sustained emotional experiences built around a mood, a time of night, a feeling you recognized from your own life. Critics who had written him off were now calling him the finest interpreter of American popular song alive.
The clubs were full again. The film roles returned, better ones. He was, by the mid-1950s, more famous and more respected than he had been at the height of the bobby soxer years, because now the fame was accompanied by something that had not been there before, gravity, weight, the sense that this man had been somewhere and come back.
But the marriage to Ava was already over. Segment four, the marriage that could not survive itself. Frank and Ava’s marriage lasted, officially, from November 1951 to their legal separation in October 1953. The divorce was finalized in 1957. In practice, the marriage was over and not over for years on either side of those dates.
They separated and reunited, called each other from opposite sides of the world, and held on to something between them that neither of them could fully name or release. The central tension of their marriage was one that neither of them ever fully resolved, and it was not about fidelity alone, though that was part of it.
It was about power, about whose career mattered more, about who was allowed to take up the most space. When they married, Ava was ascending and Frank was falling. She was one of the most sought-after actresses in Hollywood. He was the man everyone was talking about in the past tense. That imbalance was painful for Frank in ways that he sometimes directed outward, at Ava, at the situation, at the press.
He was proud and he was ashamed, and neither of those emotions left much room for grace. Ava, for her part, did not shrink. She had been made small by Artie Shaw and had promised herself she would not let it happen again. She had her own money, her own career, her own opinions about how her life should be run.
When she was offered Mogambo, a film that would shoot in Africa and London, she took it. Frank was not thrilled. He wanted her home. She went anyway. The separations were long and the distance made everything worse. They called each other constantly. Their phone bills were enormous. And the calls frequently ended in arguments.
When they were together, the passion was intense and exhausting and sometimes frightening to witness. When they were apart, the longing was equally intense and equally exhausting. There were other people involved on both sides. Ava’s name was linked to several men during the marriage and afterward. Bullfighter Luis Miguel Dominguín, with whom she had an intense relationship after her split from Frank, was one of the most prominent.
Frank’s name was linked to a long list of women before, during, and after. But Ava was different. Of all the women in his life, and there were many, she was the one who held on. Not because she needed him, but because some part of her had never fully let go. In one conversation, recounted by people who were present in the room afterward, Frank reportedly described Ava as the great love of his life.
He said this at various points across several decades, at parties, in interviews, in private. He said it, by most accounts, in front of other women he was involved with. He did not seem to understand, or perhaps did not care, how much this hurt them. The divorce did not end his fixation. It simply changed its shape.
He would call her, sometimes from wherever he was in the world, at hours that made no sense across time zones. She would pick up or not. When she did, the conversations could go anywhere, tender, then furious, then tender again. People around both of them got used to the phone calls as a constant, like weather, something you could not stop and learned to work around.
Segment three, what the marriage did to both of them. Frank Sinatra married three more times after Ava, Mia Farrow in 1966. She was 21, he was 50, and the marriage lasted two years before the age gap and competing ambitions ended it. Barbara Marx in 1976, who stayed until his death in 1998. He was fond of Barbara. He was comfortable with her.
But the people who knew him well noted that comfortable was not the same as consumed. And Frank had only ever really known one kind of love. Ava Gardner never remarried after Frank. She came close. She spoke about several relationships with the kind of warmth that suggested they had meant something. But she never signed another marriage certificate.
She moved to Madrid in the late 1950s, drawn to Spain’s landscape and its culture and its distance from Hollywood. She lived there for years. And then in London. In an apartment in Knightsbridge. Where she kept dogs and avoided the press and gave occasional interviews in which she was more candid than her publicists would have preferred.
She said in one of those interviews. That she had loved Frank completely. And that loving him completely was the problem. That there was no halfway with Frank. You were either all the way in or all the way out. And being all the way in with Frank Sinatra meant accepting things she had not been able to accept.
You had to accept his moods and his silences and his sudden generosity and his equally sudden cruelties. The way he could make you feel like the only person in a room of 500. And then without changing his expression. Make you feel completely invisible. She did not detail what those things were. She did not need to.
People who followed her life had some idea. Her health declined in the 1980s. A stroke in 1986 left her partially paralyzed on one side. She was living in London by then with a housekeeper named Carmen who remained loyal to her until the end. Frank on hearing about the stroke sent money. He continued to send money for the rest of her life quietly without announcement.
She accepted it without public acknowledgement. That perhaps was the final form their relationship took. Him giving something practical. Her taking it without sentiment. And both of them understanding what it meant without saying it. Ava Gardner died on January 25th, 1990 in London from pneumonia. She was 67 years old.
Frank Sinatra was playing a concert in Atlantic City when he received the news. He finished the show. Something he was compulsive about. The show always finished. And then went to his dressing room and did not come out for a long time. Nobody who was there that night talked much about what they heard through the door.
But everyone remembered that he stayed in there. He kept a photograph of her for the rest of his life. Segment two. The world around them. To understand the marriage of Frank Sinatra and Ava Gardner. You have to understand the world it existed in. Because 1950s Hollywood was not simply a backdrop.
It was an active participant in their story. The studio system which had built both of their careers was beginning to crack by the early 1950s. Television was pulling audiences away from theaters. The old contracts. The ones that had given studios total control over an actor’s image, schedule and personal life. Were being challenged in courts and renegotiated.
The press was changing too. The old guard of columnists like Louella Parsons operated on a system of favors and threats. You gave them access and they protected you. Or you denied them access and they destroyed you. Frank had a famously difficult relationship with the press for his entire career. He believed not entirely without reason that journalists had turned on him during his lowest period with a viciousness that went beyond professional duty.
He remembered names. He held grudges. Later when his power returned. He was selective and sometimes punitive about access. Shutting out reporters who had written critically about him. Favoring those who had stayed loyal. Ava had a different relationship with the press. She was contemptuous of it in a more even-handed way.
She disliked the intrusion regardless of whether the coverage was favorable. She found the constant observation exhausting and sometimes cruel. When she eventually left Hollywood and went to Spain. It was partly about freedom from that gaze. Their marriage existed at the intersection of all of these forces. Every fight, every separation, every reconciliation was watched and reported and analyzed.
There was no privacy. Or almost none. When they argued in hotel rooms, staff talked. When they appeared together at events, photographers swarmed. When they separated, columns ran immediately with speculation about what had happened and who was to blame. The blame in those years. Was almost always assigned to Ava.
She was the woman who had broken up Frank’s family. She was the temptress. She was difficult and selfish and too independent for her own good. The language used about her was not the same language used about Frank. Who was also unfaithful. Also volatile. Also impossible by multiple accounts. Frank was passionate. Ava was trouble.
The double standard was total and largely accepted. Ava was aware of it. She was not silent about it. She said in various ways across various years. That the world was prepared to forgive Frank things it would never forgive her. She was not wrong. But saying it did not change it. And she eventually stopped trying to change it and simply left.
Frank meanwhile was cultivating relationships that would define the second chapter of his public life. The Rat Pack. Dean Martin. Sammy Davis Jr. Peter Lawford. Joey Bishop. Coalesced around him in the late 1950s. They performed together in Las Vegas. Made films together. And created a social world so self-contained and so glamorous.
That it became a kind of mythology. Frank was the center of that world. The chairman of the board. And he ran it with a warmth and an authority that people who were inside it found intoxicating. But people who were inside it also noticed that Frank at the center of all that noise and laughter. Sometimes went very quiet.
That there were moments usually late at night. When he seemed to be somewhere else entirely. Nobody asked where he went in those moments. With Frank Sinatra. There were things you did not ask. Segment one. The legacy of a love that didn’t last. Frank Sinatra performed for the last time in February 1995 in Palm Desert, California.
He was 79 years old. His memory had begun to fail him by then. He sometimes needed the lyrics written on cue cards held out of sight of the audience. But the voice. That instrument that had been with him for six decades. Still carried something that made rooms go silent. He died on May 14th, 1998 in Los Angeles.
At the age of 82. His wife Barbara was at his bedside. His children came. His last reported words were addressed to Barbara. Asking her not to leave him alone. He had always hated being alone. The tributes that followed were enormous. As you would expect for a man who had defined American popular music across four decades.
But in many of them. Even the most official ones. Ava Gardner’s name appeared. She had been dead for eight years. She was still impossible to discuss Frank without. What their marriage ultimately tells you. If it tells you anything beyond its own particular combustible story. Is something about the limits of passion as a foundation.
They had everything. They had physical intensity and intellectual recognition. And a shared understanding of what it meant to be watched and wanted and never quite fully seen. They had the kind of connection that most people spend their whole lives hoping to find. And they could not make it work. They could not bend toward each other at the same time.
One was always reaching while the other was pulling away. The timing was never right. The wounds were too close to the surface. The world was too loud and too present in their private life for anything quiet to survive. Frank Sinatra’s best music. The albums that people still listen to not as nostalgia but as companionship.
Was made in the years immediately after Ava. Only the lonely released in 1958 is an album about a particular kind of grief. Not the loud kind. The settled permanent kind that you learn to carry rather than set down. When he sings on that album. He is not performing emotion. He is reporting it. Ava Gardner’s performance in The Barefoot Contessa, released in 1954, features her playing a woman of extraordinary beauty who is trapped between the life she was born into and the world that wants to claim her.
It is not difficult to find the parallels. She was not hiding them. They were two people who were most fully themselves when they were singing or acting. When the distance between what they felt and what they could express collapsed. In their marriage, that distance never fully closed. They kept trying to cross it and kept falling short.
And eventually they stopped trying. But they did not forget. And maybe that is what defines a love that does not last. Not the ending, but the fact that it stays with you long after the ending. That you keep returning to it even when you know it cannot give you anything new. Frank Sinatra kept that photograph of Ava Gardner.
He kept it for 38 years after their divorce. He kept it until he died. That is not a footnote. That is the whole story. If you enjoyed this video, please like and subscribe to our channel so you never miss out on more fascinating stories.
