WW2 HOLLAND | Jimmy Huizinga, Wally van Hall

August 2, 2020—I wrote something about the visit of Wally and Gijsbert van Hall to New York City in 1929 (!). The two brothers had jobs on Wall Street. They spent time with Jimmy Huizinga, son of the great Dutch historian Johan Huizinga, who was imprisoned by the Nazis in 1942 for his anti-fascist views and died in prison in 1945.

I just received a short memory by someone who became, a generation or two later, another friend of Jimmy Huizinga. My correspondent's name is Rider McDowell, a writer who lives with his wife and sons in Pebble Beach, California. This is what he wrote to me, posted here with his permission:

Rider McDowell (L) and Jimmy Huizinga, 
in Gassin, France.

Jimmy was my surrogate grandfather. Great guy. His wife was the former Mary Cookson, who’d previously been married to Johnny Churchill. They were a great couple, took me under their wing when I was 19.

I was introduced to them in London through a girlfriend’s family. The Huizingas were looking for “an artist in residence” to work as a part time handyman on their property in Gassin [just west of Saint-Tropez on the Côte d'Azur], for the spring and summer season. Jimmy had just turned 70 and Mary used to say she was born on the same day as JFK.

I was an aspiring writer and Jimmy read and critiqued my first mystery novel as well as my first play and several short stories. They were great fun and we became very close and would get together for years afterwards in London for dinner, etc.

The first time I met Jimmy we walked from his property in Gassin to one being constructed by industrialist Gunter Sachs, an enormous ornate plate glass, bird cage of a house. And Jimmy said, “Look at this monstrosity and look at all that glass. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” And I said, “I think so.” And with a chuckle we each picked up a rock, and threw it at this enormous window, and then ran.

Even though Jimmy was 50 years older than me, we were like pals. We'd drive around to various expatriate parties around St Tropez. Jimmy knew everyone. My English girlfriend would hang with Jimmy's wife, and Jimmy and I would raise hell at the parties, meeting people and having constant laughs.

Once we went skiing for the day, some French Alp. We drove all the way there and back in one day. When we returned, he made me drag him into his house, feigning two broken legs to Mary, who almost fainted. 

He was a very popular guy, a lot of fun, but very dedicated to his own writing and led a responsible life in general. Twice I lived in their 'cabanon' in Gassin, and thereafter we would see each other in London, and then we communicated regularly by mail and phone when I moved to NYC. 

They had a delightful little mews house in Lennox Gardens Mews, in the Knightsbridge neighborhood of Westminster. They would rent out when they went to Gassin each year. David Niven came by to rent it once—his daughters were taking some course at Sotheby’s—and Mary was impressed that Niven appreciated the furniture in the house, which was quite old and eclectic. 

Jimmy felt that Niven's wife was bad news. "There's something wrong with that woman, I'd stake my life on it," he told me. He said he'd followed her around during their tour of the house fearing she might steal something. Jimmy christened me his American grandson and there was an aspect of this to our friendship. 

The advice he offered me about life and a career and what sort of people to avoid, etc., was extremely helpful, as I had little of this from my own tenuous homefront. Looking back I can see that Jimmy saw me partly as the son he never had. Just a great guy.