Double Dutch

The lions looked straight ahead as I slowly climbed the stairs. "'Better not disturb them," I thought. I have great respect for large animals even when they are made of marble and in a resting position. They guard the entrance to the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue at 42nd Street and I feared that they might come to life. They were witnesses of this special day when I would search for the books that my paternal grandfather had written. All my life my family had said that he had written two books. Today was the day I would finally hold them in my hands and discover what they could tell me about him.

The card catalog helped me access vital data: author's name: Willemse, Cornelius W.; title: Behind the Green Lights (1931) and A Cop Remembers (1933). I filled out a request and waited. The books arrived each enclosed in a zip-lock plastic bag as if they needed to be preserved and protected from overzealous readers. I handled them carefully for I knew that they would reveal the legacy of my Dutch roots. Two hours, only two hours for me to read and digest all the facts in those books for they could not be signed out, not even by me, his granddaughter.

Why had he left his home in the Netherlands? How did he get to New York? These were some of the questions that I wanted to be answered. In 1888 Cornelius Willemse, age 15, left the Netherlands and set sail for the United States. He left behind his parents and five sisters. Understanding why he left is more complicated; for this I needed to know who he was from his birth. When he was two months old, his mother was so seriously burned that she was unable to care for him. He was sent to live with his grandmother in Oosterhout, North Brabant near the Belgian border. Cornelius was the center of attention at his grandmother's home. He attended private schools thanks to his grandmother and heard tales of valor from his granduncle who had been a cavalryman and served under Napoleon Bonaparte in thirteen major battles. On the one hand he was spoiled by his grandmother and on the other encouraged to fight. He thrived in this atmosphere that instilled courage and the ability to endure hardship. How would a boy with a head filled with tales of adventure and a penchant for languages (he could read, write, and speak English, German, Dutch, French, and Flemish) settle down and work as a baker in the family-owned business in Rotterdam? When his grandmother died, Cornelius, age 11, had to return to his birth family. He was as much a stranger to his parents and his younger sisters as they were to him; he even spoke with a Belgian accent. He acted in ways that irritated his father: he did not accept correction when he was sent to another uncle to learn how to be a butcher; he was only interested in learning history, geography, and languages. While he seemed unable or unwilling to learn any family business, he spent every available moment at the Rotterdam docks listening to the sailors' exploits. Gradually he became a rebel with a cause. He devised a plan to escape: he forged his father's signature to sign on as a cook's mate on a ship sailing from Rotterdam to New York. By the time they landed in New Jersey, he devised another plan. With two friends, he jumped ship, hid out in a field, slept two nights up in a tree to avoid capture until he crossed over by ferry to Manhattan.

Strong and tall for his age, Cornelius worked a variety of jobs trying to keep hunger and homelessness at bay. He longed to follow in the footsteps of his granduncle and live a life of adventure, but his early days in New York were more about survival. It required intelligence and brawn to work in the Bowery, but he had grander ambitions. In 1896 at age 24 he became a citizen and applied to become a police officer. Theodore Roosevelt, then Police Commissioner, would not hire him because he worked in an establishment that sold liquor. Cornelius Willemse did not give up. In the fall of 1898 he passed the civil service examination for the Police Department and a year later was called to take the physical which he passed with flying colors. Cornelius was sworn in as a New York Police Officer in February 1900. His finely tuned ability to observe and adapt to new situations proved invaluable as he worked in different precincts in Lower Manhattan: the San Juan district on the West Side and the West 20th Street police station. After seven years as a police officer and many months studying, he took the examination and earned the rank of sergeant. In 1913 Willemse became a detective in the Homicide Division and eventually commanded the plainclothes forces in all police stations between East 14th and 42nd Streets. He relished the job and shared stories of how he investigated crimes and brought criminals to justice.

One thing that puzzled me about my grandfather was the fact that when I visited my parents' graves in Woodlawn cemetery, I saw a metal plaque bearing his name. I wondered, "Why is there a plaque from the King of Belgium?" It seemed so out of place that I almost removed it. At the last minute I let it be — firmly implanted in the soil in front of the gravestone that bore his name. Behind the Green Lights revealed how and why this plaque was conferred on my grandfather. In 1914 while visiting relatives in Belgium, he saw how civilians were fleeing for their lives to the Netherlands as the German armies advanced into Belgium. With few possessions and far from home, they needed food, clothing, and shelter. Cornelius Willemse returned to New York and began collecting police uniforms, a charity that grew exponentially when the NYPD updated their uniforms and overcoats. The old uniforms were warm and in good shape. He had them shipped to his sister aboard Holland-American ships; she in turn gave them to Belgian organizations that distributed the clothing to those in need. He continued sending coats and uniforms over many years. As strange as it may have seemed to see NYPD uniforms without insignia, it was those coats and uniforms that saved many Belgian refugees from freezing to death.

Cornelius Willemse was in charge of security when President Woodrow Wilson came to New York City during World War I. In 1919 he was the personal guard for King Albert, Queen Elizabeth, and the Crown Prince Leopold of Belgium. King Albert had learned all that Captain Willemse had done for his people during the war. As a token of their appreciation and in honor of my grandfather's dedicated charity, the King decorated Cornelius W. Willemse with the gold medal of the Order of the Crown. For once he was speechless. At the end of their visit, in recognition of his service as bodyguard to the royal family, Cornelius W. Willemse was also made a Chevalier of the Order of Leopold II.

Having my grandfather's books in my hands whetted my appetite to know more. My friend, Judy Donaldson located the books on the internet and before long I had both books in my possession. The stories of his childhood drew me in: how he was pampered by his grandmother and after her death, returned to his parents and five sisters only to feel like a stranger, and left home to follow his dream of living an exciting life only to endure hardships as a teenager living from hand to mouth in the late 1800's. He had a native intelligence and a facility with languages that served him well in New York City where there were immigrants from around the world. My grandfather was a man whose stories had such vivid details that it seemed as if all of Manhattan became his friends. He learned from adversity when he was on his own working for a butcher. He got blood poisoning from a wound that became infected because of contact with a rusty meat hook. He was hospitalized first at Bellevue Hospital and then, City Hospital on Blackwell's Island (later renamed Roosevelt Island). When he was released in November, he had only the clothes he had worn going into the hospital, but they were flea infested when he found them thrown on the floor of a closet. He returned to the house where he had lived, but the owner had moved away. No one knew him; he lost his meager possessions and rented room, and was forced to live on the streets for the next five months. Cold and hungry, weak from his hospitalizations, Cornelius became a shadow of his former self. Good fortune returned when William Pilgrim, a man who had worked for his family in Holland recognized him on the street. It was a chance encounter, but it rescued him from homelessness. Mr. Pilgrim bought him new clothes, paid for him to get a haircut, a shave, and luxury of luxuries, a long, hot bath. They went to a restaurant where Cornelius ate to his heart's content; Mr. Pilgrim paid for a room where he got a good night's rest, and extended a loan. Once he was clean and well dressed, Cornelius Willemse could again get work first, as a delivery man for a butcher's shop on First Avenue. At that point he met a patrolman, John Cray whose enthusiasm for police work encouraged him to join the force.

Cornelius needed to build himself up so he joined an athletic club. Once he learned how to wrestle, he worked as a bouncer in the Bowery, good preparation for becoming a cop. Over the years he rose to the rank of Acting Captain of the First Detective Division and after retiring from the NYPD wrote two books in which he recorded his adventures as a Dutchman in a police force dominated by Irish Americans. He joined the NYPD after civil service examinations provided the opportunity for men of all nationalities to join the NYPD. When my grandfather first joined the police department, they were on reserve 67 of 96 hours; as needed they had to respond to situations requiring more patrolmen. At the end of their shift, they would sleep upstairs in the dormitory above the station house. In that crowded, poorly ventilated space new members were initiated by the veterans and pranks were commonplace. He took this in stride and made the best of what came his way. He was in a unique position to know how it felt to be an outsider so he looked out for other men new to the force especially those of different nationalities and religions. He made a point of saying that he avoided talk about politics and religion because these discussions easily ignited prejudices and led to full-blown fights. Hours of drudgery walking the beat were peppered with the thrill of hunting down and capturing criminals. When they were imprisoned and doing time, he often looked out for their mothers who had no income or relief, an action that earned the criminal's gratitude. Thanks to these books I met a man who had great empathy for those in need and who helped those who suffered hunger or pain. Because of his deeply felt charity and ingrained sense of justice, I was not only proud of my heritage but also sad to have missed him. I found his concern for the underdog especially appealing; it is a trait that I share with him though I never met my grandfather. If only he had lived longer! As The New York Times obituary recorded, Cornelius W. Willemse died on July 11, 1942 at the age of 70 after an emergency appendectomy. He left behind a widow, Mrs. Anna Elizabeth Willemse and two sons, Cornelius W. Jr. and George A. Willemse, my father. Judging from funerals for police officers in my time, I am sure that his comrades gathered at his wake and attended the funeral service at the Steven Merritt Chapel on Eighth Avenue and 22nd Street, for he had served in the NYPD for twenty-five years reaching the rank of Captain of Detectives.

His books had stories of his interactions with people great and small, but what endures for me is the fact that this was a deeply human man of great courage who recognized the humanity of others even as he worked in a profession that dealt with criminals of all social classes. This was indeed a man of honor not without fault. In his early days on the Bowery when he worked the lunch counter where his responsibility was to maintain order, he gave food to newly arrived immigrants who were unable to pay for he knew how it felt to be hungry and without funds. When discovered, he told his boss that these men would remember and return when they got work to the place that treated them well. All his life Cornelius Willemse fought to protect those who were preyed upon and brought to justice criminals and gang members of the early 1920's.

The summer of 1942 will always be remembered by my family. My father, George was mourning the unexpected death of his father when his family had to deal with another emergency. Our lovely garden apartment became a no-man's land when the sewers backed up and a toxic brew came streaming through the apartment. My father, George had acquired a carton of toilet tissue, no small feat after the USA had entered World War II and rationing was the norm. Someone told me that the rolls were floating through the apartment and that the precious possession was ruined. The person laughed and I suppose I did too, but upon reflection that was rude for George was sickly and really needed toilet tissue. Not only that, he became the person who would deal with the clean-up.

My mother, hugely pregnant with me, went to the country to stay with family friends. My sisters went to their paternal uncle's home in New Jersey. My sister Geri tells me now many years later that she wanted to stay there with her aunt, uncle, and cousin, and attend school. She felt loved and was treated well by the Willemse family. She knew instinctively that life in the Bronx was going to be difficult and would not measure up to life with Uncle Neal, Aunt Helen, and cousin Neal. How difficult she did not know, but was soon to find out.

Back in the Bronx, George was left to clean the apartment. Dealing with the realities of sewage and trying to salvage their meager possessions was an especially daunting task for my father. He was probably the last person who needed to be put in that position for he was sickly and had been dealing with stomach and GI issues over many years. Emergencies can bring forth the best and the worst in people. I can imagine his trying to rescue important papers and possessions, moving furniture to higher ground, and cleaning the fetid brew. In that long ago time, I have come to believe that with his compromised health he became sicker as a result of his cleaning out the apartment.

By the time I was born in late August they had a different apartment in the same low-rise complex. My mother had returned to the Bronx for my birth. Her sister, my Aunt Frances, went with her to Union Hospital where I was born on a pleasant Tuesday shortly after 1:00 PM, six days before my father's thirty-seventh birthday. Each year on my birthday my mother would tell me how the weather was perfect and that I weighed 6 pounds, 8 ounces and was pink and beautiful, not scrunched up like other newborns. In September life settled down: my father went to work, my mother cared for her new-born and the other members of the family, and my sisters attended school. Life had returned to normal.

My sister, Geri told me that on Halloween 1942 my mother was out with my older sister, Joan and me. Geri was home alone with our father when he doubled over in pain. She went with him to the drugstore to get over the counter medication to ease his discomfort. Nothing seemed to help. Geri got out the prayer book that she had received when she made her First Communion and read the prayers for the dying. When we finally arrived home it was apparent that our father was seriously ill. My mother called an ambulance and our father was taken to St. Clare's Hospital in mid-town Manhattan, the same hospital where his father had his appendectomy. The next few days were harrowing for both my parents. George was critically ill and there were no remedies that could help him. My mother was very upset. Surely the doctors could ease her husband's discomfort; surely they could administer some medicine or do some procedure that would bring him back to normal. George's condition worsened and on November 13 he died.

My father slipped away from us at an early age. He was young and handsome, beloved by my sisters, but a phantom for me. Like a blue sky with barely a cloud in sight, George A. Willemse lived a short life, loved his wife Margaret, procreated three children, worked as a stationery salesman, a job that my stepfather, Joe Brady told my mother, "was well below his exceptional abilities," had illnesses for which there were no cures, and left the earth. George was laid to rest in the family plot next to his father who predeceased him by four months. For me his life was a shadow, one that I would gladly have experienced, but family members shared very few memories of my father. He was really smart: he could mentally add up prices in the grocery store and tell the cashier he was a few cents off. My older sister, Joan remembered how he loved playing shuffle board, a skill she learned watching him and at which she too excelled. He planted and cared for the garden; during the war the garden apartment was more than a lovely name. Geri still remembers the juicy, red tomatoes that they harvested and ate.