Hans Stefan Santesson, Etc.

Hans Stefan Santesson was editor of the Unicorn Mystery Book Club from the 1940's to the 1950's, of Fantastic Universe SF magazine from 1956 to 1959 and of The Saint Mystery Magazine until it expired in 1966. Hans retained the editorial office of the Saint Mystery Magazine (at the corner of 5th and 42nd St) for his own uses after the magazine died. The building was so old and decrepit that Con Edison supplied it only with DC power. This meant that no standard appliance would work in the building. During one of my visits Hans chortled triumphantly that he had finally located a clock radio that worked on dc.

A constant stream of people would visit or call him during the course of the day, asking for his advice. One day his Pakistani friend Choudry popped in, desperately asking where he could sell a 1000 pound lot of shrimp before it defrosted. I don't think that any of these people realized how poor Hans had become since his last regular employment ended

The office was piled high with books. One day I noticed a new book on top of a pile. It was a new book by his friend, Ivan Sanderson. Something about flying saucers having been observed entering and departing from various bodies of water around the world. I asked Hans if Ivan was crazy or if he was just some sort of con artist? Hans replied,"as Ivan's oldest and best friend, I will only say that Ivan would sell his mother for a nickel.

Ivan Sanderson had set up a Fortean society called SITU (Society for the Investigation of the Unexplained. It was based at his farm out in Blairstown, NJ. We were invited to a meeting of SITU. I was so excited. I was going to meet one of the greatest con artists of the twentieth century. My steed at the time was a 1953 Chevy 210 with an awesome two speed Powerglide automatic transmission. I made sure that all 21 grease nipples were stuffed with grease (you ask why not an even number? Well, the drive shaft had a grease nipple also). I even washed out the air cleaner with kerosene and put new oil in the oil bath( just the week before I had had a spectacular explosion in the air cleaner as the engine backfired-nothing could kill that baby. The car was ready to take us to Blairstown in style. Then came the news, Ivan had died. I was so disappointed. And we never found out who inherited the farm. Was it his wife or one of his two mistresses, to all of whom he had promised sole ownership of the farm? The following is a picture of a 1953 Chevy 210 that looks much like mine, except that mine was black.


Hans was born in Paris of Swedish parents. He said that his mother had left her husband in Sweden because she had discovered that he was a homosexual lover of the King of Sweden. They then made their way to New York where Hans grew up in Harlem. Hans attended Columbia University where he became friends with many people from India. He took up the cause of Indian independence and was very proud of the fact that the British empire had put a price on his head at one point. The Indian government appreciated his past efforts on India's behalf. Hans had a heart condition and when he could not afford his stay at Lenox Hill Hospital, the Indian embassy paid for his hospitalization.

When I knew Hans in the 1970's, he lived at 458 Undercliff Ave in Edgewater, NJ. I am one of the few people who was ever allowed into his apartment. His mother's room was left untouched from the time that she died, except for a large Swedish bible on her bed. This was a family heirloom and was one of the oldest bibles translated into Swedish. I would say that Hans' poverty would have been immediately alleviated had he sold that bible. But this was something that he would never consider doing.

Hans' chosen method of communication was a postcard written in his own crabby handwriting. A typical message might be, "Bertil Falk is coming to town. There will be a Hydra meeting...." Hydra Club meetings were preceded by a meal at the Raj Mahal restaurant on 4th Ave. This is the only Indian restaurant I have ever seen that featured Barfi on the desert menu (Yes, the English ward "barf" is derived from barfi that had been left out in the hot Indian sun all day without refrigeration). The attendees were mostly authors and editors.There was for example the travel writer, Camille Mirapoix, who would regale us with the details of her latest trip via bush plane, jeep and muleback to the land of Hunza. She was always accompanied by her boyfriend whom she identified as "The Professor." He never got a word in edgewise but she certainly did enough talking for the two of them.

After we ate, we would adjourn to the apartment of Debbie Crawford on W 16 St. She was an editor of the Book of the Month Club but she specialized in writing juveniles about young girls growing up on the Jersey shore. She became involved with this crowd when she was the girlfriend of Willy Ley. She remembered very fondly skinny dipping off the dock in Red Bank, NJ, swimming among the jelly fish with Willy, Fletcher Pratt and other SF writers. Debbie would hand out manuscripts from the Book of the Month slush pile and ask us to separate out the worst dregs. There was plenty of beer available and with enough beer, anything is possible. My daughter Astrid was a major center of attention. As the only extremely intelligent, extremely cute little girl there, she was the Belle of the Hydra Club. While there was no formal membership requirement, she was as much a member as anyone. When her mother and I are gone, she will probably be the sole remaining member of the Hydra Club.