When blizzards howled through Marquette, piling snow on driveways, Otto and Ludwig reveled in the challenge and frequently told each other in their wives’ hearing: ‘Real men like this weather, Florida is for sissies.’
So as the men battled through the winters, amassing greater and greater wealth from their lumber business, Grandmother Umlauf grew increasingly embittered, and while the men were absent much of the time either in the woodlands they controlled or in Detroit and Chicago selling their lumber, the two women stayed close to their tension-filled house, living together in a kind of hateful truce. It was ironic that old Mrs. Umlauf should have despised her daughter-in-law, because Berta too wanted to leave the bitter winters of Marquette and find refuge in Florida or Arizona, but regardless of how often she told Mrs. Umlauf about this the older woman could not believe that they were allies.
Berta often wondered why, with Ludwig’s wealth, she could not have a home of her own, but he squelched any such suggestions by citing two good reasons: ‘Umlaufs have always stayed together. That’s where we get our strength. And besides, Father controls all the money. I don’t think he’d let me have a house of my own. He always lived with his parents. Didn’t get ownership of this house till my grandfather died.’ If Berta reopened the question he would snap: ‘It would be sinful to waste money on two houses when one of them is all we need.’ He seemed unaware that few families in the region were so rich at the bank or so impoverished at home.
Berta believed that Ludwig’s fear of moving to a new home was a continuation of his fear about going away to college and his fear of striking out on his own to escape the tyranny of his father: My husband is a big man, just as he was a big football player when I adored him in high school, but he’s hollow—he really has no backbone. Yet despite the tensions that poisoned this hate-filled house, on Sundays the Umlauf family presented a portrait of unity as they marched together to the nearby Lutheran church: short, round Otto and tall, acidulous Ingrid in front, bulky Ludwig towering behind, with lively little Berta and their son beside him. They were referred to collectively in the community as the Umlaufs and to imagine one separated from the others would have been impossible, but when they returned home, each adult went his or her own way.
In this world of bitterness, Berta found solace in her son, Noel, a tall, handsome boy like his father. Endowed with a benign attitude toward life, he liked school, did well in his classes and had a host of friends with varied backgrounds. He never behaved with the arrogance characteristic of many sons of millionaires and he was a lad of whom any mother could be proud. Berta reveled in his companionship.
In the warm summers spent on the shores of Lake Superior Berta had a marvelous time with her son and his friends, but when January came to lock the four older Umlaufs indoors while Noel was away at boarding school, life again became hateful.
One wintry day she had her first taste of what death was going to be like among the battling Umlaufs. She was not afraid of the phenomenon; the deaths of her own parents had been a calm passage from existence to nonexistence, and she was proud of the courageous manner in which they had said farewell. She had suffered pain in losing them but not wrenching anguish. On this day, when she was alone in the house with Mrs. Umlauf, the old lady said: ‘Today we settle it. I’m going to Florida, and if he doesn’t like it he can go to hell.’ Since she had never before spoken like this, Berta realized that a change of some magnitude had occurred, so she was not surprised when Mrs. Umlauf tore into her husband the moment he arrived home for lunch: ‘Otto, I’m going to Florida.’
‘Not with me. Florida is for sissies.’
‘Then I’m a sissy and I’m going.’
‘What are you going to use for money?’ In the furious discussion that followed, Berta heard confirmation that Old Man Umlauf controlled not only his wife’s money but also most of his son’s. He had promised them that he would be generous at death, but until then he would remain in charge. Mrs. Umlauf stormed at his unfeeling dismissal of her wishes, and when her rage achieved nothing she tried tears, and these he dismissed with contempt.
When he returned to his office, she watched him go, accompanied by his subservient son, then told Berta in a harsh, rasping voice: ‘If he wants to control everything till he dies, I hope he drops dead before nightfall’
This was such a horrid statement that Berta had to remonstrate: ‘Mrs. Umlauf! Don’t say a thing like that. You’ll bring a curse on this family.’
‘Shut up. Our bad luck started the day you came into this house.’ Berta wanted to point out that she had tried many times to leave and had not been allowed, but she realized that such a comment would accomplish nothing. Sitting silently in the cold, dark living room, she stared out the window at the stormy lake, feeling frail and overpowered by her mother-in-law. She remained in low spirits for some weeks, contemplating the dismal present and an even bleaker future.
She was forced to rouse herself from her lassitude when Old Man Umlauf fell ill as if in obedience to his wife’s curse. He was put in a downstairs room, which was converted into a kind of family hospital, and there he lay for three weeks, growing steadily weaker in body but more violent in spirit. He spoke abusively to his two doctors, made it clear that he despised his wife, voiced suspicions about his son’s ability to continue the business, and ordered Berta around as if she were his slave. Expecting no consideration from his wife, he turned to Berta for his needs. One night after supper she suggested to Ludwig: ‘We could get nurses, maybe,’ but he gave a stolid German answer: ‘We take care of our own,’ and to his credit he did, watching over his father through the night and helping Berta with her arduous duties during the day.
She was in charge late one afternoon when the older Mrs. Umlauf came into the front room, studied her husband’s inert form and asked almost hopefully: ‘He isn’t dead, is he?’ When Berta said ‘No’ she seemed almost to accuse her daughter-in-law of intervening to prevent his death. There were ugly scenes with her son, too, until the entire house seemed to be contaminated by what should have been the simple and natural act of dying. When it became apparent that death was approaching, Berta begged her husband and mother-in-law for permission to move him to the hospital, but Ludwig said something she would hear frequently in the years ahead: ‘We take care of our family. What would the people in this town say if we shunted him off and let him die in a strange place?’
Three days later Otto did die, at home, vilifying his wife, his son and his thoughtless daughter-in-law. It was a death as tormented and ugly, Berta thought, as her parents’ had been serene and almost lovely. And at the burial, on a stormy day when the minister hurried through the ceremony to the relief of all, she did not join the group prayers, for she was intoning aloud, but softly enough so that those nearby could not hear: ‘I shall not die like this. It is lacking in grace, and God could not have meant His children to go this way.’
One week after the funeral, Mrs. Umlauf, having been assured by the family lawyers that the entire lumber estate was left not in son Ludwig’s control but in hers, turned its management over to her accountants and boarded a train for the west coast of Florida. She went directly to the office of a real estate agent, who cried: ‘Coming south from those horrible winters in northern Michigan, you’ve landed in paradise, Mrs. Umlauf. Is that name Swedish, perhaps?’
She hated that question. Swedes were people in Minnesota that others made jokes about. ‘The name is pure German. From the heartland of that country.’
‘I can see you’re the kind of woman who knows what she wants. I’m going to drive you over to that chain of little islands across the waterway we call the channel, and there you’ll find some of the best building sites in Florida, west coast or east.’ When he reached Island 5 he took her to the inland waterfront and showed her how a house built on this site would enjoy the best possible orientation: ‘Away from the high winds that sometimes blow in from the gulf, you have your own lovely waterway in your lap, and across the channel that wonderfu
l open land. But at the far end they’ve built a state-of-the-art retirement area, the Palms. Look into it, you being so close at hand—if you take this place, that is, and build your dream home here. I represent the people operating the Palms, if you’re ever interested.’
Brusquely she dismissed the idea, refusing to accept his card: ‘I would never set foot inside a retirement home—full of lonely widows and paupers abandoned by their families.’
‘You are so right!’ the agent enthused. ‘You should have your own home. Sit on your patio in the evening and watch the dolphins and the sailboats go by.’ When he saw that she was interested in the land he assured her: ‘The day you buy this heavenly spot, my brother-in-law can start building your dream house ten feet in from that glorious water.’
Two days later she bought the land, and in next to no time had the agent’s brother-in-law building her dream house. The moment it was finished, with electricity and water connected, she moved in with just a bed, a few chairs and kitchen equipment: ‘I’ll furnish as I go along. That way I’ll be sure I won’t buy anything I don’t really need.’
The house, a spacious one-story tropical affair with a red-tiled back porch facing the waterway, had three bedrooms plus another roomy one with its own kitchen, dining room and a private entrance that made it a separate apartment for her son. Ludwig, and his wife, Berta, who wondered why, if Mrs. Umlauf disliked her so vehemently, she insisted on having the younger Umlaufs sharing her house again. Berta eventually came up with two explanations: she was afraid of living alone, and the old man’s will dictated that Ludwig would not inherit the family business until his mother’s death—to Berta an indication that, like her, the old man had been suspicious of his son’s ability. There was a third reason, which Mrs. Umlauf often recited to Ludwig and Berta: ‘It’s your duty to look after your mother. What would the people in Marquette say if they heard you’d abandoned me?’
‘But if I stay down here,’ Ludwig asked almost petulantly, ‘who’ll take care of the lumber in Michigan?’ and his mother informed him: ‘I’ll be in charge—through our accountants in Marquette,’ and when Berta heard these dismissive words she knew that whereas she too had wanted to come to Florida, she was now a prisoner here, just as she had been in Michigan. Nor was there any change in her personal hell, for her mother-in-law reminded Berta and anyone else who would listen that it was she, Mrs. Umlauf, who provided everything. She dominated Berta and used her like a slave. Why didn’t Ludwig object to such debasement of his wife? He had never stood up for his own rights against his domineering father and so lacked the experience and fortitude to challenge his mother.
The Umlauf place, as it was called, was recognized as one of the finest houses on the chain of man-made islands, for it was well designed, sturdily built, handsomely landscaped and eventually properly furnished. Its screened-in porch provided a grand view of the waterway and the wild savanna on the opposite shore, but what went on inside the house was not pleasant, for as Mrs. Umlauf aged she became increasingly dictatorial. When Berta invited her son’s family—Noel, his wife, Gretchen, and their bright son, Victor—to visit, the cantankerous old woman complained so bitterly about the little noise they made, and was so harsh in reprimanding them, that Noel and Gretchen begged Berta for permission to leave before their planned visit was over, and one time Noel actually said: ‘Mother, when I leave this polluted place I might never return.’
‘Oh, Noel! Don’t surrender the beauty of this place because an evil-minded old woman has spoiled it for you,’ but he said: ‘Watching her in action is too painful.’
Berta was the first to notice that Mrs. Umlauf’s health was deteriorating, but when she pointed this out to her husband, he dismissed the idea: ‘She’s cranky. Always has been, but it’s our duty to pamper her,’ and indeed it was, for she still controlled the family fortune. However, her decline accelerated so noticeably that Berta herself called the local medic, Dr. Farquhar, who said as soon as he saw the old lady and took a few tests: ‘She’s in far worse condition than she realizes or you guessed. She ought to go immediately into some center that can give her twenty-four-hour care. If you know of no such places, I can steer you to one.’
When Ludwig was informed of the diagnosis he said firmly: ‘My mother will never be stuck away in a nursing home. What would people say of a son who allowed that?’ and it was on the basis of this oft-repeated statement that the Umlauf couple arranged the patterns that would dominate their lives in Florida. Old Mrs. Umlauf, fading rapidly, required almost constant attention, for her mind wandered; she was not always sure where she was; she could not begin to feed herself, and she became incontinent.
She seemed to take perverse pleasure in being incontinent at the most outrageous times and places. Her son, who was appalled at such accidents, found it impossible to cope with them and the task fell to Berta. One day when four accidents occurred, necessitating repeated cleanups, Berta said in tears: ‘Ludwig, we can’t go on like this. We’ve got to find a better solution.’ But he adamantly refused to allow her to look for a nursing home or to employ outside help: ‘It’s our duty to look after her. No mother of mine will ever go into a nursing home. Our friends in Marquette would be horrified.’
In despair, Berta slipped out one day to visit with Dr. Farquhar in his office: ‘I’m in danger of losing my mind. What can I do?’
‘Berta, many families face difficult problems like this. Your case isn’t special.’
‘What do the others do?’
‘If they have money, they find a responsible nursing home. If they can’t afford that, and many can’t, they cope.’
‘How?’
‘The way you are.’
‘And if I say I can’t?’
‘At one point or another, they all do. But in the end they cope.’
‘Am I close to a nervous breakdown?’
‘You may be. I’ve been watching you!’
‘Would you tell my husband? He seems not to be aware.’
‘Husbands frequently aren’t.’ When it appeared that Farquhar too was turning a deaf ear to her predicament, Berta lost control. Bowing her head and weeping pitifully, she whimpered: ‘If I can find no help from anyone, what can I do?’ The sight of this doughty little woman so overcome by her terrible problems made the doctor realize that he must intrude in family affairs more deeply than he wished.
‘I’ll try to make your husband understand.’
At first Ludwig refused to listen: ‘Looking after Mother is the Christian thing to do.’ This rote repetition infuriated Farquhar, who snapped: ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Your family is in such pitiful shape that your Christian duty is to straighten it out.’ When Ludwig shook his head negatively, Farquhar said in a more persuasive voice: ‘Ludwig. can’t I make you see that if you don’t get help for Berta right away, you’re going to have two terribly sick women on your hands? Then what are you going to do?’
The doctor delivered this judgment with such grim force that Umlauf had to listen: ‘What do you think I should do?’
‘Get a nurse to help through the night. And two days a week, you watch your mother so that Berta can be free to do whatever she wants to do.’
‘She wouldn’t want to be away from Mother, knowing that she might need her.’ He spoke so confidently on Berta’s behalf that Dr. Farquhar laughed: ‘Husbands often fail to see that their wives are having deep trouble. Mr. Umlauf, let me send you an excellent practical nurse I often use. She’ll make this place a home again,’ and grudgingly Ludwig agreed, although he feared that the expense would be tremendous.
The nurse was a rather large black woman, who arrived in a very small car which she parked with considerable skill. Her name was Lucy Canfield and she did exactly what Dr. Farquhar had predicted; she brought comfort and ease to the Umlauf home. Appearing each afternoon at five, she prepared a light supper for herself and the family, then bathed Mrs. Umlauf and prepared her for bed. When the old woman raised a rumpus during the night, as she loved to do,
Lucy was there to absorb the abuse, allowing the younger Mrs. Umlauf to sleep.
But week by week the patient declined until at last she lay immobile in bed, a harridan who screamed at everyone, demanded constant attention day and night, and approached her certain death without a shred of dignity. When Berta recalled her own mother’s behavior in her last moments, she wept at the contrast. Her mother had said quietly one afternoon: ‘Today I would like to see the sunset,’ and Berta had replied: ‘It’s a mite cold out there, Momma,’ but the sun was so brilliant as it dipped toward the west that she complied with her mother’s wish. Bundling her against the wind, she wheeled her onto the porch from which she could see both the dying sun and Lake Superior, and there the old lady sat, hands folded, to view for the last time a scene she loved. When Berta came to fetch her, she was dead.
For three agonizing days Mrs. Umlauf wrestled with her bedclothes, soiled her sheets, screamed at Lucy for her clumsiness, at her son for his indifference and at Berta for ruining her son’s life. On the fourth day she died, and although no one said: ‘It was a mercy,’ the three who had taken care of her believed it was. At the funeral, which was sparsely attended, Berta renewed her earlier vow: ‘I will not die like this. There must be a better way.’