AUGUST 26, 2023 – In time, my anger and disgust toward UB dissipated. Perhaps it was simply time and distance that allowed me to move on, or maybe the demands and distractions of my daily existence back in Minnesota displaced the demons that had temporarily overpowered me in New Jersey. The story of the “man in the shadows” on the night of the fire stayed between Cliff and me and, I suppose, between UB and the man in the shadows.
Two more years rolled by, during which I had no contact with UB except for sending him a birthday card in August and my family’s annual Christmas letter. He never sent me anything in return. Just before 9-11, however, he surprised us by flying to Minnesota to stay with Mother and Dad for several days. I knew they would badger me if I didn’t see him during his sojourn, so on a weekday afternoon, I drove to Anoka for an hour-long visit.
The talk was all about him and his current business “adventure,” namely, “our restaurant,” which, he explained, occupied the storefront on the Highland Cross side of the Holman Buildings. He showed us slides on his laptop computer (of which he was so very proud, especially given the fact that Mother and Dad didn’t even own a computer), featuring one plateful of food after another. UB narrated volubly all the while about how “we’re going to install [this or that],” and “we tried offering [one thing or another], but people didn’t go for it,” and “we think that if we serve soufflé, they will come.” Somehow I knew that his reference to “we” didn’t refer to the family members of Holman Holding, LLC—owner of the Holman Buildings.
In fact, we would learn, the “we” were “Hans,” a German fellow in his 40s or 50s, thought UB, and Hans’s girlfriend “Young-Hee,” a Korean[1] immigrant of similar age. “I serve as their marriage counselor,” said UB, “even though they’re not married.”
Marriage counselor? I had all I could do not to laugh flat out loud, especially as Mother and Dad nodded, naively oblivious to the irony in UB’s BS.
“Sometimes they fight something awful,” said UB, “and I have to step in and calm things down, and they listen to me, so first I talk to Hans, then I talk to Young-Hee, then I talk to the two of them, and you know they’re so thankful they say to me, ‘Mr. Holman,’ if it weren’t for you, we’d be at war with each other, but you help get us to talk to each other, and we’re really glad to have you as our counselor.” UB let out his signature laugh with impish energy. It was hard to believe he was 80—and that he had Mother and Dad hanging on every word.
“So,” I asked, with a mischievous desire to break UB’s cadence, “just who are these people, Hans and Young-Hee?”
“Young-Hee, she’s the Korean lady who rents space from me,” he started. No “us” as landlord, I thought, as in “Holman Holding, LLC,” just “me,” meaning UB. “And I’ve been helping her with the menu and layout and things like that.”
“I see,” I said. “So who’s Hans?”
“Oh, Hans is an amazing fellow. He’s an executive with Chrysler,” said UB as if to elevate his own prestige by association. “He’s been assigned to a very important position in the United States. He’s an engineer and has a very good job, and they give him any kind of car he wants and he gets five weeks vacation. And he’s like your father—he can fix anything. He’s always giving me things, he’s so appreciative of what I do for Young-Hee. One day he just handed me the keys to his car and said, ‘Here, you take my car. You can use it as long as you like.’”
The whole thing sounded so patently fishy to me, it made a mockery of UB’s attempt to impress us Midwestern bumpkins by his connection with the international elite. Over time, Mother would repeat to my sisters and me the extended nonsense that UB told her about how rich, smart, and helpful this guy “Hans” was, and how he and “Young-Hee” had befriended UB. My sisters and I smelled a Mississippi carp three days out of the water.
People don’t just go around laying largess on other people—especially in a place like New Jersey—just because of personal fondness[2]. We—being my sisters and I—figured that “Hans,” if that was in fact his real name, was either a crook in hiding because of past acts or a crook in hiding because he was a con and UB was his mark. Who the hell knew what Young-Hee’s angle was, except that it had something to do with Hans’s angle. We figured that perhaps the restaurant was nothing more than a front for a illicit operation of some sort—drugs, money-laundering, prostitution or some mix of all three. All the presents bestowed upon UB—cars, watches, expensive sports jackets—weren’t tokens of appreciation for “marriage counseling,” we speculated, but hush money to keep UB’s eyes and ears closed to illegal activity. Alternatively, we thought, this odd couple, he with a German accent and she with a Korean one, were simply setting up UB, showering him with gifts and flattery in order to win over his confidence—and eventually, his money. The whole story about Hans’s “executive position” was to diminish suspicions regarding criminal motives.
Our concern rose to the point where I spent some time and money conducting a background search on Hans over the Internet. The trail got quite cold quite fast[3].
After UB’s 9-11 visit, Mother talked to UB on the phone every so often, and she would give me a brief, casual update, but in early 2002, even that indirect contact came to a screeching halt.
With my encouragement, Mother and Dad had engaged outside professionals to undertake some serious estate planning. The process hadn’t progressed very far, however, before the question arose as to Mother’s due from Gaga and Grandpa’s estates (Grandpa having died 13 years before; Gaga eight years) and what she stood to inherit from UB if she predeceased him. Only UB could provide the answers.
I volunteered to draft a letter for Mother to re-write with a pen in her own hand. The draft contemplated a one-page list of specific questions, terse and businesslike, prepared by the professionals. I, in turn, devoted considerable time to the letter. Having received 100s of letters from Mother, I was intimately familiar with her writing style, and of course, I knew as well as anyone, how she related to UB and how she talked about (or avoided) financial matters. I was also abundantly sensitive to how UB was likely to react to Mother broaching the subject of his neglect and negligence as the trustee of Gaga and Grandpa’s estates and how very secretive he was about his own financial affairs. I treated the letter as if I had been tasked with resolving the issue of WMD in Iraq by writing a conciliatory missive to Saddam Hussein with a polite request to identify the location of his nukes—and the numbers of his Swiss bank accounts.
After my intense effort, I provided Mother with the draft letter, the list of questions and precise instructions: 1. Write out the letter in your own hand; 2. Insert letter and list of questions in an envelope, along with a pre-stamped, addressed return envelope; and 3. Mail to UB. Mother said she would attend to it immediately, and she was always diligent—often reprimanding me when I myself was not.
Unfortunately, her diligence in this instance wasn’t matched by conformance with my instructions. I wouldn’t know this until Mother showed me UB’s reply many weeks later. Its stinging curtness reverberated like brief, successive rounds from a machine gun aimed, no doubt, at me. Clearly he had taken huge offense to the inquiry, and as frustrated as I was with him, I could understand his reaction when, in response to my questioning, Mother explained that she had forgotten the letter and sent only the questions and the pre-stamped, addressed envelope.
I felt remorseful when I learned further that all telephonic contact with UB had ceased soon after the questions had landed in his mailbox. As more weeks passed, the worse I felt, since I was the one who’d initiated the process by which UB and Mother had now become estranged. There is no greater tragedy than familial estrangement, and however awful the truth about UB, I was bothered deeply by his antipathy toward me and now by extension, toward Mother, who had never done anything to question or challenge him—and thus, never anything to alienate him. After Beth’s dad died in early April 2002[4], I decided it was time to pursue reconciliation with UB. I sat down and crafted an olive branch.
Of course, I could hardly say that Mother’s apparently offensive questions had been sent without the letter of explanation that I, “the enemy,” had drafted and she had neglected to include. However, I adopted the tone of that letter and pitched a very slow and soft ball over the plate of his unfulfilled fiduciary duties and broader issues of estate and financial planning. In the interest of reconciliation, I expressed appreciation for his long-term care of Gaga and Grandpa in their ancient age. I introduced the subject and affirmed his extraordinary love and devotion by describing the response of Beth’s family to the death of their patriarch:
[. . .] Okay, enough of business. Let me tell you about a recent development that has given me great insight into you and all the care that you tendered to Gaga and Grandpa. For several years, Beth’s dad had been ailing. He struggled mightily, but he complained ever so slightly. He was an amazing trooper. [. . .] He spent most of the last four months in the hospital/nursing home. Two weeks ago, he finally said “Enough! Take me home and let me die in my own bed.” Beth and her brothers and their mom followed his wish and brought him home. There he lived out his last four days pursuant to the ideal script of how “we’re supposed to go.” Surrounded by his loving family, all of whom got to say good-bye, he released his grip on life. [. . .]
What reminded me of you was the love and devotion that Beth and her brothers showed their father. Toward the end, it was a job that drained their every ounce of energy, but never once did any of them complain or ask for special merit or recognition. And it was then, especially in the nursing home (where care is so inadequate), that I realized what a remarkable service you had given Gaga and Grandpa; how for years on end, you served them, sacrificially, devotedly and lovingly, so that they could live out their days in relative comfort and security. In all of that, you showed the greatness of the human heart.
There were a few moments in the entire process that will stick with me forever. Some were simple, fleeting, easily missed by the casual observer. But none of us was casual. Each of us, across the generations, sons, daughter, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, in-laws, knew that we were watching first-hand an affirmation of life and love amidst the sadness and tragedy of death. Cory’s comforting arm slipped over Beth’s shoulders when her grief brought tears; Byron, crying uncontrollably at the gravesite, not as a child (you should see how tall and strong he is!), but as a stoic who, after a week of quiet strength, poured forth tears from the depth of his love and affection for Grandpa Boger; the 21-gun salute and Taps; and perhaps most notable of all, the tears of Beth’s 27-year old nephew, captain of his basketball team in college, first in his fourth-year dental school class, a popular and universally well-regarded young man who serves as the leading role model for all of his younger cousins, who, when he helped Beth and his father and uncle lift Beth’s dad for a bed change, broke down and cried, “Not because I’m sad,” he told Beth, “but because I’m in awe by how much you, my dad and Uncle Paul love and care for Grandpa.”
Yes, the whole affair was sad for us all, but it taught each of us a life-changing lesson in how dear we are to each other and to those around us.
I hope this finds you in your usual, feisty spirits. Take care . . . and call Mother!
Best wishes,
/s/
UB never responded, which didn’t surprise me. I wasn’t expecting a response, just a reconnection between him and Mother. Over time, they re-established periodic telephonic communications, and a couple of years later, UB flew out to Minnesota for a week-long visit. He stayed with Mother and Dad the whole time, but I volunteered to pick him up at the airport and drive him up to Anoka. He looked as chipper as ever in his pork-pie hat, clip-on tie and his well traveled corduroy suit. He greeted me as if there had never been any issues between us. I was glad for that, actually, and responded to his good cheer with some of my own. But it was a relatively brief encounter.
I delivered him to Mother and Dad’s house, and lingered a while to hear him regale us with his latest pontifications on all matters of interest to him. I then bade him farewell. I wouldn’t see him for another two years.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
[1] About this time—2001—a large influx of Korean immigrants began settling in Rutherford (pop. 18,000). Coincidentally, the family of George B. and Ethelyn H. Holman, “Rutherfordian originals,” now includes three Korean-born great-great grandchildren.
[2] Cliff, of course, I could attest, being a highly notable exception, as the reader will appreciate infinitely more as the larger story unfolds.
[3] We never learned the true story behind Hans and Young-Hee. I never encountered actual evidence of wrong-doing or nefarious activity. Eventually the couple exited the scene, whereupon UB’s infatuation with them dissipated.
[4] If ever there were a peace-maker, it was my father-in-law, Robert Boger. Loved and respected by everyone in the family, when he died, his loss affected all of us profoundly.
