I wouldn’t exactly call it persecution, but my Swedish MIL had it in for me from the git-go. I liked her, but that didn’t make any difference. She was stout old hen and a very good, protective mother. She was an impeccable, imperious manager of her household, played the organ in the beautiful, 300 year-old village church and belonged to all the local women’s social clubs, improvement societies and any ad hoc charity that popped up. She certainly brought my wife up to be a wonderful, intelligent and compassionate person.
But I married her favorite daughter—a very gifted girl. A few years earlier, her eldest daughter eloped with a German, a great guy who became one of my best friends, a man who eventually became something like the American equivalent of Dan Rather for German national news on station ZDF in Germany. My MIL wasn’t about to let that happen again. She envisioned her elderly years surrounded by her children and theirs and theirs, preferably all Swedish.
She never spoke to me and, not knowing enough about me to know that I eventually mastered the language enough to understand even her northern accent, she would talk about me to other in-laws when I was in the same room. She said awful things. But it had no effect. They were good people.
“When are you going to shake this American?” She would ask in exasperation. “They are all racists and drug addicts, you know. They are always at war with somebody. They are such pigs! There is nothing good about them. Give him time and he will show you his true colors!”
She never let up. But my FIL made up for all of it. He never apologized for his wife’s words, but I would never demand that of him. Good men don’t do ever ask that of other men. It was never mentioned. He was a fine old man, a tall, thn, calm, quiet man, the stationmaster of the his village railroad station. He had been with the Statens Järnvägar (Swedish State Railways) since he was 14 and could remember the long years when young Nazi soldiers were quietly transported on his railroad in crowded passenger cars with the window blinds fastened down so his countrymen would see them; transported from various Swedish seaports cross-country to German occupied Norway during the War. He told great jokes and, like many men, always dreamed of going to sea, but was held back the responsibilities of family. So, I, in turn, told him of my adventures on the Baltic in the Swedish Merchant Marine. When I ran out of stories, I just made more, or borrowed some from other seamen who swapped me theirs. I never let the old man down.
My MIL’s grandfather was the bastard son of a local baronial family, the result of a young baron’s liaison with a housemaid. She was a great believer in pedigree and raised her daughters to be cultured and well read, not to marry American peasants. But her warnings had no affect and we moved 600 kilometers south, so I escaped most of her vehemence. But we always came for dinner at the holidays. I insisted. I like family traditions.
When she died ten years into our marriage, my wife immediately revealed to me her wish to experience America. It shocked me because she never once hinted that she would like to live there. She, like myself, wanted to honor the old woman’s wishes for as long as she lived. So, we moved to the US and both became nurses—something the country desperately needed at the time.
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