Let me tell you about a day in February. One of these days that consisted of many coincidences that led to you being present in the right or wrong moment, that led to an event that is likely to affect you for the rest of your life. This was such a day in February 1986.
I never manage to reach the train, because the taxi that would take me, the passenger in my stomach and my luggage to the train station, did not arrive. I had to wait for the next train. I did not get any place to sleep in train, I had to prepare myself to sit for hours, while the train was moving through Europe. The train was carrying me from Paris, via Copenhagen to Fredrikstad, a small city in Norway. An infinitely long train journey, but it did not matter. I dreaded coming home to Norway. I was pregnant and knew that this would not be a special welcome news at home. A future as a single mother would crush any hopes for me and my future. Today, a single mother has no problem taking an education, but at that time a single mother was synonymous with social security and a burden to society. And besides, I was too young, I was still a teenager. My friends would cry and grandparents would accuse me of being so frivolous. I came from a family where higher education was an illusion and now that I was pregnant, this would strengthen the illusion. Anyway, all went fine. I managed to study and get a job at univeristy without much help, so let me go back to the day in February.
At the train, I met Herta, a Swedish lady with a German name. A Swedish, strong and tanned woman who was full of sprightly life and looked forward to coming home to Sweden. She was elegantly dressed in 1980 fashion and was so deeply full of optimism looking forward to go home to «du gamla och fria» Sweden. She had to change train in Copenhagen, while I could stay on the same train to Norway.
Reaching Copenhagen, there was a tension in the air. We looked out the window and the police were everywhere. We hesitated a little, but she took her suitcase and goodbye and left the train. I would never see her again. Only a photo is what I have left of her. The police rushed through the train, it was unusual.
Then came the news. The Swedish Prime Minister Olof Palme was shot dead.
Still to this day, the murder of Swedish Prime Minister is a mystery. But I know where I was at that time 30 years ago.