The Ghostbusters Group could pick up the suitcases if they wished. They did.
HANNU, TOMMY, AND Irene were given four paper bags filled with the contents of the suitcases. Irene took the time to look through both of the empty suitcases before they left the building. These two were larger than Lovisa Löwander’s had been. One was made of thick leather with reinforced corners. The monogram H.L. was on the edge. Obviously Hilding Löwander’s.
The other one was made of heavy yellow-gray cardboard. There were two wide leather ropes wrapped around it. A name tag with a yellowed celluloid window was attached to the handle. The name Tekla Olsson was faded but still legible, written in old-fashioned black-inked letters.
Svante Malm entered the laboratory. He pointed at the paper bags and said, “I wrote their initials on the outside.” The technician was as overworked as always and disappeared out the door as fast as he’d entered.
Two bags were marked H.L. and the other two T.O.
“So who shall we start with?” Tommy asked as he placed the bags on his desk.
“Tekla,” answered Irene and Hannu at the same time. They moved the two bags marked H.L. to the floor.
Methodically, Tommy started to unpack the things Tekla Olsson had left behind.
Uppermost was a knitted shawl in thin black wool. No moths had nibbled their way through it, which was understandable, since the unmistakable smell of mothballs spread through the room. Next Tommy unpacked a sturdy pair of walking shoes. They were made of brown leather and had low, thick heels. Also two pairs of underwear, rather large, in white cotton. Then a long white slip with embroidery around the neckline, and then a thin, armless nightdress in cotton satin and a pair of heavy black socks.
Irene held the clothes up next to her body. “She was almost as big and tall as I am.”
The next bag contained more interesting items: a number of envelopes and sheets of paper. At the bottom there were some thin books.
“Let’s divide the papers between us,” Tommy suggested.
The bag’s contents were quickly separated into three piles.
“I’m taking my share to my office,” Hannu said. He nodded and left carrying his share of papers under his arm.
AN HOUR LATER Hannu reappeared. Irene had finished going through her stack, and Tommy had only one more envelope to open and read.
“These can wait,” he said. “They’re mostly rent invoices anyway.” He set the envelope down again. “Who’ll start?”
“I can,” Irene said. She began to go through the papers in the order she’d looked at them. “I have an identification card made in the name of Tekla Viola Olsson. Born October eighteenth, 1911. On the line where the reason for wishing an identification card is given, someone has checked ‘New Employment.’ Maybe that’s when she started working at Löwander Hospital?”
“That’s correct. I have her proof of employment,” Hannu said.
Tommy said, “I have a number of letters from one of her friends. According to the return address, this is Anna Siwén. Her address is Rörstrandsgatan in Stockholm. Mostly she writes about her husband and her small child. In her last letter, judging by the date of October 1946, she seems to have had another child, a girl. Her first child had been a boy.
“I also have three letters from Anna Siwén. In the earliest letter, dated April 1943, she writes: ‘Mother’s difficult bout of pneumonia is almost past. She will make it this time, too.’ ” Tommy placed the letter he’d just read from back in the pile and took up another one. “The next one is a short letter, which says, ‘Mother much worse. She is asking for you. You must come home.’ ”
Tommy then picked up a third letter. He didn’t read it out loud but looked directly at his colleagues. “This is a long letter dated June first, 1943. The mother has died, and Anna writes about her deep sorrow and says things like, ‘We’ll make it through our grief together’ and ‘it’s hard to believe that our parents are gone.’ I believe that Anna is probably Tekla’s sister.”
“She had no relatives,” Hannu reminded them in his quiet way.
This was true, unless Anna Siwén and her entire family were gone before Tekla died. This didn’t seem probable.
“Siv Persson said that Tekla had a cousin. This cousin was supposed to come down to Göteborg and pick up this very suitcase but never came. Perhaps Anna was Tekla’s cousin?”
“If that’s so, they seem very close. Judging by these letters, you would assume Anna and Tekla had the same mother,” Tommy said.
“I have the death certificates of her parents,” Hannu said. He placed the yellowed sheets of paper next to each other on the table. Tekla’s mother had died three days after giving birth to her. Tekla had been the only child. Her father had passed away two years later. He was almost twenty years older than her mother.
“Two years old and already an orphan,” said Tommy. “Poor girl.”
“Do you think she was placed in an orphanage?” Irene wondered.
“I’ll track down Anna Siwén and her relatives,” Hannu said.
Irene and Tommy were grateful to hear that. They were confident that whoever was left in Anna Siwén’s family was as good as found.
“Tekla had good grades from the Sophia nursing school. Not as fantastic as Lovisa’s, but still fairly high. She received her nursing diploma in 1934.”
“Did they both attend Sophia at the same time?” Tommy asked.
“No. Tekla was seven or eight years younger than Lovisa. Since Lovisa moved back to Göteborg after she graduated to work in her father’s hospital, they couldn’t have met before Tekla started working at Löwander.”
“And by then Hilding and Lovisa were already married,” Tommy said thoughtfully.
“Yes, they’d been married for six years.”
Irene waved her hand over her stack of papers. “Most of the rest of these are Christmas cards and other greetings from friends. Probably fellow students from Sophia.”
Tommy nodded. “Same thing here. But I have two letters from a man as well. They’re love letters. Both are dated July 1942. No return address, but he signs his name as ‘Erik.’ ”
“I have Erik’s last letter,” Hannu said. He pulled a thin envelope from his pile. “He’s calling it off. He met someone else.”
“What is the date of the proof of employment at Löwander?” Irene asked eagerly.
“November first, 1942.”
“That explains how she ended up in Göteborg. The same old story. Unhappy love,” Irene stated.
Tommy thought a minute before he said, “Wonder where she lived.”
“At the hospital,” Hannu answered. He flipped through his papers and found the sheet he was looking for. “Appendix to the employment contract. The hospital provided her housing. One room. She had to share a kitchen and a bathroom with two other nurses. But there’s another employment contract, too.” He pulled out a thick white envelope from the bottom of his pile. “This is from 1944. Nurse Tekla achieved a new rank as head nurse. The hospital would provide a one-room apartment with kitchen and bathroom just for her.”
“Sounds like the apartment for the doctor on duty,” Irene said, surprised.
“Let’s have another chat with your doctor,” Tommy said.
“He’s not my doctor.” To her embarrassment, Irene felt a blush come to her cheeks. Perhaps she was already getting high blood pressure like Superintendent Andersson?
Tommy gave her a teasing look but changed the subject. “All her books are collections of poetry. We can put them aside and assume she liked poetry. Should we get something to eat before we go through Hilding’s bags or wait until afterward?”