17- Family Reunion (Part 2)

 

As the garden slowly surrendered its suffocating heat to the comfort of the evening breeze, Çiğdem slid back the iron bolt and opened the courtyard gate to a stranger she did not recognize. She shielded the guest so the heavy gate wouldn’t swing back on him. The mysterious gentleman, who gracefully stepped out of a beautiful car, stirred not just her curiosity but everyone else's as well.

While Çiğdem and her husband Jacques greeted the guest, Uncle Ayhan had also risen from his seat, quickening his steps toward the gate until he was out of breath. The guest handed Çiğdem a Dom Perignon champagne he brought in a cooler bag. Ayhan embraced him tightly and for a long moment. “Sinan, my old friend, welcome,” he said. That was when Çiğdem realized this was the famous Lawyer Sinan Bey. “Mr. Sinan, how thoughtful of you,” she said, thanking him for the gift.

Çiğdem had a bit of a role in his arrival. She had only spoken to Sinan Bey on the phone, so this was the first time she saw his face. Truth be told, she hadn't expected him to suddenly show up like this. In the 150-page family book she had written, she had only devoted two pages to her mother’s and uncle’s years in Istanbul. She had only learned about this old love story of her mother’s during a visit in November — her mother, a deeply reserved woman, had never mentioned it. She had learned the story thanks to her Aunt Hale. For years, her mother hadn't said a word about that romance. In fact, while writing the book, she hadn’t been helpful at all — always responding with “I don’t know” or “I forgot,” which had driven Çiğdem crazy. One day, she even told her, “Mom, you should have been a KGB agent.”

Her main sources had been her eighty-year-old Aunt Ayla and her younger, sharp-minded Aunt Hale, who was nine years younger and had an elephant’s memory. Aunt Ayla was her connection to the 1950s and 60s. She had vividly described their mother’s youth, their grandfather’s love for vinyl records, and daily life in those times. But in 1971, Ayla had met her future husband, a man from Denizli living in Munich, through a newspaper ad. They married and moved to Germany, had daughters Pelin and Selin, and returned permanently to Turkey in 1985, settling in Denizli. That’s why the 1970s were Aunt Hale’s domain.

When Çiğdem visited Aunt Hale in Istanbul, she had shared every detail down to the tiniest bits. Hale was like a living encyclopedia of family history. She had told her everything from Çiğdem’s childhood 4K project, to the mischief she caused at school, to the burrs that clung to her hair walking through courtyards. There was enough material to write a whole book just on Aunt Hale. But out of fairness to the other siblings, Çiğdem hadn’t included even a tenth of it in her family book.

Once she had learned Sinan’s full name, tracking him down hadn’t been hard. Despite being over seventy, he still had a law practice. In addition to being a corporate attorney for several family-owned businesses, he also provided free legal aid to women facing domestic abuse. Çiğdem had visited his office in hopes of collecting photos and stories from her mother’s and uncle’s university days. The secretary told her Sinan Bey was in Antalya for a case but could be reached by phone immediately.

From the emotional tone of his voice on the phone, it wasn’t hard to tell how deeply attached he still was to her mother. When he said he’d be doing a historical tour of Amasra with his daughters that summer, Çiğdem, more out of politeness than intent, had said, “Well then, feel free to join our family gathering in Filyos.” No date, no formal invitation. In fact, she had regretted the offer the moment she made it and had promptly forgotten about it. Apparently, Sinan Bey had not. He had called Uncle Ayhan and managed to get himself invited.

Leman Hanım, seated midway down the table, stood slightly and grasped her chair as if undecided whether to walk toward the gate, instead choosing to wait as the guest entered the garden. She had recognized him but didn’t want to act hastily without being certain.

Seeing Sinan flustered her and brought a blush to her cheeks. Though she blamed Ayhan for being inconsiderate, her dimples and sparkling eyes betrayed her excitement. Still, she did not approve of her brother inviting Sinan, his old university friend, to a family event.

Ayhan had met Sinan on his first day at Istanbul University’s Law Faculty — a random seating arrangement sparked a friendship that lasted the entire first year. They were inseparable.

When Ayhan started his second year, Leman was accepted into the university’s Literature Faculty and moved to Istanbul. She lived with her brother in their modest apartment in Fatih and walked with him to school. She had met Sinan on her first day, and the spark between them had been instant. That spark had made her shy and timid around him ever since.

Sinan came from a well-established, well-off Istanbul family, but like Ayhan, he embraced the ideals of the 1968 movement and spoke of dismantling the bourgeoisie. Despite this, his elegant demeanor, perfect Turkish, pressed shirts, and Galatasaray High School friends revealed his bourgeois roots.

Five months after registering at the university, Leman’s father passed away. Ayhan was already on the brink of being expelled due to student activism. With the loss of their father and financial strain worsening, he dropped out in the middle of his second year to work at a law office as a clerk. He paid rent and supported Leman through school until she graduated and became a literature teacher in Ankara. Leman would never forget her brother’s sacrifice.

Their widowed mother and unmarried sister Ayla took over the household responsibilities. Luckily, the two middle sisters were in a boarding school on full scholarship. But there were still three younger siblings at home between the ages of 10 and 14. They were difficult years, and Ayhan had sacrificed himself for the family. Later, he married Gül, Leman’s classmate.

During those university years, Sinan would often visit their home. Leman and Sinan had never expressed their feelings beyond a few stolen glances and brief conversations. That was until Leman’s graduation ceremony. Sinan, who had graduated the year before, came with flowers. While Ayhan and his wife were in the kitchen, Sinan had pulled Leman aside, kissed her, and said, “One day I will marry you — don’t disappear.”

But life took a different turn. Shortly after Leman was posted to Ankara in 1972, she met Serdar, her teacher colleague’s older brother. Within a year, they were married. Serdar came from a family similar to hers. He had studied economics at the Faculty of Political Science and had a good job at the State Planning Organization. At the time, Leman found Sinan too bourgeois and believed his family would never allow him to marry someone from the provinces like her. After a heated argument beginning with “Lawyer Sinan Bey,” she became angry and requested a transfer to one of Ankara’s more prestigious schools.

She and Serdar had what could be called a happy marriage, and three children. When their daughters Çiğdem and Deniz were 7 and 5, the 1980 military coup took place. It ruined Serdar’s political career and forced the family to seek asylum in Switzerland due to his political activities. Their son Onur was born in Basel. Years later, after the children had grown, their 30-year marriage ended in divorce. Leman moved to her summer house in Izmir, devoting herself to her garden and her vast library. Around ten years ago, she had published a poetry book.

Now Ayhan and Sinan were walking toward her. With a theatrical but familiar flourish from the past, Sinan took Leman’s hand and gently brought it to his lips with a light kiss, saying, “Enchanté, madame.” Then, to avoid further embarrassing Leman, he followed Ayhan’s lead and walked with her toward the head of the table.

Leman remembered the argument they had when they parted ways half a century ago, and also how they reconciled fourteen years earlier at the funeral of Sinan’s mother, Jale Hanım. With those thoughts, she returned to her seat, deciding to give the two friends some time and join them later.

Çiğdem had left Jacques by the E-type and returned to the table, taking the seat across from her mother. About ten minutes before Sinan’s arrival, she had distributed the booklet she had prepared about the family history. Her cousin Selin had also scattered handmade bookmarks with personalized designs across the table, and guests were now eagerly and playfully trying to find their own. They were chatting about the patterns on the bookmarks and the contents of Çiğdem’s booklet, joking about the mini skirts Aunt Hale and Aunt Nejla wore in the 1970s, praising their beauty. The aunts, now with wavy white hair and sweet grandmotherly smiles, had once been striking women — one brunette, the other blonde — like Turkish versions of Charlie’s Angels.

Uncle Ayhan seated his guest at the head of the table, between himself and his sister Ayla. “Set a place for our guest, kids,” he said to the younger ones as if speaking to waitstaff.

The young people were wearing white t-shirts that Çiğdem had printed. On the front was a mulberry tree with “1915” written above it, and on its branches, starting from the grandparents down to the smallest twigs, the names of the grandchildren. At the top, it read “Filyos Reunion 2024,” symbolizing the hope for future gatherings.

Sinan took off his hat and laid it beside him on the table, running his fingers through his graying, wavy hair. While filling Sinan’s glass with raki, Ayhan said, “Leave the car here, sleep at Yeni Konak tonight — or the kids will take you, wherever that campsite was... Was it Amasra?” Then without waiting for an answer, he added, “Never mind, you’ll stay with us. I’m not letting the kids drive around at night.” Then they dove into a long conversation about old times.

Ayhan said, “My friend, I was just thinking... in the summer of 1968, when I came here on vacation, my father seriously considered tearing down this wooden house to build a new concrete one. He was constantly sketching out plans. Thankfully, he never started. We lost him that December. What would we have done then? An unfinished house, middle sisters just starting boarding school, three small kids at home, my mother, my older sister... tough days. But my mother managed to get by in this house. She even sold produce from the garden and eggs from the chickens. Anyway, the girls finished school, and things got better.”

Listening to all this, Sinan felt a bit ashamed. Back in those days, he would escape his parents’ grand waterfront mansion and come eat at their modest home, only to return to Bebek from Fatih by bedtime. Of course, he wasn’t a freeloader — he always brought something when he visited. When they went out drinking, he would cover the bill, but to him, those were small expenses. Ayhan ended with, “Those were hard days.”

Why had one of the wealthiest families in the region before 1940 become so poor that they had to sell eggs in the market within thirty years? While WWII raged across Europe and Turkish men were drafted amid war fears, the only difference between this family and the peasants they once looked down on was that they didn’t starve.

Over the following two decades, the family steadily lost its former wealth — they became poorer, but more enlightened. In the 1960s, they had led the way in educating girls in the district. Çiğdem’s grandfather, Rıza Bey, had become a progressive figure who read Ulus newspaper columns by Çetin Altan to the children by lamplight. Leman and her brother Ayhan had been sent to university in Istanbul, while the middle sisters, Hale and Nejla, were enrolled in a boarding teacher’s college. Leman had been the first woman in the entire town of Filyos to attend university.

Now, Aunt Nejla and Aunt Hale, whispering to each other in the middle of the U-shaped table arrangement, lived in Istanbul and had for many years. But they had first come to the city as teenagers, 15 or 16 years old, tagging along insistently when their father brought Leman to enroll in university. They later spent a few winter breaks in Istanbul. Back then, they had teased and joked about this man who was always around their older sister at the time. Now, fifty years later, they were whispering, “Why has he come here now?” In the background, the song “Don’t think I’ll be fooled twice…” by Nilüfer was playing.

In the aftermath of the 1980 military coup, Ayhan was arrested for union activities and organizing workers. Sinan served as his lawyer but couldn’t prevent him from spending two years in prison. That same year, Sinan lost his father in a tragic accident, and never having quite recovered from the heartbreak caused by Leman’s marriage, he fell into a deeper depression. In 1981, he moved to Paris to pursue a PhD in Commercial Law at the Sorbonne. He never married Estelle, whom he met five years later, but they had twin daughters together. When the girls were ten, Estelle married an American and moved to the U.S., leaving the girls in Sinan’s care.

“How old are the twins now?” Ayhan asked. “Camille and Chloé are 38,” Sinan replied. Ayhan’s eyes welled up. “Well, the years fly by. My eldest just turned 50 the other day. Hasn’t spoken to me since I separated from his mother. I raised a glass in his honor.”

Ayhan spoke of his divorce from Gül, his retirement, and move back to his hometown, and of his son’s long silence. Then, realizing he had interrupted his friend, he said, “So, you were saying — the girls. Last I saw them, they were still young. What are they up to now?”

“They’re doing well. Both married. I’ve got four adorable grandkids. So sweet, I could eat them up!” Sinan laughed. “You know, my sister never married. She’s helped raise the girls like they were her own since they were little. Remember how you used to call her ‘Snobby Suna’? We used to laugh so hard. Suna plays the piano beautifully — so did my mother. Remember? She loved La Bohème by Aznavour.” He paused, then added, “We last saw each other at my mother’s funeral.”

Both men fell silent for a moment, remembering Jale Hanım. A true lady, she had remained elegant until her death at 79 from Alzheimer’s. “Of course, Suna studied classical music,” Sinan continued. “She practically raised the girls — art, painting, ballet, piano. And now she’s onto the grandkids. But it’s good for them. I’m the playful grandpa, she’s the strict aunt.” He laughed. “These days, the girls are seeing their mother more often, too. That makes me happy. And me? Just living a retired life now, taking on the occasional case.”

Ayhan had never met Estelle. But he said thoughtfully, “It’s good the girls are reconnecting with their mom…” He remembered how much he had disliked Suna in their youth. He even recalled how Gül had been jealous of this love-hate dynamic and chuckled to himself. Changing the subject, he pointed to Çiğdem and Jacques sitting at the center of the table. “Leman’s son-in-law is French… Well, no — Belgian, but he speaks French. I think he really liked your car. Hasn’t left it alone for ten minutes. His name’s Jacques. Çiğdem’s husband. She even called you about that book project — tracked down the entire family tree like a detective. You’ll talk later, I’m sure. Now, let’s raise a glass to our reunion!” he said, lifting his glass.

To be continued in Part 3. Next week.

The Guest from the Past

The table set in the family home’s garden is shaken by the unexpected arrival of a long-lost guest: Lawyer Sinan, Leman Hanım’s university sweetheart. This surprise visit opens doors to both youthful memories and buried family history. As Çiğdem’s family research and book bring old relationships to light, the family gathered around the table begins to reconnect not only with their shared past but with each other. This reunion, blending old friendships, loss, regrets, and a hint of hope, will carry the traces of the past into the present.

 

 

16- Family Reunion

 

In the spacious area stretching from the courtyard gate to the house, two long tables had been set up. Great-uncle Ayhan and great-aunt Ayla were seated at the head of the table. Other family members had also taken their seats. Uncles Turgay and Ertan were by the barbecue grilling the meat, while members of the third generation were distributing it onto plates.

Coloured decorations hanging from the branches of plum and mulberry trees swayed gently in the breeze, along with solar-powered lights that had been charging all day. String lights had been strung across the centre of the tables to be switched on once darkness fell. On this warm July evening, the sun was still scorching the earth as it made its way west.

Outside the large iron gate of the courtyard, family members’ cars were parked in a line. When Çiğdem noticed a pair of headlights approaching, she glanced at the table to see if there were still guests who hadn’t arrived. Everyone was there, including her cousin Nesil, who had just made it after her daughter’s conservatory exam in Ankara. However, considering the sheer size of her mother’s extended family from Filyos to Mengen, it wasn’t impossible for uninvited guests to show up.

As the car drew nearer, Çiğdem saw that it was a sky-blue, convertible Jaguar E-Type from the 1960s — exactly the sort of striking beauty her husband Jacques would admire. Seeing such a rare car in these parts surprised her. Driven by a mix of curiosity and a protective instinct, she walked towards the gate — Jacques joined her, likely just as intrigued by the car as she was. The others at the table turned their eyes in that direction too. The car came to a stop about five or six metres ahead, beside the second row of vehicles.

Çiğdem had been planning this large family gathering for over a year — and finally, the day had come. They were in the garden of the large wooden house where her mother Leman had been born seventy-five years earlier, in the ancient coastal town of Filyos by the Black Sea. Her mother was the third of eight siblings — all of whom were present that day.

Çiğdem had taken inspiration from the family reunions on Jacques’s maternal side, which were held annually in Brussels. Her mother-in-law Jacqueline’s mother was called Marie. Since 15 August, the Assumption of Mary, is a public holiday in Catholic countries and schools are closed for summer, the idea of turning that date into a family party had first come from the eldest sister forty years ago, and the tradition had continued without fail ever since. As Jacques’s wife, Çiğdem was always invited to these gatherings.

Jacques’s family also had seven siblings, and like her mother, his mother was the third child. Each sibling had three to five children. With daughters-in-law, sons-in-law, grandchildren and now their partners too, they had become a family of nearly one hundred and twenty people. Of course, divorces and changing relationships meant the attendees changed a bit each year,  some faces disappeared, new ones joined, but the annual party never dropped below seventy or eighty attendees.

One of Jacques’s great-aunt’s daughters was married to an MP — a true politician who loved being the centre of attention. He would take the microphone and never let go, speaking passionately, getting the family to sing songs together, encouraging dancing, introducing newcomers, cracking jokes. At her first attendance, he had handed the microphone to Çiğdem and asked her to sing. Embarrassed, she had only managed a brief greeting. Over time, though, she had got to know the aunts and cousins, and grown very fond of them.

Her dream of organising a similar event for her own family grew stronger with each passing year. Çiğdem greatly admired large families. As her own siblings lived in different countries, she only saw them at Christmas and in the summer. She longed for shared holidays like Jacques had with his family. But her busy professional life had not allowed time to realise that dream.

In 2023, everything changed. When her husband received a job offer in Canada, Çiğdem decided to take a break from work and follow him. That’s how they ended up in Quebec for a year and a half. That summer, with more time on her hands, she developed the idea of a family gathering in her mind and thought, “Well then, I can organise this myself.” And so she got started.

Her mother Leman had one more sibling than her mother-in-law, but the number of children and grandchildren was far fewer. After listing them all, including their spouses, Çiğdem realised they didn’t even reach fifty. She thought, “At least thirty of us could come together.” Things were easier with Jacques’s family — most of them lived within a hundred-kilometre radius of Brussels. But her own relatives were scattered not only across Turkey but all over Europe. Different countries in Europe, different cities in Turkey.

The family loved and visited one another. A few had even gone on a Balkan tour together the previous year. But gathering all eight siblings at once would be a first. Perhaps it couldn’t become a yearly tradition like Jacques’s family had, but Çiğdem was determined to make it happen — at least once — in July 2024.

Eleven months in advance, she created two WhatsApp groups — one for the whole family, and another for four people she thought might help with planning. As soon as the groups were set up, she found herself engaged with the family and was thrilled to see how warmly her idea was received. Her enthusiasm only grew. Her great-aunt Ayla in particular said, “I really admire you, Çiğdem. You’re making something happen for the first time. Thank you so much.” It moved Çiğdem deeply.

She had invited her middle uncle Turgay — who lived near Filyos — to her small planning group, which she called “Organised Affairs.” She also included great-aunt Ayla’s daughters Selin and Pelin, and her great-uncle Ayhan who lived in Zonguldak. Turgay took charge of food and drink. Selin and Pelin helped with decorations and activities. Uncle Ayhan hired a gardener to prepare the garden for visitors.

Of course, there were dissenting voices in the family. One cousin who ran a café in Urla said July was their busiest month. Another, Nesil, said it clashed with her daughter’s conservatory exams. The cousin in Venice, Ulaş, couldn’t even be reached. Perhaps he didn’t want to come due to a strained relationship with his father, Ayhan.

Tensions and even arguments flared up over trivial matters during those days. When Çiğdem told Jacques, “Your lot deserve a medal. Mine have started fighting before we’ve even gathered,” Jacques calmly reassured her with his soft voice: “It happens in every family, love. Don’t worry.” He then told her how his youngest uncle would act up when drunk, how Aunt Miette would take his side, and how that had led to countless rows. That uncle no longer came to the gatherings. Çiğdem had never even met him.

In October — around the time she began trying her hand at writing — and with nine months still to go until the reunion, Çiğdem had another brilliant idea. She would write a family chronicle and distribute it at the event. In Jacques’s family, there was always a huge photo album about a metre tall, smaller albums, and memory books brought to the gatherings. Çiğdem had pored over these with great interest and found joy in seeing the youthful pictures of people now in their seventies and eighties.

In November, she left her husband behind in Canada and travelled to Turkey for six weeks. With her mother Leman, she packed suitcases in Izmir and set off on a family tour. Starting in Izmir, they visited each aunt and uncle one by one in Bursa, Denizli, and Istanbul. Çiğdem scanned and copied the photos everyone had, and gathered stories and information about grandparents and their lives.

Unfortunately, there weren’t enough photographs to create a large, beautiful album like the one Jacques’s family had. The oldest picture she could find dated back to 1935. It was a passport-style photo of her great-grandfather Mehmet Bey, born in 1877, at the age of 58. From the period between 1935 and 1965, there were barely thirty photos. Some of them were so worn and faded that it was impossible to recognise the people in them.

When they reached their final stop in Zonguldak, and from there travelled with her great uncle Ayhan to the abandoned family house in Filyos, she was bitterly disappointed. The house, which she hadn’t seen in years, had turned into a ruin. The large garden was overrun with brambles, ivy and tall grass. This grand wooden house, which the elders in the family once referred to as the “New Mansion,” was far from new—in fact, it was completely dilapidated. The only reason for its name was that her grandfather’s grandfather Osman Bey had built a house in the 1880s, which they called the Old Mansion. When Mehmet Bey, Osman’s son, had a house built a hundred metres further in 1915, it naturally came to be known as the New Mansion. After the Old Mansion was demolished in the 1950s, the name remained, even though the second house had long since lost its former glory. The mulberry tree planted beside it was now 110 years old. It still bore delicious fruit, but the house looked as though it would collapse if thirty or forty people were to enter it.

It was in this house that Mehmet Bey’s seven children had been born. The youngest of them, Rıza Bey, was Çiğdem’s grandfather. Though his older siblings were born during the Ottoman era, he was a child of the Republic.

Years later, Rıza Bey raised his own family in this house, bringing up eight children under its roof. But now, the house Çiğdem saw had long since lost its splendour. Time, along with the Black Sea’s humidity, had devoured its carpets, books and photographs. Some of the items she remembered from her childhood had been thrown away in recent years due to neglect. The huge house had slightly tilted due to soil subsidence, floorboards had broken and holes now connected the upper floor to the one below. The wood had blackened; the white lace curtains in the bay windows had yellowed.

Çiğdem looked at the house with sadness. Hosting guests inside was clearly impossible. However, a gathering in the garden could still be arranged. The garden was neglected, but could be cleaned up. Given that the Black Sea summer was notoriously unpredictable and sudden downpours could happen at any moment, they would need to procure tarpaulins.

But perhaps due to climate change, the summer of 2024 began with scorching heat. Not a drop of rain fell throughout June. When the organising committee arrived in Filyos a week before the gathering, the grass was as yellow as if they were in the Aegean, and they had to water it themselves.

And so, on that sweltering July evening, the family had gathered in the garden of the New Mansion, cheerfully chatting away. Laughter echoed all around, a curated playlist of Turkish jazz and classical songs played softly on Spotify in the background, accompanying the flow of memories.

As Çiğdem approached the gate, a stylish man in his seventies stepped out of the pale blue vintage car, wearing a white linen shirt over beige trousers and leaning on a cane. He retrieved a fedora from the back seat of the open-top car, placed it on his head and began walking towards them. A few people at the tables stood up. The lively crowd in front of the massive, darkened wooden house fell silent, and in the background, Ajda Pekkan’s voice—“But alas, the street was empty…”—was left all alone.

Back in November, when Çiğdem had come here, she had met many people and even consulted two regional authors to learn about the family’s more distant history. She searched her memory—was this man one of them? No, he wasn’t.

One of the authors was Ali Nuri Bey, a 90-year-old graduate of the Village Institutes. He had served as a school principal in the area and written books about the region’s history. The other was a retired teacher descended from her grandmother’s line, who had written a genealogical study tracing the Rumbeyoğlu family’s 550-year history. Since two grand viziers had come from that family, Çiğdem had found further information both online and in academic sources. She had brought both authors’ books back to Montreal, signed. Upon returning, she had compiled photos, memories, historical documents, and findings from academic theses and DNA research into a booklet over the course of four or five months.

In the booklet, she had also described the changes in the region: the collapse of bridges over the wild Filyos River, boatmen pulling ferries with ropes, the region’s old churches and mosques, family members who had commissioned these buildings, and how education evolved from concubines to primary schools with the advent of the Republic.

This man wasn’t one of those writers; he looked like an Istanbul gentleman. It would be quite something if he turned out to be a descendant of one of the ancestors she had found in Ottoman archives. But surely those people had no way of knowing a gathering was happening here.

During the Ottoman era, her mother’s family had been monarchists. Her grandmother’s lineage traced back to two grand viziers—one from the reign of Mehmed the Conqueror and the other from that of Abdul Hamid I. Their sons continued to work at the palace and married into the dynasty. The second vizier, Rumbeyoğlu İsmet Pasha, was known for being pleasure-seeking and even rather lazy. But he was apparently very funny. He had commissioned the largest waterfront mansion along the Bosphorus. Of course, it now belonged to the Komili family. For a moment, Çiğdem imagined this man stepping forward and handing her the keys to that mansion. Then she smiled, shaking herself out of her daydream. With the Tanzimat reforms, those who didn’t know French and couldn’t adapt to change were pushed away from the palace. Her ancestors had returned to Filyos in the 1840s, where they acted as regional beys. But some of their younger brothers had clung to the monarchy until the last possible moment, raising their sons to be diplomats. One such son had taken part in the Treaty of Sèvres and ended up on Atatürk’s list of 150 undesirable persons, sent into exile. She couldn’t help but wonder—was this man his grandson?

There had also been curious cases of adopted children in the family. She had learned that adopted children couldn’t inherit and that in some cases, they might have been born out of wedlock. Perhaps he was one of them—who knows?

Though she had gathered information about the men in the family, she had learned little about the women. Ah, she thought, if only the Surname Law had been introduced a century earlier, during the Tanzimat period, how much more information we would have had about the women. Perhaps this man descended from one of those female branches—who knows?

As the garden gradually surrendered its stifling heat to the relief of the evening breeze, Çiğdem, still wondering who this stranger was, pushed the iron bolt and opened the courtyard gate, bracing herself to stop the heavy gate from swinging shut on the guest. The mysterious gentleman who had descended so nimbly from the beautiful car had sparked everyone’s curiosity—not just hers.

To be continued in Part 2. Next week...

 

Reuniting at the Roots, Living in the Memories.

In the garden of her mother’s childhood home on the Black Sea coast, Çiğdem organises a large family gathering. Inspired by her Belgian husband’s family reunions, she works for months to bring relatives together and prepares a booklet documenting their history. The overgrown garden of the crumbling mansion is cleared, tables are set. Just as everything seems to be going perfectly, the arrival of a mysterious man in a classic convertible hints at long-buried family secrets. Family Reunion is a warm tale woven with heritage, memory, and the bonds that tie generations together.

 

02- Aunt Lili

02 - Aunt Lili

Aunt Lili was 79 years old. She had been born into a wealthy family in Belgium, but life had drawn a difficult path for her. Her husband, Viktor, whom she married for love, was a kind, gentle, and humane man. He was also well-educated. However, when it came to work, he was a complete adventurer and very irresponsible. He constantly came up with new business ideas, but none of them ever brought in income that could contribute to the family. Because of this, they endured years of unnecessary poverty.

The couple had two sons. When they reached school age, she gave birth to two more sons, hoping for a daughter. But her life became a cycle of raising four boys and dealing with Viktor’s failures. For years, she bore all the burden on her shoulders—trying to support the household on a teacher’s salary, managing the housework and the children’s education. They always lived on the edge of poverty. Apart from a road trip to Italy in the 1970s when they had only two children, there were few opportunities for long travels.

The years passed like this; the sons grew up and set off into life. Only after retiring was Lili finally able to part ways with Viktor. Despite all those years, they had never managed to buy a home and had always lived in rented flats. It upset her that half of her small pension went on rent. However, for the first time in her life, being able to save a little and go on holiday every other year had become one of her greatest pleasures.

She read a great deal, and seeing the places she read about with her own eyes was one of her biggest dreams. That’s how she found herself travelling to places like Uzbekistan and Egypt—places most women her age wouldn’t dare to visit. She disliked luxury, preferred to get to know the locals and the culture, and would rather brush her teeth in the waters of the Nile than stay in a fancy hotel.

Despite her advancing age, she never considered retreating from life. She took great joy in helping her grandchildren with their homework and gathering her sons around her to cook delicious meals. She preferred to be called Aunt Lili instead of Mrs Lili. Though she never had a daughter, she had formed bonds with both the former and current wives of her sons. She even liked the second wife of her eldest son, Eda. She would share memories with her, gossip about her sons, and talk about her travels. With a few glasses of wine, her tongue would loosen, and they would have long, laughter-filled conversations.

Not long ago, while reading a novel by Marie-Bernadette Dupuy alongside her sister Ella, she added a new place to her list of dreams. The book spoke of a small town and a young girl who grew up there. This town had been built in 1901 around a paper mill. At the time, it was considered a model modern settlement and developed rapidly. But only twenty-five years later, the factory shut down, and the town was completely abandoned.

Interestingly, this wasn’t a fictional place. It was a ghost town in the deep forests of Canada, beneath a waterfall—Val-Jalbert. Back when it was built, many homes around the world didn’t have running water or toilets, but the workers’ houses here were equipped with both, and villagers from surrounding areas would come out of curiosity just to see them. While it had once been a dreamlike town, after the factory shut, it was left to disappear into nature’s arms for forty years. In the 1960s, it was overrun by hippies and vandalised. But for the last forty years, it had been protected, restored, and turned into an open-air museum.

What affected Aunt Lili so deeply was the fact that the young girl in the book had the same surname as her own mother. That’s why she read the novel as if conducting a genealogy study, paying close attention to every detail. As she read, the tragic fate of this town captivated her. How could a place so far ahead of its time have been completely abandoned? And so, the ghost town became a place she longed to see with all her heart.

As soon as she learnt that her eldest son and daughter-in-law Eda would be moving to Quebec for a while, her first move was to pull out a map and examine the distance between Quebec City and Val-Jalbert. She was overjoyed. Though she wasn’t particularly close to the gods, she chuckled and told her old friend Marianne: “Oh darling, I dream, and the gods roll up their sleeves to lay the stepping stones to carry me to my dreams.” A month after they had moved into their home, they invited her to spend a few weeks with them.

From the moment she stepped off the plane, Lili fell in love with Canada. Well, once someone sets their mind on loving a place, they’ll find a way to love it. Armed with her smartphone, which she had become well acquainted with in recent years, she was constantly gathering information and even adored the Canadian French, which was so different from the one she spoke. She spent her first days in Canada looking up towns around Lake Saint-Jean on her phone and map, jotting down ideas in her notebook in her loopy handwriting. Eda and her son researched hotels and restaurants.

Finally, the big day arrived. They laughed at the funny stories Eda made up about Canadian lumberjacks and breathed in the fresh air through the car’s open roof. As they neared Lake Saint-Jean, Lili turned into an excited young girl again. She started pointing left and right, guiding them as if she were showing places she had known all her life.

When they arrived at the hotel—an old monastery turned into a guesthouse—they found their room numbers handwritten on a sign on the wall, and the doors were unlocked. The enormous kitchen downstairs was available for guests to cook their own meals. A fire burned in the large lounge’s fireplace, guests sat in the dining hall, and a few young children were running around. The atmosphere warmed all three of their hearts.

The next morning, Lili woke up early, got dressed with excitement, and waited for the others in the breakfast room. As the three of them entered Val-Jalbert, “Here we are,” said Eda, linking arms with her mother-in-law. For a moment, they paused time and shared their mutual happiness.

They spent the day there. They visited the rooms where nuns had once stayed in the old school building and sat at students’ desks. The town was just as described: the only place in the region at the time with electricity and running water in homes, admired by villagers who visited in awe. They rode the cable car up to the waterfall and gazed at the view, then looked down at the lake, the dam, and the ruins of the factory. They toured the mill and relived the history of the town step by step.

Val-Jalbert, with its restored houses, old factory buildings, and silent streets, felt frozen in time. With each step, Lili recalled scenes from the novel. “This could be the house where Marie-Claire lived,” she murmured, stopping in front of a small wooden cottage.

On the way back to the hotel, she said, “I want to write a book.” Charles was surprised. “What about, Mum?” he asked. Lili gazed at her fingers for a long time before answering. “About Val-Jalbert. But not just a book that tells its history… The story of a woman visiting this town. Maybe I’ll include other places I’ve been too. Maybe… it’ll be my story. Who knows, maybe I’ll include you as well,” she said, bursting into laughter. All three of them laughed. They exaggerated the roles they wanted to be given in the novel. That evening, as they sipped wine at the monastery-turned-hotel, the stories deepened. It was then that Eda shared for the first time that she had also tried to write. But hers were just little tales of four or five pages. She knew her mother-in-law’s way with words was far stronger. She said she was looking forward to the book.

When the book was published a year later under the title Aunt Lili on the Road, it created a small literary sensation in Belgium. The travelogue, written by an 80-year-old woman, not only recounted her experiences in Egypt, Romania, Uzbekistan, and Canada, but also told a life story full of dreams, hopes, and disappointments.

When she returned to Quebec for the book’s promotion, she visited Val-Jalbert once more. This time, her name was also written on the plaque at the entrance to the town:

“Aunt Lili, the Woman Who Carried the Spirit of Val-Jalbert, was here.”

 

15- The Phantom of the Golden Coast

 

It was March 1993. After the end of the Cold War, Europe's major cities were honoring former Soviet musicians, and Russian composers were performing at various festivals.

In their apartment in Küsnacht, Mathilde and her husband Bruno were preparing to attend the Bolshoi Ballet's performance at the Zurich Opera House for the first time that year. Their production of "Swan Lake," which brought a modern interpretation after the rigid aesthetics of the Soviet era, had made a huge impact in artistic circles. "Look, Bruno," Mathilde said excitedly, showing him the newspaper, "Critics are praising Natalya Dudinskaya's student, the new prima ballerina. They're calling her the 'perfect blend of Soviet discipline and European romanticism.'" Bruno, as he was putting on his cufflinks, shared in Mathilde's joy: "I know, my love, your childhood dream is coming true. We're going to see a Russian swan live... You become so beautiful when you're happy," he said, pulling her close and kissing her.

Mathilde was forty-nine, Bruno fifty-one, and perhaps those years were the most beautiful and radiant period of their lives. Bruno had yet to be diagnosed with Alzheimer's, which would come twelve years later, and his death was still twenty years away. They had lived in this apartment, located in the most beautiful corner of Lake Zurich's "Golden Coast," for twenty-two years.

They had purchased this ground-floor apartment in 1971 when they were newlyweds, even before the basic concrete was poured, and had carefully chosen the wallpaper themselves. The complex had been designed by a famous architect reflecting the modern lines of the time. It consisted of seven blocks, with only two apartments in each block. Between the blocks, a large garden stretched out, which, over the years, the gardener would shape with scissors every morning, filling it with shrubs and flowers.

Mathilde had fallen in love with this vast green space, while Bruno was in love with the sunlight that filled the house. Through the apartment's four-directional windows, the sun traveled silently inside from morning until evening. In this spacious apartment, which was quite large for a couple, they had once dreamed of having children, imagining them running and growing up in the garden, with each child having their own room.

They had tried hard to have children, but by the mid-1980s, they had accepted that they would remain childless. They filled the gap with their professions, the roses in their garden, winter trips to their little mountain cabin, and Mathilde’s favorite thing: dressing up and going to the opera.

Mathilde’s childhood and youth had been spent in a large mansion near the city of Kortrijk in Belgium. Servants worked in the house, cars full of wine and meat were delivered directly from producers, and the barns and cellars were always full.

In 1966, as was customary for every bourgeois family, her parents had sent her to London to learn English. There, she had formed an international circle of friends and soon met a Swiss engineer named Bruno within this group. Bruno had completed his civil engineering degree in Zurich and was doing his master’s in London. Tall, slender, and with piercing blue eyes, he could not take his eyes off Mathilde. They fell in love. However, Mathilde's wealthy landowner family—especially her mother—strongly opposed their marriage, as Bruno came from modest beginnings. Mathilde ignored their objections, gave up all her inheritance, married Bruno, and moved to Switzerland.

That night, Mathilde had carefully prepared herself, tying her brown hair into an elegant bun, and accentuating the outline of her blue eyes with a thin eyeliner. She picked up the family heirloom diamond earrings and hesitated for a moment in front of the mirror about whether to wear them. Even though her mother had not spoken to her in twenty years because of her marriage, she had bequeathed these precious earrings to her only daughter upon her death. Bruno understood her indecision. "Go ahead, wear them, they suit you so well," he encouraged her.

Although their financial situation was much better than in the early years of their marriage, Mathilde still avoided excessive luxury, mindful of her husband's modest background. With Bruno’s words and the approval in his smiling eyes, she wore the large diamond earrings. She put on low-heeled shoes under her light blue coat with a fur collar and, with a graceful movement, linked her arm through her husband’s.

Despite the cold of March, the city was alive; trams passed by with a soft hum, and people walked slowly on the streets, chatting, entering and exiting shops or restaurants in Seefeld. The lights of the shop windows had not yet dimmed, and the golden light of the setting sun gave everything a romantic atmosphere. The night was beautiful.

The opera house was packed that night. In the lobby, crystal chandeliers sparkled as champagne glasses clinked. While Mathilde was scanning the guests in the lobby, she looked for familiar faces.

When the curtain rose, the legendary Bolshoi Orchestra was interpreting Tchaikovsky's notes, and Mathilde secretly clung to Bruno’s arm. The "Four Little Swans" in the second act, with the dancers’ perfect synchronization, mesmerized everyone in the hall. Even the typically reserved Swiss audience stood and applauded.

By midnight, when they left the opera house, the March wind was blowing Mathilde's coat’s fur collar. Even when they got home, their excitement hadn’t died down. Bruno poured two glasses of white wine from the fridge they had opened earlier that evening. He handed one to Mathilde, who was sitting on the maroon velvet couch in the living room. They drank, and talked again and again about the performance.

Mathilde went to the bedroom to remove her makeup. At that moment, as she opened the jewelry box in front of the mirror, the magic of the Bolshoi was replaced by fear. She let out a small scream. The box was empty. There was only a small piece of paper inside. It read: “Don’t be afraid, the Phantom has come to visit you.” Below was a red wax seal and an elegant signature.

Mathilde's hands were trembling. Bruno immediately grabbed the phone and began dialing the police. Mathilde, afraid to even move a meter away from him, stayed close. Together, they went through the rooms and turned on all the lights in the house. There was no one there.

When they had entered the house, they had noticed nothing unusual. Aside from the empty jewelry box, there was no trace of a burglary. They had opened the door with their own key. There was no sign of tampering or forced entry at the lock. The house was just as orderly as they had left it that evening.

Mathilde thought about what other valuables they had. The Omega watch she had bought for Bruno on their twentieth wedding anniversary was on his wrist that night. In the living room, next to the dining table, she looked for the silver cutlery set her mother had bought for her but which she only received after her mother's death. Those boxes were empty too, and the same note was inside: “Don’t be afraid, the Phantom has paid you a visit.”

In the hallway, Bruno noticed a glimmer on the carpet. It was an old Belgian silver franc. Mathilde had an old coin collection—it was in the bedroom. When they opened that box, the third note appeared.

Apart from these, nothing else in the house had been touched. The curtains were drawn neatly, the books under the lamps were arranged exactly as they should be. Several valuable paintings, their brand-new TV weighing at least twenty kilograms, their record player and vinyls—all were untouched. Nothing large had been taken. Everything stolen could have fit into a backpack. The thief seemed to have found every light yet valuable item in the house with uncanny precision. Even though everything appeared to be in its place, an invisible hand had touched their home, spreading an air of unease.

About fifteen minutes later, two police officers knocked on their door. As soon as they heard the story, they immediately knew this was the work of the “Golden Coast Phantom,” who had been active in the area for two and a half years but still had not been caught.

One of the officers went to the door leading to the veranda. It was closed, but there was a small hole in the bottom corner filled with toothpaste. He immediately called the other officer to show him. “Well, looks like he’s done it again,” he said, pointing to the still-wet paste, and they chuckled between themselves. When they saw the fearful expressions of the homeowners, they became serious and took down Bruno’s statement in detail. Mathilde, still in shock, couldn’t say a word.

The police explained that all the previous incidents had occurred using the same method, and despite more than 15 cases, the culprit had yet to be identified. The thief or thieves would drill a three-millimeter hole into the window or door frames of villas or ground-floor apartments, insert a special tool through the hole to lower the door handle from the inside, and enter the premises without leaving a trace. Since no one had ever seen the thief during any of the burglaries, people had started calling the intruder the “Golden Coast Phantom.”

There had been some subtle changes in the Phantom’s style. In the early years, they had taken only gold and cash, never bothering with silver. The note back then simply read: “Don’t be afraid, just a visitor.” After the media began referring to them as the Golden Coast Phantom, the message changed to: “Don’t be afraid, the Phantom has paid you a visit.”

The thief was extremely meticulous. Likely wearing jeweler’s gloves, as not a single fingerprint was ever found. In the houses the Phantom had entered—just like in this one—no drawers were left open, no chairs overturned. The garden gate was always carefully closed in the same manner it was opened, and the hole drilled for entry was precisely filled with white toothpaste. The Phantom was certainly not in a hurry; drilling the hole, entering the house, and locating valuable items in different parts of the home must have taken time.

The police believed that the burglar had watched the houses and only entered once sure no one was home. Mathilde explained that every other Saturday evening they attended the Zurich Opera, where they had a subscription, grabbed a bite at the opera café, and were gone for four to five hours. On weekends when they didn’t go to the opera, they often went to their mountain cabin and stayed the entire weekend. On Thursday evenings, they attended dance classes. Lately, they had also been frequently visiting Bruno’s mother, who had recently moved into a care home but disliked it so much that she kept calling her son and daughter-in-law to have dinner with her.

Although they were not home often, Mathilde said they had known all their neighbors for years. If someone had been watching the complex, surely someone would have noticed.

The officers said they would come by the next day to ask the neighbors a few questions and bid them good night. As they left, in a half-joking tone, they added: “Don’t worry, the Phantom never visits a place twice. He won’t come here again. Sleep well.”

Still, Mathilde and Bruno barely slept that night.

The next day, Mathilde accompanied the police while they questioned the neighbors. No one had seen anything. Of the two neighbors whose apartments overlooked the veranda, one wasn’t home that evening, and the other had been engrossed in a movie on television. The others didn’t have a view of the veranda at all. However, one neighbor with a view of the bedroom window had said they saw a light turned on. It was clear the thief had boldly turned on the lights.

The police left, saying they had no solid evidence for now, but would continue the investigation.

Months passed. That year, the Phantom visited a few more homes along the Golden Coast of Lake Zurich. Then, in the fall, the incidents suddenly stopped. The police continued their investigations for a while, but witness statements, fingerprint searches, tool analysis, and even the deployment of undercover officers yielded no results.

The burglary wave known as the “Golden Coast Phantom,” which had lasted for three years between 1990 and 1993, came to an end, and the investigation files were shelved and left to gather dust. According to police estimates, the total value of stolen items during this period approached six million Swiss francs.

Years later, a man was arrested at Zurich’s main train station. His name was R.A., and he had been apprehended while wanted for another crime. He had 23 prior convictions ranging from professional theft to unlawful entry and aiding and abetting. The police strongly suspected he was the “Golden Coast Phantom.” However, his connection to the infamous burglaries along Lake Zurich was never legally confirmed. This 55-year-old German national even sued the Blick newspaper for calling him the Golden Coast Phantom, claiming that it dishonored him by convicting him in the court of public opinion without sufficient evidence.

These burglaries, committed in one of Zurich’s calmest and most beautiful neighborhoods, remain a mystery to this day. The Phantom never resurfaced. But Mathilde kept those notes the Phantom had left—in the jewelry box and the other two locations.

Years passed. The neighbors’ children ran around the gardens, grew up, even got married. Old neighbors moved out, new ones moved in. Bruno passed away from Alzheimer’s. Mathilde now lived alone in her garden-level apartment. She was nearing eighty, her walks had slowed, but her mind was still sharp. Especially some memories… some nights… they never faded from her mind.

. . .

Eight years ago, on a September day, I moved into the apartment above Mathilde’s. She didn’t exactly welcome me with open arms, but I made a point of showing kindness and respect to this woman, five years older than my mother. She was a selective and exhausting person. But I slowly built rapport by bringing her small gifts from my travels. Still, she never abandoned her distant and slightly suspicious attitude.

Two years later, I met a Belgian man—and that became one of the main reasons she warmed up to me. Though she rarely visited her homeland, she was instantly charmed by my boyfriend. The moment she saw him on the stairs, her eyes lit up and she exclaimed, “What a handsome man!” She told me she believed this relationship would be good for me, especially after the previous one, which had deeply hurt me.

And so, our friendship grew stronger. Whenever I visited Belgium, I would bring back the tiny shrimp she loved. When her health wasn’t great and she didn’t feel confident enough to go walking alone, I accompanied her on her strolls. During those walks, she told me stories from the past. She was very knowledgeable. We talked about many things—from the first female architect of Switzerland and her protected work in our neighborhood, to the road projects her late husband had worked on, to rose care, her favorite sopranos, and politics. I came to love this cold woman, not despite her aloofness, but because she poured out information like an encyclopedia.

One day, someone had uprooted a newly planted rose bush in her garden. There was a large, deep hole left behind. Mathilde knocked on my door. She was frightened. She told me about the rose and asked me to come down. Because she was so suspicious by nature, I initially thought she suspected me. But she was genuinely scared. Then she sank into the chair on her veranda and turned her face toward the setting sun.

“Thirty years ago…” she began. And then she told me about the Golden Coast Phantom. I listened wide-eyed. She must’ve thought I didn’t believe her because she added:

“I still have the notes. I remember how my hands trembled when I found the jewelry box—as if it were yesterday.” She turned her gaze to the rose branches where large pink blooms had opened.

“Sometimes, even when a shadow passes by, I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.”

I’ve always believed places carry memory. I placed my hand over Mathilde’s trembling one. “Maybe I could write your story,” I said. Seeing her unease after all these years, I added, “Don’t worry, we’ll change your name.”

One day I’ll take notes and turn it into a story.

Some stories are forgotten, some are told. And then there are those that, like that hole in the door, leave marks on time and space.

 Some visitors leave without a trace—others leave a shadow.

In a quiet Zurich neighborhood, a string of unsolved burglaries by the elusive “Golden Coast Phantom” leaves behind nothing but eerie notes and unanswered questions. Decades later, elderly Mathilde shares her haunting memories with a younger neighbor, revealing how one silent intruder forever altered her sense of safety. A tale of mystery, memory, and the invisible marks left on places—and hearts.

 

 

14- Bear Foot

 

It was the first few days of November 2019. Zurich was enjoying a magnificent autumn. The street where I lived was covered in bright yellow leaves. That morning, as usual, I was running late for work. By the time I sprinted to the Höschgasse tram stop, the tram had already arrived. I snatched up a free copy of the Metro newspaper from the stand and jumped on just before the doors closed. I threw myself into the last available seat in the back section, where four people could sit facing each other. I unfolded the newspaper. The culture section mentioned that a Zurich-based author had won Germany’s Büchner Prize and had received the award in Darmstadt. 

Just two weeks earlier, when I had gone to the Orell Füssli bookstore at Stadelhofen asking for book recommendations, they had suggested this author’s 2017 novel. I had finished it in a few days. “What a coincidence!” I thought. Or maybe not—the award had probably been announced before the ceremony, and the bookstore staff had simply recommended a prize-winning author. 

The author’s surname meant "Bear Foot" in German. Other than that, I didn’t know much about him. Now, from the newspaper, I learned he lived in Zurich. I should have guessed—the novel was set in Zurich, after all. Still, it was nice to know he lived in my city. I pulled out my phone and looked up his Wikipedia page. I discovered he was born the same year and month as me, just one day later. “What a coincidence!” I was exactly one day older. As a child, I had hated being a "Christmas baby"—school was always on break, and my birthday gift would inevitably merge with my Christmas present. My birthday would get lost in the holiday rush, reduced to a small cake. He must have suffered the same birthday trauma for 48 years—poor Bear Foot! 

When I looked up, I locked eyes with the man sitting across from me. I glanced at the photo on my phone, then back at him. There was no doubt—Bear Foot was sitting right in front of me. His narrow brown eyes met mine for a second before he looked away. My heart pounded. I didn’t dare say anything. He seemed uncomfortable under my gaze and raised his copy of “Tages Anzeiger” to hide his face. So, he must have returned to Zurich after the award ceremony. But the Metro rag had only just caught up with the news. 

My eyes drifted to his dark blue raincoat peeking out from under the newspaper, then down to his shoes beneath his black jeans. The brown leather Italian loafers weren’t as big as a bear’s Foot. 

I pretended to read other news articles while impatiently waiting to catch another glimpse of his face. Trump had announced America’s withdrawal from the Paris Climate Agreement. Egypt’s military regime had killed 80 Islamist militants. 

I was supposed to get off at Bellevue and switch trams. But since he didn’t get off, neither did I. I could stay on a little longer and catch another tram at Paradeplatz heading the same direction. Maybe I’d find the right moment to say, “Congratulations on the award. I just finished your book.” I wished I hadn’t read it so quickly. If I had it in my bag, he’d see I was a reader—maybe even ask for an autograph. 

 

But what if it wasn’t him? Or worse, what if he thought I was some creep stalking him, like the protagonist in his book who follows a young woman? 

In his novel, a contractor named Philip waits at a famous café in Bellevue for a business meeting. When the other person doesn’t show, he steps outside but lingers nearby, smoking and wandering around in case they arrive. He notices a young woman exiting a revolving door across the square and, intrigued by her shoes, starts following her—not with any ill intent, just to pass the time. Even when his secretary calls to say the person he was supposed to meet has arrived, he keeps trailing the woman instead. 

If he had noticed me staring at his shoes earlier and our eyes met just as the tram approached Bellevue, wouldn’t it be natural for him to think “I was the one stalking him”? To avoid giving that impression, I decided not to say anything. 

The tram advanced a few more stops, nearing Paradeplatz. I definitely had to switch trams here. Secretly, I hoped he’d get off too. My wish must have been granted—as we pulled into the stop, he stood without lowering his newspaper, turned his back, carefully folded the paper, tucked it under his arm, and moved toward the door. From where I sat, I couldn’t see his face. But his raincoat matched one I’d seen in photos online. It had to be him. The moment the doors opened, he stepped off. Keeping my eyes on him, I followed a few passengers later. 

The electronic display at the stop said Tram 7 would arrive in three minutes. Bear Foot strode confidently toward Bleicherweg without hesitation. Since my tram was heading that way too, I figured walking the short distance was better than waiting. I might be a little late for work. Keeping a few people between us, I trailed him. 

What if he turned around and saw me? I pulled my sunglasses from my bag and put them on—even though the sky was overcast, with no sunlight in sight. As I neared my workplace, I realized I couldn’t keep following him. Maybe I gave up because I didn’t want to end up like Philip in his book. 

At the office, I sat at my desk and checked my emails. Then I grabbed my laptop and rushed to a meeting. That afternoon, during a free moment, I started a Word document. I noted the date, the tram-stop and time I boarded, and the time I got off. I saved the file as “Bear Foot”. 

I spent the entire winter attending book signings by visiting authors at Kaufleuten, sitting in on guest lectures at the university’s literature department, and buying and reading all of Bear Foot’s other books. I rode Tram 2 at the same time every day, sitting near the back where four people could sit facing each other. Back in the day, phone directories listed people’s numbers—you could even guess their neighbourhood. But despite months of digging, I found almost nothing about his private life. Still, I made sure to add every scrap of information to my document. 

By mid-March 2020, coronavirus cases had reached Europe. All shops closed, and pharmacies ran out of masks. Unable to go to the office, I worked from home and spent all my free time researching Bear Foot. 

By May, the weather had turned beautiful, but gatherings of more than five people were banned in Switzerland due to the virus. My friends and I decided to have a picnic at Zürichhorn, pretending to be two separate groups. Every year, I had a tradition of taking my first swim in the lake on Mother’s Day. To keep the streak alive, I arrived an hour and a half early, at noon, planning to quickly dip in and out before my friends showed up. My apartment was just a three-minute walk from the Corbusier Pavilion. I’d swim near the bronze statue on the lakeside, sunbathe while my swimsuit dried, read my book, and then meet my friends at the pavilion at 1:30. 

When I reached the statue, I saw another lunatic like me stripping down to swim, carefully folding his clothes. My breath caught when I recognized his face. It couldn’t be a coincidence that we had so much in common. No one else was crazy enough to swim in this cold lake—just him and me. I watched from a distance as he waded in and swam a few strokes. Then, driven by a strange impulse, I walked over, gathered his clothes, and stuffed them into my picnic bag. A few picnickers were around, but no one paid me any attention. Calmly, I stood up and walked away, keeping my eyes on the lake. 

I went home. Despite my composed walk, my heart was racing, and I was drenched in sweat. I emptied his clothes from my bag—his phone, wallet, shorts, linen shirt, and towel. “Damn, I took his towel too.” Poor guy must have been stuck there in just his swimsuit. But it was too late now. I rummaged through his wallet: bank card, driver’s license, a Coop receipt. I checked his phone for messages. Guilt gnawed at me. I decided to return his things after dark. I wiped my fingerprints off the phone and wallet, put on dishwashing gloves to avoid leaving prints, stuffed everything into a bag, and left it by my door. 

Then I changed out of my shorts and blouse into a long summer dress, swapped my cap for a straw hat, and even switched my picnic bag. I let down my tied-up hair and applied red lipstick. Now, there was no resemblance to the woman from earlier. I waited an hour before leaving again at 1:30. 

The picnic was fun, but I felt uneasy, ashamed of what I’d done. Around 4 p.m., I convinced two friends to come to the lake with me, saying, “At least take a photo of me while I swim.” The three of us walked to the shore. I kept my swimming tradition alive, if only for two minutes. Bear Foot was long gone—maybe he’d even reported it to the police. But there was no sign of suspicion. Now, I wished I had swum toward him at noon, pretended to cramp, and caught his attention. Instead of a harmless lie to start a conversation, I’d stolen his things. I didn’t know why I’d done something so crazy. But it was done. 

That evening, the bag was still by my door. I waited for dark and went to the shore around 10 p.m. Too scared to return to the scene, I left his belongings on a bench about 30 meters away and went home. After that, ashamed of what I’d done, I stopped researching him. 

Five years passed. The coronavirus days faded from memory. I had long forgotten the author I’d obsessed over for six months. But thanks to him, my interest in literature had grown. It was April 2025, and during an Easter trip to Italy, I listened to author interviews in the car. After Max Frisch and Dürrenmatt, an interview with Bear Foot began. He talked about himself—how one day, he’d gone swimming in the lake and had his clothes stolen, how vulnerable he’d felt that day. I nearly drove into the guardrails of Lake Lucerne from the shock. I pulled over, breathless. But I was ecstatic. He was talking about “me”. Now, he knew I existed.