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.