It's one thing when someone appears to vanish off the face of the earth. It's quite another when they appear suddenly, as if from nowhere, their clothes, behavior and mannerisms completely at odds with their surrounding environment. At best, this might make for a sensational, unthreatening news story, a slice of the Bazaarre to liven up the day, like the story of Andreas Grassel, who seemed to appear in England one day,
completely out of the blue. Back in April two thousand and five, Grassel was found on a beach in a distressed state and appeared to have no recollection of who he was or how even to speak. While being looked after in care, Grassol began playing the piano in an effort to communicate with those around him, leading to him becoming known as the Piano Man. It was four months after he was first seen on the beach that he
finally revealed his name and true identity. A twenty year old man from southern Germany, he claimed to simply have forgotten who he was until then. At worst, like the titular character in Nicholas Rogue's nineteen seventy six sci fi classic The Man, who fell to earth, or any immigrant for that matter, taking their first steps through an unfamiliar land.
Some unfortunate individuals might find themselves becoming bogeymen for local anxieties about the general state of a nation and about just what constitutes the correct way to be in the world. Arguably the most famous example of the mysterious arrival narrative is the apocryphal tale of the Man from Torret. It was back in nineteen sixty when an enigmatic traveler reportedly arrived at Hanada Airport in Tokyo, claiming to be from a country which no borderers, officials, or anyone else for
that matter, had ever heard of. The man was said to have spoken multiple languages, and when his flight number was not found to be on any register, he was ordered to hand over his travel documents. He presented police with a strange looking passport from a non existent city state named Torret. After leaving the interrogation room to consult with senior officials, the officer whose responsibility it was to question the man apparently returned to the small office, only
to discover that the man had completely disappeared. All that was left behind was the strange passport lying face down on the table, and the man's returned plane ticket, which supposedly gave his name as John Zegris. As it turned out, the man from Torret as he became known, was simply the misreporting of a very real case about a genuine individual named John Zegris who was arrested in Japan for
committing international identity fraud. The man had already been sentenced to one year in prison and deported to Hong Kong when the story was eventually picked up by Canadian newspaper The Province. From there, the story was embellished with speculative details that had nothing to do with the actual events of the case. Our ability to make narratives out of the chaos of existence is perhaps both our greatest strength
and greatest weakness as a species. On the one hand, it is through narrative that we are able to construct the world around us. It empowers our sense of self and enables us to project meaning onto the world and the universe more broadly through the stories we create about them.
But on the other hand, since so much of how we see the world is dependent on what story stories we choose to believe, it is all too easy to get swept up in a lie, and whenever we are presented with a story that seems incomplete, it is almost impossible for us not to speculate on what those missing
parts may be. So when a body is found with no identity, like the so called Isdel Woman has covered in Season six, episode seventeen, a story of ice and fire, we are almost pathologically driven to want to know who they were and what exactly happened to them. The case of the Isdel Woman has been dissected so much that it's become a kind of shorthand for a certain variety of true crime story, one in which we are both baffled and titillated by the mystery at its center. It
also took place over fifty years ago. In more recent times, it is almost inconceivable, with the advancement of technology and the normalization of survey, that someone could suddenly appear in a well populated town with no trace of who they are or where they came from. And yet that is exactly what happened in two thousand and nine, during one strange summer in a picturesque seaside town in the west of Ireland. You're listening to unexplained and I'm Richard McLean Smith.
To anyone else, his appearance would have been unremarkable. To the driver of the bus route between Derry City and Sligo Town, The stooped figure who boarded his coach on that June twelfth afternoon in two thousand and nine cut a tragic figure against the cold rain beating down on the bus stop. Perhaps it was the ill fitting pair of trousers which hung too loosely from his waist as he mounted the steps, or perhaps it was the purple
shopping back filled with torn pieces of random paper. Whatever it was, the man could barely meet the driver's gaze as he spoke in what was later described as a crisp North European accent. Where you headed, the driver asked, single to Sligo, the man replied. The driver asked if he wanted Sligo Town or somewhere else in the wider countryside. The man seemed put out by the question, as if he wasn't exactly sure himself where he wanted to go.
The man rubbed awkwardly at the thick white stubble on the back of his head, leveled his eyes momentarily with the drivers, and repeated his first instruction single ticket to Sligo. As he shambled up the aisle, the driver turned in his seat to watch him go. He noticed that, as well as the purple shopping back, the man was carrying a simple black shoulder back and a medium sized hold, all which he'd placed neatly on the empty seat beside him.
He leaned his head against the window and made sure to avoid eye contact with the other passengers who walked onto the bus, as though he didn't want to be recognized. He removed a bread roll wrapped in cellophane and chewed slowly as the vehicle pulled out at the station and began the arduous four hour journey down the coast. No matter how many times he drove this route, the driver was always struck by the breath taking landscape that unfurled
before his windshield. He considered himself lucky as he passed through Donegal Town and breathed in the brackish sea air. As he made his way along the coast past Bundoran, passengers got on and off, some of whom he'd known for years. He took comfort in observing the local people going about their lives with the regularity of atomic clocks. The strange man seemed not to have moved during the
entire bus journey. The driver couldn't help but wonder if he was simply a tourist, or was he here visiting family or for work, or was it something more sinister. As the driver reached the terminus in the center of Sligo Town, he caught himself reciting the Lord's Prayer under his breath. It was a habit he'd formed in childhood
during moments of stress and confusion. As the unknown passenger descended the steps onto the nearly deserted platform, the driver finished his prayer in earnest Lead us not into temptation, he whispered, but deliver us from evil. Amen. It was just after six thirty pm when the stranger walked into the lobby of the sligh Go City Hotel. Though it was only a short distance from the bus station, the man was yet to find his bearings and seemed to have a persistent pain in his lower back, which made
it difficult to walk. The bags he carried weighed heavy on his shoulders, so he stopped and waved down a taxi. When asked by the driver where he wanted to go, The man said nothing. He rustled around in his purple carrier back before pulling out a slip of paper with a hastily scribbled set of directions on it. The paper looked like it had been torn from an envelope. The driver squinted at it in an effort to read it
the City Hotel. The man nodded in reply, and the driver gestured for him to jump into the back seat. When he got out to help the man with his bags, the stranger clutched the hole door to his chest like he was protecting it with his life, leaving him to it. The driver jumped back in and promptly made his way to the City Hotel. Minutes later they arrived, though the fare was little over five euros. The man handed the driver a crisp new twenty euro note, waving him away
when he tried to give him change. The driver watched as the man ambled slowly away and in through the hotel's front door, before pulling off and heading back into town. Inside the hotel, the stranger approached the front desk carefully with great deliberation, as if he was weighing each word for the energy it would take to speak. He requested a room for four nights and offered to pay up front in cash. When asked for his ID, the man
replied that he didn't have any. The receptionist explained that it wasn't a problem as long as he told them his name and address, and so, taking a pen and paper, the man put his name down as Peter Bergman and his address as Einstetters four four seven two, Vienna, Austria. Then he handed over the cash to pay for his stay and headed up to his room. The next time the man known as Peter Bergman was seen, he appeared neatly groomed. Locals remembered the piercing blue eyes, the tanned complexion,
the clean shaven face, and closely cropped white hair. Each day he wore the same simple outfit black leather jacket, blue jeans, black shoes, black leather belt. He appeared to be a heavy smoker, being noticed several times making the long trek down from his room to stand outside in the mild air for a cigarette or two. The staff at the Sligos City Hotel liked to play a game where they tried to guess his background. The consensus was
that he was some kind of professional worker. In his fifties or sixties, or a man away on business of some kind, perhaps a property speculator or a financier. Maybe he's a spy, joked one of the porters on his coffee break, a momentary silence to send it, as his colleagues tried to decide whether he was serious or not.
Whatever his occupation, the man known as Peter Bergmann seemed to have a spring in his step after checking into his room, as if a weight had been lifted, perhaps because for the time being, at least, he wasn't required to answer any more questions. In between sitting down for an occasional beer at the hotel bar and dining in some of the cafes and restaurants in the area, Peter Bergmann was most often observed taking long walks around Sligo.
Over time, he became more adventurous in his outings, despite the obvious back pain that continued to plague him, and with every foray into more extroverted activity, he became more and more the topic of fevered discussion and speculation. One thing that didn't go unnoticed was how every morning, after breakfast, which he took at eight thirty a m. Sharp, he left carrying his purple shopping bag full of papers, only
to return later having apparently disposed of its contents. It was as though he was ferrying bits of his life bag by measured bag out of his room, until there was nothing left at all but the clothes that he was wearing. On the afternoon of Saturday, June thirteenth, he made a visit to the local post office, where he purchased eight international stamps and some air mail stickers, though there was never any record of the letters he might have sent. During one of the periods when hotel staff
thought he was out, the housekeeper entered his room. When they opened the door, the found Peter fully dressed, standing in the entryway with a look on his face that seemed to suggest both that he was expecting somewhat and doing something that he wasn't supposed to be doing. Early on the morning of Sunday, June fourteenth, Peter asked the
hotel receptionist to order him a taxi. As usual, he was holding the purple carrier bag, which by now seemed so much a part of his uniform that it was barely remarked upon when he walked out onto the footpath with its plastic handles straining from the weight of its contents. When the driver pulled up to the curb, he asked Peter through the open window where he wanted to go.
Once again, in that calm, slightly eerie manner he developed when communicating with locals, Peter chose each of his words carefully, measuring them for impact. Perhaps, or maybe it was just the limited inc he spoke. I want to go for a swim, he said, Is there anywhere quiet? You know? The driver thought for a moment, and, after clocking that Peter was not a local, eventually suggested taking a short drive out to the nearby beauty spot of Ross's Point.
The place was popular with families and sweethearts for the dramatic views it offered over the open Atlantic. Seemingly pleased by the suggestion, Peter ducked into the back of the car. Ten minutes later they arrived at the spot. Peter ordered the driver to stay put for a few minutes while he stepped out and went for a wonder. After walking only a few paces, he stopped and took in the view of the tranquill Bay and its grassy borders to
the ben Bolburan Mountains. Beyond. Then he turned and headed back to the car. A brief smile flashed across his face as he approached the driver. Are you not going in today, the driver asked, Confused, Peter said something vague about there being too many people on the beach and that he wanted to come back some other time. Though Peter was as quiet as ever on the journey back to his hotel, the driver couldn't help but notice that
he seemed, somehow more relaxed than he was before. It reminded him of the serenity that people talked about when they were close to death, what his father had once called a Saints calm. As he glanced in the mirror at the strange man sitting in his back seat, the afternoon sun caught the glint of his spectacles, turning his
eyes into wide pools of light. On his final morning at the Sligo City Hotel, Peter Bergmann came down to the reception and asked if it would be possible to have a later check out, since he had some errands to run and his bus was not until the afternoon. He explained that because of the pain in his lower back, he wanted to restrict his movements as much as possible. Since the hotel was quiet and there were only a handful of bookings, the receptionist was happy to accommodate his request.
After breakfast, the man returned to his room for a few hours before finally checking out at one p m. Though he'd arrived in Sligo with a small black rucksack and a hold all, by the time Peter made it to the bus station, the only items he was carrying were the distinctive purple carrier back and a disposable cup of coffee, which he'd purchased at a kiosk. After sitting down at one of the tables in the waiting area, he was observed scribbling profusely on some scraps of paper,
which he then put in his bag. When the bus arrived, the man got on board alongside a handful of other passengers. The destination on the front read Ross's Point. The countryside that the so called peter Bergman traveled through that day is widely associated with the great Irish poet W. B. Yates, who spent much of his formative years holidaying in the region. It was the country of his heart, as he called it, and its presence and landscape can be felt in much
of his poetry. I will arise and go now and go to innis free, and a small cabin build there of clay and wattles, made nine bean rows. While I have there a hive of the honey bee, and live alone in the bee loud glade, and I shall have some peace there. For peace comes dropping, slow, dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings. There. Midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, and evening full of the linnet's wings. I will arise and
go now. For always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore. While I stand on the roadway or on the pavement's gray, I hear it in the deep hearts core. Just after dawn on Tuesday, June sixteenth, two thousand and nine, Ross's Point native Arthur Kinsella was out on the beach with his son Brian. Normally, they like to swim at a spot close to their house, but due to high winds coming from the west, the waves had been particularly treacherous that morning.
Arthur suggested walking a little further up the promenade, where the rocks offered protection from the blowing gale. It was Brian who noticed it first, what looked like a discarded department store mannequin dressed in speedos and a T shirt, lying face down in the sand with its arms by its side. As the two men drew closer, they realized it was a body. Arthur sank to his knees and
gestured for Brian to phone the police. As they waited, Arthur said to Brian that it might be appropriate to speak the Lord's prayer for the repose of this unknown man's soul, our father, which art in heaven. Arthur spoke solemnly as the nearby waves crashed onto the beach. As it is in heaven. They couldn't have known at that moment that theirs would be the only prayer spoken for the man known as Peter Bergman, who died alone on that beautiful beach at the most westerly point of the
European continent. The man had clearly been washed up on the beach, having gone into the water. In spite of this, a post mortem examination found no signs of what they termed a classical salt water drowning. What the pathologist did find, however, was that the man was in the advanced stages of prostate cancer and had multiple bone tumors. He would have been in considerable pain in the last few weeks of his life. The rest of the man's clothes were found
in a neat pile further up the shore. The labels on the various items, along with the clothes he was found in had all deliberately been removed. No money, wallet, or form of identification was found. After a police investigation, it was also discovered that the address he supplied to the Sligo City Hotel turned out to be nothing but a vacant lot in an uninhabited commercial building in Vienna, Austria.
As for the name Peter Bergman, no passports issued anywhere in Europe were found for anyone matching the man's physical description or aim profile. The stranger in Sligo clearly had some awareness about CCTV and their blind spots, because although police were convinced that he disposed of all his worldly possessions in public bins dotted around the town, there was no visual footprint of him actually doing it anywhere. Despite numerous attempts to find any next of kin, the Irish
guardy failed to locate anyone that knew the man. Four months after his body was discovered, the man known as Peter Bergmann was laid to rest in an unmarked grave in Sligo Town Cemetery. Unsurprisingly, like the Isdaar woman and the Somerton man before him, covered in Unexplained season six episode twenty two to mourn Names, that so called Peter Bergmann seemed to have gone to such an effort to deliberately obscure his identity has only intensified people's curiosity about him.
One of the more outlandish theories is that Peter Bergmann was a nom de plume for none other than the elusive founder of Bitcoin, Sir Tooshe Nakamoto. Some have suggested he may have been a spy on the run from something sinister, with nowhere left to turn. Whatever his motivation.
In a world obsessed with making ourselves the center of every one else's story or getting our fifteen minutes of fame, there is something undeniably poetic about how that unknown man in Sligo left us knowing next to nothing about him, and until some one comes forward with more concrete information, his identity will continue to remain Unexplained. This episode was written by James Connor Patterson and Richard mc lean smith. Thank you as ever for listening Unexplained as an AV
Club Productions podcast created by Richard McLain smith. All other elements of the podcast, including the music, are also produced by me Richard McClain smith. Unexplained. The book and audiobook is now available to buy worldwide. You can purchase from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Waterstones, and other bookstores. Please subscribe to and rate the show wherever you get your podcasts, and feel free to get in touch with any thoughts or
ideas regarding the stories you've heard on the show. Perhaps you have an explanation or a story of your own you'd like to share. You can find out more at Unexplained podcast dot com and reaches online through X and Blue Sky at Unexplained Pod and Facebook at Facebook dot com, Forward Slash Unexplained Podcast name assass