11 In March 1926, a “hunger artist” named Jolly sold tickets to an exhibition of himself fasting, setting a new world record of going without food for forty-four days.
12 Alfred Döblin, Berlin Alexanderplatz (Berlin: S. Fischer Verlag, 1929), 72ff. The passage, slightly modified from Döblin, is provided by the editors of the GS based on Benjamin’s page number reference in the typescript.
13 Amanullah Khan, sovereign of Afghanistan from 1919 to 1929, visited Berlin in 1928. “Iron Gustav” was a coachman who drove his carriage from Berlin to Paris and back in 1928.
14 The German here is a pun on the verbs kriegen (to get) and kriechen (to crawl). When the drunkard asks, “Kricht man hier Rum?” [You got any rum here?], the barkeep pretends to have heard “Kriecht man herum?” [Does one crawl around?], and answers “Hier setzt man sich” [In here we sit]. The pun depends on the words being pronounced in Berlin dialect.
CHAPTER 2. Street Trade and Markets in Old and New Berlin
Are you familiar with the fairy tale, “The Golden Pot”? Do you recall the strange old apple monger whom the student Anselmus runs into as the story begins?1 Or do you know Hauff’s tale “Little Long-Nose,” which begins at a market where a witch touches all the goods with her spidery fingers to pick out the best ones?2 And when you visit the market with your mother, is it not sometimes thrilling and festive? For even the most ordinary weekly market has some of the magic of oriental markets, such as the Samarkand bazaar. Have you seen the new film shot at the market at Wittenbergplatz?3 It’s more thrilling than most detective films. One thing that’s missing in the film — and even books seldom deal with it — is the market talk: the bargaining and trading, all the back-and-forth of goods and money that is, in its own way, as rich and sumptuous for the ear as the image of the market is a feast for the eyes. This is particularly true of the Berlin market. Some months ago I spoke to you here about the dialect of Berlin. The market, and street trade in general, is now one of the places where Berlinish can best be overheard and appreciated in its richness and variation. It’s the street trade of old and new Berlin that I’d like to talk to you about today.
Market women were already something very special in old Berlin. Of all merchant women, they were alone in having permission to offer their wares at the weekly market, and were mostly women farmers peddling their own produce. Quite different were the so-called hawker women. They were forbidden to sell the better goods and, as compensation for being permitted to trade, were forced to spin four pounds of wool per month for the warehouse. As even their purchasing was greatly restricted — they were not allowed to buy directly from farmers, but had to stock up on left-over goods from other vendors at closing time on market days — the hawkers did measly business, eking out only a meager living for their families. This was still the case as late as the eighteenth century. And if a woman of low standing wanted to contribute to the family budget, as so many soldiers’ wives did, there was sometimes no other option but to become a hawker. For a proper market woman, then, there was no greater insult than to be called a “hawker.” So, in one of his best scenes, Glassbrenner depicts a market woman and everything that comes to her mind as she tells off, with her world-famous Berlin Schnauze,4 a customer who has just muttered “hawker” in her direction. “Hawker?” she repeats, standing up, arms akimbo: “Listen here, you old dog, go bark at some other stall or I’ll stomp on your paw so hard you’ll be whining for eight days.” The man says: “Well, well, isn’t it remarkable how these hawkers can scold.” Hawker: “Scold? Such a daffy beanpole of a guy like you, you can’t even be scolded; you’re already two or three times worse than anything vile I’d say about you. Such a shadow of a male specimen you are, always trying to get the best of someone. You filthy pedant, you wanna bully us around? Is that it? Why not just hang yourself, so no decent person’s forced to commit a crime against you. Go curl up in a ball. Go see the rag man and sell yourself for a quarter pound of rags. Take some gravel and rub yourself clean so there’s nothin’ left of you. Go hang yourself from the moon so the good-for-nothings can go home early! And steer clear of the choirboys, or they’ll start singing: God of my mercy shall preserve me!”5 It had become an actual sport to lure the market women to rant. And you can see here that it paid off.
To spew insults straight from the heart, and with such perseverance, is indeed a great talent, one reserved for a privileged few. It requires not only a high degree of crassness and a healthy lung, but also a large vocabulary and, not least of all, great wit. That one attributes such wit to the stall owners and market women is borne out by many wonderful stories. For example this one, which tells of a fruit peddler lying on her deathbed, suffering terribly at the prospect of dying. Her husband stands beside her, not knowing what to say but trying to comfort her: “Don’t worry too much that you have to die; everything’ll be ok, it’ll all work out. We all have to die once in our lives!” “Muttonhead,” the poor woman whispers, “that’s the whole point. If we had to die ten or twelve times, I wouldn’t care so much about this time.” The great Berlin catchphrase “Nothing to fear!” was also the motto for this sort of person. As you probably know, Berliners are not particularly impressed by education or refinement. And if they are, they never show it. There’s a wonderful Berlin scene from the middle of the last century, back when there were still no funny pages, but bookshops and stationery stores sold individual pictures, with captions and usually in watercolor, by known artists like Hosemann, Franz Krüger, or Dörbeck.6 Let me tell you about one: somewhere close to the Brandenburg Gate you see a fat fruit seller, and standing next to her is a more refined gentleman with a lady friend, both foreigners. You can tell just by looking at them that they don’t know much about Berlin. “My dear lady,” says the man, pointing at the Victoria statue atop the Brandenburg Gate, “can you tell me who that is on top of the gate?” Answer: “Yeah, sure, that old thing? Ancient Roman history, the Electors of Brandenburg, the Seven Years’ War. That’s all.” “Aha,” says the man, “Thank you kindly.”
I do not want to suggest that this sort of Berliner has died out, only that the class divide has become more marked. People stay more and more among their own kind so that, as a customer, it’s no longer so easy to get close to these sellers amid the hustle and bustle on market days. So as for the exquisite scoldings like the ones Glassbrenner passed on to us, there’s just no more time for them. Today’s market women have become more like businesswomen, and the butchers who come to the market have large, refrigerated storerooms where they load up on stock before heading to the market and offload their unsold goods afterwards. This brings us to another spectacle, which was as scrumptious for the eyes as the old Berlin weekly market was a feast for the ears: the market halls. When I was little, it was cause for celebration to be taken to the Magdeburger Platz market halls, where it was always so warm in winter and on hot days so cool. Everything is different there compared to the outdoor markets. First of all, there are huge mounds of one kind of goods, right next to another booth packed with something else. But above all there is the smell, a mix of fish, cheese, flowers, raw meat, and fruit all under one roof, which is completely different than in the open air markets and creates a dim and woozy aroma that fits perfectly with the light seeping through the murky panes of lead-framed glass. And let’s not forget the stone floor, which is always awash with run-off or dishwater and feels like the cold and slippery bottom of the ocean. Because I’ve rarely been to a market hall since I was little, going to one now brings back all the charm of visits long ago. And if I really want a special treat, I go for a walk in the Lindenstraße market hall in the afternoons between four and five. Maybe someday I’ll meet one of you there. But we won’t recognize each other. That’s the downside of radio.