10 See Rellstab, Berlin und seine nächsten Umgebungen in malerischen Originalansichten: Historisch-topographisch beschrieben (Darmstadt: Gustav Georg Lange, 1852).
11 For Benjamin’s memories of the Tiergarten and the motif of the labyrinth, see Berliner Kindheit um neunzehnhundert, GS, 7.1, 393–5 (Berlin Childhood Around 1900, SW, 3, 352–4).
12 Paul Graupe (1881–1953) was an antiquarian bookseller, auctioneer, and art dealer who, until he fled the Nazis in 1936, was located in Berlin. The “Munich painter Hirth” is Otto Albert Hirth (1899–1969). Benjamin discusses an exhibition at Graupe’s featuring works by Hirth in his article “Unterirdischer Gang in Der Tiergartenstrasse” [Underground Passageway in Tiergartenstrasse], GS, 4.1, 563–5, published in Die literarische Welt on March 28, 1930, just a few weeks after the broadcast of “Berlin Guttersnipe.”
CHAPTER 6. Berlin Toy Tour I
Are any of you familiar with Godin’s book of fairy tales?1 Of all the children out there listening, perhaps not a single one of you. In the last thirty years of the previous century, however, it could be found in many a nursery, including the one in which the man speaking with you now spent his earliest days. The publisher kept reissuing new editions, each time with a different look, varying the colorful pictures according to the fashion of the time. However, quite a few of the somber images have remained the same since the very first edition. Let’s begin with a tale from this book: “Sister Tinchen.”2 Right on the second page of the story is one of these somber pictures. It shows five children miserably huddled together next to a dilapidated hut. They are in a truly wretched state. Their mother died that morning, and it’s been quite some time since they had a father. There are four boys and one girl. The girl’s name is Tinchen. But this is only the foreground of the picture. In the background one sees a fairy, delicate and doll-like, holding a lily. Her name is Concordia, which means “harmony.” She promises the children that she will protect them so long as they always get along. Scarcely upon hearing this, an evil wizard, the fairy’s enemy, arrives with a pile of gifts which he promptly throws to the children, causing them to quarrel. The boys, as boys will, begin to scuffle. Only the little girl does not join in the fray, so the devils cannot ensnare her in their sack as they did with the boys right away.
So far, you will tell me, this is a rather absurd story. And I would agree. But wait for what happens next. The little girl must, of course, free her brothers from the wicked sorcerer’s lair where the devils have taken them. And there, thanks to the good woman who thought up this tale and was otherwise not particularly known as a writer, something wonderful occurs. You’re surely familiar with the obstacles that rescuers must overcome in fairy tales. First they have to get through a door guarded by two savages with clubs, as on the former title page of the Vossische Zeitung.3 And then they come to an immaculate, gleaming hall where they must pass between two freshly burnished fire-breathing dragons. And finally, in the last room they encounter a toad, or some other beast, which they have to kiss so that it transforms into a princess. In “Sister Tinchen,” whose heroine after all is just a little girl, who no one would imagine capable of such heroic and bloodthirsty deeds, everything is much more civilized. That is to say, she must do absolutely nothing if she is to free her brothers. For her entire journey through the land of the evil sorcerer she can’t pause even for a moment — until she reaches his cave. The sorcerer, who of course wants to make this impossible for her, conjures enticing images to coax her to linger. Were she to say, even just once, “Here I’d like to stay,” she would fall under his spell.
Now I’ll read to you some of the traps he laid for her: Tinchen bravely crosses the border into the magic land, thinking only of her brothers. At first she sees nothing special. But soon she arrives in a vast room filled with toys. Everywhere are little booths laid out with every possible distraction: carousels with ponies and wagons, slides and rocking horses, and above all, the most magnificent dollhouses. Seated in armchairs at a small, decorated table are some large dolls. Upon catching Tinchen’s gaze, the largest and prettiest among them stands up, bows gracefully, and says to her in an exquisite little voice: “We’ve been expecting you for some time, dear Tinchen, come and lunch with us.” As she speaks, all the other dolls rise to their feet; even the baby dolls in their cribs lift their little heads to see her, and Tinchen, enraptured, sits down in the small armchair awaiting her at the table. Tinchen relishes the delectable treats and after lunch, as the dolls begin to dance and more toys begin to stir around her, Tinchen is so beside herself with joy that she claps her hands and cries: “Oh, how beautiful it is here. Here I’d like to …” What did she want to say? Of course she wanted to say: “Here I’d like to stay.” But she’s not allowed to say that if she wants to free her brothers. So, a small blue bird suddenly appears, sits on her shoulder and sings her a little reminder:
Tinchen, dearest Tinchen mine,
Think about your brothers thine!
Thus she makes it through all sorts of enchanted lands, with the little bird always appearing just in time. We could follow her everywhere if this weren’t the radio station’s Berlin Hour and I didn’t have to zip back to Berlin through secret underground tunnels while Tinchen stays in the magic kingdom. After all, even while she stands in front of a gingerbread house, Tinchen is coming to Berlin as well. As the door opens, out come two little brown people, who approach her, curtsying daintily: “Welcome to our land.” “And who are you, and what is the name of this land of yours?” she asks curiously. “Well now, you’ve never heard of the Land of Plenty?” said the two little people in unison. “We’re the gingerbread man and gingerbread lady. And I’d like to give you my great big heart!” says the little man with a smile, as he pulls from his breast a heart encircled with almonds. “And I give you my pretty white flower,” says the little lady as she hands her the tulip she was holding. Then a mob of cakes and chocolates gather around, beckoning her to stay. “Oh, how I’d like to,” says Tinchen. But again the bird appears to make sure she doesn’t forget.
Perhaps you’ll remember this fairy tale in a few years when, in the higher grades at school, you hear some of Goethe’s greatest dramas, Faust in particular. As you probably know, Faust made a deal with the devil. The devil has to do whatever Faust wants, and in return he gets Faust’s soul. But the question is when he gets to have it. He’s not allowed to take it until Faust is perfectly content and happy and wants everything to remain just as it is. Unfortunately for Faust there’s no little blue bird, and sure enough, one day when he’s already a very old man he declares:
To the moment I would like to say:
Please stay a while, you are so fine!4
And then and there he drops dead.
You must be thinking, this fellow will never make it to Berlin. But it’s like the race between the tortoise and the hare. As is well known, the tortoise is sitting in a ditch when the hare arrives, completely out of breath. The tortoise says: “I’m already here.” And sure enough, I’m already here in Berlin, just where you would all like to be. Because just as I’ve told you about the charmed attractions that little Tinchen has to bravely pass by without lingering, I could tell you of many attractions in Berlin that all of you, just as courageously, have passed by without lingering. Or if your mother had the time, perhaps you were able to stop. By now maybe you’ve guessed where I’m heading: straight to the middle of Berlin, where we have these long galleries of toys without fairies or sorcerers. In the department stores.