Walter Benjamin - Radio Benjamin

Post horn melody.

JUMBLE OF VOICES: Frankfurt am Main! Frankfurter sausages! Goethe House! Frankfurt Radio! Apple wine! The Frankfurt Times ! Marzipan cookies! Frankfurt is teeming with curiosities!

COAL PETER: What’s there to eat and drink? Wrap up a couple dozen sausages for me, a couple jugs of apple wine, and a couple pounds of marzipan cookies.

Post horn melody.

JUMBLE OF VOICES: Paris! Le Matin! Paris-Midi! Paris-Soir ! Cacahouètes, cacahouètes, and cacahouètes! The Louvre! The Eiffel Tower! Eskimo pops, goody bags! Surprises!

COAL PETER ( sleepy ): Where are we now? Oh, in Paris! Then pack up some champagne, lobsters, and oysters, so I don’t die of hunger and thirst!

A VOICE: Mr. Postilion, who is that sleepy gentleman?

POSTILION: Oh, that’s Mr. Coal Peter from the Black Forest, who ate and drank so much in Frankfurt that he can hardly move.

Post horn melody.

JUMBLE OF VOICES: London! Britannia rules the waves! Ginger ale! Scotch Whisky! Toffees! Muffins! The Morning Post! The Daily News! The Times! Turkey and plumcake!

Coal Peter snores.

A VOICE: Mr. Postilion, who is that snoring gentleman over there?

POSTILION: That’s Mr. Coal Peter from the Black Forest, who ate and drank so much in Paris that he can hardly keep his eyes open. Post horn melody.

JUMBLE OF VOICES: Constantinople! Visit the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn! Carpets! A hookah perhaps? Bagpipes made in Constantinople! Rahat lokum! Visit the whirling dervishes in Gallipoli and the minarets of the Hagia Sophia!

Coal Peter snores.

A VOICE: Mr. Postilion, who is that snoring gentleman over there?

POSTILION: That’s Mr. Coal Peter from the Black Forest who has already eaten and drunk so much at the previous stops that he can’t keep his eyes open at all.

Post horn melody.

JUMBLE OF VOICES: Roma! La Stampa di Roma! Il Corriere della Sera! Il Foro Romano! The Coliseum! Giovinezza! Vino bianco e vino rosso! Spaghetti! Polenta! Risotto! Frutti di mare! Antiquities! Visit the Pope and Il Duce!

Coal Peter snores.

A VOICE: Mr. Postilion, who is that snoring gentleman over there?

POSTILION: That’s Mr. Coal Peter from the Black Forest who has already eaten and drunk so much at the previous stops that he can’t even open his eyes.

Post horn melody.

POSTILION: A town in the Black Forest! Everybody off!

Gong.

ANNOUNCER: Now we have Coal Peter, back at home. You heard the post horn with which the Postilion announced his arrival. Hopefully, you understood all of the other stops the Postilion announced, but you didn’t understand that last one. That is no accident. We don’t know the name of the place Coal Peter calls home. It’s not named in the book from which you, Coal Peter, and you, Fat Ezekiel, and you, Tall Schlurker, and you, Dutch Michael, and you, Little Glass Man, have emerged. And we don’t want to pry. It’s enough that he’s here, back at home, in the Schwabian Black Forest. He knows this, but only in his head, not his heart. He recognizes that he is back home but he doesn’t feel it. What should he do? His charcoal kiln no longer burns, he sold his glass factory, he has so much money that working would seem stupid to him. Therefore, to pass the time, he looks for a wife. He is still a handsome fellow. One cannot see from the outside that he has a heart of stone. Before, when he had his real heart, everyone liked him very much and they all remember this now, especially Lisbeth, the poor lumberjack’s daughter. She lived quietly and in solitude, diligently taking care of her father’s house. She was never seen on the dance floor, not even on Pentecost or at the fair. When Peter heard of this marvel in the Black Forest, he rode to her cottage, which had been pointed out to him, and sought her hand in marriage. The father of beautiful Lisbeth was surprised to see such a distinguished gentleman and was even more astonished when he heard that it was the rich Mr. Peter who wanted to become his son-in-law. He didn’t reflect for long; he thought that all his worries and poverty would come to an end and so he accepted. And Lisbeth, being a good child, was so obedient that she became Mrs. Peter Munk without protest. Lisbeth had no money, but she brought a wonderful dowry to Peter’s house: a cuckoo clock that had been in her family for generations. This clock was quite peculiar; it was not without reason that people said the Keeper of Wealth had given it long ago to someone very dear to him. What was important about the clock was this: it worked like a true Black Forest cuckoo clock, and chimed on the hour. At noon it chimed twelve times, but only if there were no evil person in the room where it was hanging. If there were an evil person in the room, it chimed exactly thirteen times. We are now in the very room where the cuckoo clock hangs. Coal Peter sits at the table with Lisbeth.

The cuckoo clock chimes eleven times.

LISBETH: Eleven o’clock? I must hurry and put the carrots on the stove.

PETER: Carrots again, ugh, disgusting.

LISBETH: But it’s your favorite dish, Peter.

PETER: Favorite dish! Favorite dish, none of this grub pleases me.

Now, if you were to bring me a big glass of brandy … LISBETH: Don’t you remember what the minister said last Sunday, when he spoke of drinking?

PETER ( stomping his foot ): So, what about it? Are you going to pour me a glass or not? (Threateningly. ) Well?

LISBETH ( we hear her whimpering ): Here, have your way. But it won’t end well.

PETER: As long as it starts well. Life is already sad enough for me.

But it really gets annoying when people go on and on about Sunday or good weather or spring. It all seems quite foolish, to my mind.

LISBETH: Are you in pain?

PETER: No, that’s just it, I feel neither pain nor happiness. Recently I cut my finger and hardly felt it. Remember? When I was chopping up the old chest that you received from your grandmother as a christening present?

A knock at the door.

PETER: Whatever you do, don’t answer it.

A second knock at the door.

PETER: He won’t dare enter before I say “come in.” And I won’t say “Come in.”

LISBETH: Why? You can’t possibly know who it is.

PETER: It’s certainly not the postman delivering a money order. Miserable beggars, no doubt.

A knock at the door.

LISBETH: Come in!

PETER: So there, you impudent fool. Of course it’s a beggar.

BEGGAR: Could you spare a little something?

PETER: You should be asking the devil, and he can have you.

BEGGAR: Have mercy, good woman, and give me a drink of water.

PETER: I’d rather pour a whole bottle of brandy over his head than give him a glass of water.

LISBETH: Leave me alone. I want to give him a drink of wine, a loaf of bread, and a dime to take on his way.

PETER: That’s the way you see things. It’s so typical of you, you idiot. Why can’t you just accept your husband’s wise judgment? Maybe you think I am cruel and hard-hearted. Do you not understand that I have weighed everything carefully? Do you not know what happens once you let such people across the threshold? They are beggars. One tells the next. They leave a secret mark on the door. Their trickster’s code. They spy out every opportunity, which means they take everything that’s not nailed down. Once you have hosted two or three of these wretches, within a year your home will be stripped bare.

BEGGAR: Oh, people as rich as you are, you don’t know how it hurts to be poor, and how much good a cold drink does in such heat.

PETER: Time drags on in the midst of such chatter.