Every Münchner Knows

By Rhea Karty

Every Münchner knows that on Sundays, as you stroll down Theresienstraße, it’s wise to keep your head down and your money tucked away. Yet, all too often, the dazzling spectacle of jams, honey, paintings, postcards, books, and the intoxicating scents sailing from succulent foods prove too potent—too enticing to simply pass by.

With each step, these unsuspecting Münchners are lured deeper into a labyrinth of treasures. Vendors’ enthusiastic voices and broad smiles try to cut over each other. The air—thick with the aroma of roasted chestnuts, fresh pastries, and fragrant spices, blending into a sensory cacophony.

It is all so loud, so jarring, that many people don’t even notice the old man sitting in his stall near the end of the street. His therapist told him that he needed to be friendlier––to be brighter––so today, he wore an orange shirt… no one seemed to notice. In fact, no one has visited his stall yet. So he does what he always does: he sits… and sits… and sits some more. 

He doesn’t want you to feel bad for him. No, that is the last thing he would want. His mother used to call him her proud little boy—stolzer kleiner Junge. She always said this with a soft smile while dusting off his coat after school. He would try to shake the dirt off his clothes before arriving home, hoping she wouldn’t see, but she always did. She noticed the slight bruises and scrapes that marked his skinny body, how his clothes seemed to tear faster than others, the way the other kids snickered as he walked past. And she was always there to wipe away the sniffles after a particularly tough day—“meine stolzer kleiner Junge.” 

He did love her. She was, in many ways, the only person he ever truly loved. Yet, part of him couldn’t help but resent her delicate porcelain hands and thin blonde hair. He often found himself thinking that if his father had been there instead of her, there would have been no need to dust off his coat—those kids would have been running from HIM instead.

A woman walks by his booth. He makes eye contact and is about to smile before she glances away and walks off as quickly as she came. He has been told that he has that effect on people—an uncanny look that many find off-putting. His therapist insists he should smile more, but sometimes he wonders if he has forgotten how.

Usually, the only time he smiles is when picking up a new item for his collection. He often travels for a full day—rising early, funneling onto a train, and disembarking in a small Bavarian town. Typically, he meets with an old widow or a grandchild who has no idea what has been passed down to them. They usually hear about him through whispers or friends of friends; after all, you can’t just post about this kind of thing online—not if you want to remain respectable.

He usually has lunch with them before they take him to their home or some secluded spot to finally reveal their item. Throughout this entire process, his heart races in his chest, thumping against his wrinkled skin and battered bones. He tries not to show it too much—principles of negotiation and all that. Most times, the items are forgeries or mere mix-ups, easily mistaken for the real thing by untrained eyes. But when they are real, they are beautiful. 

When he finally gets his hands on one, he traces his finger over it, trying to imagine what it was like to wear it. The person who had this piece on their chest—right next to their beating heart—for months, maybe years. The power they possessed, the fear they invoked. He would hold the medal and ribbon to his chest, close his eyes, and then… and only then… he would smile.

A little boy wanders over to his table and starts eyeing his items. The boy looks 6 or 7 but is small, dressed in denim overalls, frayed around the edges. He seems energetic but slows down to carefully examine the table. 

He starts by looking at a gold one at the front: it has an eagle in the center with the words SS-Dienstauszeichnungen wrapped around it. The “SS Long Service Award” was given out for four years of service to the party. He bought this one from an old lady in Bremen who was so ashamed that she refused to even look at him as he handed her the 200 euros. They were quite common, actually; over 90,000 were given out, although only 20,000 were found… most of them are probably still sitting in ashamed old women’s basements. 

The boy stares at it for a bit and then keeps looking. He glances over the table—he looks past all the red and blue ribbons and medals engraved with eagles, guns, and diamond-encrusted swords. His eyes land off in the corner on a relatively inconspicuous-looking all-black cross. His wide blue eyes survey its dark surface and pointed edges.

The sides of the man’s mouth twitched upwards. 

“You have good taste, boy. You managed to pick out the most valuable piece on this table. Do you know what this is?”

The boy shakes his head. 

The man takes the medal cross into his hands gently and feels the weight of the iron and gold alloy– the slight texture on the back. He knows these edges better than the back of his hand—better than his mother’s face– as a boy, he would go to sleep with it pressed to his heart. 

“The Großkreuz des Eisernen Kreuzes—Grand Cross of the Iron Cross, awarded by the Führer himself. To receive this, you had to be noble, brave, stubborn, and victorious… Only one has ever been officially found, and only a handful ever given out… my boy, we are indeed in the presence of the greats.”

The boy’s eyes meet his, and he can sense the spark in them—the same spark that he, too, feels when he is near these objects.

“Winfried! What are you doing touching that?” A frazzled woman emerges from the crowd, her voice sharp. “My god, Winfried, stop touching that… we… we need to have a conversation about this.” She shoots the man a glare before whisking her son away.

The man is not offended; this happens often. At some point, every Münchner finds themselves wandering aimlessly yet with an urgent curiosity through stacks of crumbling yet invaluable antiquities. Here, time seems to blur, and the past whispers through every object—a faded postcard from a distant land, a weathered book with tales waiting to be rediscovered, a blood-stained medal whose bearer is long forgotten. Yet, amidst the allure, very few dare to look closer, to uncover the stories hidden within the dust. Perhaps it’s the fear of what they might find—memories that tug at the heart or forgotten dreams that wait silently, like a genie in a bottle waiting to be released.

Rhea received her undergraduate degree from Dartmouth College and is now at Harvard. She enjoys modern mythology, folklore, and anything that blurs the line between absurdity and honesty.