Doll Lottchen is an example of a museum object that has changed its nature and functions throughout its lifespan, so it can be described as a toy and as a comfort object, but also as a symbolic item of personal childhood and national identity, and a delicate museum object with restrictions in use. Doll Lottchen belonged to Anne, who was given it as a gift in 1947, during a film shooting in Saint Petersburg (then Leningrad) by the host of a local family, when she was four years old. She found the little smiling doll lovely and called her Lottchen. Anne believed that the doll was produced in Germany and was probably taken as a trophy by some Soviet soldier at the end of the Second World War, but the moulded mark shows that the doll was made in Okhta factory in Russia. Its origin is still unclear as Rheinische Gummi- und Celluloidfabrik in Germany indeed launched a similar doll called Mädi between 1930 and 1957. The Okhta factory used German moulds in the 1930s and 1940s. Sometimes detecting the history of the previous usage of a museum object needs effort and time; for Lottchen the material was collected within eight months of communication with the donator. As Lottchen was an affective object or sensitive object (Frykman and Frykman) there are various memories about it. Anne describes three dramatic episodes from her childhood, during which the doll was either temporarily lost or broken by a dog. At the age of ten the life story of Anne and the story of her favourite doll intersected. Accidentally Anne learned from a tipsy neighbour that she was actually a “German girl”. During two years, when she kept this shocking information a secret and made a new costume for the doll, her doll Lottchen acquired a new meaning. When Anne became 12, it was revealed that she had been rescued by her Estonian stepmother from Königsberg in 1946. By then the city had been destroyed by the allies and occupied by the Soviet forces; thousands of civilians had died of diseases and starvation. Anne was three and a half, her biological family had lost the father and two other children, and little Roswitha Anne Browarzyck (her actual name) was very fragile, with her feet swollen from hunger. Miraculously escaped to Estonia with her future stepmother, she had to hide her East-Prussian origin and was not allowed to speak German. So she quickly forgot her real identity. When finally donating the doll to the museum, Anne sent her off with the following words of farewell: “May you, dear Lottchen, have many good friends and excitement on every day at the toy museum! Maybe I’ll come to see you sometime! Hugs, your Rose (that’s how I was called at home).” As toy museums tend to be places of childhood nostalgy and the Tartu Toy Museum is no exception, there are some dilemmas about dealing with this kind of objects. As they are made of hazardous and fragile celluloid, the best way to preserve them is to keep them in controlled conditions in the repository. Today doll Lottchen is kept this way. However, as a modern museum would like to exhibit its items and share its collections with visitors, there are ethical questions of how to organise it. It is argued whether the happy-faced doll could be displayed in a showcase together with other celluloid dolls without any explanations, to follow the toy museum’s current policy to keep any war themes or sensitive topics of children’s life as silent as possible. Or should toy museums take a more active part in highlighting uneasy topics and white spots in history? Today the world is dangerous and the ongoing war in Ukraine raises questions about war, forcing parents to find ways to answer them. By means of historical stories about toys and children to whom they belonged, museums could contribute to this task. It seems that the best way could be to conduct visitor´s research among children and adults both through surveys and observations. In this way it could be possible to find out what is preferred and whether and how to deal with difficult topics through temporary exhibitions, events or museum education.
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