So while I’d prefer to spend two weeks here immersed in art and architecture while I am here, I feel it’s a basic human responsibility to spend some time contemplating the train wrecks of the 20th century. No modern German should feel guilt for the errors of that century, but they do bear a unique responsibility for sharing that past with the world.
They do an amazing job.
Though we didn’t visit them in this order, let’s go chronologically and start in Leipzig at the Monument to the Battle of the Nations. The battle commemorated is from the Napoleonic wars; a bloody, multi-national nightmare with Germans fighting on both sides. But the monument wasn’t erected until the centenary in 1913. Like so many delayed war memorials, it’s making points that stretch far beyond the original event.
The architecture here is known as Wilhelmine, roughly contemporary to Edwardian in the UK. It’s eye-popping. Armoured stone giants stand sentinel over an enormous tower fronted by a long reflecting pool. The proportions are of giants, not men, and the warriors are a strange mix of medieval and modernism. Inside the dome is a symbolic crypt for those fallen in battle, with more giants on guard. Above, at the four points from which the dome springs, sit even bigger figures representing the virtues of the German people, while in the dome itself hundreds of mounted knights ride in solemn circles to heaven.
If you were dropped here without context you’d think you were on the set of the Lord of the Rings or a Wagnerian opera. It’s beautiful and impressive, but also dark and disturbing. When it comes to our lesson-learning, this is architecture capturing the myth-making and brutal nationalism that helped propel Germany into the First World War.
Which, of course, led directly to the Second. Berlin, thankfully, is much more than its dark WWII legacy, and there are many places in the modern city where it’s easy to forget it entirely. But it’s never far beneath the surface.
Though we didn’t visit them in this order, let’s go chronologically and start in Leipzig at the Monument to the Battle of the Nations. The battle commemorated is from the Napoleonic wars; a bloody, multi-national nightmare with Germans fighting on both sides. But the monument wasn’t erected until the centenary in 1913. Like so many delayed war memorials, it’s making points that stretch far beyond the original event.
The architecture here is known as Wilhelmine, roughly contemporary to Edwardian in the UK. It’s eye-popping. Armoured stone giants stand sentinel over an enormous tower fronted by a long reflecting pool. The proportions are of giants, not men, and the warriors are a strange mix of medieval and modernism. Inside the dome is a symbolic crypt for those fallen in battle, with more giants on guard. Above, at the four points from which the dome springs, sit even bigger figures representing the virtues of the German people, while in the dome itself hundreds of mounted knights ride in solemn circles to heaven.
If you were dropped here without context you’d think you were on the set of the Lord of the Rings or a Wagnerian opera. It’s beautiful and impressive, but also dark and disturbing. When it comes to our lesson-learning, this is architecture capturing the myth-making and brutal nationalism that helped propel Germany into the First World War.
Which, of course, led directly to the Second. Berlin, thankfully, is much more than its dark WWII legacy, and there are many places in the modern city where it’s easy to forget it entirely. But it’s never far beneath the surface.
This is most obvious at the Memorial to Murdered Jews of Europe, a 4.7 acre site in the very heart of official Berlin, within clear sight of the Reichstag and the Brandenburg Gate. The last time I was here it was still under construction. I loved the idea of almost 3,000 dark, concrete stele evoking the memorials in a Jewish cemetery, placed on undulating ground. The idea was for you to get lost in the sadness and contemplation.
I confess to being a bit disappointed by the final result. The fact that it’s hemmed in on every side by major streets, and overlooked on two sides by upscale modern buildings (including the US embassy), takes away from the reflective nature. On a sunny Sunday the margins of the site were thronged with chattering tourists and though most walking between the stones were doing so quietly, there were enough children using the lanes as a playground to break the mood. I think the contemplative intent of the site would have been helped by a screen of trees between it and the buildings. But that would undermine the intent of a placement which is meant to force contemplation. It demands that we “never forget”, and I think it manages that.
As an eternal optimist I prefer to consider the Memorial in partnership with the gloriously restored main synagogue. You can see its luscious pastel and gold dome from all over the city center. Driving past it on our bus tour showed a beautiful building I’d like to get inside on my next visit to Berlin. It’s a celebration of hope, resilience and the potential of the future rather than the sadness of the past.
I confess to being a bit disappointed by the final result. The fact that it’s hemmed in on every side by major streets, and overlooked on two sides by upscale modern buildings (including the US embassy), takes away from the reflective nature. On a sunny Sunday the margins of the site were thronged with chattering tourists and though most walking between the stones were doing so quietly, there were enough children using the lanes as a playground to break the mood. I think the contemplative intent of the site would have been helped by a screen of trees between it and the buildings. But that would undermine the intent of a placement which is meant to force contemplation. It demands that we “never forget”, and I think it manages that.
As an eternal optimist I prefer to consider the Memorial in partnership with the gloriously restored main synagogue. You can see its luscious pastel and gold dome from all over the city center. Driving past it on our bus tour showed a beautiful building I’d like to get inside on my next visit to Berlin. It’s a celebration of hope, resilience and the potential of the future rather than the sadness of the past.
If you want real sadness and contemplation, however, you need to get on a train. We took a guided tour to Sachsenhausen. Any concentration camp is horrific, but this place has a unique status. As the internment facility closest to the capital it was both the model and the test bed for the whole Nazi philosophy of incarceration.
Tragically, this was the place the Nazis took visiting officials to show they weren’t committing war crimes. They were, of course. This place saw the whole nightmare hit parade: working people to death, medical experiments, industrialised execution. But here the Nazis wrapped it in a tidy model facility, with pleasant woodland walks to help the guards relax and a reassuring message of rehabilitation.
People were sent here to protect the state. Not just Jews. Communists were the first big intake. Homosexuals, the mentally infirm, Romany gypsies, captured opposition soldiers. Sachsenhausen had a viscous equal opportunity about it. Anyone whose ideas challenged the government could be considered a danger to society and sent here. No due process of law. No protections. Because fear of “the other” overpowered the safeguards of democracy.
The 8th of May, 1945, brought the downfall of the Nazis, but not liberation for all. Eastern Europe traded German oppressors for Soviet ones and fell behind the iron curtain for another 45 years. The Soviets turned Sachsenhausen into their own camp and a memorial for the communists who died here, with a towering monument that bears all the marks of their propagandistic, power-shouting, personality-free art. They chose not to mention of any of the others who died here. It was only after the collapse of the Soviet Union that a re-united German government restored Sachsenhausen to reflect its broader picture. There are still not that many buildings to see here. Two barracks have been restored as museum areas, the medical facilities stand and the execution facilities have been reconstructed (in a respectful way), but it’s more than enough to get the lessons across.
To search for lessons from the years of Soviet occupation it’s off to the DDR Museum. That stands for the Deutsche Demokratische Republik, known in English as the GDR (German Democratic Republic); its own country … but under tight Soviet control … from 1949 to 1990.
This is an entirely modern, purpose-built tourist experience just across from Museum Island. There’s plenty of interactive stuff for the kids: opening doors, listening to audio, sitting in a Trabant car or at a Communist leader’s desk. They’ve re-created a whole 1970s family apartment, complete with clothes, toys, household products and a television directory. It does a great job explaining how this short-lived country came into being and what it was like to live there.
I suspect this museum delivers two very different experiences, based on your perspective.
As an American who grew up at the end of the Cold War I was raised to believe that EVERYTHING that happened behind the iron curtain was a disaster and all lives there (except perhaps those of the bosses) were a misery. This museum takes a more balanced view. There were upsides: roughly even pay scales showed that everyone was valuable, community activities were abundant, women had careers, there was free education and subsidised Baltic Sea holidays. Of course, in exchange you got the Stasi, limited choices for your life and your consumer goods, wildly restricted media, restrictions on freedoms and a whole world filtered through party propaganda.
I was pre-disposed to see the museum as a validation of capitalism, which finally put the DDR in a well-deserved grave. But I couldn’t help noticing that there were as many Germans in the museum as visitors, and a great many of these seemed to be family groups in which older members were taking children on a nostalgic road trip. I couldn’t understand any of the German, but the body language wasn’t solemn or mournful. They spent more time in the Trabant simulator than in the Stasi listening post.
Tragically, this was the place the Nazis took visiting officials to show they weren’t committing war crimes. They were, of course. This place saw the whole nightmare hit parade: working people to death, medical experiments, industrialised execution. But here the Nazis wrapped it in a tidy model facility, with pleasant woodland walks to help the guards relax and a reassuring message of rehabilitation.
People were sent here to protect the state. Not just Jews. Communists were the first big intake. Homosexuals, the mentally infirm, Romany gypsies, captured opposition soldiers. Sachsenhausen had a viscous equal opportunity about it. Anyone whose ideas challenged the government could be considered a danger to society and sent here. No due process of law. No protections. Because fear of “the other” overpowered the safeguards of democracy.
The 8th of May, 1945, brought the downfall of the Nazis, but not liberation for all. Eastern Europe traded German oppressors for Soviet ones and fell behind the iron curtain for another 45 years. The Soviets turned Sachsenhausen into their own camp and a memorial for the communists who died here, with a towering monument that bears all the marks of their propagandistic, power-shouting, personality-free art. They chose not to mention of any of the others who died here. It was only after the collapse of the Soviet Union that a re-united German government restored Sachsenhausen to reflect its broader picture. There are still not that many buildings to see here. Two barracks have been restored as museum areas, the medical facilities stand and the execution facilities have been reconstructed (in a respectful way), but it’s more than enough to get the lessons across.
To search for lessons from the years of Soviet occupation it’s off to the DDR Museum. That stands for the Deutsche Demokratische Republik, known in English as the GDR (German Democratic Republic); its own country … but under tight Soviet control … from 1949 to 1990.
This is an entirely modern, purpose-built tourist experience just across from Museum Island. There’s plenty of interactive stuff for the kids: opening doors, listening to audio, sitting in a Trabant car or at a Communist leader’s desk. They’ve re-created a whole 1970s family apartment, complete with clothes, toys, household products and a television directory. It does a great job explaining how this short-lived country came into being and what it was like to live there.
I suspect this museum delivers two very different experiences, based on your perspective.
I was pre-disposed to see the museum as a validation of capitalism, which finally put the DDR in a well-deserved grave. But I couldn’t help noticing that there were as many Germans in the museum as visitors, and a great many of these seemed to be family groups in which older members were taking children on a nostalgic road trip. I couldn’t understand any of the German, but the body language wasn’t solemn or mournful. They spent more time in the Trabant simulator than in the Stasi listening post.
They reminded me of all the news stories I’ve read about East Germans missing aspects of the old regime because they feel ignored and sidelined since re-unification. Lesson: even seemingly objective museum displays may have different meanings depending on the outlook of the visitor. History is not black and white, but a million shades of grey.
While it doesn’t fit neatly into my 20th century theme I have to give a nod to the Bundeswehr Military History Museum in Dresden. The collections cover the entire history of the German military, going back to the Middle Ages. The 20th century galleries are extensive, however. They cover both World Wars and the aftermath with impressive collections of artefacts. Some are expected: uniforms, weapons, paintings of battles. Others are subtle and heart-wrenching. The display I remember most is a stark wall of shoes taken from a death camp.
This enormous museum has both historical tracks to follow, and thematic ones. I particularly liked the latter. Animals in war told surprising stories. Military language showed how war has influenced our speech, and vice versa. A section on military toys was particularly intriguing and didn’t shy away from considering the question of whether this ongoing part of childhood is good or bad. Like the country it represents, this museum refuses to look away from the hardest truths.
Modern Germany has done an admirable job balancing horror and history. In this Dresden museum they do it with a bold architectural statement: a Daniel Libeskind-designed addition. It is a glass arrowhead breaking the formal facade of the building, meant to demonstrate the transparency of democratic government. To me, the jagged edges also provide a physical demonstration of the disruption of war. It is the embodiment of a tragic “double-edged sword”: no sane person wants to go to war, but you have to prepare for war to keep peace. Our ongoing challenge is to find the right balance.
None of these German sites are easy, or enjoyable. They won’t leave you comfortable. But they will leave you thinking. And that, I believe, is how we build a better world.
This enormous museum has both historical tracks to follow, and thematic ones. I particularly liked the latter. Animals in war told surprising stories. Military language showed how war has influenced our speech, and vice versa. A section on military toys was particularly intriguing and didn’t shy away from considering the question of whether this ongoing part of childhood is good or bad. Like the country it represents, this museum refuses to look away from the hardest truths.
Modern Germany has done an admirable job balancing horror and history. In this Dresden museum they do it with a bold architectural statement: a Daniel Libeskind-designed addition. It is a glass arrowhead breaking the formal facade of the building, meant to demonstrate the transparency of democratic government. To me, the jagged edges also provide a physical demonstration of the disruption of war. It is the embodiment of a tragic “double-edged sword”: no sane person wants to go to war, but you have to prepare for war to keep peace. Our ongoing challenge is to find the right balance.
None of these German sites are easy, or enjoyable. They won’t leave you comfortable. But they will leave you thinking. And that, I believe, is how we build a better world.
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