THE CASE FOR (COUNTER)PRESERVATION: How Should Relics of Nazi Architecture be Dealt with in Contemporary Berlin?

Jack Walton

The Topographie des Terrors in Berlin, a museum that documents the atrocities committed by the Nazi regime, provides visitors with a unique and unsettling encounter with history. This essay seeks to explore the transformation of spaces formerly associated with the Nazi regime, examining how these spaces are utilized to commemorate past suffering and questioning whether they should be preserved in their original state as educational landmarks or entirely rebuilt to reflect new interpretations. In doing so, this essay will analyse how the site's phenomenological qualities—its atmosphere, material presence, and spatial configuration—contribute to the shaping of collective memory by allowing for a reimagining of space and experience. By taking the Topographie site as a focal point, this essay will compare the different modes of 'remembering' that the site has embodied throughout its history. It will argue that the concept of counterpreservation, characterised by a more laissez-faire approach to preserving sites of historical significance, can be particularly effective. In certain contexts, this approach offers a powerful and visceral means of confronting history, compelling individuals to engage deeply with the past and reflect critically on its ongoing consequences in the present day. Following this analysis, the essay will evaluate the most effective methods for educating others about the complex and often painful histories that are intertwined with built environments. Ultimately, this essay argues that a combination of both preservation and reconstruction methods may offer the most substantial benefits, providing a more comprehensive and nuanced approach to remembrance and education.

Introduction

Exploring the Topgraphie des Terrors (Topography of Terror) in Berlin, a museum documenting the atrocities of the Nazi regime, offers a profoundly unique encounter. Reflecting on my visit in 2019, the experience remains vivid in my memory. Before you even enter the museum, you are immediately met with a sterile, grey structure of metal and concrete, occupying the former site of the Gestapo headquarters. Stepping onto the grounds evokes a sense of surreal detachment; while aware of the site's dark past, its present appearance offers little indication of its historical significance. When I visited, I grappled with this contrast – how could this seemingly ordinary space once harbour such profound evil? The physical complex itself bears absolutely no reminders of its history, save for the textual and visual narratives on the walls inside the museum.

In this essay, I aim to explore the transformation of former Nazi regime spaces in Berlin, focusing on how they are employed to commemorate past suffering, and whether they should be preserved as educational landmarks or entirely rebuilt. Should they be maintained as enduring memorials, imparting historical lessons as a lieu de mémoire – sites of memory, reminding us of past events which occurred on this ground (Nora 1989)? Or is there merit in their reconstruction to signify a departure from their dark past? Focusing on the Topographie des Terrors, this essay explores how the site's phenomenological aspects shape collective memory. By analysing the spatial layout, architectural elements, and visitor interactions, I will elucidate the complex dynamics involved in commemorating a traumatic past while fostering reconciliation and understanding in contemporary society through a reimagining of space.

The Topographie des Terrors occupies a prominent position in the centre of Berlin, minutes away from world-famous attractions such as the Brandenburg Gate, Potsdamer Platz, and the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe. Due to Germany's tumultuous history, the museum's location has seen various uses over time, notably serving as the headquarters for Hitler's secret police, the Gestapo, from around 1933 (Sandler 2016; Topographie des Terrors, n.d.-b). During the time of Hitler’s power, the Gestapo played a pivotal role in orchestrating the Holocaust – one of its tasks was to track down and imprison people who posed a threat to Nazi authority (Sandler 2016). The site now occupied by the museum housed not only the Gestapo headquarters but also a prison where Jews, Catholics, homosexuals, political dissidents, and others targeted by the regime were held. From 1939 onwards, the complex also hosted the Reich’s Central Security Office, accommodating prominent Nazi leaders such as Heinrich Himmler (Leoni 2014). The profound atrocities perpetrated in this very location, where tourists now walk around freely, defy comprehension.

Following the war, the buildings, most of which were already heavily damaged from extensive bombing, were eventually destroyed and the site itself fell into obscurity. During Germany’s partition, the Berlin Wall was built at the very edge of the complex, leaving the site at the periphery of West Berlin, forgotten about and dilapidated (Topographie des Terrors, n.d.-a). No reminders of the buildings which formerly occupied the site remained, at least above ground. In the 1970s, the site was ‘rediscovered’ (Sandler 2016) and various organisations campaigned for its preservation and transformation into an area documenting its history. Aligning with Germany's burgeoning ‘memory boom’ of that era (see Huyssen 2003), proponents contended that the site, alongside other Nazi-era spaces such as office buildings and destroyed synagogues, warranted commemoration.

Since this rediscovery, the site has undergone numerous transformations, all of which contributed to the ‘memory boom’ and Germany’s ‘collective memory’ (Halbwachs 1992; Beckstead et al. 2011) in different ways. From an almost barren, ruinous landscape wherein some of the remnants of the previous complex were exposed for people to walk through, to the modern, sleek, transparent museum which one can explore today, the site has changed drastically. In the next part of this essay, I will compare the different modes of ‘remembering’ that the site has undergone in its time. Drawing upon ‘counterpreservation’ theory (Sandler 2016) and leveraging various material culture concepts, I will assess the most effective methods for educating others about the intricate and challenging histories intertwined with built environments.

Counterpreserving the Topographie

When Iwona Irwin-Zarecka visited the Topographie in the mid-1990s, the site was markedly different from its present iteration (Irwin-Zarecka 1995). As she discusses in her paper, the area had been opened as a temporary exhibit – part urban park, part ruins, and part documentary exhibition. After being nearly obliterated and abandoned during German partition, the site was reopened to the public in a largely unaltered state, serving as an open space for visitors to explore the remaining vestiges of the Nazi complex. Irwin-Zarecka describes how at this time, “discreet arrows point[ed] the way” (19) to former key structures, where small markers illustrated the area's appearance in the 1930s. This necessitated visitors to envision the space themselves, immersing deeply in its history. It depended on them fully engaging with the site's phenomenological aspects and the provided information to delve into its historical significance. One such example is the cellars from the Gestapo headquarters, whose remnants remained uncovered, through which Irwin-Zarecka walked, learning about the atrocities that occurred on the ground upon which she now stood. In its early configuration, visitors to the Topographie des Terrors experienced a unique phenomenological journey, directly engaging with relics from the

site’s past. Amidst Berlin’s bustling urban landscape, it offered a rare opportunity to intimately connect with history by traversing the same paths and touching the same foundations which has previously been witness to unspeakable atrocities. While other areas like Potsdamer Platz played significant roles in 1930s Berlin life, they have since undergone extensive redevelopment, distancing their ties to the Nazi era. Thus, it was primarily at the early Topographie that one could encounter remnants relatively untouched since that time.

Leaving the ruins untouched, as seen in this early version of the Topographie des Terrors can be looked at through the lens of Sandler’s counterpreservation theory (Sandler 2016). This, she describes, is the idea of “intentional use of architectural decay in the spatial, visual, and symbolic configuration of buildings” (19). A fundamentally social practice, it involves active participation and fosters collective memory. Sandler specifically highlights Berlin's use of counterpreservation to promote historical memory, contrasting it with the conventional approach of memorialising and preserving relics associated with the wartime period, such as concentration camps. Deriving her theory from the actions of activist groups who have occupied several sites in Berlin, Sandler argues that decay is an “existing condition” (22) of the space, which says just as much about its history and the wider social context, as does the building itself. The decay is, in and of itself, integral and educational.

Sandler explains counterpreservation by contrasting it with a theory for which she employs the German word Ruinenlust. Ruinenlust describes the lust for decay that has been seen prominently in many fields throughout previous periods of history, such as romanticism and neoclassicism (Sandler 2016; Saunders 2014), and argues that the concept still applies to this day, with an emphasis on consumption – people consume the ruins for their own benefit, either through photography and videography or as a “hybrid of fun house and rock-climbing wall” (25), essentially a reappropriation of the space. Conversely, counterpreservation places the emphasis

on production – she states that decaying spaces are transformed “functionally materially, and symbolically by acts of design [...] motivated by activism” (26). In essence, counterpreservation is about allowing a space to decay with a view to preserving layers of history, influenced by a group of people who recognise the value of the ruins in helping us to remember.

Relating to the previous iteration of the Topographie described in Irwin-Zarecka’s account (1995), the space was memorialised through counterpreservation, almost unintentionally at first. The whole country underwent a process of ‘denazification’ in the years following the war (Bier and Allinder 1980), which, although limited in its success, resulted in the destruction of many buildings used during the Nazi regime, including those within the Gestapo complex (Topographie des Terrors, n.d.-a). Denazification efforts resulted in the deliberate neglect of the site now occupied by the Topographie des Terrors. Rather than serving as a memorial, the ruins remained abandoned for decades, reflecting an erroneous attempt to shield Germans from the perils of Nazi ideology by erasing reminders of the past. Of course, this is not an effective way to combat the horrors of the Nazi legacy, as explained by Bier and Allinder (1980), as the conversation regarding the crimes against humanity committed during the Holocaust pervaded in the face of denazification. As discussed earlier, it was through the actions of activists campaigning for alternative methods of remembering, that the site was ‘rediscovered’ (Sandler 2016). Since the site had been almost totally destroyed, and then left to decay prior to its rediscovery, I would argue that the the initial version of the Topographie was a form of counterpreservation. By opening up the grounds to allow visitors to explore it in its existing condition, the decay had become part of the exhibit itself, just as much as the buildings which formerly stood there. Not only were the visitors able to learn about how it was used during the Nazi period, but by immersing themselves in the rich phenomenological experience provided by the ruins, they could also intimately discover how previous governments and officials had attempted to ‘forget’ the Nazi past. Rather than being left to decay for the purposes of Ruinenlust,

the Topographie had been counterpreserved, as the site was transformed through subtle design. Signs and plaques explaining the site’s former appearance emphasised production (as I described above) – the interventions in the land were “consequential” and “motivated by activism and an ethical commitment to [their] goals,” (26). The success of this method of memorialisation, I would argue, is in the absence of human influence – there are no exhibitions with interpretations written from one person’s point of view: the things with which the visitor is interacting has not been moved from its original place of existence. One is engaging with the material directly at the source, as free from human interference as it could feasibly be.

In his book Ghosts of Berlin, Brian Ladd describes the Topographie as an “open wound”, stating that “[t]he combination of modest exhibition and lingering debate confronted the Nazi past more effectively than any ‘active museum’ or any definitive plan for an ‘open wound,’” (165). Here, he supports my above statement – by leaving the site as this “open wound,” visitors have nowhere to hide from the horrors of the past, and they are forced to confront the realities head-on. Counterpreservation is effective in that its laissez-faire approach to sites of historical significance, can, in the right context, be a very powerful and visceral way of confronting history, laying bare the atrocities, forcing people to interact very closely with history and reflect on its consequences today.

The Modern Topographie

In the next section of this paper, I now wish to turn to the Topographie as it exists in its contemporary iteration, the version which I was able to visit in 2019 and explore whether this is a more effective method for commemorating the space.

Following debates around how the space should be used to house a more permanent, concrete exhibit, different groups agreed a new museum should include an exhibition hall, a documentation centre (including a library and archive), a visitor centre, and a meeting centre. After a failed attempt at building a centre designed by Swiss architect Peter Zumthor, an endeavour which had to be abandoned due to budget and technical issues (Leoni 2014), the eventual winners of a design competition for the museum were Ursula Wilms and Professor Heinz W. Hallmann. Their design, a freestanding, concrete square, sitting in the landscape of grey stones, is intended to be free of symbolism and subjectivity. There is no connection between the design and the history of the site. Instead, it is meant to serve simply as an information source, allowing the exhibitions inside to tell the story. In stark contrast to previous iterations, the architecture primarily serves to guide visitors around the site, and restrict their free movement – following paths around the exhibit and being kept off the pebbled surroundings (Meparishvili 2021). Inside, one encounters photographs and blocks of text on walls, and on displays hanging from the ceiling. These recount the stories of the Gestapo and the victims of the atrocities they committed.

Certainly, when I visited the site, I experienced a certain sense of sterility and abstraction. From the clean, sharp lines of the concrete and the cleanliness of the glass, to the layout inside guiding you on a certain, pre-prescribed route through the exhibits, you certainly feel as if the space you are in is very modern. There is little connection to the past and almost no indication that the ground you are standing on has previously seen some of the worst crimes ever committed. The displays inside are informative and visitors are taught a lot about the history of the Gestapo, however, there is little, if any, tangible connection to said history. Phenomenologically, the experience here does not provide the visitor with as rich an experience as I believe they would have received at previous iterations of the Topographie.

I would argue, however, that this version of the Topographie does have its unique advantages, particularly that it serves a dual purpose as a museum but also a monument, both through its materiality and its social value. Beckstead et al. (2011) define a monument as “physical and social products that shape and inform individual and collective identities, encode social suggestions and values, and provide individuals with concrete signs for orientation and personal guidance” (194). Arguably, this applies to the Topographie in the sense that it acts as a physical place where visitors can collectively learn about the events that took place in the Gestapo headquarters, memorialise and honour the victims of their actions and it aids them in personal reflection. The museum helps preserve collective memory and facilitates affective processes. The authors additionally refer to memorials as places where “[n]arratives and stories of the past are thus objectified and embodied in physical artifacts” (195), which invariably applies to the Topographie.

There has been much debate in anthropology, and the wider social sciences, around how humans socially construct objects, and how humans are in turn constructed by them (e.g. Miller 1998; Verbeek 2012; Kumar and Ahmed 2022) – humans and materials are mutually constitutive – and I would argue that this can be perfectly exemplified by this museum. The structure of the

Topographie is primarily made from concrete, and although this was chosen by the architects as a neutral material, it carries a sense of permanence. This in turn imbues upon the visitor a reminder of the “social necessity of remembering” (Beckstead et al. 2011, 195) – the concrete, and thereby the exhibition within it is, forcefully grounded and unwavering in its existence, emphasising the significance of the history and the country’s collective refusal to forget what has occurred in its history. This collective memory depends on the sociality of the country – continuing to remember its history – and the museum provides a tangible, material form through which this can occur (Beckstead et al. 2011, 196).

The materiality of the building also comes into play when looking at the glass. Other than concrete, the rest of the building is mostly constructed from glass, with large, floor-to-ceiling glass windows allowing visitors outside the building a clear view inside, at the exhibit, as well as those inside the building a view out towards the rest of the city, reminding them of the important context in which the museum is situated. Similarly to the concrete, the glass has an inherent social dimension, despite the architects’ intentions, symbolising transparency and openness (Sadeghi, Sani, and Wang 2015). I would argue that this plays intrinsically into how the building is societally and phenomenologically experienced: this transparency reflects an intentional refusal to hide from their history, and a desire to be open about what happened in the past, to prevent such an event from ever happening again in the future.

conclusion

Having examined two ways in which the former Nazi space which is now called the Topographie des Terrors has been used, is it possible to decide how best to repurpose such spaces? One can see the benefits of both methods. The first iteration, in which the space counterpreserved after its ‘rediscovery,’ allowed its visitors to sensorially engage with the past in a very intimate way. By exposing the remains of the Nazi offices and permitting visitors to freely roam, it revealed the

most raw and undisturbed version of history possible. In contrast, the current version, though materially sanitised and almost unrecognisable from what came before, clearly explains the history to the visitors. Through its restricted, subtle architecture, it lays history bare in a different way, by forcing visitors to focus on the stories presented to them, whilst materially reiterating the nation’s commitment to collective remembering. I'm not entirely sure if there is a single best way to preserve memories and commemorate the tragedies that occurred on the grounds where the Topographie now stands. If society sincerely wishes to honour those who suffered at the hands of the regime, I believe that adopting a combination of both methods could offer significant benefits and create a more comprehensive form of remembrance. Instead of demolishing the grounds to build the new Topographie building, it would have been more beneficial to construct the building next to the former Gestapo headquarters and include the ruins as part of the exhibits .The transparent windows of the building would not just symbolise openness, but would actually allow visitors to look upon the ruins of the place where the acts talked about in the museum took place, bringing them even closer to history, and forcing an even more visceral reckoning with the past and applying the lessons learnt to the future.

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