Tue to Sun: 10 AM to 8 PM
Oct-Mar (October 1 to March 31)
Tue to Sun: 10 AM to 7 PM
2,700 grey concrete slabs. 204,440 sq feet. Faceless. Stark. Featureless. Each one of a different size. No plaques, no signs, no symbols, no inscriptions. Eternalised on the old death strip between Cold War East and West Berlin, the Holocaust Memorial stirred-up suitable controversy long before it was built. It still does. That, precisely, was US architect Peter Eisenman’s intention. He conceived a seemingly orderly system that lost touch with human reasoning. "A perfect metaphor for the murdering Nazi machine", say some. "Too abstract", shout others. "Where are the names of the millions of victims?" This isn’t a museum. It’s an area you walk through on your way to Berlin’s most famous landmark, The Brandenburg Gate. It silences you. For 200 strides, your thoughts sink into solitude, into the madness and indiscriminate facelessness of genocide. Anonymous lives and faces appear. Then you emerge again. You stride back into normality and towards the glittering architectural masterpieces happier and more peaceful times.