New Synagogue Berlin

Stand for a moment on Oranienburger Strasse and look up. Above the plain city facades, a dome catches the light. It is ribbed with gold, and on a clear day it glows against the sky. Below it, the walls are made of patterned brick in warm yellows and reds. Trams rattle past, and people talk outside the cafés nearby. Then you notice the police officers at the door, and the quiet that settles around the entrance.

This is the New Synagogue, or Neue Synagoge in German. When it opened in the 1860s, it was the largest synagogue in Germany. It was a confident statement by Berlin's Jewish community. At that time, the community was growing quickly and becoming more prosperous. The building was large enough to seat around three thousand worshippers. It was meant to be seen. It was not hidden in a courtyard. It stood openly on a main street of the Prussian capital.

The architect was Eduard Knoblauch. He fell ill during construction, and Friedrich August Stüler completed the work. Stüler was one of the most respected architects in Prussia. Together they chose a style that surprised many Berliners. They looked to Moorish Spain, the Islamic architecture of medieval Andalusia. The best-known example is the Alhambra palace in Granada. Horseshoe arches, slender columns and rich colour replaced the Gothic and classical forms common in Berlin.

Why this style? In the nineteenth century, many European Jewish communities chose Moorish designs for their synagogues. The style recalled a period in medieval Spain, often remembered as a time when Jewish culture flourished. It also set the building apart from the churches around it. The result looks almost exotic among the grey and cream facades of central Berlin. Look closely at the brickwork and terracotta. The patterns repeat across the front and frame each window.

The synagogue was inaugurated in 1866. Otto von Bismarck, then the head of the Prussian government, attended the ceremony. Inside, the community followed a liberal form of worship. There was an organ and a choir, which was unusual for synagogues at the time. The composer Louis Lewandowski led the music here for many years. His melodies are still sung in synagogues around the world today. Here is a surprise that few visitors expect: in 1930, Albert Einstein played the violin at a charity concert in this building.

Now, the night that defines the story. On the ninth of November 1938, Nazi mobs attacked synagogues, shops and homes across Germany. This night is often called Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass. Men broke into this building and set fires inside. A local police officer, Wilhelm Krützfeld, came to the scene. According to the accounts, he told the attackers that the building was a protected historic monument. He sent them away and called the fire brigade, who put out the flames.

The building survived that night. Krützfeld's action is remembered today, and a plaque on the facade honours him. Historians still discuss some details of the event. But one point is clear. A single officer used the law to stop a crime, at a time when most people stayed silent. Services continued here for a short time. Then, in 1940, the Nazi regime took the building away from the community. The German army used it as a storage depot.

The war brought further destruction. In 1943, Allied bombing raids badly damaged the building. The great prayer hall behind the facade was left in ruins. After the war, this area belonged to East Berlin. The Jewish community of the city was now very small. Many of its members had been murdered in the Holocaust, and many others had fled. In 1958, the authorities demolished the remains of the main hall. Only the front section, with its towers and the shell of the dome, still stood.

For three decades, the ruin stayed on the street. Then, in 1988, work began to rebuild the front of the synagogue. A foundation called Centrum Judaicum was created to care for it. The Berlin Wall fell the following year, and the reconstruction continued in a reunited city. The restored building opened in the 1990s. The architects did not rebuild the great hall. They chose to leave its absence visible.

So what you see today is only part of the original synagogue. The rebuilt front contains an exhibition about the building and the Jewish life of this neighbourhood. Behind it, the site of the old prayer hall is an open space. Its outline is marked on the ground. This empty space is perhaps the strongest part of the visit. It shows you how large the building once was, and how much was lost.

Look above the main entrance. A Hebrew inscription runs across the facade. It is a line from the Book of Isaiah, and it asks for the gates to be opened so that the righteous may enter. Near the entrance, there is also a memorial plaque. Its German words mean: Never forget. A small congregation still meets inside the building today. So this is not only a museum. It is also a place where people still pray.

The streets around you were once a centre of Jewish Berlin. This district is called the Spandauer Vorstadt, and part of it was known as the Scheunenviertel. Jewish schools, shops, workshops and families filled these blocks. As you walk, look down at the pavement. Small brass plates, called Stolpersteine, or stumbling stones, are set into the ground outside many buildings. Each one carries the name of a person who lived there and was deported or murdered.

Today, the street is lively with restaurants, galleries and visitors heading to the Hackesche Höfe courtyards nearby. The contrast is part of the experience. Life continues all around this building, while the building itself holds memory. Expect a security check at the entrance. It is a reminder that Jewish sites in Europe still need protection. If the dome is open when you visit, the view from the top shows the rooftops of Mitte spreading out in every direction.

Before you leave, step back across the street once more. Look again at the golden dome and the patterned brick. Then think of the great hall that once stood behind it, now only an outline on the ground. The building carries both stories at once: the confidence of the 1860s and the losses of the twentieth century. As you walk away, listen for the trams, and watch the pavement for the small brass stones.