Laboe Naval Memorial

Listen first. Wind comes off the Baltic and moves through the beach grass. Gulls call above the dunes. Somewhere out on the water, the low horn of a ferry rolls across the fjord. Under your feet, the paving is cool and gritty with sand. In front of you, a tower of dark red brick rises straight out of the coastline, sharp-edged and narrow, like the stem of a ship pushing up through the earth.

This is the Laboe Naval Memorial. It stands in the seaside village of Laboe, on the eastern shore of the Kiel Fjord. Here the long, sheltered inlet leading to the city of Kiel opens out toward the Baltic Sea. Every ship bound for Kiel, or for the canal that cuts across northern Germany to the North Sea, passes within sight of this tower. That position was chosen with care. The memorial was built to be seen from the water.

The idea came from the years after the First World War. Former sailors of the German navy wanted a place to remember the many thousands of comrades who had died at sea. Bodies lost in the ocean have no graves, and families had nowhere to stand and grieve. The memorial was meant to answer that absence. The foundation stone was laid in 1927, and the work took close to a decade, slowed by money troubles during the economic crisis of those years.

The architect was Gustav August Munzer, from Düsseldorf. His design uses tall, folded brick surfaces that rise and narrow as they climb. Many visitors see the bow of a ship in it. Others see a sail, a flame, or the prow of a Viking longship. The architect himself was careful not to tie it to one single meaning. So you are free to decide. Walk a few steps to the side, and the shape changes as you move.

The tower was finally inaugurated in 1936. That date matters. By then, Germany was under Nazi rule, and the regime used the opening ceremony for its own purposes. The memorial to the dead became, for a time, a stage for a navy that was preparing for another war. It is an uncomfortable part of the story. The people who look after the site today do not hide it. You will find it told plainly in the exhibitions.

After the Second World War, the meaning of the place changed. The memorial was handed back to German veterans, and in the 1950s it was rededicated. From then on, it honoured not only German sailors, but the sailors of all nations who died at sea. Later, the dedication was widened again, to include a call for peaceful seafaring. Here is the first surprise for many visitors. A monument begun as a national memorial now carries a message meant for everyone, including former enemies.

Now look down, toward the base of the tower. Much of the memorial is underground. Below the forecourt lies a large hall of remembrance, a quiet and dim space. The walls carry plaques and flags, and the light is low. People speak softly here without being asked. Nearby rooms hold exhibitions on naval history, including detailed ship models. They show how warships changed across the twentieth century, from coal smoke and steel plate to modern hulls.

Then comes the climb. You can take a lift for most of the way up the tower, and then a short stretch of stairs. At the top, an observation platform opens on every side. On a clear day, the view runs far across the Baltic. To the south, the fjord narrows toward Kiel, with its cranes, ferry terminals and church towers. Across the water you can pick out the far shore, and sometimes the coast of Denmark on the horizon.

Up here, the wind is stronger, and it carries the smell of salt. Watch the water below. Large passenger ferries to Scandinavia slide past. Cargo ships move toward the canal entrance. In summer, the fjord fills with white sails, especially during Kiel Week, the city's huge sailing festival in June. From this height, the boats look like scraps of paper on a grey-blue table. It is a good place to understand why Kiel has always faced the sea.

Back on the ground, walk toward the beach. There, lying on the sand, is a long grey shape that does not look like it belongs on land. It is a real submarine — U-995, a German U-boat from the Second World War. After the war it served in the Norwegian navy, and later it came home to Germany. Since the early 1970s it has rested here as a museum ship, open for visitors to walk through.

Step inside, and the second surprise arrives. The space is tiny. A crew of around fifty men lived here for weeks at a time. Bunks hang above torpedoes. The galley is barely wider than a cupboard. Pipes, valves and dials cover every surface, and you must duck through round hatchways between compartments. The air smells faintly of metal and old paint. Many visitors come out quiet. It is hard to picture men eating, sleeping and fighting in this narrow steel tube.

The submarine and the tower belong together. One shows the scale of loss in stone and brick. The other shows, very closely, the conditions in which so many of those sailors lived and died. Between them, the memorial asks a simple question without words. What did the sea cost these men? The answer is not given on a sign. It comes from the silence of the hall, and from the cramped bunks inside the boat.

Before you leave, turn back toward the tower. Notice how the brick changes colour as the clouds move — rust red in sunshine, almost purple under grey skies. Listen again to the gulls, the wind and the soft break of waves on the beach. Families walk along the promenade with ice cream. Children run in the sand near the submarine. Life goes on along this shore, beside the names of the dead, and maybe that is the point. Take a last look out to sea.