The end is nigh for Berlin’s most famous eyesore, a colossus of concrete and steel which once housed East Germany’s Communist government and now stands derelict on the city’s main tourist drag. Demolition of the Palace of the Republic is set for December, to the dismay of eastern Germans nostalgic for its socialist heyday, and a legion of artists and beatniks who have used the ruin’s vast spaces in recent years to provoke and entertain.
Now the graffiti-daubed building, whose fate stirs lingering divisions between eastern and western Germans, is taking leave of the city with one last defiant gesture – an exhibition about death.
It’s heartbreaking to see it now,” says 72-year-old Gisela Plock, whose daughter held her wedding reception in one of the building’s restaurants. “I can’t bring myself to pass it too often,” says the Berlin pensioner, a frequent patron before the palace was found to be riddled with asbestos in 1990 and closed.
Three years ago, parliament voted to tear down the palace to enable the reconstruction of the old Prussian Schloss, the stately residence of the last Kaiser, Wilhelm II, that stood on the site until 1951. Supporters of the Schloss argue it will restore the city centre’s historical layout and architectural coherence.
Opponents point to the massive cost of demolition for the cash-strapped city – the palace stands in a concrete basin in the River Spree which cannot easily be removed without adversely affecting the water table. They also highlight the troubling symbolism of effacing an East German icon, when 16 years after the fall of the Berlin Wall many East Germans feel reunification failed them.
Inside the palace, a visitors’ book lies ready for remarks about the contemporary art installation on display. Yet few visitors devote comments to the artworks.
“It is a tragedy this beautiful building should have been allowed to become such a ruin. West and East will never be reconciled,” writes one visitor in huge emphatic script.
Plock has vivid memories of the Palace, which was opened with much pomp in 1976 but served just 14 years.
“When you came in on every floor there were the most beautiful plants and indoor flowerbeds among the stylish leather seats.
The scent was incredible. It really hit you,” she recalls. “It had a bar for youngsters, a wine bar, beer cellar, restaurants, theatre and concert hall. It appealed to everyone. You could come for a meal, or a quick stand-up coffee.”
Ripping down the palace is an affront to all those who used and enjoyed the building, ensuring it was never just the haunt of the Communist elite, Plock argues.
“We East Germans paid for it ourselves from our taxes and East Germany was not a rich country,” says Plock. “All the natural resources were in the West. It is a part of Berlin’s history, of East German history, and we cannot allow it to be simply swept aside and ignored.”
In order to remove the asbestos, workers had to strip the building of its marble steps, interior walls and the hundreds of bulbous light fittings which earned the building the nickname ‘Erich’s lamp shop’, after Communist leader Erich Honecker.
Some of those lamps are now bathing a new generation in their curious orange light, after being rescued by some of Berlin’s trendiest bars. Since the eerie shell of exposed girders and copper-coloured glass reopened in 2003, it has inspired some innovative projects. The current show by little-known contemporary artists offers disquieting reminders of human mortality. A wall of grainy photos depicts the pained dead faces of men, women and children. An airport arrivals and departure board mocks visitors, reminding them of the uncertainty of their own departure date.
Over the past year, the building’s basement was flooded, allowing people to tour it in rubber dinghies. Visitors have sat on the former entrance staircase huddled in blankets to watch old East German propaganda films, or have danced to blistering electronic music, echoing through the void.
Organisers have staged operas and glamorous balls, as well as ironic tours of the building pretending it is half-way to completion rather than reaching the end of its life. During last year’s dark winter months, a huge light installation on the top of the palace spelled out the word ‘doubt’ – visible from a kilometre away. It captured the spirit of a nation beset with insecurity about its future, commentators said.
“I think when it comes to the day of the demolition we’ll see people from both camps outside protesting,” says 30-year-old actress Ulrike Recknagel. “It will be an outrage if it goes. Berlin has a unique edge at present, yet city planners are sucking the life out of it with all the new hotels and smart buildings for tourists. Here, artists have had a prominent site and have done some remarkable things. This is not a wealthy city and precisely when people are suffering economically is when they most need accessible art and culture.”
Some even advocate turning the building into a museum about life in Communist East Germany to meet growing tourist interest. Yet among those catching a last look at the interior of the palace, there are those who are completely mystified by the poignancy of the moment for others.
“I’m just here for the art,” says 23-year-old midwife Susanna Rohleder from Brandenburg. “This place is ugly. I won’t miss it when it’s gone.””
