Visitors can upload a photograph of a Holocaust victim or survivor, and the site’s facial recognition technology will compare it to its vast archives, returning the ten most likely matches.
Patt’s motivation is deeply personal: all four of his grandparents were Holocaust survivors from Poland. His initial goal was to help his grandmother recover photographs of her family members who were murdered during the Holocaust. When the war began, she was nine years old and fled her hometown of Zamość with her father and siblings. Her mother — Patt’s great-grandmother — remained behind and was shot and killed during the Nazi invasion. Later, her brother was killed when he attempted to return to rescue her. The rest of the family survived and eventually emigrated to New York City after the war.
The Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C., honors U.S. service members who served in the Vietnam War. Its black granite walls bear the names of more than 58,000 men and women who gave their lives during the conflict. Completed in 1982, the Memorial Wall was later joined by the Three Soldiers statue in 1984 and the Vietnam Women’s Memorial in 1993.
Set within Constitution Gardens, just northeast of the Lincoln Memorial, the site is maintained by the National Park Service and draws more than five million visitors each year. The Wall’s striking, minimalist design was created by American architect Maya Lin, born in Ohio in 1959. In 2007, it was ranked tenth on the American Institute of Architects’ “List of America’s Favorite Architecture.” As a national memorial, it is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.
I began photographing the Wall in 2002. At the time, I knew I wanted to take on a long-term photo project but had no clear idea what it would be. One day, I visited the memorial, took a few photographs, and later posted them in an online forum. Soon after, I returned to make more images and shared those as well. A kind stranger replied: “It looks like you’ve found your project.” That simple comment stayed with me.
Over the years, I’ve returned again and again—sometimes during the thunder of motorcycles from Rolling Thunder, other times in the stillness of Veterans Day dawn. More than two decades later, this remains my longest-running body of work. I’ve witnessed the Wall as a place of quiet remembrance and healing—for veterans, families, friends, and strangers alike.
The photographs here reflect that journey, capturing both intimate moments of reflection and the collective gatherings that honor those who served and sacrificed.
I wanted to create a memorial that everyone would be able to respond to, regardless of whether one thought our country should or should not have participated in the war.”
Maya Lin, Designer of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
The Musée Nissim de Camondo is a historic house museum of French decorative arts, located in the Hôtel Camondo at 63 rue de Monceau, on the edge of Parc Monceau in Paris’s 8th arrondissement.
The home was built in 1911 by Ottoman-born Jewish banker and art collector Count Moïse de Camondo, inspired by the Petit Trianon at Versailles. It was designed to house his remarkable collection of decorative arts and fine furniture.
Tragedy shaped its fate. In 1917, the Count’s only son, Nissim, was killed in World War I. Shattered by the loss, the Count withdrew from society and dedicated himself entirely to perfecting his collection. When he died in 1935, he left the house and all it contained to the Musée des Arts Décoratifs, stipulating that it become a museum in Nissim’s memory.
Just nine years later, the Count’s last surviving heir, his daughter Béatrice, was deported to Auschwitz along with her family during the Nazi occupation of France. None survived. The Camondo family line ended, leaving the house as its sole surviving legacy.
The Washington Monument honors George Washington (1732–1799), the nation’s first president, and stands at the heart of the U.S. capital. Designed by Robert Mills and completed under the direction of Lt. Col. Thomas Lincoln Casey and the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, it is built in the form of an Egyptian obelisk, evoking the timelessness of ancient civilizations. When it was completed in 1884, at 555 feet, 5 1/8 inches (169 meters), it was the tallest structure in the world, holding that title until the Eiffel Tower surpassed it in 1889.
Origins and Design
The geometric layout of Washington, D.C., designed by Pierre L’Enfant, reserved a prominent site for a monument to Washington at the intersection of lines radiating south from the White House and west from the Capitol. In 1833, the Washington National Monument Society formed to fund and build a memorial “unparalleled in the world.” After a decade of fundraising and design competitions, the Society selected Robert Mills’ ambitious 1845 plan: a 600-foot obelisk surrounded by thirty 100-foot columns.
Construction began on July 4, 1848, with a cornerstone-laying ceremony attended by President James K. Polk, Dolley Madison, Eliza Hamilton, George Washington Parke Custis, and future presidents Buchanan, Lincoln, and Johnson. By 1854, the monument had reached 156 feet before work stalled due to political infighting and lack of funds.
In 1876, Congress assumed responsibility for completing the monument. Casey’s first priority was strengthening the foundation, which took four years. Matching the original stone proved difficult—three different quarries ultimately supplied stone, resulting in the color variations visible today. The final height was set at 555 feet, ten times the base width, and Mills’ elaborate colonnade was abandoned in favor of a simple, clean obelisk form.
The monument was dedicated on February 21, 1885, one day before Washington’s birthday. Inscriptions on the aluminum cap commemorate key dates and individuals involved, with the east face bearing the Latin phrase Laus Deo (“Praise be to God”). The public first accessed the monument in 1886 via an iron staircase; a public elevator was added in 1888. Today, 193 commemorative stones from states, cities, civic groups, and foreign nations line the interior walls, including a marble slab from the Parthenon inscribed in Greek.
Modern History and Restoration
The steam elevator was replaced by an electric model in 1901. The National Park Service assumed jurisdiction in 1933. Major restorations occurred in 1934, 1964, 1998–2001, 2011–2014 (after earthquake damage), and 2016–2019 (elevator modernization).
The Washington Monument is open daily from 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., except on December 25 and July 4, and one day each month for maintenance. Timed reservations are required, available online or in person at the Washington Monument Lodge on 15th Street. The nearest Metro stations are Federal Triangle and Smithsonian.
Built in the late 17th century under King Louis XIV, Les Invalides was originally designed as a home and hospital for war veterans. Today, it stands as one of Paris’s most iconic sites—part military museum, part monument, and the final resting place of Napoleon Bonaparte.
Located in the 7th arrondissement, Les Invalides houses the Musée de l’Armée (Army Museum), which showcases centuries of French military history, from medieval armor to World War II artifacts. The golden dome of the Dôme des Invalides is visible from across Paris, glinting in the sunlight and dominating the skyline.
The site has played a role in pivotal moments of French history. It was stormed during the French Revolution in 1789, when rioters seized weapons stored inside. In 1840, Napoleon’s remains were brought here from Saint Helena and interred beneath the grand dome—a solemn resting place fit for an emperor. In 1906, the courtyard of Les Invalides was the setting for the formal rehabilitation ceremony of Alfred Dreyfus, marking the end of one of France’s most infamous miscarriages of justice.
As part of a trip to Greece in 2023, I visited Thessaloniki, the country’s second-largest city, with over one million inhabitants in its metropolitan area, and learned about the tragic fate of its Jews during the Second World War.
On the eve of the war, about 77,000 Jews lived in Greece, with roughly 56,000 in Thessaloniki. The city’s Jewish community was prominent in industry, banking, tourism, and the trades, with many working as laborers, artisans, and port workers.
The Germans invaded Greece on April 6, 1941, and occupied Thessaloniki three days later. The Jewish community council was arrested, apartments were seized, and the Jewish hospital was taken over by the German Army. Jewish newspapers in French and Ladino were shut down, replaced by antisemitic and collaborationist publications. The looting of literary and cultural treasures from libraries and synagogues was carried out by “Operation Rosenberg,” aided by the Wehrmacht. That first winter, some 600 Jews died from hypothermia and disease.
On July 11, 1942, 9,000 Jewish men aged 18–45 were ordered to gather in Liberty Square, where they were humiliated in the summer heat—a day remembered as “Black Saturday.” The Jewish community negotiated their release in exchange for a ransom, funded in part by selling the 500-year-old Jewish cemetery to the Municipality. The cemetery was destroyed, and its tombstones used as building material. About 2,000 men were sent as forced laborers; by October 1942, 250 had died under harsh conditions.
In February 1943, Jews were ordered into a ghetto in the Baron Hirsch quarter. Their property was confiscated, and deportations to Auschwitz and Treblinka began the following month. By August, nearly the entire Jewish population of Thessaloniki—some 54,000 people—had been murdered in the Holocaust.
The “Menorah in flames” sculpture, created in 1997 by Nandor Glid, commemorates these deportations. Glid (1924–1997), a Yugoslav sculptor, is also known for the memorial at the Dachau concentration camp. Installed since 2006 on Eleftherias Square, the site of the 1942 roundup, it was the first Holocaust memorial in a public space in Greece—a sign of changing official attitudes toward Holocaust remembrance. Sadly, it is regularly vandalized.
I also visited the Monastir Synagogue, built between 1925 and 1927 with funding from Jews from Monastir in the Kingdom of Yugoslavia. Architect Ernst Loewy (1878–1943) of Austria-Hungary designed it while working for the Austrian company that built the Thessaloniki–Vienna railway. During the war, the building survived by being requisitioned by the Red Cross. Severely damaged by a 1978 earthquake, it was later restored by the Greek government, with the final historic restoration completed in 2016 and supported by the Federal Republic of Germany.
Today, the synagogue is used primarily during the High Holidays. Daily services are held at a newer synagogue shared with the Rabbinate and the offices of the Jewish Community of Thessaloniki on Tsimiski Street, near the Jewish Museum.
Thessaloniki’s once-thriving Jewish community is gone, but the memorials, the synagogue, and the stories that remain keep its memory alive.
Before the Second World War, Częstochowa’s Jewish community was thriving — nearly 40,000 people, about one-third of the city’s population. They played a central role in the city’s commerce, industry, and culture. Today, fewer than 100 remain.
The World Society of Częstochowa Jews and Their Descendants works to preserve this history. One of their recent projects was translating a rare 1936 Jewish newspaper from Częstochowa — a fragile time capsule of life before the German invasion.
Częstochowa, in southern Poland, is perhaps best known for the Pauline Monastery of Jasna Góra, home to the Black Madonna painting and a major pilgrimage site. But for my father, Abram Enzel, the city holds far more personal memories. When Germany invaded Poland in September 1939, Częstochowa’s Jews were forced into a ghetto and later deported to the Treblinka death camp. About 5,200 survived by working in HASAG, a forced labor camp on the city’s outskirts. My father was one of them.
During my recent visit to Gdańsk, I stopped at the Museum of the Second World War. Even before stepping inside, the building grabbed my attention. It was designed by Studio Architektoniczne Kwadrat, the winners of an international competition in 2010 for the museum’s architecture.
The structure is bold and unsettling—its sharply angled form slices upward from the earth like a wound. The massively leaning tower seems to rise from underground, symbolizing the rupture of war and the tension between past and present. In many ways, the outer architecture spoke louder to me than the exhibits inside.
Museum of the Second World War in Gdańsk
This was my first visit, and I came genuinely curious: how does Poland tell the story of World War II?
The answer turned out to be complicated. The museum presents a deeply Polish view of the war—understandably so, given Poland was invaded and brutalized by both Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union. The exhibition highlights this trauma and the bravery of the Polish people. But as a resource on broader wartime history or its moral complexities, I found it less impressive.
In particular, I noticed what wasn’t there. Polish antisemitism before, during, and after the war is barely addressed. The role of Polish collaborators or bystanders in the persecution of Jews is downplayed or ignored. Instead, the narrative leans heavily into Polish heroism and victimhood, avoiding harder truths that also belong to the historical record. I don’t raise this to diminish Polish suffering—but because good history demands honesty, even when it’s uncomfortable.
This criticism isn’t mine alone. When the museum opened in 2017, it was widely praised for its inclusive, civilian-focused narrative. Historian Timothy Snyder called it “perhaps the most ambitious museum devoted to the second world war in any country”. But soon after, the Law and Justice Party (PiS)-led government began reshaping its direction. Minister Piotr Gliński dismissed founding director Paweł Machcewicz, and a group of 500 historians and academics signed an open letter condemning the changes as “unacceptable, even barbaric interference,” accusing the government of turning the site into a “propaganda institution.” These developments are also explored in a blog post by Cameron Hewitt for Rick Steves Europe: Poland’s New World War II Museum — Who Gets to Tell the Story?
Visitors interact with digital displays beneath stark black-and-white images at the Museum of the Second World War in Gdańsk.
By contrast, the POLIN Museum of the History of Polish Jews in Warsaw offers a more introspective experience. POLIN confronts Polish complicity, antisemitism, and the full arc of Jewish life in Poland—including the violent aftermath of WWII. It trusts visitors with complexity and nuance; here, questions aren’t only raised—they’re interrogated.
I left the Gdańsk museum feeling I understood more about how Poland sees World War II—and less about the war itself. In that sense, the museum is valuable—but not as a comprehensive or balanced historical resource. It’s a window into national memory, shaped by architecture, politics, and selective storytelling.
If you’re visiting Gdańsk, I still recommend walking around the museum. The building alone is worth the stop. But if you’re seeking a fuller understanding of WWII and its legacy in Poland, there are richer, more honest places to begin—like POLIN in Warsaw or the memorials at Auschwitz-Birkenau.
The Museum of the Second World War is a striking architectural shell—but what it chooses not to say may be its most telling feature.
The POLIN Museum of the History of Polish Jews in Warsaw is both a monument to a lost civilization and a cultural institution of the highest caliber. Housed in a striking contemporary building on the site of the former Warsaw Ghetto, the museum traces 1,000 years of Jewish life in Polish lands—from early migrations and the Golden Age through the partitions, the Holocaust, and into the present day.
Facing the Monument to the Ghetto Heroes, the POLIN Museum stands on the site of the prewar Jewish neighborhood and wartime ghetto. Together, the museum and monument form a powerful memorial complex. One visits the monument to honor those who died by remembering how they died. One enters the museum to honor them—and those who came before and after—by remembering how they lived.
The building’s striking glass façade and golden interior passage evoke both continuity and fracture on the site of the former Warsaw Ghetto.
One of the museum’s most impressive features is the reconstruction of the wooden synagogue from Gwoździec. This soaring, hand-painted structure, recreated using traditional methods, pays tribute not only to Jewish religious architecture but also to the vibrancy and beauty of a world that once was.
The museum handles Poland’s long Jewish history with beauty, care, and deep respect. Yet I found myself wondering: how deeply does POLIN grapple with the antisemitism that existed in Poland before the German invasion? The subject is present—in interwar exhibits, newspaper clippings, and political histories—but easy to miss, especially amid the museum’s emphasis on Jewish life rather than victimhood. Perhaps this is deliberate. The goal, after all, is education, not alienation. Still, it’s hard to tell the full story of Jewish life in Poland without acknowledging how often Jews were made to feel like outsiders—even before the Holocaust began.
Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, the museum’s chief curator, once said: “We are creating a museum of life, not a museum of death.” That vision is palpable throughout POLIN’s galleries. The museum honors what was lost while insisting that Jewish history in Poland must also be remembered for what it was: rich, complex, and deeply woven into the national fabric.
At the heart of the POLIN Museum stands a dazzling reconstruction of the wooden synagogue from Gwoździec, a small town once located in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth (now in Ukraine).
So what is the purpose of POLIN today? A Polish guide I met during my travels said the museum is primarily intended for Poles, almost all of whom are not Jewish. There’s truth in that. In a country where 90% of the prewar Jewish population was murdered and few Jews remain, the museum serves not only as remembrance but also as education. It is also, arguably, part of Poland’s broader effort to grapple with its past while promoting cultural tourism. Jewish heritage sites have become cultural and economic assets—a reality that raises uneasy questions about purpose and presentation.
Still, none of that should diminish what POLIN has accomplished. It does not shy away from difficult chapters. It honors what was lost while celebrating what was lived. And for Jewish and non-Jewish visitors alike, it offers a place to learn, reflect, and—perhaps most importantly—feel the weight of presence where so much absence remains.
The Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel (Triumphal Arch of the Carousel) stands in the Place du Carrousel, just west of the Louvre. It was commissioned by Napoleon and built between 1806 and 1808 to commemorate his military victories of 1805 — especially the Battle of Austerlitz — during the War of the Third Coalition.
The arch is 63 feet (19 m) high, 75 feet (23 m) wide, and 24 feet (7.3 m) deep. Its 21-foot (6.4 m) central arch is flanked by two smaller arches, each 14 feet (4.3 m) high and 9 feet (2.7 m) wide. Eight Corinthian columns of marble line its exterior, each topped by a soldier of the Empire.
The far better-known Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile, at the western end of the Champs-Élysées, was designed in the same year but is about twice the size. It was not completed until 1836.
The monument was designed by Charles Percier and Pierre-François-Léonard Fontaine. Its proportions were based on the Arch of Septimius Severus in Rome, while some decorative elements echo the Arch of Constantine. It originally served as the gateway to the Tuileries Palace, Napoleon’s Imperial residence. When the Tuileries were destroyed during the Paris Commune in 1871, the site opened onto a long westward view toward the Arc de Triomphe.
The frontispiece on the west façade (facing the Tuileries site) reads:
“À la voix du vainqueur d’Austerlitz L’empire d’Allemagne tombe La confédération du Rhin commence Les royaumes de Bavière et de Wurtemberg sont créés Venise est réunie à la couronne de fer L’Italie entière se range sous les lois de son libérateur”
This proclaims the sweeping changes Napoleon made in Europe after his 1805 victory: the dissolution of the Holy Roman Empire, the formation of the Confederation of the Rhine, the creation of new kingdoms in Bavaria and Württemberg, the annexation of Venice, and the consolidation of nearly all Italy under French rule. From Austerlitz in 1805 to Waterloo in 1815, Napoleon’s peak political dominance lasted about a decade — his entire reign as Emperor was just 11 years — yet this monument remains a proud reminder of that era.
Before visiting Paris for the first time, I saw a film called A Little Romance, starring a young Diane Lane as a sharp-witted 13-year-old American girl living in Paris. There’s a charming scene in the film (starting at 21:14) that takes place at the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel. Although I first saw the film more than 40 years ago, that moment made me want to visit Paris — and it’s stayed with me ever since. In person, the monument and its surroundings surpass what I saw in the film. I make a point to visit every time I’m in Paris.
