Warsaw – David Enzel

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.

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.

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.

When I visited the Royal Castle in Warsaw, I was struck not only by the grandeur of its interior rooms but by the weight of history they carried. Gilded ceilings, restored frescoes, and polished parquet floors radiated an elegance that felt both authentic and improbable—especially knowing that everything I saw had been painstakingly reconstructed in the 1970s and 1980s, decades after the original interiors were destroyed during World War II.

The Royal Castle (Zamek Królewski w Warszawie), which stands at the entrance to Warsaw’s Old Town, has long embodied Poland’s national identity. For centuries, it served as the official royal residence and administrative heart of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth. It was here, in 1791, that lawmakers adopted the Constitution of May 3—the first modern constitution in Europe, and the second in the world after that of the United States.

But by the end of the 18th century, Poland had lost its sovereignty. Through a series of three partitions, Russia, Prussia, and Austria carved up the territory, erasing Poland from the map of Europe for more than a century.

My father was born in 1916 in Kamyk, a village near Częstochowa—home to the revered Black Madonna. At the time, Poland did not exist as an independent country. Kamyk lay within the Russian Partition, a region ruled by the Russian Empire since the late 1700s. By 1916, however, the area was under German military occupation, following advances on the Eastern Front during World War I. Poland would regain its independence just two years later, in 1918, after the collapse of the partitioning empires.

In the years following the partitions, foreign rulers redesigned the Castle in neoclassical style. When Poland regained its sovereignty in 1918, the Castle became the official residence of the Polish head of state.

World War II brought devastation. German planes bombed the Castle in 1939, and after the failed Warsaw Uprising in 1944, Nazi forces deliberately destroyed what remained. The Castle lay in ruins.

Under the postwar communist regime, reconstruction was delayed. But in time, rebuilding the Castle became both a political and cultural act of defiance. Polish citizens contributed funds. Historians, architects, and artisans turned to prewar drawings, paintings, and photographs to guide the work. Between 1971 and 1984, the Castle rose again—rebuilt atop its surviving cellars, foundations, the adjacent Copper-Roof Palace, and the Kubicki Arcades.

Today, the Royal Castle is not just a museum; it is a monument to what was lost—and to what was recovered. It houses one of Poland’s most important collections of national and European art. In 1980, UNESCO recognized both the Castle and Warsaw’s Old Town as a World Heritage Site. And in 2024 alone, over 2.14 million people visited—making it one of the most visited art museums in the world.

Polin Museum: A Monument to Life and Memory

Resurrecting a Nation’s Memory: My Visit to the Royal Castle in Warsaw