ICONIC ARCHITECTURE: Second World War Museum in Gdańsk

Not every architectural icon is created to inspire admiration. Some are designed primarily to provoke reflection. From the very beginning, the Museum of the Second World War in Gdańsk was intended to be a building that says little, yet leaves a lasting impression in our memory. More than three quarters of its space is concealed underground, while its distinctive leaning tower has become one of the city's most recognizable contemporary symbols. How was the project that revolutionized the way we think about museums of memory created, and why would its author, nearly a decade later, change not the building's form but the way visitors move through it?

Gdańsk is a Polish city where the history of the 20^th century began and ended within a few kilometres of each other. Here, on the Westerplatte peninsula, the first shots of the Second World War were fired in September 1939. Several decades later, in the same shipyard visible from the windows of the current museum, workers founded the Solidarity trade union, which initiated the collapse of communism in Central Europe. Few cities bear the weight of two such pivotal moments. In 2017, the Museum of the Second World War was built on the banks of the Radunia Canal, and from the very first day architects referred to it as a “silent building”. Today, this very structure, dedicated to one of the most difficult subjects of the 20^th century, has become an icon of the city, replacing the former, more obvious symbols of Gdańsk in this role. It is hard to find better proof that a contemporary architectural icon does not need to be light or easy to interpret in order to remain unforgettable.

The building was designed by the Tri-City-based Studio Architektoniczne Kwadrat under the direction of architect Jacek Droszcz. The practice won the international competition in 2010, attracting submissions from dozens of countries. The winning concept was based on a decision that, from the outside, appears almost paradoxical: to build something monumental, it was necessary to go underground. More than 75 percent of the programme, including the entire permanent exhibition, was placed fourteen metres below the level of the square. Above ground remained only architectural markers, most notably the leaning tower, over forty metres high, now visible from almost every point in the Old Town.

This inclined form deliberately does not imitate anything specific – this was a conscious choice by the architects. Bazyli Domsta, one of the co-authors of the project, collected in his notebook the associations visitors made with the structure: for some it was a sinking ship, for others a projectile embedded in the ground, or a building tilted by an explosion. Illuminated at night, the tower is also interpreted in a completely different way, as a blazing memorial flame. The architects called it a “naked form”, one that each viewer fills with their own meaning. But this sculptural shell is only what can be seen from the square. Going underground also had a functional purpose that is easy to overlook when focusing solely on the form itself. The building stands on a narrow plot squeezed between two rivers, making downward expansion more natural than building upwards. This decision gave the architects more than a solution to a spatial constraint; it allowed them to organise functions exactly as required.

The cinema hall, with one hundred and fourteen seats and a screen almost nine metres wide, is located on level minus three and does not require daylight. Next to it, the conference hall, over five hundred square metres in area, with three hundred and three seats and a theatre stage, operates on the same principle: no daylight, because none is needed. The restaurant and café, by contrast, are located precisely where light and views are part of the experience – at the top of the tower, with a panoramic view of Gdańsk stretching beyond the glass façade. The building consistently gives each function exactly what it truly needs. It is a principle that is easier to demand in public architecture than to achieve.

It is worth emphasising that embedding the building underground was the greatest engineering challenge of the entire project. The groundwater level forced the engineers to design the underground section as a watertight “bathtub”, with diaphragm walls one metre thick. Excavation was carried out using the so-called dry excavation method, a technique that had never before been used on such a scale in Poland. The façade, formed from asymmetrically arranged concrete panels in a brick-like shade, was mounted on a dedicated steel substructure. The wall’s inclination, reaching 56 degrees, required a system capable of compensating for movements that a conventional façade could not withstand. A building that appears from the outside to be a simple gesture is, in reality, the result of hundreds of engineering decisions that visitors will never know about.

From the perspective of almost a decade since the completion of the project, Jacek Droszcz sees no need for major changes to the design itself. As he points out, every building reveals both its strengths and weaknesses over time, and their assessment always depends on the perspective from which architecture is viewed years later. The only area he would suggest refining today is not the form of the building, but the way users navigate its spaces. This concerns above all visual communication and its further adaptation to the needs of people with disabilities. In his view, these are elements that can evolve alongside changing accessibility standards without interfering with the original architectural concept. It is telling that, after many years, the author of the project focuses not on form or spatial solutions, but on the quality of the user experience. These are precisely the aspects that most often change as the ways people use public buildings evolve.

The same sensitivity to user needs that Jacek Droszcz references when discussing visual communication also applies today to the space surrounding the building. The most significant changes awaiting the Museum of the Second World War no longer concern the architecture itself, but the square that surrounds it. A redevelopment project is already complete, proposing what the architect describes as the humanisation of the space: more greenery, more trees, more shade, and improved accessibility. It is a natural response to changing user expectations that does not require intervention in the building’s architecture.

The international jury of the 2010 competition, which included Daniel Libeskind, architect of the Jewish Museum Berlin, assessed the project as worthy of standing alongside the city’s most important symbols: St. Mary’s Basilica, the Crane, and the Great Armoury. These are landmarks that have defined Gdańsk’s skyline for centuries. The Museum of the Second World War joined this group within a single decade, even though it tells a story associated not with pride, but with pain. Perhaps that is precisely its uniqueness: it achieved the status of a city icon without offering anything easy in return.