Ever since I visited the Museum of Cinematography back in May, I’d been meaning to check out the Museum of the City of Łódź, but something always got in the way—either something unexpected came up, or I arrived in the city too late for it to be worth going in just for a quick visit. But finally, I made it—and I’m so glad I did, because it was fantastic!

I remember when I first started coming to Łódź some 13 years ago and would see that palace—I was sure it had to belong to the richest factory owner in the city. The building is absolutely massive, lavishly decorated, with a crowd of sculptures perched on the roof and a façade bristling with bas-reliefs. Interestingly enough, even though Karol Scheibler (considered the wealthiest of Łódź’s factory owners) owned around 500 hectares of land—about 1/7th of the city’s area at the time—his palace is smaller and noticeably more “modest” than the Poznański family palace.

Let’s be real: once you leave Staromiejski Park and reach the intersection of Ogrodowa and Zachodnia, the view is something else. Look to your left—modern glass buildings. To the right—more modern glass. Then turn your head and boom—there it is, the “Louvre of Łódź.” A huge, light-colored, richly adorned building with pointy towers that makes everything around it look kind of ordinary.

Today, the palace houses the Museum of the City of Łódź, which weaves together several themes: the legacy of the Poznański family (one of Łódź’s most important factory dynasties), the lives of famous locals like Artur Rubinstein (a Jewish-Polish pianist), the broader history of the city, stories of everyday people of Łódź, and the multicultural past of Łódź before 1949—when Poles, Jews, and Germans all shared this urban space.

In Jewish tradition, surnames didn’t originally exist—aside from a few regional exceptions. People used only first names, sometimes with a “ben” (son of) added, like Yaakov ben Shmuel (Jacob, son of Samuel). It wasn’t until the 18th and 19th centuries that various European authorities started forcing Jews to adopt surnames. Wealthier families could often “buy” prettier-sounding names, like Rosenthal (“valley of roses”). Others had names imposed by officials, often based on professions (Zimmermann = carpenter), father’s names (Mendelson), mother’s names (Edelman), personality traits (Lieberman = loving man), or appearance (Klein = small). In the Poznański family’s case, their name came from a place—Poznań. Izrael’s father, Kalman ben Izaak, was the first to take on the name Poznański.

In one of the palace rooms, I spotted a replica of Dziennik Łódzki (one of Poland’s oldest newspapers, first published in 1884). Two issues had highlighted mentions of Leonia Poznańska, Izrael’s wife: “A painting by local artist Hirszenberg was won by Mrs. L. Poznańska. Wanting to support the artist, who is currently abroad to further develop his skills, Mrs. L.P. generously donated 75 rubles. This act deserves recognition.” That was about Samuel Hirszenberg, a Jewish-Polish painter. Interestingly, the Poznański family wasn’t really into art themselves, but they supported Hirszenberg’s career anyway—and his works ended up decorating both the dining and ballroom areas.

What really caught my eye, though, were the little snippets that showed how newspapers back then did the kind of stuff we now do online. “From the telephone station: newly connected this week—private residence of Karol Scheibler on Piotrkowska Street (newly constructed building), and the Natan Kopel company (textile warehouse).” So few people had phones that newspapers actually listed who got connected! Another bit: “A telegram sent from Łódź on the 26th of this month for Mr. Uhlig is waiting undelivered at the Warsaw telegraph office.” And another gem: “The analysis of beer from the Anstadt brewery (by the Warsaw Exhibition committee) is expected to be published in a specialist journal, according to Dziennik dla wszystkich [a newspaper].”

Another intriguing item: “From Feb 22 to 28, the following number of deaths occurred in Łódź: Children under 15 — Catholics: 26, Evangelicals: 28, Jews: 4 (Total: 58) Adults — Catholics: 15, Evangelicals: 7, Jews: 3 (Total: 25) Overall deaths: 83 — 33 more than the previous week. Child mortality increased by 26 cases, adult by 7.” This made me wonder—was breaking it down by religion a result of tense social relations, or was it just for informative purposes? Also, why separate data for children?

Another thing that struck me was how charmingly unpolished and human the newspaper language was back then. “Today, on the large pond behind the Anstadt brewery, a big charity skating party will take place. The event starts at 3 PM. Along with a great rink for skaters, there’s a carousel on the ice; a number of sleighs are also prepared for the ladies. A military orchestra will play during the event. At dusk, the pond will be illum—” (I don’t know what comes next because the paper was folded at that point.)

I’d honestly love to dive into more archival issues of Dziennik Łódzki, especially from the industrial heyday of the city. I could lose hours in that.

The dining room (photo below) left the biggest impression on me—it was defaced during the German occupation with Hitler’s portrait and swastikas, but it wasn’t destroyed. It’s richly decorated, with round windows and Hirszenberg’s paintings.

In one of the rooms, on a desk, stood a bizarre typewriter: the Gundka Modell III. Made by Gundka-Werk in Brandenburg, Germany, this typewriter had no keyboard—just a wheel and a slider that you’d align with the desired character. You’d then confirm the letter with a button on the left side. It was portable but really only suitable for short texts, because it was super slow to type on.

Down in the basement are exhibits not directly tied to the Poznański family, but more to the general history of Łódź. You’ll find models of the Tp2 steam locomotive, the Herbrand VNB125 tram (the first trams to run in the city), a model of the Łódź Fabryczna train station from 1868–1930, the “Central” shopping complex, a 19th-century weaver’s house, reports (couldn’t figure out by who or for whom), old gear, Łódź resident IDs, a vintage beer bottle, a model of the Poznański Palace, and tons of other stuff.

I ended my visit with the exhibition “Na wspólnym podwórku” (“In the Shared Backyard”), which explores the multicultural side of pre-1939 Łódź—a city where Poles, Germans, and Jews lived side by side. There are loads of fascinating old photos of the city and its people.

You can also see replica street signs and manhole covers from the era. Everyday objects from the time. Even full-scale model rooms showing what a typical Polish, German, or Jewish apartment looked like back then.

And finally, you can stroll into the palace garden to admire the building from outside—the details, the architecture, and the restored historic fountain. The sculpture (a young nude woman) was by Wacław Konopka; the rest by Anastazy Lepla. The fountain was likely created between 1903 and 1910.