The address is 1933–1945 Meridian Avenue. The number is the span of the Nazi regime, and it was assigned on purpose. That is the first thing the memorial tells you, and it sets the terms for everything after it.
The reason it stands here rather than anywhere else is demographic. By the 1970s and 1980s, Miami Beach held one of the largest concentrations of Holocaust survivors in the United States — people who had come to the United States after the war, many of them older, many living in the small apartment buildings of South Beach. This memorial was their project. A committee of survivors, working through the Greater Miami Jewish Federation, raised the money and commissioned the architect Kenneth Treister. It was dedicated in 1990.
Treister designed a sequence rather than a monument. You enter from Meridian Avenue into a colonnade of Jerusalem stone, move through a domed rotunda, and then into a narrowing passage — the Lonely Path — whose walls carry the names of the camps and close in as you walk. The passage opens onto the central plaza and The Sculpture of Love and Anguish: a bronze forearm rising around forty feet from a reflecting pool, tattooed with an Auschwitz number, with human figures climbing it and gathered at its base. The last part of the walk is the Memorial Wall, carrying names, and a garden of stone and water that returns you to the street.
It is not a museum. There are no galleries, no film, no gift shop, no ticket. It is a walk that takes as long as it takes, and the design does the work of pacing you.
Visitors do arrive without knowing what they have come to. The memorial sits on a corner in the middle of ordinary Miami Beach, across Dade Boulevard from the convention centre and a short walk from a botanical garden and a pedestrian shopping street. Nothing on the outside prepares you. Go in knowing.