The shell of a once-Gothic church on the south-eastern edge of the Old Town, deliberately left in ruin after the 1943 bombing as a memorial to the war dead. The roof is gone, the brick walls open to the sky, and the floor is laid with a simple stone slab to the fallen of both world wars.
A bell hangs in the apse: half of a sister-city peace ritual with Hiroshima. The atmosphere is sober and worth a quiet ten minutes — most other Hanover sights have been rebuilt, but the Aegidienkirche was kept as it was found.