When the Berkshire Mall opened on February 10, 1970, it debuted a multi-level anchor lineup—Sears, Lit Brothers, and John Wanamaker—and a design that subtly played with height and sightlines. In its original plan, the mall incorporated an upstairs corridor that overlooked the central fountain and a themed boutique stretch known as “Lamp Post Lane.”
Berkshire Mall Central Fountain
That upper level needed vertical access for shoppers, and an elevator was part of that architectural plan. The upstairs level “overlooking the Lit Brothers court and fountain” was accessed via a glass-enclosed elevator. Labeled in period references as a “1970 Otis Scenic Hydraulic” (often simply “the glass elevator”), it used a hydraulic drive for that slow, velvety rise and featured glass or partly transparent sides so riders could see into the mall as they ascended.
A Vertical Stage in a Horizontal Mall (1970s–1980s)
From day one, the elevator wasn’t just a utility—it was a showpiece. On a primarily single-level floorplate, this clear-walled capsule created a small theater of motion at the heart of the concourse. Lit Brothers would eventually rebrand (to Pomeroy’s, then The Bon-Ton), Wanamaker would cycle through later department-store identities, and Sears would anchor the opposite end—but the elevator kept doing its quiet work, stitching levels together and framing a view of everyday life in the mall.
Even as storefronts changed, the elevator remained a visual anchor. Imagine stepping into it in, say, 1985: the doors glide open; the cabin light is warm and slightly tinted. Through glass sides, you catch the fountain flickering below and see shoppers on both levels moving like currents in a stream. As the cab rises, there’s that familiar, weightless pause—a moment suspended between floors, like the space between childhood and adulthood—before the doors part again onto the upper gallery.
Lamp Post Lane to Terrace Café (1989)
By the late 1980s, the mall reoriented its upstairs concept. Lamp Post Lane gave way to the Terrace Café food court, formally added in 1989. The use changed—from boutique lane to dining deck—but the need for vertical connection didn’t. The elevator kept linking the central court to the new food-court overlook, turning meal runs and meet-ups into those same small, cinematic rides.
Through Rebrandings and Retrenchments (1990s–2010s)
Across the 1990s and 2000s, the anchor boxes evolved—Wanamaker’s to Hecht’s to Strawbridge’s and ultimately a Boscov’s conversion—while The Bon-Ton and Sears held on until their respective closures in 2018 and 2019. Each change subtly shifted foot-traffic patterns, but the elevator continued to do what it always had: provide a dignified, glass-framed transition between levels and eras.
The Long Fade—and the Elevator as Artifact (2020s)
In recent years, the Berkshire Mall’s condition slipped publicly into view—vacancy, fenced-off parking areas, and code-driven repairs shaped by court orders and borough pressure. Plans now call for closure, demolition, and redevelopment, with most of the enclosed structure slated to be razed and the site rebuilt as open-air retail, while Boscov’s remains.
In that twilight, the elevator has stood out as one of the mall’s most resilient artifacts—still there, still legible, even as the concourse around it quieted. Whether it moves daily or only intermittently, whether it ceases operation tomorrow, its memory already endures: the transparent walls, the soft hydraulic hum, the gentle rise and settle, the mid-air moment of transition.
The Berkshire Mall’s glass elevator told a truth about the building it served: architecture isn’t static. Malls breathe, age, adapt; they rise and fall. A scenic elevator makes that motion visible—an act of going somewhere while seeing where you’ve been. And in a place stitched together by rituals—meeting at the fountain, riding up for lunch at Terrace Café, drifting back down with shopping bags—the elevator was both practical and poetic.
As the property turns toward its next chapter, the elevator’s story doubles as an epilogue to the enclosed-mall era in Berks County. It connected Lamp Post Lane to the fountain court; it bridged boutiques to a food court; it rose above changing logos and floor tiles and fashions. In every ascent and descent, it left an echo—a reminder that places move us, and we move through them, together.
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