Review of ‘Here There Are Blueberries’ (2026, Stratford East): “Fruitful premise is still waiting to ripen”

The venue presents the London premiere of Moises Kaufman and Amanda Gronich’s eye-opening play about the Holocaust. Guillermo Nazara shares his views on the show to let us know if this photo-based story ends up at the bottom of the barrel.

You can either expect everything or nothing from a play about Nazi Germany. Surprisingly, this one stands right in the middle. It’s still not quite there, but there’s something about it that denotes quality. A work in progress, you may call it. And you would be right to do so. The script is far from perfect, and it suffers from pivotal dramatic and structural problems. Yet, it’s a haunting experience that I’m grateful to have put myself through.

As the show unfolds, the poster picture emerges on the set’s backdrop. A black-and-white photograph shows a group of young girls friskily eating bowls of blueberries. As the narrator describes, one fakes crying because her portion is over, probably unaware of the real cries that, just a few meters away, pervade the foul air of the Auschwitz concentration camp, where famine, torture, grief, and death are the only true survivors.

The name Solahütte never rang a bell to me, until now. For those unacquainted with it, that’s the private resort built for Nazi soldiers as a reward for their crimes. The more efficient they were, the more time off they would be given. Many would bring their families, and their kids would treasure those happy childhood memories, until they learned how their parents got them there.

Kaufman and Gronich’s script pulsates with poignancy — but it’s miles away from all the grip and stir this concept teems with. It’s a harrowing watch. Yet, its effectiveness should be attributed to the source material instead of the adaptation’s narrative skills. We can appreciate that there is something in there. However, the writing seems incapable of fully grasping it.

The script oozes genuineness — perhaps to an extent that’s actually detrimental. Based on the interviews Kaufman conducted with Washington’s Holocaust Memorial Museum archivist, Rebecca Erbelding, and all his subsequent field research, the piece intends to imbue the recount with a sense of documentary reality. So much so that, for the most part, it doesn’t come across as a play, but rather a lecture supported by a few segments of reenactment.

Erbelding’s character becomes the central role of the story. A former counterintelligence agent donates a photo album he found while serving in Frankfurt during the fall of the Third Reich. In it, over a hundred pictures show Nazi officers during their leisure time. Some lie peacefully in their hammocks, while others engage in sports and other recreational activities.

One, however, stands out from the rest. In it, a bunch of uniformed people gather cheerfully as if they were in celebration. It was indeed. And the cause was more horrific than anyone could imagine. Thousands of Jews had just been exterminated in the gas chamber.

A few recognisable faces can be spotted in the front. On the corner, Josef Mengele (accurately nicknamed the Angel of Death) grins mischievously. Next to him, Auschwitz’s final commander, Richard Baer, crosses his arms casually to assert his authority. And at the end of the row, Karl Höcker stands peacefully, seemingly at ease with all that’s happened.

As the plot unfolds, the museum curators are contacted by descendants of the Solahütte users, some of whom were also visitors in their youth. Suffice it to say that those recollections carry no meaning to them, other than shame. That excludes the relatives who took them there, some of whom describe those chapters as the most joyful in their lives.

The thoroughness of the authors’ investigation permeates every page of the text. The issue stems from its obsession with authenticity and perhaps preserving too much verbatim in a work that undoubtedly needs editing. We are not asking to take artistic license. We are not demanding irresponsible fictionalisation. Yet, drama only functions when the protagonists are allowed to live through it. And in this case, their treatment is too sterile — closer to a subject of study than a breathing creature.

The script’s primary error can be summarised by the “show, don’t tell” principle. On the whole, its narrative approach is unbalanced, featuring too many monologic sections that should have been portrayed through action and dialogue.

Consequently, the pacing is sluggish, especially during the first half. The theme’s engaging nature prevents us from disconnecting, but it’s a very fine line that the writing steps on repeatedly — and inevitably crosses, although briefly, a couple of times.

The play gives some voice to the Nazis’ relatives, most of whom understandably have detached themselves from their ancestors. Still, none of them is provided with a proper arc. Ultimately, the piece is in need of a more defined conflict. And its framing device should be relegated to its rightful purpose instead of becoming the plot’s central element.

There’s the curator’s motivation to find out if all the adults coming to Solahütte were aware of what was really going on. There’s some dramatic strength to it, but not as much as they could have accomplished. Eventually, the conclusion isn’t impactful enough, and that’s because all the central figures are reduced to mentions, instead of a prominent character we could root for and perhaps have been broken by in the end.

The production delivers an interesting visual take, albeit it’s not fully fleshed out. The museum’s white-brick walls serve as a blank canvas for the photographs to materialise, cleverly brought to life through the use of foley effects performed by the actors onstage.

There could have been more theatricality to it, nonetheless. The historian’s desks are moved around to represent different settings. Yet, the way they’re employed doesn’t brim with adaptability or dynamism. And although the lighting is elegant and atmospheric, it isn’t as evocative and versatile as the recount requires.

The piece’s overall impression may be tarnished by the cast’s lack of resourcefulness. In general, the acting is weak. It feels overly enunciated and devoid of organicness. There’s not much layering or nuance to it. And their range, a crucial aspect due to their multi-role renditions, is quite limited.

There are flashes of brilliance. And undeniably, it brings exposure to a topic that’s as fascinating as it is heartwrenching. Still, Here There Are Blueberries has only provided us with the scraps of a potentially far superior book. Although it zooms in on some key features adequately, it seems oblivious to its dramatic focal point. Its educational value is indisputable, but much like the fruits in its title, the ride might come off sour. And so may the audience’s response to it.

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All pictures credit to Mark Senior.

Here There Are Blueberries plays at London’s Theatre Royal Stratford East until 28 February. Tickets are available on the following link.

By Guillermo Nazara