Forging a new path in familiar territory: a tale of love, loss, and no redemption in East of Berlin

by Eva Jackson

The Holocaust narrative is one that has been explored myriad times across countless creative mediums. It is a theme that is redolent with dramatic potential, and features a rich pre-existing cast of heroes and villains. It is an irresistible invitation to the audience to contemplate a period in history that 'revolutionised our notion of evil'. This is subject matter of inexhaustible breadth and depth, and yet the prisms through which it is explored seem to be becoming increasingly limited, the opinions notably second-hand. Hannah Moscovitch's East of Berlin gets its European premiere at Southwark Playhouse this month, and is a rare exception to this trend - it is a valuable addition to the canon, a taught and terrifying examination of the fallout of the legacy of silence.

It is a dark and doomed love story between two very different Holocaust survivors: the daughter of a Jewish mother who survived Auschwitz, and the son of an SS officer who spent much of the war performing grotesque recreational medical experiments at the same camp. It is also a kind of bildungroman enacted on stage, a journey of self-discovery where the destination is unbearable.

Jordan McCurrach as our narrator protagonist Rudi is wonderful. It is a hard role, filled with lots of tricky direct audience address and monologues in which he is forced to put himself and his past under the microscope for us to dissect together. He has an arsenal of weapons that he deploys to circumvent our preconceptions of the child of a Nazi war criminal - he is charming, demonstrates a unique brand of ink-black gallows wit and masterful, self-effacing irony, often anticipates our next move and easily predicts our emotional response - "You'll like this part...". However, this horribly conflicted young man is also arrogant, flawed, selfish, a liar and something of a bully, a constantly shifting cipher - and McCurrach manages these shifts beautifully under the sensitive direction of Blythe Stewart.

Jo Herbert also does sterling work as Sarah. Her delicate porcelain features (which contrast nicely with McCurrach's meaningfully Aryan good looks) and light, birdlike physicality are belied by her mature and assured voice. It is a rewarding role considering her relatively short stage time, and Herbert presents a wonderfully nuanced portrayal of a character that we are only really meeting through the filter of Rudi's recollections. Tom Lincoln as Hermann also rises to this challenge admirably, lending an oddly likeable quality as the awkward and cerebral academic who is used and discarded by Rudi and later returns to exact a cold and calculated revenge by simply telling the truth.

Holly Pigott's restrained but detailed and excellent set is the dusty archive where Rudi and Sarah first meet, which finely anchors the play in their shared history, a constant looming reminder of their inescapable past. It is the albatross around the neck of their relationship - as the piece unfolds, the detritus of the story is littered about the stage. In this design, Sarah and Rudi make love for the first time among the transport papers that record the day her mother was sent to Auschwitz, they make an abortive attempt at making a home together among the carnage of the by now overturned bookshelves - a physical manifestation of the obstacles that are in their path, the past inextricably and aggressively linked with the present and preventing their future.

There is an unfortunate technical disappointment in that the slide show of photographs that are projected across the set throughout - featuring what I assume are the familiar shots of the ramp at Auschwitz, the gas chambers, the piles of bodies - is so distorted as to become essentially redundant. The one moment of sharp focus when photographs are projected precisely into their frames in Rudi's father's study gives a glimpse into the effect that could have been achieved, but I feel sorry for the credited video designer, Jasmine Robinson, as I had great trouble identifying what her contribution even looked like. One also cannot help but feel that famous photographs of war atrocities contribute little to a play that excites precisely because it is all about the personal, about the individual experience rather than the obvious and acknowledged backdrop of suffering on a global scale.

This is not a perfect play. As an individual with a vested personal interest in the triumph of nurture over nature allowing us to overcome our origins, I found myself unconvinced by the key message about the transcendental and unequivocal power of blood. I wish that Moscovitch had allowed a little more room in which to explore the converse possibility that it is possible to escape the sins of our fathers, that it is possible to write our futures consciously avoiding the mistakes of the past. The rich ambiguity of the play's final moments is a tantalizing suggestion of what might have been more fully realised if we were allowed to consider an alternative to the notion that our future is always predetermined by our blood.

The role assigned to the audience is also somewhat problematic. Rudi talks to us directly throughout, using our presence to help unpack and analyse his feelings, flitting between suave and assured entertainer and frustrated prisoner of his own birthright and self-loathing. But despite bring seemingly instrumental to the mode of storytelling, we are given no agency or identity. We are often asked what we feel, if we would have done the same, but no real contribution is expected or necessary. Are we judge, jury, conscience, archivist? Ultimately, it doesn't matter. The play will carry on without us. Perhaps it was this that prevented me from becoming truly emotionally engaged with the highly charged subject matter. As the playwright herself has said, 'the stakes of the Holocaust are the highest in our lifetime' , and yet I spent the duration of the piece at arms' length from the action, feeling like a captivated but still objective observer.

Despite these shortcomings, it is not hard to see why Moscovitch has been so vaunted and garlanded for her tender years. Hers is a true talent, and Theatre In Heights' competent and well-executed production plays to the text's considerable strength and unique voice. This is a rare opportunity to see a Canadian play on the London stage, and I would suggest you go and see it - but do be prepared to leave with more questions than answers.

East of Berlin is at Southwark Playhouse until Saturday 12th July.

Performances begin at 8pm (3:30pm matinee).

Book tickets here.

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