There are evenings in the theatre when applause feels almost inappropriate — not because the work has been ineffective, but because clapping seems too tidy a response to what you’ve just absorbed. Here There Are Blueberries at Theatre Royal Stratford East is one of those evenings.

Created by Tectonic Theatre Project and written by Moisés Kaufman and Amanda Gronich, the piece centres on the real discovery of a photo album from Auschwitz: images taken by perpetrators, capturing moments of leisure and camaraderie in chilling proximity to industrialised genocide. The title, deceptively gentle, comes from a small detail within the photographs. That contrast — something as ordinary as blueberries existing alongside unfathomable brutality — becomes the production’s quiet, devastating spine.

The story is compelling, potent and undeniably important. The Holocaust demands careful remembrance; it requires vigilance in how it is told and retold. This production approaches that responsibility with gravity and restraint. There is no sensationalism, no theatrical embellishment designed to shock. Instead, the tone is measured, thoughtful and deeply respectful. The creators seem acutely aware that the material does not belong to them — it belongs to history, to survivors, and to the generations still shaped by it.

The structure follows an investigative process. We watch historians and archivists examine the photographs, identify faces, trace connections and attempt to reconstruct context. The ensemble move fluidly between narrators, researchers and figures within the historical frame. Their performances are controlled and sincere, never tipping into overt emotional display. That restraint feels not only appropriate but essential; it avoids reducing immense suffering to performance.

What unsettles most is the ordinariness of the perpetrators captured in the album — smiling, relaxed, human. The production does not need to underline the point; the images, even when described rather than shown, carry their own horror. Ethical questions simmer beneath the surface: How do ordinary people participate in atrocity? What does it mean to document evil? Who is remembered, and who is erased?

Intellectually, the piece is gripping. It engages the audience as investigators, inviting us to connect threads and consider the broader implications of what is being uncovered. There is something quietly powerful about watching evidence accumulate in real time. Each identification feels like a small, solemn act of restoration — history clarified, names reclaimed.

Yet the production leans decisively into documentary theatre, and that choice shapes the experience. The storytelling unfolds in a steady investigative rhythm rather than building towards a dramatic crescendo. While this approach honours the seriousness of the material, it can also create emotional distance. The arc feels cumulative rather than climactic. Instead of tonal variation or moments of theatrical lift, the piece maintains a consistent sobriety from beginning to end.

At times, I found myself admiring the importance of the work more than feeling fully immersed in it. The staging is clear and functional, transitions purposeful but rarely transformative. The narrative remains anchored in explanation and exposition. I occasionally longed for greater shifts in theatrical language — moments where form might deepen the emotional impact rather than simply present the facts.

That said, there are passages of profound quiet force. When the production allows space — when a single detail is lingered on, when silence settles over the room — the atmosphere tightens palpably. The audience becomes acutely aware of its role as witness. In those moments, the documentary approach feels not just justified but essential. The refusal to dramatise becomes a moral stance.

Importantly, the piece never trivialises or aestheticises trauma. It offers no catharsis, no comforting resolution. Instead, it leaves the audience with questions — about complicity, memory and the fragile boundary between ordinary life and unimaginable harm. It is theatre that prioritises responsibility over spectacle.

Ultimately, Here There Are Blueberries is a conscientious and significant work. Its subject matter is urgent, its central discovery deeply unsettling and its intentions honourable. While the storytelling might have benefited from a more dynamic dramatic shape, the production’s integrity and care are undeniable. It is not an easy watch — nor should it be — but it is a meaningful one.

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