The irony (and power) of art in Nazi camps

Like Seattle Shakespeare Company, the Eclectic Theater is experimenting with running two shows in repertory on alternate evenings. One is the tragedy of Shakespeare's ambivalent Danish prince. The other is a one-man show about entertainers in the Holocaust.

Our views on the two:

If the show bombs, these Jews will likely be packed off to the Nazi gas chambers. If it's a hit, they'll stay at Westerbork and live — for now.

In this impressive 90-minute solo play, Natale conveys with economy and depth a gripping, true-life story and the people caught up in it.

He clearly did his homework — interviewing Westerbork survivors, excavating old comedy routines and songs, and developing the piece for nearly a decade.

Though a program note mentions Natale's desire to see the play done with a full cast, and live orchestra, he is actor enough to carry it alone.

Under Gin Hammond's direction, he wisely works on an empty stage, swiftly changing voices, bearings and facial expressions, to portray such real-life Berlin stars as singer Camilla Spira, composer Willy Rosen and brash actor-director Max Ehrlich.

It is Ehrlich we follow most closely, as he arrives at Westerbork in 1943 and accepts the camp head's order to put on cabaret events.

But quick sketches of other inmates — a terrified woman with a baby, a brusque Jewish clerk, a nasty Jewish security guard — provide a broader context from which many ironies spring.

As in other Nazi camps, Jews are perversely forced to "register" and discipline their fellow Jews. Here they also must herd them (including famed young diarist Anne Frank) into Auschwitz-bound trains.

Westerbork's commander is a great fan of Jewish music and comedy, yet he coolly, efficiently packs off thousands of Jews to their deaths each week.

And a process of "Aryanization" might save an inmate from extermination — but what a devil's bargain!

Like Joshua Sobol's play "Ghetto" (about a Lithuanian Jewish ghetto) and "Playing for Time" (a TV film about a Jewish orchestra in Auschwitz), "Westerbork Serenade" also ponders the elite status (or illusion of it) granted to entertainers. And whether amusing one's oppressors is collusion.

But there are no polemics here — just humor (pitch-black), some charming old routines (including the title song, by the Dutch cabaret team Johnny & Jones) and a big dose of complex humanity.

The piece has a somewhat ragged ending. Some of the two-way banter is awkward. And there are lighting glitches, like a blinding lamp aimed at patrons' eyes.

Most significant, though, is how much of this darkly fascinating chapter of the Holocaust can be revealed to us by just a single actor on a bare stage.

Misha Berson: mberson@seattletimes.com