Following a sell-out, Scotsman Fringe First award-winning Edinburgh premiere, the debut work from Filipa Bragança Award-nominated artist Beth Paterson makes its London premiere!
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| Photo by Mayah Salter |
Niusia was a Holocaust survivor. She saved people’s lives in the camps, set up a new life for her family as a refugee, and was an iridescent entertainer. But her granddaughter, Beth, only remembers an angry, dying woman.
She’s ready to learn her stories, but what she discovers is all the questions she didn’t know existed (and wasn’t allowed to ask).
Through NIUSIA, Beth weaves together memories, handed-down stories and interviews to examine the precarity of identity and the haphazard cultural legacy second, third and fourth generation immigrants are handed. She asks: what does remembrance look like when all I remember is the space where questions should go?
A multi-award-winning company whose works have toured across Australia and internationally, a ry presentation is a Naarm-based production house focused on platforming the voices and works of creatives who have emerged from historically disenfranchised communities.
We caught up with Beth Paterson to learn more.
What can you tell me about the show?
NIUSIA is a multi-award-winning, biographical, verbatim, one-woman show all about the often difficult relationships between grandmothers, mothers, and granddaughters. Niusia was my grandmother, and my goodness, she was an amazing woman. She was a survivor of the Holocaust; she saved people’s lives in Auschwitz as a nurse. When she came to Australia, she became a successful businesswoman and an absolute firecracker, and she could throw one helluva party. Unfortunately, I only remember her as a bitter, angry woman. I was unimpressed. This work is about how all of those things can be true at once.
NIUSIA is a multi-award-winning, biographical, verbatim, one-woman show all about the often difficult relationships between grandmothers, mothers, and granddaughters. Niusia was my grandmother, and my goodness, she was an amazing woman. She was a survivor of the Holocaust; she saved people’s lives in Auschwitz as a nurse. When she came to Australia, she became a successful businesswoman and an absolute firecracker, and she could throw one helluva party. Unfortunately, I only remember her as a bitter, angry woman. I was unimpressed. This work is about how all of those things can be true at once.
I play a version of myself, I play my grandmother in post-war Melbourne, and I speak directly to my mother, whom we hear over the speakers. It explores what it means to love difficult people, to form a connection to culture and history when it was denied to you as a kid, and is also a love letter to all the women who have come before me.
NIUSIA has travelled from Melbourne to Edinburgh and now to London. What was the specific "spark" or moment that made you realise your grandmother’s story needed to be a one-woman stage show rather than just a private family history?
When I first approached Kat, my director and co-collaborator, about this project, she and I were captured by what we saw as a contradiction. My nana, Niusia, was a hero: she saved lives in Auschwitz.
When I first approached Kat, my director and co-collaborator, about this project, she and I were captured by what we saw as a contradiction. My nana, Niusia, was a hero: she saved lives in Auschwitz.
However, I remember her as an incredibly cruel woman. Holocaust narratives have lived on our stages in various forms, but rarely in a way that presents the figure of a survivor as complex; they are so often seen through the lens of their survival, and not much else.
This was a story that honours Niusia’s heroism while refusing to minimise the hurt she could cause, or how difficult she could sometimes be to love. Live theatre gave an intensity and inescapable liveness that felt necessary. The character of Beth is not afforded the safety or privacy of a screen behind which she can hide and cuss out her grandmother. Instead, she confronts the ugliness of her feelings in full view: with an audience. Together, we journey through the discomfort of witnessing private and ugly thoughts made public, and then work through the fallout together. It’s a work of healing that necessitates the co-witness facilitated by live theatre, and gives the audience permission and breathing space to go: “wow, yeah. Me too”.
You mentioned drawing on fragments of memory and interviews. How did it feel to step into the role of a researcher within your own family, and did you discover anything that fundamentally changed your perception of your Nana?
I actually think what has surprised me is how, after six years of research, development, and touring, I am still learning about my grandmother. I interact with people who knew her and watch them reach into their hearts and hand me stories they haven’t thought about for years. My mother (who has seen the show 5+ times) engages with the work and the media footprint that grows around the show, and somehow more stories and facts emerge from her, surprising both of us.
I actually think what has surprised me is how, after six years of research, development, and touring, I am still learning about my grandmother. I interact with people who knew her and watch them reach into their hearts and hand me stories they haven’t thought about for years. My mother (who has seen the show 5+ times) engages with the work and the media footprint that grows around the show, and somehow more stories and facts emerge from her, surprising both of us.
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| Photo by Mayah Salter |
You worked closely with director Kat Yates. How did that partnership help you navigate the more vulnerable moments of the script?
Kat Yates is a remarkable director. She is committed to telling difficult stories in a way that does not shy away from the truth and keeps her audiences, actors, and team safe. With her keen directorial support and guidance, I feel safe exploring the ugliest parts of my feelings, which in turn allows audiences a brush with truth without it overwhelming them, or me.
The script is woven with laughter and light, which are crucial moments of breath, movement, and recalibration. Her advocacy for the audience, for me as a writer and actor, and for both the darkness and light of the story infuses the script and allows the work to soar.
The show mentions giving voice to the cruel thoughts you shouldn't have about your Holocaust-surviving nana. How important was it for you to include those messy, less-than-perfect human reactions alongside the reverence?
It was deeply necessary. One of the foundations of the show is “and, not or”. We weren’t interested in making a work that sacrificed her sparkle and heroism for the hurt I harboured, or vice versa. We were interested in creating a work that spoke to the difficult nature of intergenerational relationships, wherein the ability to connect and understand one another is dominated by silence, and by the utter failure of language to bridge the gap between what an Aussie 14-year-old understands the world to be, and a grandparent who knows a world of unimaginable suffering. Contradiction and ugliness live alongside reverence and love in these worlds, and a portrayal of this story needed all of those things to feel true.
It was deeply necessary. One of the foundations of the show is “and, not or”. We weren’t interested in making a work that sacrificed her sparkle and heroism for the hurt I harboured, or vice versa. We were interested in creating a work that spoke to the difficult nature of intergenerational relationships, wherein the ability to connect and understand one another is dominated by silence, and by the utter failure of language to bridge the gap between what an Aussie 14-year-old understands the world to be, and a grandparent who knows a world of unimaginable suffering. Contradiction and ugliness live alongside reverence and love in these worlds, and a portrayal of this story needed all of those things to feel true.
The play explores how memories are embedded in the family line. Through performing this show, have you found that the process of wading through these memories has helped you process your own sense of Jewish identity?
Hugely! When I began writing the show, it had nothing to do with Jewish identity. I didn’t call myself Jewish. I knew that I was Jewish, but it meant very little to me, and I felt deeply unentitled to call myself Jewish. It was through Kat’s role as director and audience advocate that my own Jewishness began to emerge: I found myself explaining experiences and elements of my childhood that could only be… Jewish. Who was I to be explaining these?!
Hugely! When I began writing the show, it had nothing to do with Jewish identity. I didn’t call myself Jewish. I knew that I was Jewish, but it meant very little to me, and I felt deeply unentitled to call myself Jewish. It was through Kat’s role as director and audience advocate that my own Jewishness began to emerge: I found myself explaining experiences and elements of my childhood that could only be… Jewish. Who was I to be explaining these?!
But the total lack of a relationship with this part of my lineage gradually became the basis of a relationship. I became increasingly curious about and engaged in Jewish culture, learning, and life, and this journey became embedded into the show. When audiences approach me post-show to disclose their own feelings of Jew-ishness with a look of amused, bashful relief, I proudly wear my Jewishness and implicitly invite others to do the same.
After award-winning runs at various Fringes, how has the show evolved? Does the "Beth" on stage today feel different from the one who first performed it in Melbourne?
Even in its creation, my director and I went to great lengths to find separation between “on-stage Beth” and “real-life Beth”. We did this through movement, characterisation, and writing. But further to that, it is rare that a performer gets to live with a work as long as I have: by the conclusion of the London season, I will have performed the role 90 times over three years. I can safely say that it has changed my life as a performer, as a singer, as a writer, and as a person in the business of theatre.
Even in its creation, my director and I went to great lengths to find separation between “on-stage Beth” and “real-life Beth”. We did this through movement, characterisation, and writing. But further to that, it is rare that a performer gets to live with a work as long as I have: by the conclusion of the London season, I will have performed the role 90 times over three years. I can safely say that it has changed my life as a performer, as a singer, as a writer, and as a person in the business of theatre.
Theatre also takes time to breathe; it takes time for creators to understand what a work truly is. The work changes constantly. I write this between the first and second week of our London premiere, and there are tweaks being made even now to allow the work to settle and grow into its current context. It’s an absolute gift to live inside the work and watch it, myself, and my team grow alongside it.
What motivates you to tell stories like this?
I think there’s a profound shift happening as we move from living memory into inherited memory. My grandmother could testify to what happened because she lived it. My generation can’t do that. What we inherit instead is the responsibility to carry fragments forward — stories, gestures, fears, humour, recipes, contradictions — and to keep them alive in a way that remains human rather than purely historical.
I think there’s a profound shift happening as we move from living memory into inherited memory. My grandmother could testify to what happened because she lived it. My generation can’t do that. What we inherit instead is the responsibility to carry fragments forward — stories, gestures, fears, humour, recipes, contradictions — and to keep them alive in a way that remains human rather than purely historical.
For me, the role of the grandchild, and what motivates me to tell this story, is not to become a perfect historian or a replacement witness. It’s to become an active custodian of memory: to ask questions, to preserve nuance, and to resist the flattening that happens when history becomes abstract or symbolic. The Holocaust can sometimes be spoken about in numbers and enormity, but family stories return it to individual people — to someone’s mother, someone’s daughter, someone who loved music, or argued at the dinner table, or survived impossible things.
What I’ve found through creating NIUSIA is that inheritance is rarely neat. You don’t receive a complete narrative. You inherit fragments, absences, emotional residue, and unanswered questions. Part of being a grandchild is learning to live alongside those gaps while still refusing disappearance. In that sense, remembrance becomes active rather than passive.
I also think grandchildren occupy a unique position because we are far enough away to ask difficult questions, but still close enough to feel the emotional consequences of what was endured. That creates the possibility for works like NIUSIA — works that are deeply personal but also invite broader audiences into conversations about memory, displacement, survival, and intergenerational inheritance.
As living witnesses become fewer, storytelling becomes even more important. Not to fossilise history, but to keep it emotionally alive, relational, and urgently connected to the present.
While this is a specifically Jewish story, it deals with universal themes of silence and inheritance. What do you hope audiences from different cultural backgrounds take away regarding their own family legacies?
The starting point of NIUSIA is not knowing. Not knowing is a universal experience, and one that is often shrouded in shame: shouldn’t I know more about this? NIUSIA begins from that uncomfortable starting point. Rather than shaming myself for not knowing, I became interested in interrogating why I knew so little in the first place.
The starting point of NIUSIA is not knowing. Not knowing is a universal experience, and one that is often shrouded in shame: shouldn’t I know more about this? NIUSIA begins from that uncomfortable starting point. Rather than shaming myself for not knowing, I became interested in interrogating why I knew so little in the first place.
What I discovered is that the family silence emerged as a consequence of assimilation and simply wanting to leave the pain in the past. You do not have to be a descendant of the Holocaust for this to feel relatable. From there, I dive into the discovery with a hearty dose of humour and curiosity.
I hope audiences take that curiosity and self-compassion with them. If you find yourself facing enormous, seemingly impenetrable family silences, I hope you can hold them tenderly.
NIUSIA runs at Theatre 503 in London until Saturday 23rd May 2026. Tickets are available from https://theatre503.com/whats-on/niusia/
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| Photo by Mayah Salter. |
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