Portrait of a Latvian Beauty, a book of 113 pages and more than 120 photographs, presents a powerful visual odyssey of a Latvian refugee family after it is forced to leave Latvia for Germany and then Canada.

The author, Ilze Berzins, focuses on her mother’s story and provides a vision of the past as perceived by the “Latvian beauty” through many of her life’s wrenching changes.

In general one can trace very similar patterns for thousands of Latvian refugees who fled from the menace of the Red Army and a Stalinist occupation with all of its death threats and repressions. To be sure each family’s story has its own unique characteristics. This particular story is coloured in part by the reminiscenses of a dutiful daughter, intermingled with a touch of hero worship and a certain innocent nostalgia for a lost mythical paradise whose images have been passed down from one generation to the next.

The mother, Ilze Henriette Bērziņš (née Beldavs), was born in the Russian Empire in 1912, and died in Canada in 2008. Ironically, at the age of three, her family fled into Russia, running away from the Germans, but in 1944 she was forced to flee to Germany, running away from the Russians. This aspect of Latvia, as a major crossroad for foreign armies and killing fields, is briefly but well captured by the author in her broad overview of Latvia’s history.

The idyllic life of her mother in pre-war Latvia is described in almost poetic paragraphs. The mother spent winters in the city of Valmiera, a historical jewel on the banks of the Gauja river, but her most fervent emotional attachment was to the summer residence near Stende in Kurzeme, called Bēķi. Indeed the first chapter in the book describes the mother’s first trip by herself to Bēķi, recounting emotions and details which no doubt the author has heard countless times in the family’s kitchen.

The memory of Bēķi suffuses the book and the book well describes the dream-like impact and the virus-like contagion of such a mystic vision:

The sun always shone at Bēķi. Despite her beautiful gardens in Canada, Bēķi always remained for my mother her special enchanted place, shining all her life with untarnished nostalgia. From her rose-tinted storehouse of memory, an idyll emerged and I too became enchanted by Bēķi.

This dream of course could not survive reality and certainly not the heavy burden of Bolshevik kolhoz imprimatur. Indeed throughout all Latvia this period of occupation has left the most ugly scars and broken cement jetsam in the countryside where once natural beauty reigned. The author visited Bēķi after Latvia’s independence and was glad that her mother had not seen the devastation.

Nevertheless this corner of paradise provides the bookend statement of the importance of Bēķi. A superimposed photo of a young girlish mother walking above the tree tops is framed by the dream of Beki as stated in the mother’s “own words”:

I have been promised that, when my turn comes, I will be taken to Bēķi and to our ancestral resting place where my grandparents lie, and my parents, and my beloved husband. There I will again be free to race with the wind through the fields and meadows, wander the burgeoning woods, and then, when exhausted, happily throw myself down in the orchard under the fragrant apple trees and turn my gaze up to the limitless sky.

The book’s clear advantage is its compact nature. It can be offered to friends or younger family members who would otherwise not read a bigger and fuller tome. It offers a visual and punchy answer to anyone asking “how did you (or we) end up in Canada?”

The photographs alone provide a portal into a lost world of ancient Latvia and the Displaced Persons camps of Germany where Latvian culture pulsated as never before or after. No doubt many will be surprised by the elegant clothing worn by Latvians in czarist and independence days. Only Bolshevik anti-bourgeois ideology was able to dent this tendency for Latvians to present themselves in the best garb. One photo in particular intrigued me. As a result of wartime fuel shortages, a vintage family car was outfitted with a gasification carburetor enabling wood to be used for the internal combustion engine. Is this the next big idea that could counter the demands of a $300 oil barrel?

On a personal note I should point out a certain resonance of the experiences of my own family that parallel those of the author’s descriptions. The author’s parents met as agronomy students and married May 31, 1941. My father (born in 1914) also studied agronomy and did his practicum duties at Auce. Indeed, he might have attended the same classes. My parents married in June 1941, immediately after the Soviet army retreated ahead of Nazi Germany’s “Operation Barbarossa.” Turbulent times did not allow for the luxury of drawn-out trial “common law” cohabitation. Our family also boarded a ship from Liepāja, braving the Soviet attack planes and submarines to reach DP camps in Germany. Our trip to Canada was also rough and sea sickness was rampant. I also remember the first view of Canada at Halifax, when our ship docked at the same Pier 21 described by the author as the equivalent of Ellis Island in the United States. I do remember the ugly warehouse building of Pier 21 now a recognized historical memorial. Thereafter the view of Canada from the train window improved immeasurably with the alternating fields and forests and the many waving schoolchildren. Finally I share a common year of birth with the author and can visualize many of the described events from a similar age platform.

While the book has many positive qualities, one can always find room for alternative approaches. For example, the introductory chapter could have been better placed after the next chapter, which outlines the mother’s essential background and ancestry. The second half of the book dealing with Germany and Canada seemed at times uninspired although providing some individual masterful paragraphs. The reader is also left to guess about the last few years of the mother’s life when she became more “difficult.” Given the title it is obvious that the mother would receive the most attention. Nevertheless the father, who is mentioned almost en passant seems deserving of a much larger part in the book. Indeed, his diary and his numerous photos form the basis of much of the book’s content.

One index of the strength of attachment to Latvia by the author’s parents is the retention of the original Latvian names by their children. The author’s brother, who became crown attorney for Canada’s capital region, was frequently seen on Canadian television as Andrejs Berzins rather than “Andrew,” which was a common practice among many intent on blending in. Similarly the author herself has retained her original Latvian version of Ilze.

In conclusion I should mention that Ilze Berzins has written many books. One of these, Happy Girl, dealt with her return and experiences in Latvia. The murder mystery Riga Mortis was a book I could not lay down before having read it from cover to cover.

Sometimes the best way to absorb the events and flow of history is through autobiography, especially one that manages succinctness with an elegant style. The Amber Coast: A Latvian Family’s Journey by Ilse Zandstra, née Ilze Zālīte, is captivating at many levels.

The saga of one family’s contented life in Latvia rudely interrupted by the Soviet and Nazi occupations and then ejected like refugee flotsam to many countries is both similar and different from that of several hundred thousand Latvians who fled the Red Army and ended up in the West. The Zālīte family, with two children and carrying only minimal possessions stuffed in a few suitcases, was forced to leave Latvia to avoid a one-way trip to Siberia. They left their prized possession of an Opel Kadett automobile on the docks of Liepāja.

The post-Latvia odyssey was determined in large measure by the nautical engineering profession of Jānis, the sometimes gruff and wilful head of the family. His reputation as a competent and unusually loyal ship specialist became a guarantee of sustenance and survival in chaotic circumstances. The family settled first in Poland, then in Germany, followed by Sweden and finally Montreal, Canada. All these locations provided work in shipyards for Jānis.

The memories of the disruptive changes are recorded from the perspective of a small girl, called Ilzīte by her father, and from her extended interviews of father Jānis, together with information gleaned from letters, documents, clippings, photographs and testimony of a large bevy of relatives.

The major framework of the book and the catalyst for a renewed interest in the history of her family’s wartime and post-war experience was precipitated by a return trip to Latvia in the summer of 1990. Together with her father, Ilse was signed up for a trip on a special chartered Swedish ship, the Baltic Star, also known as “Happy Ship” and the “Baltic Bible Banana Boat.” At that time, Latvia was still a part of the USSR but undergoing profound changes that ultimately led to full independence one year later.

Valuable insights are provided by the initial clash of beliefs, values, ideologies and guilt placement as the Western branch of the family interacts with the relatives “left behind” in Latvia. Misunderstandings and disappointments from both sides reflect the experience of most Western Latvians on their first contact with the homeland.

The author’s keen eye for the subtleties of human interaction and body language provides much material for reflection on what a half century of separate Communist and Western socialization (brainwashing) can accomplish. The trip to Latvia becomes a catalyst for Ilse’s newfound interest in her own background: “My trip to Latvia awakened in me a desire to know more about my past and that of my family.”

Ironically, Ilse, like many immigrant children, had been reluctant to publicize her Latvian heritage, preferring to blend in with the local Swedish and then Canadian culture and language. She even rebelled at her parent’s insistence on using Latvian in conversations with her older brother, Peter. Yet, half a century later, the seeds of Latvian attachment, so adamantly inculcated by her parents on a reluctant soul, finally found a resonance in their daughter. This ancestral echo bloomed and renewed a curiosity about her Latvian roots and the fate of her extended clan both in Latvia and abroad.

Besides the incursions into various episodes of refugee life, tribulations and survival adaptations, the book provides a very detailed portrait of the indomitable patriarch, Jānis Zālīte. He is the type of individual who best represents the protestant work ethic and the Germanic attachment to ordnung. Indeed, his mother was of German origin and taught him this language and culture. His Latvian father, an upwardly mobile teacher, ended up working in Moscow where Jānis was born in 1907.

Throughout life, Jānis abided by the motto of his Latvian fraternity, Tālavija, “darbs ceļ vīru” or “work makes the man.” His type is also the ideal fountainhead of self-reliant entrepreneur who adapts to all curve balls thrown by unusual circumstances. His industriousness was best reflected in a Displaced Persons camp in Oldenburg, Germany, where he decided to start a woodworking shop employing 30 people rather than sitting and waiting for orders from the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration. The shop successfully created wooden clothes pegs, clogs, toys, benches and large solid suitcases for future expected moves. However, this example of free enterprise did not sit well with the bureaucrats and the shop was forced to close. Fortunately, at that point Janis received an invitation from a Swedish shipyard in Goteborg and the family left this deadend, crowded refugee camp.

There was also the other side to Jānis that permeates many of the conversations between father and daughter, best reflected by the phrase, “Do not interrupt, Daughter!” Indeed, this father-knows-best philosophy was very deeply ingrained in most Latvian families of that vintage. The author summarizes the essence of this cultural thread: “In many ways, my Father was much like his father. Both were strict disciplinarians, and both expected their orders to be obeyed without question. No talking back. No questioning authority.”

The book incorporates many vignettes of Latvian history and culture in a style similar to that of Modris Eksteins in his book, Walking Since Daybreak. Indeed, Ilse claims that she was inspired to write her own story after reading Eksteins book.

The dialogue for the most part is punchy and easy to follow. Stylistically a major contribution is the author’s almost poetic capture of certain emotional events that most Latvians hold dear. For example, her description of the Latvian Song Festival in 1990 on the eve of Latvia’s independence, in an outdoor stadium with over 200,000 attendees and 20,000 singers is a classic of concentrated visions and emotions:

All of a sudden, a loud hum fills the air like a giant swarm of bees as the singers start to limber up their vocal chords. First and second soprano,alto, tenor, and bass, their voices vibrate in an ageless, mystical Ooommm. Folk songs are my homeland’s prayers, its collective memory, its history and lament, even its armour during times of siege or occupation. The refrains can be poignant as the end of summer, or as happy as sunlight dappling white birches. Music is the voice and mood of my people, with one recurring theme, love of their country, and tonight is a night for unrestrained patriotism, for celebration. High up on a specially erected platform and looking no bigger than an insect, a white-gloved conductor stands; with a leap and great sweeping motions of his arms, he starts up the twenty-thousand massed choirs. Sweet notes burst from the singers’ mouths. The conductor sways this way and that, and the music follows him. He spreads his arms wide, and then lifts them, and the melody swells, filling the night with music. The audience is enthusiastic, rivalling the best rock concert crowd. We clap and cheer and shout bravo, over and over.

The book is of obvious interest to all Latvians and a great resource for children and grandchildren of Latvia’s refugees. It is a great source for Latvia’s inhabitants whose knowledge of the exodus of their brethren is woefully inadequate. More importantly, the book has the literary and psychological qualities that can be used as a base of study by all those who want to delve deeper into the psyches of new arrivals in a new land.
One can of course question certain sequence divisions of the book and the purposely stilted phrases attributed to Latvian relatives in the homeland. Another edition of the book should very definitely include an introductory scheme outlining all names and their relationship to the main characters.

The book will suscitate introspection and comparisons for many Latvians abroad. It will bring back memories and may be a catalyst for conversations between generations. In any case, the book is “a good read”” and very entertaining in its own right and should help to provide valuable context to those interested in researching Latvian history, culture and interpersonal relations.