Why did we cry at the close of the musical “Eslingena”? Because we were happy that Andrejs and Ilze stayed together, allowing their love to rise above selfish desires to emigrate to America? Because we recalled just how good life was for some in the Displaced Persons camps? Because we remembered departed friends and relatives, lost forever in the tragedy of the Latvian people?

Perhaps it doesn’t matter why we cried, or that we cried at all. The woman to my left did. She took out a tissue, removed her eyeglasses and wiped away a tear. I wiped away a tear from the outside corner of my right eye, realizing for the first time that that’s where I always get misty. I’m not sure if my daughter felt the same emotion, but I know she enjoyed the show, even singing the refrain as we left the theater: “Eslingena! Eslingena!”

Why did I cry? It wasn’t for the love story that was the underlying theme of “Eslingena.” It wasn’t longing for life in the DP camps, because I was born a decade too late. It was for once again catching a wave in that collective memory we as Latvians share, one that we perhaps too often forget.

We hadn’t ordered tickets for the show until late, after the first three performances had already sold out. But then officials of the 12th Latvian Song Festival in Canada added a fourth performance, which, as it turned out, was to be the premiere, scheduled Friday morning, July 2, in the Isador Bader Theater in Toronto.

I’ll admit I went to the show prepared not to be impressed. My last encounter with a song festival musical wasn’t wonderful. But “Eslingena” convinced me that there’s a great deal of talent on stage and behind the scenes to pull off a good show, one that not only entertains but also gets the audience to think.

A trio of talented singers carried the bulk of the show. Artūrs Rūsis from California, who some might remember from the West Coast Latvian Song Festival’s “Kabarē” show last year, played Andrejs Bērziņš, an ex-Latvian Legionnaire who finds his way to the DP camp at the German town of Esslingen after World War II. Linda Maruta Kronberga, better known as a Toronto-area rock performer, played Laila Ozola, a single woman who becomes Bērziņš’ love interest as he figures he’s lost his girlfriend back in Latvia. And New Yorker Jūlija Plostniece… Wow, what a voice! She played Ilze Krāmena, the missing girlfriend who one day shows up in Esslingen.

Directed by Gunārs Vērenieks, with libretto by Alberts Legzdiņš and Andris Ritmanis and music by Legzdiņš and Lolita Ritmane, “Eslingena” offered the audience a fairly traditional musical. The show had comedy, pathos, a love story and an ultimate message (we Latvians have to stick together). It had a dance number with three couples jitterbugging to Glen Miller’s “In the Mood,” and a chorus line number of sorts, with Latvian men singing about how they were leaving to work in Britain’s coal mines.

Putting on a musical about the DP camps was a bit risky because not everyone in the audience would have firsthand knowledge of the period. (Most Latvian schools in North America still don’t teach about the DP camps.) In fact, Legzdiņš and Ritmanis used two narrators to weave the historical thread for the audience. Played by Laimonis and Brigita Siliņš, the couple represented Andrejs and Ilze today, having returned for the first time to Esslingen and remembering what it was like in the late 1940s. At times the narration seemed more like a lecture, but it was needed for context.

Stage decoration was sparse, but was aided by a large television screen that showed photographs from the Esslingen camp at the start of each scene. I only wish the screen could have been hidden during performance of the scene, because it just sat there like a big gray rectangle in center stage.

The story of Esslingen as presented in “Eslingena” was fairly objective. We saw the good times and rich cultural environment Latvians had there, but we also saw snippets of the problems: the initial unfriendliness of the local Germans, the efforts by the Soviet government to convince DPs to repatriate, the luck-of-the-draw that sometimes were the decisions officials made about who could emigrate.

“Eslingena” brought to life a bittersweet moment in Latvian history. Their time in Esslingen, as well as in the dozens of other DP camps that dotted Germany and neighboring countries after the war, is remembered by many older Latvians as wonderful. From the stories I’ve heard and read, for those who were young back then it certainly was a wonderful time. But older Latvians may also remember the anxiety of camp life. After all, Esslingen, Hanau, Meerbeck, Wiesbaden, Insula and all the others were only temporary. Leaving—parting—was the goal. But when and where to?

At the end of “Eslingena,” the audience joined hands and, led by the actors and crew, sang again the closing song: “Vai tu vari mani tagad pateikt, Kas mums dzīvē notiks?” Can you tell me now what will become of us? It is a question that is as relevant now as it was in the Esslingen DP camp, and as it has been in much of Latvian history.

We don’t know the answer. That’s why I cried.

A few days ago I did something I haven’t done in a long time. I gathered a stack of books and set it by the bed, there to better reach the different titles as I pursue a plan to read more for pleasure over the next several months. In the stack are a number of books I’ve brought back from Latvia in recent years but just haven’t made the time to read, as well as some favorites and classics I’d like to visit again—or perhaps for the first time.

I’m a slow reader, so I may not make it through the entire stack before autumn arrives. While others tear through books, I often find myself chewing on well-crafted sentences or dialogue. I used to hate that I couldn’t get through a book as fast as someone else, but I’ve found an inner peace knowing that the author probably didn’t tear through the process of writing, either. He or she deserves the respect of a slow reader, I tell myself.

I’ve already made it through one book, Monika Zīle’s Tase ar hibiska ziedu (A Cup of Hibiscus Blossom). Published in 2000 by Jumava, it’s essentially a crime novel that centers on a young couple, Ērika and Daumants Jukna, who have to navigate the disappearance of Ērika’s brother-in-law, the arrival of a long-lost relative from New Zealand and the general goings-on of a small seaside community. It was the first of Zīle’s works I’ve read, but I’m not sure I’ll be looking for more. While Tase served to enhance my vocabulary, the story unwound too quickly for my taste.

Crime novels have become an indulgence for me, especially non-American crime novels. Over the years, I’ve become a fan of Janwillem van de Wetering’s series of Dutch crime stories about detectives Henk Grijpstra and Rinus de Gier (published by New York-based Soho Press, the same folks who put out Latvian-American author Agate Nesaule’s memoir A Woman in Amber), as well as Maj Sjowall and Per Wahloo’s series of novels set in Stockholm. To this list I’ve added the krimiķi of Latvian author Jānis Ivars Stradiņš.

Stradiņš consistently uses two characters, Valts Kronbergs and Roberts Štāls. The latter is Dr. Watson to the former’s Sherlock Holmes. I first encountered Stradiņš’ work in Austrumu bankas miljoni (The Eastern Bank’s Millions), a 1995 tale that at the time seemed to plod along. But after the real-life collapse of Banka Baltija and the swirl of news about troubles in Latvia’s financial sector, a fresh look at the book got me hooked. Over the years, I’ve added a number of Stradiņš titles to my bookshelves. In the stack for summer reading is Viltus lieta (The Deceit), published in 2002. I might also re-read another of his novels, Mežvidu velns (The Devil of Mežvidi), published in 2001.

Also on the list is Daigās rotaļas, a collection of short stories and novellas by the Latvian-Canadian author Eduards Freimanis. Published in 1961, the author presented the book to me in 1983. It’s been too long since I read his touching words.

The biggest book in the stack is Uguns avoti (The Sources of Fire), a classic by Ģirts Salnais about life in Rīga during the early 1930s. I’ve never read anything by Salnais and am looking forward to this book. Uguns avoti was published in Latvia in 2001, but my copy is the one published in 1955 by the Daugava publishing house in Sweden. I chuckled at the publisher’s note at the end of the book, which apologizes to readers for the fact that the last sections are printed on a slightly different tone of paper. Neither the publisher nor the author, the note explains, had figured on the book being so big—714 pages!

Not everything in the stack is fiction. Two titles touch on one of my favorite subjects: history. Ronis – Mana būdiņa un pils (The Ronis: My Shack and Castle) is the life story of Hugo Legzdiņš, who served on one of Latvia’s two pre-World War II submarines. Yes, Latvia had submarines! Born in 1903, Legzdiņš began his career as the radio man for the Ronis and was its last commander. When the Soviets occupied Latvia, they relieved Legzdiņš of duty and destroyed the sub. The book was published in 2002.

The other historical work is another memoir. Tēva gadsimts (My Father’s Century), published in 2001 by Uldis Lasmanis, is the story of his father, Voldemārs Lasmanis, who lived from 1904-1991. What interests me about this work is that the Lasmanis family lived in Sunākste in south-central Latvia, the same area my father’s family is from.

A few other books are in the stack, but the one I’ve just started reading is not by a Latvian author. It’s Indian-American author Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake, a 2003 novel about immigrant life in the United States. As the promotional copy on the dust jacket proclaims, the story “takes the Ganguli family from their tradition-bound life in Calcutta through their fraught transformation into Americans.” Although it’s not about Latvians, The Namesake reinforces some of the universal themes of migration and assimilation, as well as of the human struggle to define oneself.

Time to stop writing. My stack awaits.

The jubilation over Latvia’s into the European Union, and the more muted but perhaps even more significant pleasure over accession to the NATO defense alliance, have faded all too quickly—particularly for those Latvians living in the West.

Those who left Latvia during World War II and their descendants who are now dual citizens have been as a group openly identified as not being trusted to hold significant public office in Latvia unless they give up their non-Latvian citizenship. In a move that stunned the World Federation of Free Latvians (Pasaules brīvo latviešu apvienība, or PBLA), the People’s Party (Tautas partija) has proposed a law forbidding dual citizens from filling significant public positions.

Currently, only the position of president has this restriction. When Vaira Vīķe-Freiberga became president in 1999, she renounced her Canadian citizenship. At the moment, several dual citizens either hold public office or have been candidates. The most significant of these is perhaps in the most sensitive position: Jānis Kažociņš, head of the euphemistically named Constitution Protection Bureau (Satversmes aizsardzības birojs)—Latvia’s intelligence service—holds British citizenship as well as Latvian.

A brief glance back at Latvia’s citizenship history is instructive. The original 1922 constitution made all those living in Latvia at the time citizens, and forbad double citizenship, as was the norm in Europe.

The issue of double citizenship arose again with renewed independence in 1991, when it was decided to grant citizenship only to those who already had been citizens in 1940 (just before the Soviet occupation) and to their descendants. This of course has been a bone of contention with Russia ever since. For those Latvians outside Latvia, however, whether in Siberia or in the west, it created a new situation. They or their descendants too were original citizens of Latvia, and in most cases now had a different citizenship.  But the argument was accepted that they had been forced to leave Latvia not of their own free will and were entitled to have their Latvian citizenship renewed. Latvians living outside Latvia had only until July 1995 to apply for such citizenship. In addition, a constitutional amendment in 1997 identified the presidency as being the one public office that could not be held by a dual citizen.

Several dual citizens have held public office, including ministerial posts and seats in the Saeima (Parliament). The proposed law will limit dual citizens from these and other high-level offices.

In a justification of extraordinary hypocrisy even for Latvian standards, MP Anita Rungāte, one of the proponents of the law, argued in a June 7 opinion piece in the newspaper Diena that the issues of citizenship are one more consequence of the long Soviet occupation, which should now be terminated by cleaning up the various exceptions for dual citizenship made in the 1990s. Latvia, she said, should revert to a standard of one citizenship for all. While this will not threaten the dual citizens, she said, there should be no allowing of dual citizens to hold significant public office.

Rugāte argued that those who promote repatriation—such as MP Arturs Krišjānis Kariņš of Jaunais laiks (New Era), himself a dual Latvian and U.S. citizen—must surely also ipso facto accept taking up Latvian citizenship to the exclusion of others.

More menacingly, Rugāte pointed to dangers of lack of loyalty. She posed this as a choice people have between their private interests and national interests. And, she claimed, “The inclusion of those with dual citizenship in parliamentary life in Latvia did not bring any real improvement compared with the work of the former Supreme Council (the former Supreme Soviet that adopted the sovereignty declaration in 1990). From this point of view it is critical to evaluate the work of dual citizens in higher public office in Latvia. Experience has shown that the involvement of dual citizens in the work of government has often strengthened a difficult-to-control influence by foreign countries on important Latvian affairs of state, to the detriment of Latvia’s interest. One example: Lattelekom (the state telephone company).”

Such sentiments are a warning shot to all dual citizens. We have here the unmistakable smell of old-style Soviet politics, which remains an almost indelible aspect of the way politicians in Latvia still define issues:

• First define your enemies. Any will do. Western Latvians will do.
• Second, make up spurious arguments using instances of no relevance, and employ them with no regard to logic. How is this extraordinary evaluation of dual-citizen parliamentarians arrived at? By simple assertion! And this at a time when single-citizenship parliamentarians have been consistently trying to undermine the Latvian state and its institutions, politicians who include the People’s Party coalition partners or silent supporters.
• Third, argue that matters of great national interest are threatened by these enemies. How many botched and corrupt privatisations have occurred in Latvia? And in how many instances have dual citizens been involved? Only one? And was dual citizenship itself the problem at all there, or just a convenient target so as to ignore other corrupt practices?
• Finally, define your enemies as unpatriotic, and opposition to such a law as lack of loyalty. This, happily and conveniently, is particularly wounding to western Latvians.

Public positions should not be held by those difficult to control. They should be held by your own people. That is the logic espoused here.

This is a critical moment for those with dual citizenship. While western discussion groups such as that on our own Web site overwhelmingly have been against the law, varied views are given by those in Latvia itself. Debate on the Apollo site, which at the time of writing had more than 700 comments on this issue, mostly from those living in Latvia, is instructive. Debate was kicked off by Einars Repše, emerging from his long political sulk after losing the prime ministership, who saw this proposed law as clearly targeting Kažociņš. In the Apollo debates, few discussants even mention dual citizenship, but refer instead to Repše’s own record (more negatively than positively), the corruption or rectitude of the present government and Saeima, or alternative enemies that should also be targeted. A few ask whether Kažociņš is or is not a British agent; a tiny number explicitly support or oppose dual citizenship.

This is very much the standard of debate on any issue in Latvia. And those debating this issue in Latvia will be far more powerful than western Latvians in determining acceptance or rejection of this proposed law. In a way that may be difficult for western Latvians to imagine, those with dual citizenship are being seen as potential enemies. While western Latvians may have got used to abuse from the Soviet regime in previous times, this times the threat comes from Latvia’s own parliament. It is that serious.