When I visited Latvia this spring, where the novel Latvieši ir visur was still a bestseller, I heard that it was something of a parlor game to try guessing the real name behind the author’s pseudonym “Otto Ozols.”

The supposedly autobiographical story is an entertaining series of international escapades, and an easy read— even if, like me, you were such a lazy little beast in Latvian school that reading literature is now a painfully slow slog.

According to the book’s Facebook page, an English translation is already in the works, and the author’s straightforward, economical style should survive the translation intact.

A brief synopsis: the young narrator, Ozols, defects to the West in 1990 and settles in Berlin, where he meets and begins working for Rihards, an expatriate Latvian businessman with a history (Ozols calls him his “patrons”).  He moves furniture for households relocating internationally, then becomes a courier, and in this capacity meets many illustrious persons whose correspondence is too sensitive to entrust to a normal delivery service. These encounters give rise to conversations and reflections voiced by the characters about politics, history, various national cultures, and the remarkable places that Latvians keep popping up—which gives the book its title.

The catalog of Latvians everywhere includes illustrious emigrés and the early Bolshevik all-stars murdered by Josef Stalin, but also extends to the notion that Latvians (notably Boriss Pugo!) were instrumental in the well-planned dismantling of the Soviet Union. Although the book’s cover cites reviews that lead one to expect a “Chicken Soup for the Self-Hating Latvian Soul,” Ozols is sophisticated and jaded enough to avoid simply rooting for the home team.

Latvieši ir visur is not really a globālais trillers (global thriller) as the cover claims, but it is global in the sense that the author has a feel for viewing the world with Soviet Latvian, post-Soviet Latvian, Western-world Latvian, and non-Latvian perspectives. He writes without fear or walls of personal animosity or dogma, and brings the farthest-flung cultural references into play.  Considering how Latvians can a) get their backs up about the pettiest, stupidest things, and b) internalize the assumptions of whatever culture they grew up in (for example, white American suburbanite), this is a real accomplishment.  Ozols gives communism, capitalism, Russians, Jews, gays, Western Europeans, and Americans fair (if ironic) treatment and the benefit of the doubt, and his book is all the more enjoyable for it. He does fire a shot across the bow at Latvia’s arch-enemy, Sweden. Why Sweden? Read the book, or Google-search economist Michael Hudson’s (pro-Harmony Center, cue ominous music) articles.

Interestingly, Ozols expresses no concern about the unassimilated Soviet-era settlers in Latvia, whom many Latvians who dwell on Latvianness fear and distrust as a possible fifth column for Moscow. Indeed, he has a soft spot for Russians, though he has no illusions about the Russian state. He admires the Scandinavians for their balance of freedom with social solidarity, though he has harsh words for their bankers and politicians, which he extends to rich elites of all countries—particularly Latvia. A businessman whom the narrator meets on a flight to Boston encapsulates, hilariously, everything that Ozols finds wrong with current-day speculative capitalism, and his term for the common people who have to pay for it all—penguins—is a brick hurled at former Prime Minister Ivars Godmanis (whose pingvīni remark earned him great scorn) and by extension the corrupt Latvian political and bizness establishment of the past 20 years. Anyone who has been following the current government standoff needs no elaboration on this topic.

The one area where Ozols shies away from possible political incorrectness is in writing about the Jews, whether in general or in discussing how Jewish and Latvian history has been interrelated. Given the bitter history and mutual recriminations over Nazi and Soviet atrocities, and how badly and crudely some Latvians have written about Jewish topics, treading carefully is a sensible approach.

As a world-historical, geopolitical vision, Latvieši ir visur is compelling and almost believable, much like the Soviet Union. On the details of daily life, though, the book founders, also like the Soviet Union: the narrator’s gorgeous girlfriend leaves him for her gorgeous lipstick-lesbian lover, and, consoling himself with a drunken weekend of skiing the French Alps, he meets the even more gorgeous California girl whom he lives with in Hamburg for the rest of the 1990s. Well, if you’re going to write magical realism, you might as well throw in some good sex for yourself. That’s my motto, anyway.

Ozols’ treatment of America and Americans is, like other topics, nuanced and neither fawning nor demonizing.  Conspicuous by their absence are the trimda (exile) Latvians as a group: the one American Latvian in the story is the Manhattanite Jāņsons, a well-connected, urbane, down-to-earth artist.  As an American Latvian I was relieved that Ozols did not use his satirical filet knives on us, given how many trimda gatherings, in my experience, have been festivals of false consciousness. Perhaps he is saving that for the sequel.

The story’s believability founders as well on details such as American names. The narrator calls his California girl Lisa, because her real name reminds him too much of a tiresome city he travels to for his work:

“Vecāki esot turīgi viesnīcas speciālisti… savu meitu viņi nosaukuši Francijas galvaspilsētas vārdā.” 

Rich hotel family, daughter named Paris: if plausibility is a boat, this is a serious leak. And the fellow whom she finally leaves him for, as more suitable husband material, is named William Jefferson. Hmm, wasn’t there a William Jefferson Someone with a girlfriend from L.A. in the news around that time? 

Whatever its flaws, Latvieši ir visur is worth reading, especially for those who avoid tackling books in Latvian—and there’s no shame in that. After all, it’s been three generations now that trimda Latvians have been holding onto the language as best we can. The author presents an easy target for critics to swat at, not hiding behind ironic frames-within-frames (apart from the pseudonym), but swinging from a jungle vine, yelling, in leopard-print briefs. Yet, for an interesting, thought-provoking new book in Latvian that’s this much fun to read, we should be willing to forgive any literary sins. After all, we’ll always have Paris.

June 14, 1941, marks the Baltic equivalent to Adolf Hitler’s Holocaust—Josef Stalin’s deportation of Latvians, Lithuanians, Estonians and others to Siberian prison and labor camps. This story of exploitation, starvation, terror and death of hundreds of thousands is largely untold. Between Shades of Gray by Lithuanian-American writer Ruta Sepetys is an accessible account of a family’s experience of this atrocity.

The story is told by Lina Vilkas, a 15-year-old girl growing up in Kaunas. The knock on the door during the night of June 14 changes her life. Lina’s mother and younger brother have minutes to pack a few belongings, are transported to a train station, and are herded onto cattle cars for a long journey to Siberia. This is the beginning of their sentence for their crimes against the Soviet Union.

What crimes did this 15-year-old girl and her younger brother commit? What crimes did any of these “criminals” commit? There was no trial. There was no proof. The family name was simply on the “list”—as were so many other Lithuanians, Latvians, Estonians and others.

Stalin’s purge on that single night was an effective tool to terrify the citizens of the Soviet Union, especially those in occupied territories. One best behave! Any misstep could result in a penalty, often an official 25-year sentence to be served in a labor camp in Siberia. The reality of this sentence, however, was that it was often a death sentence in disguise.

Lina, the young narrator, shares her hope to be reunited with her father, who was arrested separately that same night. She tells us of the horrors and humiliation that was endured in the cattle cars. People were packed in like sardines in a can. The only relief came after someone’s death because the corpse was thrown out by the railroad tracks. The journey to Trim in Siberia was one of thousands of miles and many months.

Upon arrival, a new hell awaited the deportees: forced labor for a single portion of dry bread. The story of community and survival is horrific and told in graphic detail. Lina’s mother was asked to be a snitch with respect to the community. She refused, but certainly others agreed. There lies the beauty of Stalin’s campaign of terror: always a snitch—somewhere, anywhere.

The story is not new. One can find many books about deportation to Siberia written in the Latvian language, including Sandra Kalniete’s Ar balles kurpēm Sibīrijas sniegos. But the story has rarely been told in English and when it has—such as the translation of Kalniete’s masterful book, With Dance Shoes in Siberian Snows—it has seemed somewhat awkward and remote.

The beauty of Between Shades of Gray is that it is written in English for a contemporary audience. It has an immediacy and a quick tempo because the narrator tells her own story. There is no attempt to tell the entire story of Stalin’s prison and labor camps, which would be appropriate for nonfiction.

This book can be shared with anyone. I have sent it to my Latvian-born mother who knows the story well (and who raised me speaking Latvian as a first language). I will also share this book with my nephews in college, whose association with Latvia has been minimal, but who should know this story of their ancestors.

Between Shades of Gray was published in March by Philomel Books, a young reader’s division of Penguin Group. I am somewhat surprised by this because of the book’s graphic nature, even though the heroine is 15. When should children learn the details of man’s inhumanity to other men? When are the gruesome details of the Holocaust taught? They must, however, be shared at some point and this book provides the means to do so.

I learned of the book when mentioned as an “Editor’s Choice” of recent hardcovers in The New York Times. It deserves it.  Of 35 reader reviews on Amazon.com, 30 gave the book five stars and five gave it four.

Between Shades of Gray is a deeply felt story that will certainly touch many lives.

It would be fair to say that few libraries in Latvia or Australia have had their shelves overburdened by the weight of publications detailing the history of Latvians in Australia. However, this is not to say that such shelves would be bereft of books.

Significantly, the history of Latvians in Australia is much more comprehensive than Estonian or Lithuanian accounts, not to mention those of various other countries bordering the Baltic Sea. This impressive achievement can be primarily attributed to Aldis Putniņš, whose pioneering work on Latvians in Australia has appeared in a variety of books, chapters and articles over the last 30 years.

Early Latvian Settlers in Australia builds on this important body of work, revisiting many of the issues and themes raised in these earlier works and adding to them additional materials and insights that have emerged as a result of enhanced access to archival materials in both Australia and Latvia.

Examining the stories of Latvians who arrived in Australia prior to the Second World War poses a number of significant challenges. Who is Latvian? The issue is reflected in the title’s reference to Latvian settlers rather than Latvians. As John Bunke (listed as “Dutch American” and “Russian Finn”), Francis Dyson (“British”), and Fritz Zeeman (“Latvian / Russian / German?”) in Chapter 3’s list of Latvia-born Anzacs (soldiers in the Australian armed forces in the First World War) demonstrate, a Latvian birthplace does not necessarily mean that one is an ethnic Latvian.

Of course, this issue of identification is further complicated by the fact that some of these settlers did not want to be identified and consistently altered their names to avoid detection from the authorities—and subsequently historians. Putniņš additionally notes the impact of Russification, Anglicisation and Latvianisation upon the spelling of their names.

The size and nature of this migration flow from Latvia to Australia poses a second challenge. Putniņš suggests that there were 800 Latvian settlers in Australia prior to the Second World War (an estimate that is curiously unsubstantiated). Even if we take this inflated figure, it is clear that this is a very, very small group of migrants. The contributors should therefore be commended for finding these proverbial needles in the haystack. As a tiny group dispersed across Australia, these Latvian settlers were a motley collection of individuals whose personal stories and experiences did not always intersect with other Latvians. To this end, Elena Govor’s contributions stand out for identifying the unique ways in which these individual stories both intersected and diverged.

Unfortunately, the collection as a whole does not really meet the challenge of striking a balance between the individual and the larger story. This shortcoming is already evident in the introduction, where we are given a sketchy and rather descriptive background setting that makes greater reference to fleeting relations between Latvia and Australia rather than an account of the cultural, social, political and economic conditions that underpinned the accounts featured in the collection.

While Līga Lapa details the background situation in 1905 Latvia, readers unfamiliar with Australian (or British) history have little to guide them. An outline of Australia’s changing political and economic landscape (particularly in relation to migration issues) during the period under investigation would have provided some context for the reader encountering Australia for the first time. Moreover, it would have enriched some of the issues raised in Ineta Didrihsone-Tomaševksa’s look at Latvian consuls and Viesturs Karnups’s study of economic and trade relations between Latvia and Australia.

Such issues are exacerbated by the collection’s peculiar structure. While chapters appear to have been ordered to move from the individual to the “community,” the lack of chronology is jarring.  The 1905 Revolution, for example, is correctly identified as a “backdrop to a number of chapters in this volume,” yet strangely the chapters devoted to this issue only appear towards the end of the collection.

A conclusion bringing together the different issues and themes raised in the different pieces and highlighting their significance would have also ironed out some of these problems. Having published so much on the area, it is disappointing that Putniņš has not attempted to make a more substantial statement on the topic and its relevance to Latvian and Australian historians working in this area, not to mention the lessons that contemporary Latvian communities (in Australia and elsewhere) can take from these stories.

Nevertheless, each of the authors in this collection has made an important and enlightening contribution to the history of migration in Latvia and Australia. By bringing these fascinating pieces together, Putniņš has not only provided a timely update to his previous studies, he also ensured that the stories of these pioneering settlers in a distant land are more accessible than ever before.