One of our dogs had worms when she was a puppy. I still recoil at the memory of the long, white worms mixed in with her excrement—and at having to gather up some for a veterinarian’s analysis.

Arturs, the little boy who is the subject of Vincent and Victoria Benson’s To No Man’s Glory, also had worms. He had to pull them from his rectum with his fingers.

This is just one of many disgraces Arturs Lejnieks, a young Jewish orphan, had to face as he and his group of refugees wandered around Latvia during World War II in an attempt to escape death at the hands of the enemy, whoever that might be at any given moment. Young Arturs later became Vincent Benson, the adopted son of an Iowa farm couple.

To No Man’s Glory takes the reader along with Arturs as he in 1941 leaves an orphanage in Majori with his beloved Auntie and embarks on several years of constant running from those who would wish them dead. The child doesn’t understand his Jewishness, nor does he understand why people would want to kill him because he is a Jew. But he learns there are many who cannot be trusted: Germans, Russians, Latvians. As the bumper sticker says: "Mean people suck."

After he and his Auntie survive several close calls in Latvia, they wind up in Germany as Displaced Persons. From there, Arturs is shipped off to America where he is placed in Iowa with an ungrateful adoptive father but a loving adoptive mother. Only after he converts to Christianity does Arturs, now known as Vincent Benson, find the strength to forgive all those who have hurt or betrayed him in Latvia, in Germany, in America.

This is, obviously, a story of survival. It is not a happy book, even with an ending that sees Vincent Benson finally have some normalcy in his life. It is a matter-of-fact book, with horrid wartime scenes that require little embellishment to paint powerful images. It also is a revealing book: Vincent Benson doesn’t shield himself or the reader from the nastiness of everyday life, even in the relative security of postbellum, midwestern America.

What is especially troubling about the story is that despite being a Jew—and being persecuted for being one—Vincent Benson never really had the chance to be one. German soldiers wanted to kill him for being a Jew before he even knew what being Jewish meant. As a Displaced Person there was precious little time to learn about his heritage. In Iowa, his adoptive father pushed him to forget his past and become a good Lutheran. Taken together, that is perhaps the greatest disgrace experienced by Vincent Benson.

Although it has the markings of a self-published book, To No Man’s Glory is well done. Victoria Benson presents herself as a competent writer who has taken her husband’s story and shaped it into prose.

Illustrations are few, mostly some small snapshots of the Lejnieks family taken during better times in prewar Latvia. But one group of pictures, taken from an assignment book Arturs used while a student in a DP school, deserved to be displayed much larger. These include drawings by the child, depicting war and other scenes that were etched into his memory.

The Bensons obviously researched events beyond simply relying on the decades-old memories of Vincent. In the first part of the book, brief introductions to some chapters provide historical context in terms of Nazi Germany’s plans for the "Final Solution." But what is lacking is a clear understanding of where in Latvia many of the events unfold. Yes, we know where Rīga is, but where are the roads young Arturs and Auntie travelled? Where are the forests in which they hid? Where are the mass graves they saw? Of course, it may be difficult to resurrect geographical context from childhood memories, but even a general fix on where events occurred would be of great benefit to the reader.

To No Man’s Glory joins the still small but growing literature on the Latvian experience during and after World War II (see Aurora and A Woman in Amber for other examples). Call it victim literature, call it refugee literature. Whatever its name, it’s an important story that must be told.

Šlāger music is quite the phenomenon in Latvia. I’m always amazed how in some of the music stores there are racks and racks of compact discs and tapes that represent this music. And every time I go there, it seems that there is more and more of it—new šlāgeraptaujas (šlāger compilations) seem to come out every month. Quite impressive for a style of music that gets sneered at by snobbier music fans, and gets derided in a variety of ways, like “It all sounds the same,” “That’s music only my grandmother would listen to,” etc.

Personally, I don’t mind the stuff. It is simple, but catchy, and most of the songs are the type you can start singing along before the song is even done.

But of course, the issue is that there is so much šlāger, so little time. So whom to listen to? There are so many groups (and I will admit that many of them do sound the same in the end) that it is hard to figure out which recordings in particular to purchase, and which of the many, many šlāger groups are worth listening to.

A group whose songs I often heard over the years is Zeļļi (roughly translated to “chaps” or “fellows”). The band is made up of Raitis Treijs (voice), Jānis Vējiņš (keyboards), Ivars Birkāns (on saxaphone, one of the unique sounds in Zeļļi), and Pēteris Vējiņš (guitar and voice). Though similar to many other šlāger groups, they had some truly memorable songs. Judging from the 1995 release Mikrofona 20 labākās dziesmas, Zeļļi had a number of hits. These include “Krustceles,” a hit in 1993. Another hit was “Vel tu nāc,” a song from 1994. My favorite song by them is “Vedej, pasteidzies”, which I had originally heard on the 1991 album Ratiņa aptauja, also put out by MICREC.

So with Dziesmas Tev un man, I was expecting an album full of Zeļļi classics.

Much to my surprise, I was disappointed by what I heard.

As with the Labvēlīgais tips and Bumerangs best-of collections, these recordings are new recordings of old songs. I can understand the reasoning for re-recording old versions of songs, maybe to record them better (because technology has improved over the years) or maybe because the members of the band have become better musicians. The Tips and Bumerangs collections are still fully in the spirit of the originals, and the changes aren’t too startling for someone who has heard the old versions of the songs. However, in Zeļļi’s case, the new songs are sometimes markedly different than what I remembered.

An example of that is “Vedej, pasteidzies,” a song about a guy who is rushing to get home to his beloved, but arrives just in time to see her get married to someone else. The version on the Ratiņa record was a simple yet catchy folk song. The version on the new CD has been given a dance beat, with an over-loud drum track. I think this totally ruined the mood of the song. Somehow I don’t see this getting played in a dance club anyway!

The new version of “Krustceles” is not much different than the version I had heard on the 20 labākās dziesmas album. The original was a slower, more relaxed song about relationships (including the great line “Ne jau visi atkusi nes pavasari, ne jau katra aizraušanās mīlu līdzi nes”—Not every thaw brings spring, not every diversion brings love). The major, upsetting difference is that the original had a great saxaphone solo to close out the song, but this re-recording completely omits that. Just when I thought the saxaphone would start, the song ends! I was most saddened by its absence.

But there are plenty of worthwhile moments on the album, even though it seems that every song was designed to be “danceable.” “Rudzupukes,” “Lilijas” and “Skaudība” are all examples of what šlāger is all about: songs that upon first listen make you think you’ve known them your entire life. Also, the new version of “Vel tu nāc” is one of the few songs on here that is better than the original.

There’s a Latvian version of the song “Blowing in the Wind” called “Atbildi zina tikai vējš.” It’s the same as the English version. However, they don’t even credit Bob Dylan as the writer of the song (for shame!).

Unfortunately, the second half of the album falls into the same šlāger music trap: It all begins to sound the same. The second half mostly has slow ballads that seem to fade into each other without any way to distinguish between all of them. Even after repeated listenings, I can’t immediately distinguish some of the songs.

I really, really did want to like this record, as I think Zeļļi are a very talented band with a number of great songs, but this album is not the best representation for them. I’d suggest seeking out the 20 Labākās dziesmas album (which, to my knowledge, is long out of print) or some early šlāgeraptaujas with the original versions of these songs.

And again, no lyrics! I am completely aware that sometimes it is simply an issue of cost that the lyrics are not attached. But if this is your first CD release, and you want your fans to really appreciate your words and your songs, please attach the lyrics for the songs.

Ardent šlāger fans will probably love this record, as it is completely predictable and contains no shocks or surprises, which is to be expected from šlāger music and not entirely a bad thing at all. However, anyone who expects to be even slightly challenged by the music they listen to will be disappointed. Though Zeļļi are a cut above the “average” šlāger band, this album does not show that as well as it could have.