The best advertisement for Labrītiņi, rītiņā is our 4-year-old son. He just loves it! He’s fascinated by the songs and rhymes and the children who sing them. Right away he recognized the couple of pieces that were already in our family’s repertoire, and he has since picked up several more. In fact, when the compact disc comes to an end and I go to put in another one, he protests. Every time. Need any more reason to get this recording?

The children singing on Labrītiņi, rītiņā are plain, regular kids, aged about three to six, from a school in Jūrmala, Latvia. Actually, they are all pupils of Ilga Reizniece of the world music band Iļģi. On this recording Reizniece also provides many of the accompaniments, as well as a vocal motherly nudge here and there.

The CD doesn’t sound so much as a performance as it sounds like walking into a room of preschoolers going about their daily activities. They sing songs and tell rhymes, sometimes giggling in between: jājam, jājam mēs ar zirgu… cepu, cepu kukulīti… ar vilciņu Rīgā braucu… dop, dop Rīgā… vāru, vāru putriņu… sitam plaukstiņas… sīkas, mazas meitenītes… kur tad tu nu biji, āzīti manu?… Dievs nosvieda bumbuli zemē… etc.

Labrītiņi, rītiņā does not try to make recording artists out of young children. Just the opposite: the idea behind this project is to have the children and their performance of the songs sound as natural as possible. So, no synthesizers and drum sets. Out-of-tune notes and changes in tempo are forgiven. The shy child is helped along by the teacher. This is not the Rīga Dome Boys’ Choir or the poppy Neparastie rīdzinieki, nor does it try to compare with them.

Instead of the elaborate (and often annoying) arrangements so common on many Latvian children’s recordings, the arrangements on Labrītiņi, rītiņā are appropriately simple and unobtrusive. A kokle here, a guitar there, a quiet whistle or drum is all. The words can be understood fairly well, but all the texts are written in the liner notes so that it’s easy to follow along and learn the songs. The translations are good, with the exception of a couple of odd words. For those who do not know Latvian, the texts will probably often sound silly or senseless. But keep in mind that many of the rhymes are actually little finger or lap games with accompanying motions, kind of like "This little piggy went to market."

Reizniece stresses that folklore is inseparable from everyday life, that folklore is life. She writes: "Folklore has never been a school subject; it’s the very life of our ancestors simply given a foreign name. And if it is not lived daily, but once or twice a week for half an hour, it can remain incomprehensible and unloved." With this recording parents can help to make traditional Latvian songs and rhymes a part of their children’s—and their own—everyday lives.

Although it’s the perfect thing for young children, I honestly don’t know whether I would listen to this CD much if I had no children. That’s probably because I’m just not one of those people who finds young children irresistably cute (except my own, of course!). But, even though I’m not a "cute" person, the cuteness of several of the tracks has really grown on me.

Labrītiņi, rītiņā definitely has children’s appeal. A former Latvian school director I recently spoke to suggested that every Latvian school and family with young children ought to have this CD.

Max Michelson was born in 1924 into a large and loving Jewish family in Rīga. By the end of World War II most of his family and friends were dead, murdered during the Nazi occupation of Latvia. City of Life, City of Death is his eulogy to those who perished, and an account of his own rather miraculous survival.

In 1939, Jews comprised 5 percent of the population of Latvia. About half of these lived in Rīga and made up 12 percent of its population. Latvian Jews did not for the most part speak Latvian and this meant that social contact and friendships with the Latvian population were minimal. This contributed to the lack of understanding between the two groups.

The Michelsons were a talented and intellectual family. Max’s Aunt Clara was an accomplished writer who lived in Paris. His Uncle Leo was a successful painter, while his Uncle Eduard was a mechanical engineer and intellectual. The family plywood factory, run by his father, also provided an income to the artists of the family.

With the Soviet invasion of 1940, the family’s factory and home were nationalized and the Michelsons moved to a two-bedroom apartment in the suburb of Mežaparks. Then came the mass deportations of 1941, of which Jews formed a large proportion. Michelson writes that the Jews blamed Latvian Communists for the high proportion of Jews deported, while Latvians blamed the deportations on Jewish Communists. In 1941, the invading Nazis disseminated propaganda that all Latvian Jews were Communists and were responsible for the Soviet occupation and particularly the deportations.

The occupation began with a series of vicious attacks on Jews in which many were dragged from their homes and either imprisoned or murdered. These attacks were encouraged by the German Nazis but, Michelson says, were enthusiastically carried out by local Latvians—members of Pērkonkrusts (Latvian Nazis), the Aizsargi (paramilitary groups) and others. He insists on the complicity of all Latvians, stating that "the persecution of the Jews (in Latvia) was approved and accepted by the majority of the local population" and that "the willingness of Latvians to act as hired killers is well-documented." He is bitter about the lack of help offered his family by Latvians, particularly blaming his Uncle Leo’s friends in the artistic community for not coming forward.

One day Max came home to find that his mother had been taken away by the police. They had come for his father, but as he was ill Max’s mother had somehow persuaded them to take her instead. Max never saw her again. Later, when all Jews were required to move into the Rīga ghetto, Max’s father insisted on including in their meagre belongings some of his wife’s clothing. "When they took Mama away," he insisted, "she wore just a light dress. She will need her warm clothes when she comes back from prison."

On Oct. 25, 1941, the Rīga ghetto was sealed off. When it was clear that Jews in the Large Ghetto were being exterminated, Max dragged his father to the work camp, or Little Ghetto. There they found a temporary reprieve from death, but nevertheless his father disappeared one day. The majority of Max’s relatives and friends were killed during the liquidation of the ghetto, or Large Aktion as it was called.

When the tide of the war turned against the Germans, Max and other prisoners were transported by boat to Stutthof, Poland, and then by train to Polte-Werke at Magdeberg, Germany. On April 11, 1945, he and some others suddenly found their camp unguarded. They immediately left and, though their trials were not yet over, this was the beginning of their freedom.

After the liberation came the terrible news that no member of his family who had been trapped in the Nazi occupation had survived. There seemed no reason to return to Latvia: "All of Europe seemed like one vast cemetery, hardly a place in which to start a new life." Max Michelson eventually found his way to New York. He married and became an electrical engineer, settling in the Boston area.

Michelson recounts that, after the destruction of the Large Ghetto in Rīga, an old Latvian woman, a stranger, said to him: "Soon they are going to kill you all." After the fall of Germany, during Max’s first night in a Red Army Hospital, a fellow patient told him, "You will be dead by morning." Both predictions proved wrong. Max Michelson survived, "by happenstance" he says, but with unthinkable losses.

It is impossible to view Ceplis, directed by Rolands Kalniņš and starring Eduards Pāvuls, without putting it in the context of the time and place it was made. The year was 1972 and the place was Soviet Latvia. There is good and bad here.

The good part is that this is a great-looking film. The cinematography jumps right off the screen. Looking at the film with the sound off you could imagine that this was a film from Hollywood or Western Europe, circa 1970. The lighting is just right, the composition of shots shows attention to detail, the costumes and actors are all just so. One of the advantages of working in the Soviet system was that filmmakers had access to equipment, although it was usually quite a few notches below what was available in the West. But they had crews and talent to milk that equipment. They also had time to film without the usual budget constraints that present day productions have to deal with.

Unfortunately, watching a film with the sound off stopped being a true option since The Jazz Singer premiered in 1927. It’s not that the acting in Ceplis is bad or that the technical quality of the sound is that bad. (The movie seems to have been shot without sync sound and the dialogue added at post-production, but I am discovering that is more of a pet peeve of mine that doesn’t bother most. Fellini shot most of his films this way and few complain about his work.)

The bad part is that because the film was made in Soviet Latvia in 1972, it couldn’t just focus on telling a story without also, none too subtly, having to impart some ideological message. It is this need to drive home an ideological message that ultimately sinks the film.

Ceplis is the story of the ultimate survivor. It tells the adventures, or misadventures, of a 1930s businessman who will do anything to survive and prosper. Ceplis (Pāvuls) establishes a joint stock company that will make bricks from Latvian clay (brūnais zelts, or brown gold) and sell them overseas. There is no shortage of those who are lured by the promise that the phrase "Made in Latvia" will soon ring across the world. The possibility of becoming rich beyond their wildest dreams doesn’t hurt either. Soon everyone is scheming to acquire as much stock as they can. Alas, the clay used for the bricks contains too much chalk, the bricks themselves are worthless, and as fast as they tried to get in on the deal everyone soon wants out.

This is not a subtle film. Not a single character is motivated by anything other than greed. All of them—from the mighty captain of industry to the lowliest office clerk, from the highest politician to the local police officer, and even their wives and paramours—are tainted by either their proximity to, or desire for, wealth. And it is this greed, of course, that leads to their eventual downfall.

The film’s screenplay is based on a novel, written by Pāvils Rozītis in the 1930s, that was intended as a satire of contemporary times. But the film comes across as a heavy-handed attempt at illustrating the evils of capitalism and, by extension, Latvian nationalism. Greed is bad. Nationalism is merely a tool to justify greed.

Ironically, this same stereotypical presentation of Latvian business people and politicians can be found in the present. Let’s hope that if anyone ever thinks of remaking Ceplis they will remember that satire works best when it is subtle.