Features
Canada’s Oldest Siblings: Three Bodies, One Heart, and a Set of Lungs
By CAROL SEVITT (This article first appeared in The Globe & Mail. Reprinted with permission.) My mother and her siblings, all Holocaust survivors, might just be the oldest siblings in Canada. Amazingly, they have spent nearly all their lives together.
At 99, 98, 96, and 94 they make a formidable quartet. There are three sisters – Sally Singer, 99, Anne Novak, 98 (my mother), and Ruth Zimmer, 94 – and a brother Sol Fink, 96. Sally’s 100th birthday is around the corner in late November, and the others aren’t far behind.
“A sister can be seen as someone who is both ourselves and very much not ourselves — a special kind of double,” wrote author Toni Morrison. In the case of my mother and her two sisters, it’s a special kind of triple, or as I see it, “three bodies and one heart.” Despite their different temperaments, they think and act alike. When one sister installed central air conditioning, the others followed. When they went on holidays, they went to the same place together. When one sister bought her first fur coat or string of pearls, so did the others. When one got her first microwave or food processor, so did her sisters. When one stopped colouring her hair, it was only months before the others went grey too. Even now they go to the same doctor, dentist, insurance agent, and financial planner. They use the same face cream and take most of the same medication. They bought the same jewellery and raincoat. They eat the same breakfast and watch the same TV shows (“The Bachelor” is a longtime favourite).
Their brother Sol carved out his own niche. After selling the grocery store he ran with his brother-in-law, he was a shoichet (ritual slaughterer) until he was 85. Throughout his life he chanted Torah and worked as the cantor at a small North End Winnipeg synagogue. He led prayers until he was 95, with Covid protocols putting an end to that. An article written about him a few years ago called him Canada’s oldest working cantor. Growing up with three sisters, whom he still calls the “maidlach” (girls), he learned how to treat women well. With natural mechanical ability, he was always there to do home repairs for them.
The four siblings spent their youth in Sanok, Poland, near the Carpathian Mountains. There were two boys in the family (the youngest Eli perished in the Holocaust), but the sisters were a unit unto themselves. As girls, one was bookish and organized, one was sweet and a peacemaker (my mother), and one was a comedian with a rebellious spirit – traits they have retained throughout their lives.
They were teenagers when the Nazis stormed into Poland – the start of the darkest period of their lives. Although being transported to a Siberian labour camp was traumatic, it was the reason behind their survival. The family spent the war years enduring bitter hardships in Russia, facing hunger and deprivation, but being together somehow made it bearable. The horror of having one brother and 80 relatives exterminated by the Nazis made the siblings hang onto each other even more.
After the war, like most Holocaust survivors, the sisters started making up for lost time. While in a DP camp in Germany, my mother and her older sister got married just 10 days apart. They even wore the same wedding dress. The family joke was that there were cookies left over from Sally’s wedding, so my mother had to get married right afterwards. Naturally, they both got pregnant and had daughters just nine months apart (I am one of those daughters). The youngest sister married a year later and promptly had a child to provide me with another cousin. Sol married a few years later and produced four more musically talented cousins.
After the war, the family emigrated to Winnipeg, and of course lived walking distance from each other. As immigrants, the siblings and their spouses faced many challenges – finding work, learning English, and adapting to the Canadian way of life. But they were young and hard-working, and before long, they bought homes and cars. When my mother got her driver’s license, her sisters quickly followed. My mother gave up driving less than a year ago, and misses her car every day.
Years went by, the families grew, and still the siblings stuck together. Although they each had friends outside the family, their core friendships were with each other.
Having faced hunger during the war, food became one of life’s big pleasures, and not surprisingly the sisters all cooked the same wonderful dishes. As a testament to their culinary skills, my Auntie Ruthie (the comedian) starred in the pilot episode of a grandmother cooking show on television called “Loving Spoonfuls”. My aunt may be famous for making chicken soup and pierogies on TV, but her recipe is the same as her sisters’. Because they think and act alike (three bodies and one heart), if one said she was cooking borscht, blintzes or knishes, the others invariably would do the same.
In their 50s, the sisters ran a coffee shop inside the Jewish nursing home, serving delicious homemade soups, burgers and sandwiches to staff and visitors. No arguments about how to prepare the food, as they all share the same European recipes and love nothing better than feeding a crowd.
Another common denominator is their desire to have fun. Whether it be writing and performing skits and songs, dressing up in costumes, imitating quirky family member or celebrities, or telling off colour jokes, they make each other howl.
In their seventies, it became difficult for the sisters to remain in their homes. My parents moved to a condo first. A year later, the condo unit on my mother’s left became available and her younger sister bought it. Soon, the condo on her right was up for sale and – you guessed it – the older sister bought it. When my cousins and I came to visit from out of town, it was a moveable party as we went from apartment to apartment, (even in our pj’s) enjoying the company, cooking, and wisecracks.
In her eighties, my mother entered the digital world where she loves to check Facebook, send emails, surf the web, and check out YouTube (especially Yiddish cantorial music). She was the digital star until her younger sister got an iPad a few months later.
All three sisters are now widows, but because the trio is together, life is not lonely. Just last year they all sold their condos and moved into an assisted living retirement home. True to form, Ruth is trying to teach the chef how to make tasty pierogies.
Not only are the sisters’ similarities remarkable, they also have the ability to forgive and forget, to smooth things out when there’s an issue, and to lift each other’s moods when a dark cloud descends. Despite devastating personal losses – three of the four have lost an adult child, all the husbands have died, they lost a young brother, their home and relatives in Poland — their outlook remains remarkably positive. At 98, my mother says, “Hitler stole 10 years from me, so I am actually only 88”. Whether in defiance of Hitler or simply thanks to their unique circumstances, all the siblings are alive and kicking.
From my mother, aunts and uncle I have learned many life lessons — to treasure family, celebrate every milestone, cook excellent dishes, and forgive small transgressions. Because my aunts are so close to me, I feel privileged to have three “mothers” who never miss the opportunity to tell me they love me, but not before telling me the latest joke. I also have the privilege of an outstanding uncle who does daily workouts or swims, can fix anything, and uplifts a congregation with his prayer and song.
If I have their genes, I will be lucky indeed.
Features
I Speak “Jew”
By MARK E. PAULL I grew up in Montreal. Born in 1956. Anglo by birth, sure. But that never quite fit. I don’t speak “Anglo” the way they mean it. My real language is Jew.
And I don’t mean Hebrew or Yiddish. I mean the language of reading the room before you enter it. The code-switching, shame-dodging, laugh-first-so-they-don’t-pounce dialect we pick up early. It’s a language built on side-eyes and timing and ten generations of tension.
I speak French—enough to make myself understood. Enough to charm a dinner table, crack a joke, get someone’s uncle to nod. I’m not fluent, but I’m fast. Doesn’t matter. In Quebec, language isn’t grammar—it’s inheritance. It’s who your grandfather cursed out in a hardware store.
To the Francophones, I’ll never be one of them. My accent betrays me before I say a word. I’m just an Anglo. And not even that, really. Because when the lens tightens, when they look closely, I’m just un Juif. Just a Jew.
And to the Anglos? Same thing. I can wear the suit, speak the Queen’s English, order the wine properly—still a Jew. Even in rooms where I “pass,” I don’t belong. I’m not invited in to be myself. I’m invited in to behave. To be safe. To not say the thing that makes the air stiff.
We’re the only people still called by our religion. No one says “Orthodox” for a Greek. No one says “Vatican” for an Italian. No one calls a Black man “Baptist” before they see his face. But “Jew”? That sticks. That’s the label. Before passport. Before language. Before hello.
I’ve mostly made peace with that. But there’s still this ache—knowing you can live your whole life in a place and never really be from there.
Let me tell you a story.
We had this block party once—the folding-table, paper-plate kind. Kids zipping by on scooters. Music low. Everyone asked to bring something from “your culture.”
The Greek guy brought lemon potatoes and lamb—felt like it came with a side of Byzantine history. The Italians brought two lasagnas—meat and veggie—with basil placed like confetti. The Vietnamese couple brought shrimp rolls that vanished before they hit the table. Even the German guy—built like a fridge—brought bratwurst and a six-pack with gothic lettering.
And then us.
My partner made Moroccan fish. Her grandmother’s recipe. Red with tomatoes, garlic, cumin. Studded with olives and preserved lemon. I brought a bottle of white wine. Dry. Crisp. From the Golan Heights. Not Manischewitz. Not even close.
We laid it out. Someone leaned over: “Moroccan? But I thought you were Jewish.”
We smiled. “We are.”
Then: “So… where’s the brisket? Isn’t Jewish wine supposed to be sweet?”
That’s when it hits you. No matter how long you’ve lived here, how many snowstorms you’ve shoveled through, you’re still explaining yourself. Still translating your presence.
Because they don’t know. They don’t know Jews came from everywhere. That “Jewish” isn’t one dish—it’s a whole map. That we had Jews in Morocco before there was even a France. That some of us grew up on kreplach, some on kefta. That some of our mothers sang in Yiddish, others in Arabic, and some in both—depending on who was knocking.
They don’t know. And worse—they don’t ask.
And that’s the part that gets you. Not the slurs. Not the graffiti. Not even the occasional muttered cliché. It’s the blankness. The shrug. The image they already have of you that’s built out of dreidels and sitcoms.
“Jewish” as nostalgic. As novelty. Something they saw once on a bagel.
Sometimes, when those questions come, I float. One version of me walks out. Another turns into a mouse. One turns into a Frisbee. Just gone. Not mad. Just tired.
Because being a Jew isn’t cute. It’s not nostalgic.
It’s ancient.
Before Montreal.
Before France.
Before Poland. Before Spain.
Before pogroms.
Before ghettos.
Before Hitler.
Before even the word Europe.
We were there.
Go back to the 5th century. 2nd century.
Go back to Jesus—our kid, by the way.
Go further—Babylon. Persia.
Keep going—Temple. Exile. Wandering.
And still, after all that, I’m at a table in Quebec explaining why our fish has cumin in it.
It’s almost funny. If it didn’t wear you down a little.
I’m not looking for pity. This isn’t a complaint.
I’m proud. I know what I carry. I walk into any room with five thousand years behind me. I come from people who kept the lights on through every kind of darkness—and laughed through it, too.
But sometimes, I just wish I didn’t have to explain so much.
All I want is to put down my dish…
…and hear someone say:
“That smells amazing. Tell me the story.”
That’s all.
Mark E. Paull, C.A.C. is a Certified ADHD Coach – IPHM, CMA, IIC&M, CPD Certified
Writer | Lived-Experience Advocate | Type 1 Diabetic since 1967
He has been published in:
The New York Times, The Globe and Mail, Folklife Magazine, Times of Israel, CHADD’s Attention Magazine, The Good Men Project
Features
At 104, Besse Gurevich last original resident of Shaftesbury Park Retirement Residence
By MYRON LOVE At 104, Besse Gurevich is the last of the original residents of Shaftesbury Park Retirement Residence. She may also be the oldest member of our Jewish community.
Although her vision and her hearing have diminished considerably, her mind and memory are still intact. A few weeks back, this writer sat down with her in her suite as she recalled a life filled with highs and lows and her many contributions to her community, both in Winnipeg and Fort William before that.
The daughter of Jack and Rebecca Avit, her life’s journey began in 1921 in a home on Carlton Street near Ellice Avenue, near her father’s furniture store. He later operated a cap factory.
When she was ten, the family – she had two brothers and a sister – moved to Manitoba Avenue in the old North End. “My father had put a deposit down on a house on Scotia,” she recalls. “But my parents didn’t feel that the neighbourhood was Jewish enough.”
Her schooling included Peretz School and, like so many of her generation, St. John’s Tech (as it was known back then.) “I was actually supposed to be going to Isaac Newton for high school,” she says. We were living on the wrong side of the tracks for St. John’s. After one day at Isaac Newton, I found a way to transfer to St. John’s.”
In 1940, 19-year-old Bessie Avit married Jack Gurevich, a young man from Fort William. The wedding was marred though, by the sudden, untimely passing of her father.
Following the wedding, Besse moved with her new husband to Fort William where Jack Gurevich worked in retail clothing sales. “We lived in Fort William for 20 years,” she says. “Our three children (Judy, Richard and Howard) were born there.”
She recalls that there were about 200 Jewish families – including her sister and one of her brothers for some years – in town, during the time she lived there. “We were very well known in the community,” she recalls. “I was involved in everything.”
Her community activism continued after the family’s return to her home town. While Jack went to work as a salesman for Western Glove Works, Besse became an indefatigable community volunteer. At one time or another, she served as vice-president of ORT, Hadassah and National Council of Jewish Women in Winnipeg. She was also a long time B’nai Brith member.
In the business world, the highlight of her career was the building of Linden Woods. “I became involved in real estate development for a time,” she recalls. “I was hired by Genstar to develop Linden Woods. The company estimated that it would take about 20 years to complete. I got it done in two.”
She also taught hair dressing for a while. “I worked with many young Jewish brides,” she says.
Recent years have not been kind to Besse Gurevich. Her beloved husband, Jack, died in 2016 – after almost 65 years of marriage. Older son, Richard, passed away in Vancouver in 2018 and, most recently –six months ago – younger son, Howard, followed. She notes that there were 200 mourners at Howard’s funeral.
(Howard Gurevich was in marketing for many years before turning his talents to the art world. In recent years, he was best known for Gurevich Fine Art in the Exchange District and his support of local artists.)
Besse Gurevich celebrated her 100th birthday – which took place at the height of the Covid shutdown – quietly.
While she used to enjoy reading. she is unable to do so any more. She can still listen to television.
And while she has few family members to visit her any more, she does have a group of friends interesting enough from the local theatre scene. For many years, she was a close friend of the late Doreen Brownstone, one of the leading figures in theatre in Winnipeg for more than half a century. Besse became part of the group that would visit Doreen every week and, since Doreen passed on three years ago, the members of the group have continued to visit Besse on a weekly basis.
Features
Winnipeg author’s first novel gripping tale of romance, action and intrigue, set in 15th century Spain and Morocco
By MYRON LOVE “The Chronos of Andalucia”, a novel just released by first-time author Merom Toledano, is a historical romance set in late 15th century Spain and Morocco, filled with passion, action, intrigue, unexpected twists and turns – and, of course, with the requirement of any medieval story – a quest.
The easy-to-read, 190 page book follows the adventures of Catalina, a young woman living by her wits on the streets of Granada in the year 1487, (just after the Christian armies of Ferdinand and Isabella had recaptured all of Spain from the Moors) – while trying to evade the agents of the Inquisition, who had murdered her Jewish mother and Christian father 10 years earlier. She was left with an insatiable desire to learn about astronomy, along with a mysterious map and an astrolabe (an instrument formerly used to make astronomical measurements) – the importance of which will only be unveiled if she can get to the city of Tangier in Morocco.
Early on, there is a reference to Abraham Zacuto, a prominent Spanish rabbi famed for his knowledge of astronomy and astrology.
The action begins when she has a casual interaction with a former Spanish soldier, Diego. When the forces of the Inquisition approach, she flees with the soldier – who is also her love interest – and who helps her to escape. They turn for help to a childhood friend of Catalina’s – Roberta, a nun, who helps them on their perilous journey to Tangier – a journey that includes being captured by pirates, surviving a shipwreck, being separated for a long period of time and, of course, finding each other again and realizing the success of their joint quest.
In his writing, the author paints vivid word pictures of the different characters and beautifully invokes the colour, sights, sounds and scents of the time and the places.
What I found truly remarkable about the writing of “The Chronos of Andalucia” is that English is not Merom Toledano’s first language. The Israeli-born author – he grew up near Haifa – came to Winnipeg with his young family just eight years ago.
“I have had this book in mind for several years now,” says the satellite engineer whose working career takes him to many different parts of the world.
He notes that he has always felt a connection to Spain, Spanish music and literature – a reflection of his family’s modern origins in that country. His great-grandparents, he relates, lived in Toledo – hence the family name, Toledano. His parents lived in Meknes in Morocco while his father attended university in Tangier before making aliyah.
Toledano just published “The Chronos of Andalucia” in April on Amazon. He reports that the book – which is available here at McNally Robinson – has been selling well –close to 100 copies – with orders coming from a bookstore chain in England, a bookstore in Denmark, and one in Italy.
“I have had between 30 and 40 positive reviews so far,” he reports.
Toledano adds that he envisages “The Chronos of Andalucia” to be the first in a series – a la the writer Danielle Steele. He is already working on a sequel – which is hinted at the end of “The Chronos” and, he reports, he is establishing his own independent publishing operation.