Features
Allan Levine combines his ability as a historian with his talent as a novelist in his latest book
By BERNIE BELLAN
Winnipeg’s own Allan Levine has established himself as an award-winning author of non-fiction history – with probably the book best-known to Winnipeg audiences being Coming of Age: A History of the Jewish People of Manitoba, which was published in 2009.
In addition to his well-received works of history, Levine has occasionally delved into the mystery oeuvre, most often with his Sam Klein mystery novels, the most recent of which was The Bootlegger’s Confession.
The Sam Klein novels are set in Winnipeg in the first half of the 20th century – an era for which Levine apparently has a great deal of affection. With an endless series of colourful rogues populating those books, Levine has certainly demonstrated an ability to bring alive a period with which most of us now can only imagine through the accounts of others.
Now, with his latest book, Details are Unprintable: Wayne Lonergan and the Sensational Café Society Murder, Levine enters into a different sort of writing that combines his demonstrated ability to research his subject matter with a novelist’s fine ear for authentic dialogue.
Although the particular subject of this book – that being the sensational murder of a young, wealthy New York heiress by the name of Patricia Burton, presumably at the hands of her estranged husband, Wayne Longeran, may have commanded the headlines of newspapers throughout the United States and Canada (and Europe too, on occasion), by now the story has faded from memory.
As Levine notes, “The story of the murder of Patricia Burton Longeran and Wayne Longeran’s alibi, confession, and conviction is two tales in one. The first tells of the tragic death of a young mother…” the second aspect of the story relates to doubts cast on the Longeran’s guilt “mainly because the trial took place in an era before DNA was utilized in legal proceedings”.
And, although there have been other accounts of the murder and its aftermath published previously (to which Levine refers with full acknowledgment of those other works), the painstaking manner in which Levine pieces together the chronology of what likely happened in 1943 brings alive a story that for the vast majority of readers is likely totally unfamiliar.
There is a Jewish aspect to the story in that Patricia Burton was Jewish, but coming from a highly assimilated family that more than anything wanted to be accepted as one of New York’s upper echelon families, her Jewishness was totally irrelevant to her.
She was also an unmitigated spoiled brat and Levine offers up a vivid description of what her life of carousing and partying was like until her murder when she was only 22.
Now, if the story of the murder of a rich heiress at the hands of her estranged husband seems to have been lifted straight from some Hollywood movie, Levine informs us that this particular story itself actually inspired more than one movie.
The book is written in chronological form, with an often dizzying array of characters introduced throughout. Levine describes the origins of the Burton family fortune, beginning with a successful brewer by the name of Max Bernheimer. As the family became more assimilated – similar to many other German Jews at the time, the name was changed to the more Waspish sounding “Burton”.
Patricia’s father, William O. Burton, plays an important role in the book even though he died three years before Patricia’s murder, as it turns out that William was a homosexual – and that led to his meeting and having a relationship with William Longeran.
Longeran himself was quite the fascinating character – and a Canadian to boot! Levine explains how Longeran was very much a rogue, beginning from almost his earliest days when he plunged into a life of petty crime. He was also quite good looking and very much the ladies’ man – even though if not totally homosexual he was at lthe very least, bisexual,
Longeran’s homosexuality becomes a principal aspect of what eventually follows, as when he is eventually charged with Patricia’s murder, the New York City tabloids have a field day focusing on his “perverted” lifestyle. Levine quotes liberally from newspaper accounts of the day that use the most purple prose to denigrate Longeran in ways that would be largely unthinkable today. But Levine is able to set the scene so vividly the reader is able to imagine full well what it must have been like reading daily newspaper accounts, first of the murder of Patricia Burton, followed by the arrest of William Longeran in Toronto (where he had returned following her murder), culminating in his trial.
Levine points out that there was something else going on in the world at the time – a minor story known as World War II, but for the tabloids – and even other more self-respecting newspapers of the day, the Patricia Burton murder and subsequent arrest and trial of Wayne Longeran took centre stage for much of the time that other far more pressing events were certainly deserving to be in the spotlight.
While Patricia’s murder was not really that much of a mystery, given the overwhelming evidence that led directly to Longeran, what did become a pivotal part of what followed was his confession.
As mentioned, Levine has a fine ear for recreating imagined dialogue and, given that there were no tape recordings at the time, he does his best to lay out what likely happened when Longeran gave his confession to New York police. That confession proved to be the damning nail in the coffin for Longeran. Yet, by today’s standards of jurisprudence, there is a very good chance his actual arrest in Toronto by Toronto police and his confession to New York police would both be ruled as having occurred in violation of his legal rights.
And that proves to another fascinating aspect of this book, as Levine describes the many appeals filed on behalf of Longeran through the years while he served out his prison sentence. The standards of what constituted acceptable behaviour by police evolved over time and what happened to Longeran played a part in the evolution of those standards, as Levine explains.
At times the book does slow down its original fast pace when Levine begins to describe the very lengthy research he conducted in the New York District Attorney’s office when he read firsthand all the files relating to the Burton murder case.
Although Levine writes that he is almost totally certain that Wayne Longeran did indeed murder Patricia Burton, the circus atmosphere surrounding his trial and the overt homosexual bashing in the papers of the day undoubtedly played a large role in what eventually happened to Longeran. Readers may well be aware how recent it is that gay rights have been recognized within Western societies, but reading firsthand how vitriolic – and commonplace within media, the attitudes were toward homosexuals not that long ago helps to bring a real perspective to how far we have come.
By focusing on this one particular story, rather than doing an exhaustive study how the ostracizing of homosexuals was not only considered acceptable within larger society, it was demanded by the majority of the public, Levine not only treats readers to a terrific story, he offers a salutary lesson in how intolerant society was for so long.
In addition to being available at McNally Robinson, Details are Unprintable: Wayne Lonergan and the Sensational Café Society Murder is available at Indigo Chapters, Amazon (both Canada and the US), and Barnes and Noble in the US.
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.