Features
15-year-old Mitchell Brown’s Holocaust poem

Introduction: We received a call from subscriber Joe Brown in Toronto, who was very proud of his 15-year-old grandson Mitchell, for having composed a Holocaust-themed poem. Joe sent us the poem and, although I said to him that I wasn’t sure we had enough space to print it in its entirety in the newspaper, I assured Joe we would post it to our website.
But, I told Joe I wanted to know more about Mitchell, so he contacted Mitchell and asked him to get in touch with me.
When I spoke with Mitchell, I asked him to describe how he had come to write his poem. What follows is the explanation Mitchell sent us.
“My name is Mitchell Brown and I’ve always had a passion for writing. Through my schooling, my teachers have encouraged me to begin to share my writing with other readers and use my words to spread meaning. So, I decided to take a plain old school assignment in history class and share powerful emotions and words on a very serious and difficult topic. The result was my Holocaust poem titled “A Mothers Nightmare in Auschwitz Death Camp.” I decided to make this poem a reflective piece to commemorate the victims of the Holocaust. I feel so disappointed when peers my age have little knowledge of the tragedies of the Holocaust, and I feel that it is the job of the youth to have a voice and spread awareness on important topics such as the Holocaust. I’ve learned throughout my writing the most powerful tool to spread messages and share emotions is through words. My poem follows a mother and her two children as they enter Auschwitz death camp, a common narrative that too many innocent Jewish families underwent. The poem captures the emotions and thoughts that this family experienced.”
“A Mother’s Nightmare in Auschwitz Death Camp”
By Mitchell Brown
Hilda felt confusion
Where are we she wondered
Why are we here she pondered
She and her two boys exited the cattle car
Why are we being grouped up
A menacing building appeared in front of Hilda
A large factory she thought as big as a city
A huge city
With the words Arbeit Macht frei
She knows that means work sets you free
Am I working
Why do I need to be set free
She asked questions
She thought the worse
Her heart was pounding
The ground she stood on felt rock hard like stone
Scared and numb she felt
Cold and anxious
Screams so loud
It looked like a place from a nightmare
What they are creating in this factory
Smog coming from the building
Deep earthy stench pumping out of the building ahead of her
Clouds of burnt smog
Hilda had never smelt this type of smog before
It confused her and her children
Large hoards of people were being pushed
Separated like cattle at a farm
Nazi soldiers yelling with authority
Humans everywhere
She felt like an animal
What is this smog why is it so cloudy
The smog smelt as burned as a campfire
Why does it smell like that
Hilda’s young boys hated the stench
It must be smog from a factory my children
We are here to help out at this factory
Hilda repeated to her children
Natural intuition
Something isn’t right here
Why are my children here
Tattoos
Scary strong Nazi men
Giving tattoos
Numbers
Are we humans
Why am I number
Why are my children a different number than me
I want them to know my name
Not a number
I feel so scared
I want to be a human
Is this a factory
What are they making
Are they burning something
Why am I labeled with a number
93102
What does this mean
If so what
What are they burning
Getting nervous and her heart is thudding
Calm down Hilda
Take a deep breath
You will be back home soon
In your warm comfortable safe town soon
Come now boys don’t be scared
Hilda calmed her children
With her soft Mothers voice
You will be safe in my arms
Soldiers were separating family taking kids away from parents
Like robots systematically dismantling families with no remorse
Like water and oil
Children and parents apart far apart
The boys are gone
Where did they go
A soldier took all the children
Where are my children
Her throat was pulsing
Hilda cried
Hilda was grabbed by a soldier
She shouted to the soldier
Where are my children
No response
Hilda never seen her two children ever again
Four weeks later
Skinny and weak
Hungry and scared
Dirty and sore
Soldiers are moving us like farm animals
Hordes of crowds
Numbers all have numbers
All in pajamas
Nazis said we are going to bathe
Hilda needed it she was weak and dirty
A crowd of 700 people were shoved into a dark cold room with no windows or light
Shower time shouted a German soldier
All naked
She and 700 other frail and malnourished numbered people were here
Door locked
No escape she thought
All had numbers on their wrist
Why are we numbers
A shower with numbers
Strange and unknown
Scratch marks on the walls of this shower room
Hilda was crammed
Where is the water for this shower
Why are we all naked and packed like sardines
I’m scared
Help me god please
Crammed into this dark cold terrifying room
She felt numb and fearful
Desensitized and anesthetized
All she could think about was her children she had not seen them for 4 weeks
Their gentle smile
Where are they
She questioned
Where did they take the children
I love them
I want sympathy
Relief and reassurance
Her last thought in her mind was her two beautiful children
There short brown hair and green eyes
Their tender and humane skin
They’re comforting and cheerful voices
I can’t escape this
Thud
A mechanism clicked and vents above opened
People were screaming in terror
Scratching on the walls for freedom like nails on a chalkboard
I want to be a human again
This isn’t a shower
Good night my dearest children she thought
I’ll see you guys soon
I love you
Auschwitz Death Camp is responsible for 1.1 million deaths out of the 11 million victims of the Holocaust.
We must never forget the atrocities of the Holocaust.
We vow never again.
Good night my dearest children she thought
I’ll see you guys soon
I love you
Auschwitz Death Camp is responsible for 1.1 million deaths out of the 11 million victims of the Holocaust.
We must never forget the atrocities of the Holocaust.
We vow never again.
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.