Features
Book Review: “The Matchmaker’s Gift”
By BERNIE BELLAN Given the subject matter of Beatty Cohan’s column elsewhere on this site – online dating, I thought it appropriate to write about a book I recently finished reading, titled “The Matchmaker’s Gift,” by Lynda Cohen Loigman, which was released last fall.
Now, ordinarily, I think it’s fair to presume that a title like that would engender more interest among women than men and, to be honest, I can’t remember why it is that I chose to download this particular book on to my Kindle a couple of months ago. Whatever the reason, I quite enjoyed reading “The Matchmaker’s Gift.” It was only after I had finished reading it, however – and after I had read the author’s notes, that I discovered I had also read the very first book Cohen Loigman had written, titled “The Two-Family House,” which was published in 2016.
That book had been chosen for what was then known as “The People of the Book Club” at the Rady JCC by the late Sharon Freed, who was the facilitator for that club. But, why would I write that I would think a book about matchmaking would be of particular interest to women? Maybe it’s because we tend to associate the profession of matchmaking with “Yenta the Matchmaker” from “Fiddler on the Roof,” more than anything else.
But, as I discovered during the course of reading “The Matchmaker’s Gift,” at least in New York in the early part of the 20th century, matchmaking as a profession within the Jewish community was reserved for men. In fact, that becomes one of the principal themes of the book, as we are introduced to a character by the name of Sara Glikman, who discovers, unbeknownst to her, that she has a rare and secret talent whereby she is able to determine a perfect match between two total strangers through some mystical power that she possesses.
In an earlier age no doubt Sara would have probably been considered a witch within different cultures. The notion of someone having fantastical powers is, of course, an enduring theme throughout history, and when those powers are set within a modern day context, they often become a source of amusement, as in all the superpower heroes that have come to dominate a good part of our culture.
Yet, in “The Matchmaker’s Gift,” Sara Glikman neither chooses to practice matchmaking nor does she relish the opportunity to engage in the craft. She simply comes to realize that she has a unique gift for being able to put unlikely couples together.
Parallel to Sara’s story we come to read about Sara’s granddaughter, Abby, who is a young lawyer in New York, and someone totally removed from the world of matchmaking – or so we are led to believe.
Cohen-Loigman interweaves the story of Sara’s forays into matchmaking with Abby’s very demanding legal career. The element that both women have in common is that they are able to recognize when two people are right for each other or, as is the case with Abby while she is working for a very hard driving attorney who specialized in putting together pre-nup agreements: when two people who are headed toward marriage – and seem to be compatible on the surface – are not at all right for each other.
Given how common it was for our ancestors to have been put together by way of a “shidduch,” or “match,” I’m sure that most of us would have wondered how those long-ago marriages would have worked out in this day and age. I can well recall watching my own maternal grandparents engaged in fierce arguments over the years when I was growing up. I wasn’t close enough to my paternal grandparents to notice whether the same applied to them, but while reading “The Matchmaker’s Gift,” memories of what seemed to be odd marriages did re-enter my mind.
Sara Glikman though, as talented as she may be with her supernatural ability to anticipate when two total strangers would make perfectly attuned marriage partners, does come up against the prevailing practice of the day, which is to have only men arrange marriages. Since she must keep her unique ability a secret, her carefully thought-out plans to bring various couples together once she discovers that they are meant for one another rely upon a great deal of deception and planned accidental meetings.
Once the male matchmakers of New York come to be aware of Sara’s forays into their world, however, she is brought forward in a “bet din” (house of judgment) where she is forced to account for her behavior.
Similarly, Sara’s granddaughter, Abby, has to defend herself when she is exposed as having intervened in a number of situations, either to stave off a doomed relationship or to facilitate one among unlikely mates. Her boss, Evelyn Morgan, is the consummate hard driving career woman who herself has no time for romance and once she realizes that Abby has actually been sabotaging Evelyn’s meticulous pre-nup work, all hell breaks loose.
It’s all quite endearing and really quite fantastical, but at the same time, after reading all of the information Beatty Cohan gives about online dating in her column this issue and how prominent a role it plays in determining relationships, especially, as Beatty notes, among gay men, I was intrigued enough to want to do more research about online dating among Jews in particular.
While it is still the case that, within the Orthodox Jewish community, the role of “matchmaker” is accorded a very special prominence, many non-Orthodox Jews also rely upon matchmakers, it turns out, especially within cities that have high Jewish populations.
According to an article on the “Israel Hayom” or “Israel Today” website, matchmaking among Jews has zoomed upwards in popularity since Covid. Many individuals were dissatisfied with such well-known apps as “JDate,” although a related app, “JSwipe,” has become the most popular app among Jews using apps to look for a relationship with other Jews.
According to that article, which you can find at ttps://www.israelhayom.com/2022/06/17/jewish-dating-game-sees-matchmaking-become-hottest-trend-in-us/, the frustration that so many Jewish users have had in using dating apps has contributed to a skyrocketing use of matchmaking within the Jewish community.
But, in “The Matchmaker’s Gift,” the notion that matchmaking would be superior to other forms of finding a mate is actually made fun of. Both Sara Glikman and her granddaughter Abby fight against prevailing ideas about matchmaking. Instead of seeing elements in common between the men and women who eventually end up getting matched by both Sara and Abby, they rely on some sort of mystical intervention to reveal who is best suited to whom. (Sara actually sees a “strand of golden light” forming a line between two strangers throughout her life.) Later, upon reading her grandmother’s journals, in which she has meticulously documented each of her matches, Abby at first scoffs at what she is reading, then comes to realize that everything was true.
It all makes for a terrific yarn, but in the end, perhaps the lesson to be learned, both from “The Matchmaker’s Gift” and what is going on in the contemporary Jewish dating world is that whatever works is valid.
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.