Features
Former Winnipegger Dr. Meir Kryger takes an impressive turn to fiction with “The Man Who Couldn’t Stay Awake”
By BERNIE BELLAN In the mid-1980s a young Dr. Meir Kryger was beginning to establish his reputation as one of the pre-eminent experts in the area of sleep disorders. Having moved to Winnipeg to take up a position at St. Boniface Hospital (where he was to establish Canada’s first sleep lab devoted entirely to researching sleep disorders and was the first doctor to describe a case of sleep apnea in Canada) Kryger also somehow found the time to begin working on a novel – which, for various reasons, he just couldn’t complete.
Eventually though, in 2020 Kryger did publish that novel which, appropriately enough (given his career’s major primary focus) was titled “The Man Who Couldn’t Stay Awake”. As Kryger wrote to me in a recent email, “While I was still in Winnipeg, I wrote a novel that I never did anything thing with because my medical career had priority. When COVID hit, I published it on Amazon.”
Now, you might expect that after taking more than 35 years to complete his first novel, Kryger was not exactly sitting on an incipient blockbuster that people would really enjoy – but you would be wrong.
If anything, “The Man Who Couldn’t Stay Awake” is a first-rate mystery that moves at a whirlwind pace and which, if it had been promoted by a major publishing house rather than being self published would probably have received considerable renown by now.
I couldn’t help but think that in the past eight months we’ve published reviews of two other novels by Canadian Jewish doctors (“Prairie Sonata, by Sandra Shefrin Rubin, and “Lost Immunity”, by Daniel Kalla), along with a book of poetry (“Tablet Fragments”, by Tamar Rubin). All of these books have gone on to receive widespread critical acclaim and, in some cases, have either won awards or been nominated for them.
That doctors can also be talented writers should come as no surprise. What I wonder though is how a practicing physician can find the time to write for pleasure, given how busy most of them are – and how polished the end products have turned out to be. (As a writer of non-fiction in these pages – although some readers may say that what I actually produce would best be described as fiction, I can attest to how one has to force oneself to sit down and write – on top of freeing oneself from all distractions: no easy task.)
But, as Meir Kryger explained in an email to me, Covid afforded him the opportunity to finish something that he had set aside many years before – and after he had already authored many other books of non-fiction, all to do with the subject of sleep.
I asked him how long he actually spent writing “The Man Who Couldn’t Stay Awake”? He answered: “I did many drafts of the book, some handwritten (which I still have). Hundreds of hours.”
So, what’s “The Man Who Couldn’t Stay Awake” all about? It tells the story of a doctor (naturally) by the name of Sam Moroz, who finds himself enmeshed in a plot involving oil drilling in the Arctic. The book opens up with Moroz falling from the sky on to the Arctic ice – certainly a riveting beginning to what unfolds as a complex mystery involving various subplots, including an elaborate investment scheme, life among the Inuit, marital betrayal, a trip to Las Vegas, followed by a rafting trip on the Colorado River, Swiss bankers, French gastronomy…need I go on?
The plot moves back and forth in time – a device that we’ve come to expect in good mystery novels, as we gradually begin to understand just how it is that Moroz ended up falling from the sky in that opening scene. Through the course of the novel Moroz befriends an Inuit hunter by the name of Pauloosie.
I asked Kryger though, whether in his final draft, he had thought of changing his references to “Indians” in the novel? Although the term would certainly have been acceptable in the 1980s, I’m not so sure that he would escape criticism in our contemporary age of liberal “cancel culture” .
Here is how he responded: “The word “Indian” appears about 35 times in the book. That was the term in common usage in the 1980s. Even government agencies used that word. The book was reviewed by an aboriginal professor at U of M who had no problems with the book. Most of the readers have been Americans: The term “American Indian” is widely used in the US.”
(That’s all well and good, Meir, but in an age when using the wrong term can lead to being pilloried by certain groups, I just don’t know how that would go over with the agents of political correctness.)
I also wondered though whether Kryger had ever thought of updating some other references in the novel to make it more accessible to younger readers. After all, reading about characters using payphones does seem somewhat anachronistic. So, I asked him whether he had thought about revising the book to make it more contemporary?
His answer was: “I did think of updating it, but the events and context are early 80s. I suppose I could have modeled Kian (the novel’s primary villain) as an internet tycoon (rather than an oil baron, which is how he is depicted). Maybe for the sequel?” (By the way, I did suggest to Kryger that he should bring back Sam Moroz in another novel, which is why he referred to writing a sequel – apparently an idea he’s contemplating).
Something else about “The Man Who Couldn’t Stay Awake” that might especially appeal to Winnipeg readers is that some of the action does take place in this city, although the descriptions of some of the seedier parts of Winnipeg are not exactly flattering. Kryger does delve into some interesting historical references though when he writes about the way Inuit suffering from tuberculosis and other maladies were administered to by well meaning White doctors. In his description of Pauloosie’s father’s treatment for TB, he reminded me of a story we published in our paper by Susan Turner about how her uncle, Dr. Earl Hershfield, became the leading expert on the treatment of that disease among the Inuit. (You can read that story on our website at http://jewishpostandnews.ca/8-features/608-dr-earl-hershfield-and-inuit-bobbie-suluk-connecting-over-time.)
In my email correspondence with Kryger, I suggested to him that he has the makings of another Dan Brown (author of “The Da Vinci Code”) in the way he provides the reader with so much interesting information as the action moves quickly from one locale to another while the hero attempts to solve a complicated mystery.
Kryger said though that he was inspired more by Charles Dickens’ “Pickwick Papers”. (I’m sorry to say that I haven’t read that one, but now my curiosity is piqued.)
The painful truth for a writer, however, no matter how good they may be, is that it’s very rare for a book to gain any sort of acclaim unless it’s picked up by a major publisher. Kryger says that he doesn’t have a literary agent, but if Amazon reviews are any indication, readers of “The Man Who Couldn’t Stay Awake” are overwhelmingly positive in their responses to this book.
Comments on Amazon (which is where the book can be purchased) range from “a real page turner” to “a well written travelogue”. And, although there aren’t a huge number of ratings, it does score an impressive 4.9 out of 5 in customer reviews.
For Winnipeggers who knew Meir Kryger when he, his wife, Barbara, daughter Shelley, and sons Michael and Steven, lived here until he took up a new position in 2011 at Yale University, I thought it might be interesting to catch up with where they’ve all ended up, so I asked Kryger to give a summary of where they all are these days.
Here’s what he wrote: “Shelley is a math teacher in NYC. Michael, my middle son is a doctor in charge of a spinal cord unit in Pennsylvania. Steven, my youngest son works in the financial industry. Barbara was a consultant in HR (career development) for APTN (Aboriginal Peoples Television Network) until about 4 years ago.
“We are all vaccinated and well.”
“The Man Who Couldn’t Stay Awake” is available on paperback or in Kindle format from Amazon.
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.