Features
Harold and Harry – a friendship that spanned seven decades

Ed. note: It’s been quite some time since we had run a piece by Harry Warren in the print edition of the JP&N. Harry’s often whimsical musings were regular features in the paper for many years. So, when I happened to call Harry not too long ago, I was more than a little concerned that I might find out there was something seriously wrong that had prevented him from sending us any more contributions.
But, when I asked Harry why it was that he had stopped writing for us, his answer, quite simply, was that he just couldn’t think of anything else to write about. In response, I asked him if it would be all right with him then if I looked back at his many pieces and chose one to reprint for our Rosh Hashanah issue. I should also mention that, in his meticulous manner, Harry numbered every one of his articles.The last one we received, for instance, was #110. I chose the following piece, #102 as it happens, because it’s both humourous and poignant, as in it Harry looks back on a lifelong friendship with his dear friend, Harold.
It all began in 1946, when I met Harold at The University of Manitoba Ski Club. Harold was enrolled in Electrical Engineering faculty and I in the faculty of Civil Engineering. This was the beginning of a friendship that lasted over 65 years.
When Harold was invited to become the editor of the annual publication “The Slide Rule” he accepted on the condition that Iwould be his co-editor. That’s how we both became members of the Engineering Council.
This was usually a fairly technical publication where students usually reported on their summer work experiences.
We decided to jazz it up a bit by adding humorous articles and lots of photos of the students. One of the articles that Harold wrote about was on German inventions. It was our understanding that the copyrights on these inventions ended when Germany capitulated to the Allies at the end of World War II. We discussed possibly going into partnership after we graduated, but it never came to pass.
Harold headed for Montreal after graduation in 1947, and I stayed in Winnipeg with a job at the Dominion Bridge Co. as a Concrete Design Engineer. Harold corresponded with me and ultimately convinced meto move to Montreal because there were more opportunities for engineers in that city. I was able to get a job with the Dominion Structural Steel Co. in Montreal and found a room for rent on Esplanade Ave., near Mount Royal. This was a rooming house shared by another friend of mine, Al Yentin, an architect from Winnipeg.
Harold and I took a week-end trip to Ste Agathe, a resort, north of Montreal. We had intended to take a swim in the beautiful lake, but had trouble finding a public beach, as the resort hotels were able to build on private lots that stretched to the water’s edge. When we finally did find a public beach it was littered with trash and empty beer cans.
It was a very warm day and we decided to go for a swim. There was a fixed raft about 100 yards from the lakeshore. When we arrived we lay down on it, and thought we would take in some sun. Presently we heard someone shouting at us from the lakeshore. At first, we ignored it, until we realized he was trying to get our attention, but we couldn’t make out what he was saying, until he swam up to us climbed aboard and said:
“C’est privée monsieur!”
Imagine a diving platform out in the lake that was private property and owned by one of the resort hotels! Unheard of in the province of Manitoba! We passed one of the hotels that had a sign on its front lawn: “Restricted Clientelle”.
Just for fun we went to the main desk to inquire and were told that they did not allow Jews or Coloured guests on their property – blatant bigotry and anti-Semitism – something we had not experienced in Manitoba. We were gaining an education in the province of Quebec. If you were not registered in one of the hotels there was simply no place to go! We finally found a bit of shade by sitting on the grass beside the road with our backs up against a retaining wall. Presently we heard someone calling us from the top of the retaining wall:
“C’est privée monsieurs”
Even the grass beside the roadway was private!
I persuaded Harold to take a drawing course. We proceeded to buy our supplies, some drawing paper and charcoal sticks and showed up at the studio. There were a number of students already in front of their easels. We looked around and thought that perhaps we would start by drawing some still life, like apples or oranges in a dish.
As we waited a door opened into the studio and an attractive young woman proceeded to the centre of the floor, dressed in a robe. Presently she dropped her robe, and she was absolutely stark naked! The other students started drawing immediately while Harold and I simply stood there with our mouths open, and took it all in. The teacher came up to us, and with a stern look on her face and exclaimed: “You better put something on paper, fast, or out you go!”
So much for our venture in to the art world of Montreal.
On another occasion Harold received an invitation to visit some friends at their cottage in Ste. Agathe. He asked our host if I could join them on this trip, and it was agreed. We acted like a couple of twins, joined at the hip. It was a beautiful cottage and appetizers were being served. Harold introduced me to our host, a Jewish businessman from Montreal, in the shmata business (clothing manufacture) – also his daughter. He took me aside into the solarium and said.
“Harold tells me you’re an engineer.”
I said that was correct.
“I like you, and my daughter likes you. I am getting ready to retire and am looking for someone to take over my business.”
Holy mackerel! I was being propositioned! On our very first meeting! I withdrew with some lame duck excuse. And I was furious! Harold had set me up! Obviously he had been propositioned first, and obviously he wasn’t interested. Neither was I! Everything moves much faster in Montreal than it does in Winnipeg! I was gaining an education!
My boarding housemate, Al Yentin, took me aside one evening and said:
“Harry, do you like to play tennis?”
“Sure”, was my reply, “What’s up?”
“I have a tennis date, on the mountain, tonight, and my girl friend has a girl friend who would like to play doubles.
“I don’t like blind dates.” was my response.
“Come on, be a sport, it wouldn’t hurt you to try it once.”
Reluctantly I agreed to join them.
When we reached the tennis courts on Mount Royal, I was introduced to my tennis partner, Nora Bain. I can’t remember who won the match. It didn’t seem to matter! We talked a great deal that evening. I discovered that she came from a small Jewish community in Quebec city, and was working as a Burroughs Bookkeeping machine operator. She was interested in sports. And so was I. She was also interested in downhill skiing. Wow! So was I! We had a lot in common and I was definitely interested in dating her again.
Harold noticed that we weren’t seeing each other much, and his curiosity was aroused. Try as he might he wasn’t going to extract this information. I was in love with Nora and I was going to ask her to marry me! Soon, I proposed and she accepted.
I was prepared to introduce Nora to Harold. One weekend we went to Quebec City to see Nora’s family, including her younger sister Ray, and her younger brother, Ossie.
Our wedding date was set for January 15th. 1949, in Montreal and Harold was invited to attend. The best man at my wedding was my older brother, William (Val), and it was held on his birthday. William and I had shared the same bedroom for 18 years, and he was my mentor. If he had refused, Harold would have been my second choice. On our 60th wedding anniversary, Harold was asked to verify this fact.
A year after we were married I persuaded Nora that Winnipeg would be a better place to raise a family. We left for Winnipeg. In May of 1950, in time for the worst flood Winnipeg had experienced in 50 years! Harold returned to Winnipeg at a later date.
Subsequently, Harold met the love of his life, Laura Newhouse, in Winnipeg and they were married on September 8th. 1953. We attended their wedding, our wives got along very well, and we double dated. Harold had acquired a manufacturing business in Winnipeg called JR Wire and he proceeded to build a very successful future for his family of Laura and their daughters Joy, Sally and Rebecca. Rebecca graduated in Mechanical Engineering and joined her dad in the manufacturing business for a short period of years. Joy pursued a career in Dentistry, ultimately receiving her Phd in Dentistry. She was engaged in research and gained an international reputation as a speaker in the area of dental research. Sally graduated from the Ryerson Institute in Toronto and pursued a career in clothing design.
Our family consisted of Paul and Martin. Paul graduated in Commerce and Law and ultimately moved to Calgary, where he became successful in the sale of pre-owned cars. His younger brother, Martin, graduated in Dentistry from The University of Manitoba and followed Paul to Calgary, where he established a dental practice. Subsequently, he purchased several dental practices in Edmonton. Our children became friendly with Harold and Laura’s children.
In December of 1993 Nora and I purchased a winter home built in Sun City West, Arizona, a small retirement city about 45 miles north and west of Phoenix. We were really enthusiastic about our new winter home and communicated our excitement to Harold and Laura. As a result they also bought a home in Sun City West a year later. This was a city of active retirees, age 55 and older, with over 100 different clubs! Harold and I shared many common interests. We enjoyed participating in photography, writing and the Rio Institute of Senior Education. Harold also became interested in the Metals Club, and produced some very fine metal furniture for their winter home.
In November of 2006 we lost our son Paul in Calgary as a result of complications from Type One Diabetes. In March of 2008 I had an operation in Winnipeg for colon cancer and miraculously survived, thanks to my surgeon, Dr. Clifford Yaffe.
In October, 2010 Laura informed Nora that Harold had been diagnosed with leukemia and was being treated with blood transfusions. Cancercare Manitoba did everything they could do to save him, but tragically he passed away on Thursday, October, 21st. 2010.
We will all miss him. He was the consummate engineer. When he faced a problem his philosophy was:
“The difficult we can do right away, the impossible will take a little longer.”
Harold and I attended courses in anthropology at the University of Manitoba, together, as well asat the Manitoba Naturalist Society and the Rio Institute of Senior Education. He was generous to many worthy causes and always ready to help out when he was needed.
Editor’s post script: In the original version of this story, Harry never did disclose Harold’s name – for reasons I never quite understood, but I don’t suppose that Harry would be upset if I mentioned that the Harold in the story was Harold Richman, z”l.
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.