Features
How Harvey Cogan became acquainted with members of his old family… and relatives he had never met – at the same time
By GERRY POSNER Picture this. It is 1950 and you are about to have your Bar Mitzvah at the shul in Fort William, Ontario ( as it was then known. With the twin city then, Port Arthur, it is now known as Thunder Bay).
Not only have you prepared your Haftorah, you are also able to read from the Torah all the portions from that day. It is a rare occasion indeed in the Jewish community of Fort William. Most of the Jewish population in Fort William and Port Arthur are in attendance that day at the Shaarey Shomayim Synagogue. Moreover, your father somehow found a first cousin he had living in New York – and this cousin, with his family, decides to come by car to your Bar Mitzvah. Your father has not seen his cousin since he left Russia in 1924 and he has never met any of the family. On top of it all, as a Bar Mitzvah present to you, this New York family gives you an American $100 bill. Now, that was a lot of money in 1950. The next day they depart for New York and you never hear from them again. Not a phone call, not a letter, not a telegram… Zippo. Well, not quite. Your older brother visited New York in 1958 and saw some of the family then and he later wrote a thank you note to the family for their hospitality to him during his stay in the city.
Fast forward from the Bar Mitzvah 71 years ago to 2021. You get a call from the Jewish Foundation of Manitoba saying that someone from Philadelphia wanted to connect with you as they thought you might be a relative. You laugh out loud saying it is likely a con of some kind as you know your family tree well and you do not have any relations in Philadelphia. Yet you go along and agree to give your email address. It all sounds bizarre.
But all of this happened to the now 84-year-old Harvey Cogan. He was that boy in Fort William in 1950 and so, when he opened his email this year and there was a letter from an Elyse Schatz, who claimed to be a relative of the family (Rosen) that came to Fort William for his Bar Mitzvah, Harvey was overwhelmed with emotion, tearing up to hear of letters from his grandmother whom he never met and who was murdered by Nazi stormtroopers in the shtetl. Elyse explained in a long email that her mother, Joyce Sommerfeld, had in her home a box of letters she had kept (after multiple moves ), and this box had never been opened.
In 2021, mother and daughter decided to check out these letters and, lo and behold, there were letters of over 80 years ago with photographs. All the letters were written in Yiddish. As well, there was a photo of the Bar Mitzvah boy Harvey Cogan. Mother and daughter then decided to have the 24 letters translated into English. A name that kept repeating was Cogan. As it turned out, the letters were written by Harvey’s grandmother to her two unmarried nieces in New York and the letters detailed some of the extreme hardship the family was suffering before and during the war in Russia. The box of letters arrived recently at Harvey’s home, a treasure to be sure.
It was only a bit of luck that caused Joyce to have these letters, as they had in fact been sent not to her, not to her parents but to these two unmarried aunts of Joyce in New York, both nieces of the woman who sent them, Harvey’s Baba, Raizel Cogan. When the two nieces died, a cousin, Joyce Sommerfeld, the mother of Elyse, came into custody of them, but left them in the box. It could well have ended there but for the decision to look at these 24 letters and have them translated. The letters were filled with the name Cogan. Still even with all of that, the ultimate reunification in large part took place due to the fact that Michael Schatz, Elyse’s husband, is a genealogist, so he became involved in the project right away. Even with that bit of luck, the eventual reunion needed two more things.
First, Joyce and Elyse were excellent internet sleuths. After all, the last anyone from that branch of the family who had come from New York to Harvey’s Bar Mitzvah knew, was that the Cogans were in Fort William, Ontario. How they traced Harvey to Winnipeg was no small feat. They found the thank you note that Harvey’s brother, the late Lou Cogan, had written to the family thanking them for their hospitality during his visit there in 1958. He also mentioned he was planning a possible move to Winnipeg that year and so, among the places they investigated on the internet for Louis Cogan was Winnipeg. Then, the second key part of the story came into play. Their search immediately revealed the Jewish Foundation of Manitoba’s Book of Life site where Lou and his wife Marsha had told their life stories. Upon reading Lou’s story, The New York family, some of whom had now settled in Philadelphia, realized that this was indeed mishpochah. They contacted the Foundation and the Cogan connection was cemented.
In 2021 this reunification went to a higher level when Harvey’s and Nessie’s son Allan and his wife Shawna were in New York and they met with the Sommerfeld-Rosen clan. It was as if Harvey’s Baba and indeed his Zaida were once more with the descendants of siblings. As well, Harvey and Nessie now have regular Facetime visits with their new (old ) relatives each Sunday. They have restored what was long lost. Let’s give a big shout out to the Jewish Foundation of Manitoba, which helped to make the Cogan family whole.
Of course, perhaps the most moving aspect of the story is the collection of lettersitself. Following is a part of one of the letters translated from Yiddish to English, and which was sent in March 1932 by Raizel Cogan to her niece Rachel. The name” Alter” she refers to in her letter is her son, David Cogan, Harvey Cogan’s father:
POSTCARD 1- SENT TO ZIPMAN 1932
1st March
Dear niece Rachel,
I have come from my parents and received a letter and a receipt for 10 dollars so I am thanking you and may God help you my dear child that you shall come to a good refuge and I will be waiting till I’m once more with you together. You should not trouble yourself my dear If you can’t send. You’re very beautiful a and you do a lot with a minimum as if you were not my niece but my own daughter. My heart is aflame for you not less than for my only son Alter. My dear child you should not deprive yourself of meat to send us. I can manage alright, Do not ruin yourself
Writing will not come (?) for us to Yaryshev, I don’t know If I want to be in Yaryshev, I gather that afterwards I will travel to my oldest. I want to be there. I will write you her address and my new one as I was dispossessed from my home. It’s a “good” life. People have to be broken and separated, it cannot go as one would have thought, I am such a wretch, my luck is very sombre, as I don’t know if it could become lighter one day, I want to tell you about Devora. You can send her at her address it could be that it will somewhat disrupt (?) her learning so she will already write you.
Your aunt
P.S. This is Devora’s address, forward to everyone our greetings
Demyna St. #4 Vinnitsya, Ukraine. In some sort of Technical school
Sadly, things got much worse. Yet the letters remain and have real and deep meaning to Harvey. What a treasure to read these letters from someone he never knew or met but was his very own grandmother. Yet this woman Raizel Cogan, through her letters, gave her grandson, Harvey, a family that had disappeared. He and Nessie state loud and clear that they are truly indebted to Michael and Elyse Schatz for their dedication to make a family reconnection occur. They are grateful to Joyce Sommerfeld who kept these letters for many years. And of course, they are so appreciative of the Jewish Foundation and the role that this organization played in the happy event. Serendipity.
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.