Features
In the case of “The Ninth Terrorist”, how closely does art imitate life?
By BERNIE BELLAN A while back I was sent a link by reader Morley Bernstein to a very interesting story that happened to be on the CBC website. The story was about longtime hockey guru Sherry Bassin, who has spent a good part of his life managing hockey teams at various levels.
This particular story had to do with an episode in Bassin’s life that happened in 1983, when he was the assistant coach and general manager of Canada’s national junior team.
When I read the story my first thought was to try to obtain reprint rights from the CBC itself. But, to my chagrin, the CBC wanted way more than I was prepared to pay to reprint that story, so I decided not to do pursue that avenue.
Then, I began reading “The Ninth Terrorist”. If you read my accompanying review on the opposite page you’ll see that a good part of that book also has to do with a hockey tournament in Russia and, as was the case with Sherry Bassin, about a Canadian Jew wanting to help Russian Jews through subterfuge.
Here, in a nutshell, is what Sherry Bassin did back in 1983. What follows is based upon that original CBC story, written by someone by the name of Gary Waleik. My story also includes references to a phone conversation I had with Sherry, with whom I was able to get in touch from his Oshawa home.
What transpired in 1983 was Canada’s national junior team’s going to Leningrad to play in the World Junior Championship that year. About a month before the tournament was to begin, Sherry told me, he had the idea that he could do something useful for the Jewish community of Leningrad.
He decided to purchase a great many tallisim (prayer shawls) and sidurim (prayer books), all at his own expense, and smuggle them into Russia.
I asked Sherry what motivated him to do that – especially considering that he was taking a great risk that, if discovered, he could be arrested?
He said to me that his father had come to Canada from Ukraine. When his father was only seven, Sherry told me, he was sitting on a watertower with some friends in his hometown one day, when a pogrom broke out. To his father’s horror, he watched as Ukrainians and Jews fought a bloody battle, leaving many Jews dead. Seeing that left an indelible mark on Bassin senior – but it was also something that carried over into Sherry’s identity as a Jew.
Although hockey was his passion as a youth, Sherry realized that he would never make it to the pros, so he decided to seek an education instead. According to Gary Waleik’s story, “Bassin earned a Juris Doctorate, a Masters in hospital administration and a Ph.D in pharmacy. He spent decades as a college professor, pharmacist, junior hockey coach and team general manager. He also worked as a television color commentator and served as assistant general manager of the NHL’s Quebec Nordiques.”
Then, as already noted, in 1983, Bassin took upon himself the mitzvah of transporting sidurim and tallisim to what was then still the Soviet Union.
He hid the religious articles among the hockey bags of the players on the team – with their consent. But, as Waelik describes in his article, “In December 1982, with the beginning of the tournament just days away, the Canadian team boarded a train in Helsinki bound for Leningrad. When it reached the Russian border Bassin recalls, ‘The soldiers came on the train. One was a commissioned officer, and two of his assistants. And they’re holding rifles. One guy’s pointing it at me.’ ”
The soldiers confiscated the bags, much to Bassin’s chagrin. He knew he would have to get to them before any Soviet official did, so Bassin had to act quickly. According to Waelik’s article, Bassin was asked to produce a lineup of the Canadian team for one of the tournament organizers. Thinking quickly, Bassin said the lineup was in one of the bags that was confiscated.
However, during my phone conversation with Bassin, he had a slightly different version of what happened. He told me that he was able to get in touch with the deputy mayor of Leningrad and, at 2:30 in the morning, arrangements were made to get the hockey bags back to the team’s hotel. No one had opened them.
So, the next morning, Bassin, along with a box full of tallisim and sidurim, took a cab to the Leningrad synagogue. (There was only one synagogue, Bassin explained).
“The cab driver told me there was no way he was going to drive all the way to the synagogue (no doubt thinking the KGB had it under surveillance), so he dropped me off a block from the synagogue.”
He shlepped that heavy box to the front door of the synagogue and went inside. The 40 or so men who were there suspected he was a KGB agent, until he reassured them he wasn’t.
At that point the men began “rejoicing like you wouldn’t believe,” Bassin said. “They were dancing and singing, hugging me, and they wanted to give me an aliyah.”
The rest of Waelik’s story deals with the hockey tournament (in which Canada finished third, despite having such future stars of the NHL on the team as Mario Lemieux, Steve Yzerman, and Dave Andreychuk).
But, in my conversation with Bassin, he recalled one more colourful anecdote. The KGB kept a constant watch on Bassin and the rest of the team, he told me. One day he wanted to take a cab from the team’s hotel and, although there were loads of cabs outside, none of them would give him a ride.
The reason, he explained, was that there was a big car parked nearby, in which a KGB agent was sitting – and who was not trying to hide his presence. When the KGB agent saw that none of the cab drivers would pick Bassin up, he himself drove over to Bassin and asked him where he was going? Bassin told him.
“Hop in,” he said to Bassin. “I’ll give you a ride.”
During the course of the ride, Bassin asked the agent where he had learned to speak English.
“I went to university in Washington,” he answered. The agent went on to explain that different agents would get sent to different countries to further their educations and learn the languages of those countries.
While Bassin could certainly have taken pride in revealing what he had done to help Soviet Jews back in 1983, he kept what happened to himself for years afterward (although his wife had been aware of his plan, he told me, and had offered her full support. He also only told his father what he had done after he returned from Russia.)
“I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble,” he said to me – in case Russian authorities would have heard about his escapade and exacted some form of punishment upon the Jews of Leningrad who had met Bassin.
While “The Ninth Terrorist” tells a different story, the parallels between fiction and reality in that hockey tournaments in Russia provided perfect cover for subterfuge in both the book and, in Sherry Bassin’s case – in reality, that ended up helping Jews in that country, and which certainly makes for interesting reading.
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.