Features
Jack Kay: A long way from Redwood Avenue
By GERRY POSNER Jacob Moses Koslofsky has come a long distance in many ways. First of all, his parents, Zachary and Rae, had their name changed to Kay. Second, from the depths of the north end of Winnipeg, he ended up – after stops in Weyburn, Regina, and Montreal – in Toronto, where he has remained for over 40 years. And third, from a kid helping out in his father’s dry-cleaning business, he became a superstar in the generic pharmaceutical industry in Canada and abroad.
Jack grew up initially at 376 1/2 Redwood Avenue. Many readers may recall that some of the duplexes reflected the 1/2 as part of the address which, in the Kay family, was the upper part of the house. Jack walked to the Talmud Torah nearby and attended there until Grade 8. The family then moved up, both figuratively and literally, when they went north to Enniskillen Avenue. Jack had a year at the Talmud Torah on Matheson and a year of public school when the family moved to Regina. Jack was 16 when the big move west occurred as a result of an opportunity Jack’s father had in the laundry and dry cleaning business. The move to Regina also included Jack’s siblings, sister Charna and brother Iser. His older sister Bailah stayed in Winnipeg and later moved to Toronto.
Jack attended high school in Regina and later did a year at Regina College. Coming to Saskatchewan was in fact a return to where the family had started. Both Jack’s and Rae’s parents and grandparents, the Koslofskys and Levs (Rae’s surname), had roots in The Baron de Hirsch Colony. (Jack’s parents met there).
Jack’s family then moved a second time, this time to Weyburn. Jack worked with his father in the business there, also in a mental hospital located in the town… all of this by the age of 19. Jack sat out a year of school working as an attendant in the mental hospital and then enrolled in a three- year training program to become a psychiatric nurse. By 1961, Jack Kay was a Registered Psychiatric Nurse, having successfully passed the University of Saskatchewan exams.
After a couple years of work in that field, Jack was approached by a pharmaceutical company whose products were mainly in the psychiatric area, to become a sales representative for them. When he accepted their offer it meant a return to Winnipeg. Jack worked for six years, but soon he and a colleague and friend, Bill Lifchus, saw an opportunity. They started a company known as Sabra Pharmaceuticals. which really launched Jack into the area of pharmaceutical drugs
Four years later – in 1964, the business was sold to a company by the name of ICN Canada, located in Montreal. Payment came in the form of ICN shares plus a job with the company in Montreal. Once again, Jack picked up and moved with what were, by then, his wife and three children. He ended up working for ICN, which was a family business headed by Morris Goodman for seven years.
Life would have been comparatively easy for Jack had he stayed there, but Jack was approached by the Vice-President of Sales & Marketing of a new company called Apotex. headed by the late Barry Sherman, to see whether Jack might be a good fit for the business. Barry Sherman flew to Montreal to meet Jack Kay. Jack liked what he heard and, against the advice of Morris Goodman, accepted the offer to join Apotex in Toronto as Vice-President of Sales and Marketing. As they say, the rest is history.
Apotex in 1970 was a small operation, indeed far smaller than what Jack had left behind in Montreal with ICN. But Jack Kay was a very effective salesperson with what might be called impressive interpersonal skills. He and Barry Sherman built that business into the giant that it eventually became. Barry was the tech guy and possessed a gift in his ability to deal with patents, their validity and indeed, litigating about their validity. Yet with all of his strengths, Barry Sherman needed a guy like Jack Kay to make the sales. In fact, Jack could do what Barry could not. From a small company, Apotex grew to employ thousands, an accomplishment beyond Jack’s wildest dreams. When I asked someone in the pharmaceutical industry, a competitor in fact, who knew both Barry and Jack, his comment was that Barry never could have made Apotex the entity that it became without Jack Kay. In fact, Barry used to say about Jack Kay that Jack was the brother he never had. The two of them had their offices next to one another with a corridor separating them, so close that they used to yell at one another in Yiddish. Perhaps it was the “mamaloshen” that built Apotex, a business that has become dominant in the generic drug industry in Canada.
In 2017, as most readers likely recall, Barry and Honey Sherman were murdered in their home (in a case that remains unsolved.) Jack took over running the operation of the company, but one year later he was let go by one of the Sherman children. Jack is not exactly on the street though and, in fact, he is on the board of a couple other pharmaceutical start ups, including one with the legendary Aubrey Dan focused on the sale of drugs in the cannabis field designed to help with anxiety and depression.
His life is rather busy. In April 2017 Jack and Barry Sherman (eight months prior to his murder) were approached to assist with a project called “Neshama Hospice,” a palliative care residence with 10-12 beds and intended to be a place with Jewish values. They both agreed to donate a million dollars for the project and, with government support, the construction on that building is scheduled to start next year.
I asked Jack Kay if he thought that the murders of the Shermans would ever be solved and he said he doubted it. But, he did add this caveat.:Given the amount of money out there as a reward, it is possible that mouths might start to open.
The Jack Kay story is indeed a remarkable one given the modest beginnings to a star studded career and his role as an integral part of a large empire world renowned… all the way from Redwood Avenue. And Jack Kay has never forgotten from whence he came.
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.