Features
Jack London’s memoir an entertaining, as well as an educational read
Reviewed by BERNIE BELLAN
When Jack London set out to write his memoir, he told a Zoom audience Wednesday, October 15, he went through 27 different drafts before arriving at the final version.
The result is an absorbing story, titled “Serendipity: My Path Through Life and Law”.
Why “Serendipity” you might ask? Because, as London explains at the very beginning of the book, he attributes a very major part of his considerable success in life to nothing more than sheer luck. Of course, one can easily dismiss that as deliberate self-effacement, but when you do read of some of the amazing twists and turns that his endlessly fascinating life has taken, it’s not hard to agree with his assessment that good luck was very much something that accompanied London at some very key points.
In the final chapter of the book London summarizes the reasons that he considers himself so darn lucky:
“I am seventy-seven but I still feel eighteen. I mean that! My mind has never got past that age. I feel like a kid with a sense of spunk and optimism about the future and the new opportunities it will bring. I know intellectually that’s ridiculous, but that knowledge for the most part doesn’t affect my life. I’m lucky that way and as I have said, luck is the key variable to survival and accomplishment in life.”
The book is partly a personal story of London’s life, including his formative years – of which working at his mother’s arcade at Winnipeg Beach played a pivotal role, and partly a discussion of the law.
It’s written in chronological form; London’s early years are described in a wry and open manner. He admits that a good part of his youth was what could be described as misspent – something, by the way, that he says he doesn’t for one moment regret. Again, London admits throughout the book that he very often managed to find success by being in the right place at the right time.
Whether it was as a student or later as a lawyer, including stints as a professor of law and dean of the University of Manitoba Faculty of Law though, London was constantly interested in exploring new fields. Again, lucky for him, his wife Belva was always willing to encourage him as he set out on one new course change after another, whether it was his going to Harvard for a year, working for the Federal Government as a tax lawyer in Ottawa, or taking a sabbatical year in France.
Readers of this paper will probably find most interesting London’s referencing other well-known lawyers from this community, especially Izzy Asper, Hymie Weinstein, and Harvey Pollock. While he worked with both Asper and Pollock professionally, his lifelong friendship with Weinstein, however, almost ended tragically when they were both passengers in a car when they were 18, along with a third fellow, and their car was involved in a head-on collision on the road to Minneapolis.
Amazingly, as London describes it, he was propelled 200 feet out of the car, but got up with only a scratch on his head. When you read that story and another similar story of yet one more almost fatal accident, you do begin to understand how fate always seemed to be on London’s side.
Not to give away all the juicy parts – but one more enthralling adventure took place in 1992 when Jack and Belva went to Rwanda to observe mountain gorillas in their natural habitat. They happened to be there though just as the horrific slaughter of Tutsis by the majority Hutu tribe began to transpire. Reading London’s account of what he and Belva went through for 36 hours, trapped in a bathroom as shells, bullets, also a Kaytusha rocket whizzed all around them is as terrifying an account of a near-death experience as you’re likely to find anywhere.
Anyone who has heard Jack London speak would know that he’s a master of the English language, able to tailor his remarks so that they’re understandable to just about anyone. Yet, when he refers to his voluminous output as a lawyer, including his many appearances before the Supreme Court of Canada, it’s easy to see that he is as skilled at legal argument as the very best lawyers.
And, while he does introduce many concepts in law through the course of the book, London always explains things in a clear and concise fashion. He has also advocated a consistent liberal philosophy throughout the course of his career, in particular when it comes to advancing the case for the right to die and a woman’s right to exercise control over her own body.
London’s Jewish identity is something that he has always proudly worn. Twice, in fact, he has been called upon to mediate two particularly thorny issues within Winnipeg’s Jewish community. The first was when the Talmud Torah and I. L. Peretz Folk School were both in financial difficulty and a merger was necessary in order to insure the future of at least one Jewish day school in the city.
Later, London’s skill as a mediator was brought into play when three synagogues: the Beth Israel, Bnay Abraham, and Rosh Pina, were brought together in a merger that bruised many egos. Ultimately though, London notes that the most difficult challenge faced by the newly formed congregation was how to assign seats for the high holidays!
In the latter part of his career London began to forge a new path entirely as he developed an expertise in Indigenous legal issues. His writing about the 30 years that he spent serving as counsel to various Native groups provides as clear an explanation as one can read why Native rights deserve to be upheld. At the same time London developed a close relationship with Phil Fontaine, former Chief of the Assembly of First Nations, about whom he writes with the utmost respect and affection.
London played an important role during the Meech Lake discussions, helping to fashion the essential arguments why that particular attempt to amend the Canadian constitution was so deeply flawed (for not recognizing the First Nations as having equal status to the English and French nations).
Ultimately though, London describes an encounter in Vancouver when he was barred from entering a meeting by four Native chiefs in a clear demonstration of anti-Semitism. The bitter effect of that demonstration of bigotry affected London deeply to the point that he no longer engages in working on Indigenous issues
(Ed. note: Following publication of this review in the Oct. 28 issue of the JP&N, Jack London sent me a note in which he wanted to correct what I had written. Here’s what Jack wrote:
‘Your suggestion that I no longer engage in working on Indigenous issues is misleading, I have not been active recently in resolving ‘political Issues’ for the major First Nations lobby groups, concentrating instead on commercial, charitable and litigious cases for First Nation individuals and Bands. I am still of the view that Reconciliation is the pressing social issue of our time.”)
Jack London has traveled down so many paths during his life, it’s hard to imagine that he’s still only 77 years old which, these days, would make him well qualified to run for President of the United States – if he were American. The fact that, as he remarks often during his memoir, he’s always come back to Winnipeg, is a testament to his love for this city and, if I can be so bold, a reflection also on the hold that our Jewish community has on so many individuals who could have made a far bigger name for themselves had they left Winnipeg.
Even if you’re not familiar with Jack London (and it’s hard to imagine too many of our readers being in that position), reading this book will take you back in time to the 1950s and through the ensuing decades. Lucky for us, Jack London hasn’t written his final chapter – and, unlike other notable lawyers who never bothered to write their memoirs (most notably, the late Harry Walsh, who always put off the idea of doing that), London has given us a book that will both charm and educate.
Serendipity: My Path Through Life and Law
By Jack London
Published by Heartland, Winnipeg, 2020
Available at McNally Robinson Booksellers or directly through the publisher
Email:hrtland@mts.net Tel: 204-284-089
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.