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Meeting Michael Averbach- and reminiscing about Bredin Drive

overhead view of Bredin Drive

By GERRY POSNER There I was sitting in a restaurant, my first time in one in over a year. It was inside or face the wasps outside. And since there was no one else inside, my good friend and former Winnipegger Dan Finkleman and I sat down at What a Bagel for our once a month lunch.

It is at these lunches where we both retreat to the glory years of the past and reflect on how sad it is that our grandkids will never know the kind of joy that came from growing up in the 50s and 60s in Winnipeg. We had just settled in when I spotted a guy who looked familiar to me. I immediately eliminated that thought as I could not imagine his being in Toronto, let alone this restaurant. Yet, he noticed me and fortunately (my mask was now off) he recognized me and he came over to the table. Finkleman remembered him vaguely ( there is a four-year age gap) and of course, his family. For the next 30 minutes, our visitor, Michael Averbach, chatted with us on all things Winnipeg. Now understand, he stood throughout the entire time, no doubt being careful not to get too close to us. I can imagine what our waitress was thinking as she, well – had to wait. 

Now, that was a great visit. We covered a whole lot of ground in that conversation, ranging from where the clubhouse at Glendale was located to other matters relating to girls Dan knew or wanted to know, some of whom were related to Averbach and, in fact, ranging to why Averbach was in Toronto in the first place. You get the picture.  I wondered who enjoyed this encounter the most, Finkleman, Averbach or me. Suffice to say that seeing Michael made me wonder about several things. The whole meeting with him was really a chance connection since, not only did Dan and I have to be at the same place at the same time as Michael, but we chose on this day to eat inside, as is our usual custom.  Had we eaten outside, the likelihood of his seeing us would have been extremely low, because we would have been on the side of the restaurant and not visible to him. 

Of course, one topic for discussion was the fact that Averbach was part of the Jewish Bredin Drive families in East Kildonan, There were, in fact more than a few families, but the names of Biillinkoff, Swartz, Freed, Bellan, Glesby, Snaper, Wolchock and Gobuty jump out at me. As well, we discussed Michael’s career, about which Dan was not fully up to date. 
Averbach is a retired Chartered Accountant, something he did for over 45 years. Moreover, he is, I told Dan, a top golfer and one who must surely rank as one of the best Jewish golfers of all time in Manitoba (although I admit there is no such award for this category and neither do I know what the qualifications are to be included in the ranking. Just call it the Gerry Posner off the top of his head decision desk for Manitoba Jewish golfing greats.) What is a fact is that he is one of two people who served both on the board of Glendale and who also became President of the Manitoba Golf Association (the other being Manny Bricker). It was during this discussion on golf that we argued about the location of the original clubhouse at Glendale.  However, if you think our conversation had little depth to it, you would be wrong, as we did canvass the federal election results and that subject gave way to some very definite opinions. 

As Finkleman, Averbach and I concluded our time together, one certainty emerged from our long chat. We all agreed without hesitation that we were privileged to have grown up when and where we did. We had it easier than our children and far easier than it is for our grandkids, irrespective of being in Winnipeg or Toronto or Calgary. We lamented the path ahead for our grandkids today. (Among the three of us, we have 13). We also reached a clear consensus that Winnipeg was the better place to live. And, on that subject, we agreed to continue the conversation when Averbach is next in Toronto. 

Later, I wondered where the various descendants of the Bredin Drive group enclave have gone? In fact, what I asked to nobody in particular was the reason why the families that moved to Bredin Drive settled in East Kildonan in the first place, an unlikely place for Jewish families to move to unless it was a desire to be closer to Jerusalem (somehow I think that was not the motivation)? Maybe it was the attempt to populate the area at that time with Jewish families. Or maybe it was the attraction of being close to the Red River. It certainly was not a need to be close to a synagogue since there was none in East Kildonan. And lest I forget, Bredin Drive was not the only street with Jews living in East Kildonan. I recall Glenwood Crescent and Roosevelt Place could round up a minyan. By the way, that information about the names of people and their residences is available to anyone who looks up Henderson’s Directory ( and where has that gone) for the 1950s and the  personal information of each family and the address is set out in bold print. Alas, not possible today. What is possible is to go online and find this information without leaving your chair. Still, I took a shortcut and looked at an earlier article in this paper on the street wherein Shael Glesby (whose family lived on the street)  listed many of the homes occupied by Jewish families in the 1950s. Here is the list Shael provided: 
255 – Ratner (Max and Helen)
265 – Glesby (Bert & Silvia) original owners were Billinkoffs (Ben & Yetta)
275 – Billinkoff (Joe & Ann)
285 – Gobuty (James & Rae)
210 – Snaper (Mark & Ethel)
250 – Brownstein (Vicki)
260 – Wolchock (Bill & Rose)
300 – Freed (Max & Marion)
310 – Billinkoff (Ben & Yetta) after selling 265.
320 – Bellan (Sam & Marjorie)
There were three more Jewish families just north of 320, but I don’t know which houses were owned by which.
Swartz
Averbach
Jacobson
As I examined these names, I returned to my original question as to what ever happened to all of the descendants of the street, that is the kids from my time? I invite the readers to weigh in on the whereabouts of the Bredin Drive children (now, likely grandparents). There is a reunion waiting to happen. And to think all this was triggered by meeting Michael Averbach at a lunch in Toronto. 
Ed. note: If you’d like to read my original article about Bredin Drive, which Gerry references and which appeared in our Sept. 16, 2020 issue, you can find it elsewhere on this website at http://jewishpostandnews.ca/8-features/561-a-tale-of-two-streets-that-proved-to-be-very-attractive-for-jewish-families-in-years-gone-by. By the way, that story quotes from a 1949 story in The Jewish Post that explained how Bredin Drive came to be and how so many Jewish families ended up there.

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Features

I Speak “Jew”

Morrocan Jewish fish dish

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

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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.  

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Features

Winnipeg author’s first novel gripping tale of romance, action and intrigue, set in 15th century Spain and Morocco

“The Chronos of Andalucia” author Merom Toledano

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.        

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