Features
New book tells riveting tale of World War II experience for Jewish family living in British Mandate Palestine – but oh my gosh, I’ve never read more mistakes in a book
“The Long Way Home from Crete”
By Isaac Kal
Self-published, 2021
Available on Amazon
Reviewed by BERNIE BELLAN
I don’t think I’ve ever had quite the experience reading a book that I had reading one that was recently sent to me by the author of “The Long Way Home from Crete”.
The story, in itself, is terrific – but the mistakes – oh god, I’ve never read anything that has mistakes in just about every paragraph, from grammatical mistakes, to omitted words, to usage of the wrong word entirely – and, to top it off, an absolutely egregious error when it comes to writing about what was known as British Mandate Palestine, but which the author insists on referring to as “Israel”. It wasn’t Israel yet – not until 1948!
Despite all that, I told the author that I was going to give his book a good review in our paper (also on our website). Why? Because the story he tells is so engrossing that I actually found myself riveted to the book. However, that being said, I’m not so sure that the typical reader would be able to forego wanting to grab the author by the neck and say to him: Why didn’t you have someone edit the book before you published it?
To illustrate, here’s just the third paragraph in the opening chapter: “As the ship pulled up its anchor, the tossing waves beneath me, made me feel though the world I once knew, was losing its stability.”
Okay, how many mistakes can you find in that one sentence? For one, why does he separate the sentence with three commas? For another, that phrase “made me feel though the world I once knew” has a word that is totally misplaced. Take out the “though” Isaac, and lose two of those commas! And – talk about awkward syntax!
Finally, as I’ve already noted, the ship wasn’t headed to Israel, it was headed to Palestine.
Now, if you’ve made it this far in my review, you might be wondering how someone who’s as interested in proper grammar, vocabulary and attention to historical accuracy as I like to think I am, could have persevered in reading a book that was almost comically poorly written.
The reason is that the story of the protagonist, an individual by the name of Abraham, which is told in the first person, along with the parallel story of Abraham’s wife, Genia, which is told in the third person, offers an intriguing glimpse into what life might have been like for Jews who had come to Palestine in the late 1930s, after fleeing Nazi persecution in Germany.
Abraham’s story in itself is especially absorbing. Born into a poor Jewish family in Poland, he makes his way to Konisberg in Germany, where he is taken in by the family of a well-to-do uncle. In time, Abraham discovers that he has a talent for business and, along with a cousin of his, opens up a successful sauerkraut business.
At the same time, Abraham, who is somewhat of a playboy, it seems, ends up meeting the love of his life, a beautiful but very observant young Jewish woman by the name of Genia. After promising her that he will modify his lifestyle to the point where it will be acceptable for her to marry someone who is clearly not the type of person to whom she would have previously been willing to marry, they eventually settle into a very happy life in Konisberg, and have one child, a boy named Aaron.
The story does go back and forth in time at the start, moving from 1938 “Israel” to 1930s Poland and Germany. I suppose the author was attempting to emulate other writers who decided they didn’t want to tell their stories in chronological form, and although it can be a bit confusing, using that particular device can help to hook the reader who might want to find out how a character ended up where they are.
But, given the era in which the book is set, it comes as no surprise that Abraham and Genia decide they must leave Germany. I have my qualms though with how easy it is for them to get into “Israel” in 1938: no British blockade – and no difficulty in entering the country. That simply doesn’t jive with the reality of the time, in which the British had imposed severe quotas on the number of Jews allowed into Palestine. Still, for the sake of the author being allowed some latitude in telling his story, I’ll allow him some discretion in handling the historical accuracy of that particular aspect of his story.
It’s when Abraham and Genia do settle into their new home in Herzlia though that the story really picks up. Abraham cannot find suitable employment and, even though he had been quite wealthy in Germany, when he tries to import funds from that country, they’re frozen, and the couple finds themselves quite desperate just to feed themselves.
One day, however, Abraham happens to chance upon an advertisement in a paper seeking men to enlist as support workers for the British army. It’s at that point that the story starts to move at a much faster pace. The author provides a detailed description of what life was like for Jewish men in Palestine who volunteered, not to serve in the British army itself, but rather as support workers. This was an aspect of history about which I had never read anything, so I contacted Isaac Kal while I was reading the book to ask him whether the story which, to that point, I had thought might have been a work of fiction, was actually true?
Isaac responded that the story was indeed true – it was his grandfather’s story. He also suggested that I take a look at his website for further information. That didn’t prove at all helpful, but what did help was going to the Amazon website and entering the name Isaac Kal. It was then that I discovered a fair bit more information about what led Kal to write this book – along with some further information about the unit in which his grandfather served.
Here’s what the website says: “In the midst of the Covid-19 closure, the author had plenty of time to go through the photos and documents of his family. He found his grandfather’s soldier certificate and the date of his enlistment. While browsing online, he came across a group of relatives of the Israeli POW from WW2. he discovered the name of the unit in which his grandfather served (Port Operation Unit 1039). Interestingly enough, his captain kept a war diary until his capture.
“Through the stories and the dates in the diary, he was able to trace the route that his grandfather took until his capture.”
As Abraham completes his training, which is to enable him to work in ports helping to unload cargo ships – eventually leading to his becoming a skilled crane operator, he is fairly quickly thrust into an ongoing series of dangerous situations, in which he and the other members of his unit are required to work under enemy fire.
The scenes move from battleground to battleground as German forces advance, first in Africa – in Tobruk (Libya), then in Greece, leading to British forces, along with the support units, such as Abraham’s, constantly retreating.
Again, if the author’s descriptions of events are true, then the vivid accounts of all the near misses that Abraham experiences, often when others nearby get killed, provide descriptions of battlegrounds, especially in the eastern Mediterranean, that are perhaps not as well known to many of us as battlegrounds in western Europe.
At the same time though that Abraham is experiencing the arduous life that anyone who is attached to a combat unit during a war would no doubt experience, his loving wife, Genia, it turns out, is not quite as virtuous as one might have thought. Left alone with her young son she turns to a younger man by the name of Jacob who works in a store and who offers to assist Genia, first by attending to some repairs needed at her home, then by offering her a job helping him in the store.
It doesn’t take long though for the reader to realize that Jacob has an ulterior motive, which is to bed Genia. I was somewhat surprised to read that she wasn’t all that reluctant to give into Jacob’s advances. The whole time I was thinking: “Isaac (Kal), is this your grandmother you’re writing about?”
Thus, while the book evolves into quite the exciting war story – as Abraham escapes from one near-death situation to another, eventually finding himself on Crete – surrounded by Germans, until he is finally captured and taken to a prisoner of war camp in Silesia (in Poland), Jacob has moved in with Genia, while Aaron has been sent to an orphanage in Jerusalem.
Abraham does survive – of course, otherwise the title of the book would not have been what it was, and is reunited with Genia.
But, the story suddenly ends with the couple back together and no clue as to whether Genia ever confesses her marital infidelity to Abraham. (To be fair, he was gone five years and had been reported as “Missing in Action”, but even when Genia learns that Abraham is indeed alive, she finds herself still drawn to Jacob and unable to resist his sexual advances.)
I note that, of the reviews on Amazon, a number ask whether there will be a sequel to “The Long Way Home from Crete”? I suppose that if what happens to Abraham and Genia following Abraham’s return to “Israel” was nearly as interesting as what preceded his return, then it might make for a very good sequel. But, for gosh shakes, Isaac Kal, get someone to proofread your writing!
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.