Features
New thriller by Israeli-Canadian Herschy Katz combines love of hockey with intrigue behind the Iron Curtain in 1972
By BERNIE BELLAN In 2019 I wrote a review of a book titled “The Clarinetist”. It had been sent to me by an expatriate Canadian who had moved to Israel in 1984 by the name of Herschel Katz.
As I noted in that review, the book was quite good for a first-time author. In it we were introduced to a young Montreal high school student by the name of Danny Kahn who ends up enmeshed in an intriguing situation having to do with the Montreal father of his girlfriend.
The father, it turns out, is tied in with some very shady characters and, one thing leading to another, Danny becomes involved in some hair-raising adventures that take him from Montreal to New York, and then Israel.
Katz had become a writer, he noted on the book jacket, because “Several years ago, the author worked as a part time book reviewer, then decided to try writing his own story.”
Now, two years later, Katz has come up with another mystery novel, again featuring Daniel Khan (who, I guess, has graduated from being called “Danny”). By this time Daniel has progressed to becoming a 22-year old medical student at McGill, also a writer for the McGill student newspaper. The book is titled “The Ninth Terrorist” and, after reading it, I sent Katz a note saying he had the makings of another Daniel Silva, who is one of the world’s most popular mystery writers and who has also created a recurrent hero by the name of Gabriel Allon.
As good as “The Clarinetist” was for a first-time effort, “The Ninth Terrorist” shows terrific improvement on Katz’s part in terms of plot structuring and dialogue. The book actually blends three different plots into one overarching story, which has to do with nefarious activities involving East Bloc bad guys in the 1970s – when the Soviet Union was still very much a Communist dictatorship and closely aligned with Palestinian terrorist organizations .
The story begins with the legendary “Summit Series” between Canada and the USSR in 1972, in which a team composed of Canada’s best professional hockey players from the NHL faced off against the powerful Soviet team in an eight-game series.
I had forgotten though, that at the same time as that series was being played, the Munich Olympics were also being staged and, anyone who was around then will no doubt recall how horrified we all were at the tragic murder of 11 Israeli athletes by members of the terrorist group known as “Black September”.
Into that backdrop of high drama Katz inserts Daniel Khan, who continues to display the ability as a clever agent that he first demonstrated in “The Clarinetist”. This time, however, Daniel is enmeshed in a series of events in which he has to play multiple roles, all the time fully aware that one slip-up could lead to his arrest and imprisonment in the Soviet Union.
Katz is clearly a great hockey fan and his depictions of the action during games are quite vivid. You don’t have to be a sports fan at all in order to enjoy the book though, as hockey merely serves as the excuse for Daniel to be able to go to the Soviet Union as a reporter. Still, setting so much of the action in venues that would resonate with Canadian sports fans makes “The Ninth Terrorist” all the more appealing.
I would note, too, that in my review of “The Clarinetist” I was somewhat critical of the dialogue in that book, writing that Katz could have used help in creating some more authentic sounding conversations between characters. This time around, the dialogue is much improved and sparkles with often very clever exchanges.
Turning Khan into a reporter is an especially credible device, as reporters have often served as agents for various intelligence services. The fact that Khan is a Canadian Jewish reporter who can easily substantiate his wanting to go to the Soviet Union (and who also speaks German, it turns out) certainly adds plausibility to his becoming an agent for not just one intelligence agency, but several, all of which are aware just how useful he can be to them.
One aspect of “The Ninth Terrorist”, however, that seems drawn straight out of the 1960s “Mission Impossible” television series (and later, the movies as well), is the use of facial disguises. Having a number of different characters put on masks that are so lifelike they can get you through any number of checkpoints is something that still remains a largely fictitious plot device – even at a time when 3D print technology has certainly made it more feasible.
Still, the ruse that Daniel Khan must employ in going back to the Soviet Union a second time – four months after the first Canada-Soviet series, certainly adds to the complexity – and intrigue of what is already a terrific spy novel. In fact, not only must he adopt a disguise at various times, he has to help others disguise themselves. At times it all becomes a little dizzying trying to remember just who it is that not only Daniel is pretending to be, but others as well.
Into this already fairly complicated plot Katz inserts a quite clever subplot having to do with someone who purportedly assisted the members of Black September when they went about kidnapping the 11 Israeli athletes in 1972. The individual, who is the “ninth terrorist” referred to in the title, turns out to be an extremely dangerous agent and Katz certainly makes this character come alive.
With action aplenty and very creative plotting, “The Ninth Terrorist” is an excellent thriller. When one considers that both “The Clarinetist” and “The Ninth Terrorist” have been self-published by Herschy Katz, one wonders how long it will be before he’s approached by a major publisher with a juicy offer to continue producing more in what could become a Daniel Khan series.
I asked Herschy how one could buy “The Ninth Terrorist”. (He had sent it to me as a pdf.) He replied that “My book is available directly from Pomeranz Booksellers in Jerusalem. www.Pomeranzbooks.com. My previous book, “The Clarinetist”, is also available through them.”
Both “The Clarinetist” and “The Ninth Terrorist” are now available on Amazon – Kindle for $9.99 CDN.
Then Herschy sent me another quite interesting tidbit of information after I told him that I was going to print an accompanying article, also about someone who entered into some subterfuge in the Soviet Union (in his case, smuggling tallisim and sidurim), during a hockey tournament. (See my story about Sherry Bassin on the opposite page.)
After I wrote Herschy about Sherry Bassin’s escapade, he sent me this note:
Dear Bernie,
A personal note about me you may want to add to your book review. My late father, Boris Katz, z”l, escaped Stalin in 1924 and came to Montreal as a young man. He and his nephew founded a business making men’s clothes, which became quite successful. During the 1950s, 60s and 70s, he would send packages of clothes to his family back in the USSR. Knowing how the Russian customs inspectors would steal the contents, he would pack extra jeans and put some American dollars inside the box, which, of course, were stolen. However, inside the cuffs and collars of the clothes that weren’t stolen, he sewed large amounts of cash, which his family ended up getting.
This tidbit I incorporated into my story, “The Ninth Terrorist”.
Herschy
I enjoy helping to publicize Jewish writers (in particular, writers from Israel) whose works might not otherwise receive much publicity because they’re self-published. In Herschy Katz’s case, providing a boost to a former Canadian who made aliyah 37 years ago, but who’s also remained a huge hockey fan, should be ample reason for some readers to want to proceed to buy “The Ninth Terrorist”. Herschy even sets some of the action in Winnipeg – in case you needed any more cajoling!
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.