Features
Not without honour…..except here
By SIMONE COHEN SCOTT Several Wednesday nights ago, June 22nd to be exact, I attended a launching here in Winnipeg, at the Whodunit Bookstore to be exact, of Celia Rabinovitch’s book, “Duchamp’s Pipe; a Chess Romance.” Actually, the book has been launched in a few places, mostly via zoom. Readers of this paper may even remember that I reviewed her book a while back.
(Ed. note: It was actually December 2020, Simone – and your review is on our website at http://jewishpostandnews.ca/8-features/640-new-book-by-noted-art-expert-celia-rabinovitch-explores-many-themes.)
Anyway, the event back in June was delightful. The evening was basically a conversation between Dr. Michael Bumsted, proprietor of the store, and Celia Rabinovitch, internationally celebrated, locally barely known, artist, writer, and cultural historian. They were well-matched, the extremely erudite Dr. Bumsted, educated in Scotland, and Celia, Director of University of Manitoba’s Fine Arts Department, 2002-2008; scholar-in-residence at universities in North America, Europe, and Israel; her paintings appearing in art centres throughout Canada and the United States albeit seldom here. His questions about the book were incisive and penetrating, her answers thoughtful, informative, interesting, and amusing. She is a wonderful raconteur and his method encouraged her to tell of the many adventures that went into the researching and writing the book. It was apparent he had read the book carefully and had had fun doing so.
Of course they talked about pipes, but also about bohemian life in various cities throughout two continents during the war-dominated decades of the early 20th century, travelling via tramp steamer, partying with the privileged, barely eking out a living. Histories at several levels are revealed through the medium of chess tournaments, against the backdrop of a not so unlikely friendship, that of George Koltanowski, a passionate chess playing phenomenon who practically breathed the game, (Good heavens, he could play several opponents at once, blindfolded, and win!), and Marcel Duchamps, the sophisticated chess aficionado, who had already made his name initiating a startling genre into the world of art with his ‘Nude Descending a Staircase’. The central character is the pipe; it provides the theme connecting the two men who, in fact, spend just scraps of time with each other over the decades-long era their stories cover. Both Bumsted and Rabinovitch are well versed in many aspects of early 20th century histories in several locales. The audience, seated on metal folding chairs in the centre of the store, half-emptied platters of goodies behind them, had their horizons broadened. There was a flurry to buy the book after this presentation.
My own friendship with Celia began through a mutual friend, actress Terri Cherniak. Celia was to spend a couple of weeks as scholar-in-residence at the Israel Museum, lecturing on Dada art, and Terri knew I had an apartment nearby. She put us in touch. We were roommates for two weeks, we hit it off, and a friendship grew. Celia is, to me, a citizen of the world. She has an aura about her that makes one feel something special is going on. She is aware, always, of the spiritual connection between people, their settings, the objects they love, and she perpetuates the idea that the love passes along with the object. This informs her paintings, and this is the story of the pipe. The thread of love connection permeated every aspect of its journey as the gift from Marcel to George and beyond, (George re-gifted it), until finally, because it was Duchamp’s pipe, it was auctioned off for tens of thousands of dollars. Perhaps the pipe is laughing now.
A second perspective of the thread of love, binding the souls of the two men, is the game of chess, which accounts for the rest of the book’s title, ‘a Chess Romance’. One feels as one reads the book that little wisps of je ne sais quoi are whirling about in the atmosphere, twirling themselves around your mind, giving it ideas. Of course, anyone familiar with Celia’s previous book, entitled “Surrealism and the Sacred: Power, Eros, and the Occult in Modern Art”.wouldn’t be surprised by this mystic quality. One senses it in her art as well. An unidentified quote sums it up thus: “Her luminous paintings evoke mood, atmosphere, and ambiguity, leading to a sense of the uncanny.”
The Whodunit Bookstore has a story too. It was founded as an activity for Michael. Bumsted’s father when he retired. As a mystery buff’s oasis, it thrived. My own introduction to “Whodunit” happened when I began to winter in Israel; I asked the elder Mr. Bumsted to find me mysteries set there. The several he found for me added greatly to my grasp of the neighbourhoodsof the country. Mr. Bumsted was an historian and customers flocked to his evenings of readings and discussions, to hear his stories and to buy his recommendations. Soon Mrs. Bumsted, also an historian, was needed to help in the business.
That is when the merchandise begins to reach beyond thrillers. As Mrs. Bumsted would include books for her grandchildren in some of her orders, one day when a few were inadvertently left out on the counter, they were noticed and ultimately sold. It made sense; since people who like books have children and grandchildren – make it convenient for them. So children’s books were stocked, and then one thing led to another. When the space next door became vacant, Whodunit expanded to twice the size.
By this time, son (and recent PhD) Dr. Michael Bumsted had returned from Scotland. A career in a book store was not, I suppose, his intention, but hey! It turned out to be a good fit. As the range of books filled the shelves, his eclectic interests were being met. As I’ve already mentioned, I was impressed with erudite remarks and penetrating questions with which he drew out Celia’s fascinating anecdotes, and the ensuing discussion. If the evening sessions discussing books that he facilitates at Whodunit are as engrossing as the one I attended, you’ll see me at more.
A week and a half prior to this event, Celia spoke at the Manitoba Museum about the exhibit she curated there, of photographs taken by Nick Yudell, a first cousin of Celia’s once removed. Left in the possession of a family member, they were really a gift to Canada prepared for us by this young photographer – fated to die in WWII as an RAF pilot. Whereas a less sensitive person might have left them in their carefully labelled boxes, seeing how much love went into the taking of these photos, as one artist to another, Celia undertook to prepare them for display, to be shared with the world. At a point when we were together in one of the rooms of the display, Celia confided to me that she had wanted to convey the fact that although Nick’s photos feature his own community, which was Jewish, the story he is telling is about the every-man in Canada during the wartime period, that is, a story of patriotic men of courage and of strength. We who were children then, remember them. She surely succeeded; staff and patrons got it. The exhibit, originally meant to end August 1st, has been held over to December 18th.
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.