Features
Ottawa police detective Akiva Geller and the case of the famed purloined Yousef Karsh photograph
By MYRON LOVE It had all the elements of a novel, heist movie or televison episode – a brazen art thief and forger, an iconic work of art, secret storage lockers, DNA and an international trail of crumbs to follow ..and Ottawa police service detective (also a former Winnipegger) Akiva Geller was right in the middle of the action.
The case revolved around the theft from the Fairmont Chateau Laurier Hotel of an iconic photograph of Winston Churchill, taken in 1941, \by the world famous photographer Yousef Karsh. Karsh and his wife, Estrellita, lived at the classy hotel for 18 years. Toward the end of his life, the photographer donated that print – “The Roaring Lion” – along with several others to the hotel. The print, valued at $20,000, was hung in the hotel’s reading room. It was reported stolen – and replaced with a forgery – in the summer of 2022.
Geller joined the Ottawa police force in 2012 following a 14-year career in the Canadian military.
He recalls that he initially considered becoming a pharmacist. He was inspired to change his plans by the yeoman work of the Canadian soldiers who helped stem the tide during the great flood here in 1997.
“That kind of community service resonated with me,’ he says. “I appreciated the hands-on aspect of it all.”
He enlisted the next year.
While serving in the military largely in a series of administrative and teaching capacities, Geller began taking classes at Algonquin College in security management that led to his taking a criminology program – and degree – at Carleton University.
He left the military in 2012 to join the Ottawa police force. He began his policing career as a patrol officer. He was promoted to the investigative branch in 2020.
Now, unlike what we may see on television, being a police detective is not a case of investigating the murder of the week. Geller notes that much of his time is spent looking into suspicious deaths – including overdoses. A high profile case such as the Karsh photo heist comes along once in a lifetime for most police detectives.
This articular story begins, according to Geller, somewhere between late December 2021, and mid-January 2023, when an individual who has since been identified as Jeffrey Wood,walked into the hotel, removed the framed portrait print from the wall, and replaced it with a copy on which Wood had forged Karsh’s signature. At the time, the hotel was largely shut down due to the Covid lockdowns; thus few people were around.
The switch wasn’t discovered, Geller reports, until the following August, when hotel engineer Bruno Lair noticed that the framed print was a little off kilter. When he went to straighten it, he saw that the portrait was hung by a wire – with holes in the wall where screws had held the portrait in place.
“Wood was identified as the seller after we obtained the response to a ‘Mutual Legal Assistance Request’ sent o the United Kingdom,” Geller recalls. “In the response, Sotheby’s London gave us his information, including scanned copies of his passport and IDs.”
The Hotel GM and staff contacted the Yousuf Karsh estate and spoke to the director, Jerry Fielder, who, it was assumed, could verify whether the fraudulent portrait signature was forged, Geller continues. He was sent a picture of the signature and fake portrait, confirmed it was forged and that the portrait was a fake. The hotel reported the theft of the authentic Roaring Lion to Ottawa Police, at which time
Geller began his investigation. Geller goes on to say: “In searching for the authentic portrait I sourced two photos of the authentic portrait on the wall before it was stolen, one from Trip Advisor and the other from Twitter. Both had the portrait signature clearly visible so I could compare them to other signatures I found.
“I came across the Sotheby’s London Auction from May 2022 in which a portrait with a very similar size and signature was sold,” Geller says. “I compared the signature to the ones I sourced from online and determined they were the same. I asked Library and Archives Canada to assist in examining the fake print and also in comparing the signatures. While signature analysis is not in their expertise, they were able to advise that it was highly probable that they were the same. With this I was able to complete a Mutual Legal Assistance Request to the United Kingdom for assistance in obtaining the details of the Sotheby’s Auction. London Metropolitan Police assisted in obtaining the information on the auction and sent it back to me here in Canada. This took almost a year to obtain because of the levels of approvals, editing and paperwork involved.”
Sotheby’s London’s documents identified the seller of the Roaring Lion portrait as well as details about him, communications they had with him and photographs of the portrait before it was obtained by Sotheby’s. Wood was identified as the seller.
“I wrote numerous production orders to all of Wood’s known bank accounts, phone numbers, and credit cards,” Geller recalls. “Once I received the return from his phone company I had to go line by line through his phone bills. There I found a phone call to a storage unit here in Ottawa.”
I wrote a search warrant for the storage locker and a production order for the information on the locker and owner. I executed the search warrant and, in the locker, we found a second fake Churchill print,” he reports. “We also found a toothbrush which we believed would have Wood’s DNA on it. We sent the toothbrush directly to the Centre for Forensic Sciences in Ontario. They compared the DNA from the toothbrush to DNA obtained from inside the fake portrait which was put up in the real one’s place.”
The next piece of the puzzle was to reclaim the portrait to return it to the Chateau Laurier. The drawback here that the buyer of the portrait was an Italian lawyer – one Nicola Castinelli. In Italy, Geller notes, if you buy stolen items in good faith – in other words, if you didn’t know the item was stolen – you have a legal claim to the property, which would mean that you would have to be taken to court to have you relinquish it.
Geller reports that the Italian carabinieri in Rome sent officers to visit the buyer in Genoa and persuaded him to return the portrait in return for what he paid.
Wood was arrested last April. At his hearing on March 14, he pleaded guilty.
Geller reports that, although the maximum sentence is 14 years in prison, the prosecution is requesting of the court a two year sentence while his lawyer is asking for a suspended sentence.
As for the portrait, it was reframed and remounted at the chateau Laurier in the former reading room, which has been converted into a lounge. He adds that the hotel now has a lot more security in place.
“It was a nice reinstallation ceremony,” Geller says.
Mrs. Karsh (who is in her 90s) even wrote a letter to the hotel expressing her appreciation about the portrait being “back home”, he adds.
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.