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Rembering veterans who put their lives on the line during WWII
By MYRON LOVE With Remembrance Day just a couple of weeks away, it would seem to be appropriate to pause once again and remember the sacrifices that our parents, grandparents, uncles and aunt made in those dark days of World War II to fight the scourge of Nazism – historically the greatest modern threat to the existence of the Jewish People.
As historian Ellin Bessner noted in her book, “Double Threat – Canadian Jews, the Military and World War II”, “nearly 17,000 Jewish Canadians enlisted in every branch of the service and the merchant marine. They fought and died in many major battles of the war, including at Hong Kong, Dieppe, the Battle of Britain, the Battle of the Atlantic, North Africa, Ortona, D-Day, Falaise, the Scheldt, throughout Northwest Europe, and in the Pacific.
“Over 190 received military honours for bravery. Nearly 450 did not come home, ” writes Bessner in her book.
Among those Jewish Winnipeggers who were wartime heroes were Max Sucharov, Lloyd Friedman and Louis Greenburgh. Both Friedman and Greenburgh were originally from Saskatchewan, but made their homes in our community postwar.
Greenburgh had actually gone to England just before the war with the dream of becoming a pilot, He originally enlisted in the RAF as a ground crewman, earned his wings in September 1942, piloted 31 bombing missions and twice received the Distinguished Flying Cross (DFC). He continued to serve in the RAF in different capacities (including playing a role in the Berlin Airlift) and, in the late 1950s, with the Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF) Reserve Squadron No. 2402, was a Procedures Instructor for a couple of years.
Lloyd Friedman joined the Royal Canadian Air Force in 1940 at the age of 22. He trained in Brandon and became a pilot and flight instructor. In 1943, he was deployed to England and flew in Squadron 405, comprised primarily of Canadians. He flew 58 missions. He was also awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross (DFC).The following is taken from an article Bernie Bellan wrote about Lloyd Friedman shortly before his death in 2018:
“But then, Andy (Loyd’s son, as Andrew Friedman told me he preferred to be called) added something that was totally unexpected when he said that his father had been a World War II bomber pilot for the RCAF – flying Lancaster bombers, and had flown an incredible 40 missions over Germany and France on two separate tours of duty.
“Now, to understand how amazing that was, you have to realize that the attrition rate among crew members on those bombers approached 90% over an entire tour of duty (which would have consisted of 20 missions if one were lucky enough to make it through an entire tour).
“The Lancaster Bomber carried out daring missions during World War Two. It had a crew of seven from the pilot to the gunners. Everyone had to play their part to stay alive.
” ‘The Lancaster was one of the most dangerous places to be in the entire war – the life expectancy of a new recruit was just two weeks…Flying in a British bomber during World War Two was one of the most dangerous jobs of all. Some 55,000 aircrew died in raids over Europe.’
“I was told that Lloyd was born in Southey, Saskatchewan. Prior to the war, he had been a school teacher in Saskatchewan. Lloyd joined the RCAF even before World War II broke out. Trained as a pilot himself, for the first years of the war he trained other pilots at Shilo.
“In 1943 Lloyd went overseas to England, where he began serving on Lancasters. Andy said that the main base where he served was in York. There were seven men assigned to a Lancaster flight crew. Amazingly all seven of Lloyd’s crew (all Canadians) survived the war, Andy noted. They would often get together for reunions, but now there is no one else left from that crew.”
Post war, Freedman pursued a lengthy career as a teacher, including three decades teaching at St. John’s High School. A man of few words, Freedman rarely spoke about his wartime achievements. He passed away just three years ago at the age of 100.
Max Sucharov may not have been awarded a DFC but he was also a hero nonetheless. And unlike Freedman and Greenburgh, he didn’t come back.
Max Sucharov was born in 1915 – one of seven children to immigrant parents Harry and Sonia Sucharov. He spent his early years in Transcona, graduating from St. John’s Tech (Grade 11) in 1932, and was working as a butcher at Abe Zipursky’s grocery store on McGregor when the war broke out. He enlisted in the air force in the spring of 1942. He trained as a navigator.
“All of his nephews and nieces have a photo of Uncle Max,” says his niece, Myrna Charach. “The story we were told is that he and his crew were coming back from a mission on December 2, 1944, when the plane’s motor froze up over Yvetot, France. Everyone grabbed a parachute but the crew was one parachute short. The radio operator didn’t have one. Uncle Max took him out with his parachute. However, while going out the hatch, he hit his head on the door. He was found dead on the ground.”
He was buried along with other allied airmen at a military cemetery at Brettville sur Laize. The family received notice in early 1947 from one Mr. Maurice Duquenne letting them know that local Jewish residents had taken upon themselves to look after the graves of Sucharov and a second Jewish airman, Max Samuels.
Myrna Charach notes that her cousin, also named Max Sucharov, did visit the grave site.
Max Sucharov lives on in the memory of his nieces and nephews. He also has a lake in northern Manitoba named after him in his memory, one of almost 50 northern lakes commemorating Manitobans killed in action during wartime.
Features
Optimizing mobile wagering convenience with bassbet casino
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Features
Why People in Israel Can Get Emotionally Attached to AI—and How to Keep It Healthy
Let’s start with the uncomfortable truth that’s also kind of relieving: getting emotionally attached to a Joi.com AI isn’t “weird.” It’s human. Our brains are attachment machines. Give us a voice that feels warm, consistent, and attentive—especially one that shows up on demand—and our nervous system goes, “Oh. Safety. Connection.” Even if the rational part of you knows it’s software, the emotional part responds to the experience.
Now, if we’re talking about Jewish people in Israel specifically, it’s worth saying this carefully: there isn’t one “Jewish Israeli psychology.” People differ wildly by age, religiosity, community, language, politics, relationship status, and life history. But there are some real-life conditions common in Israel—high tech adoption, a fast-paced social environment, chronic background stress for many, and strong cultural emphasis on connection—that can make AI companionship feel especially appealing for some individuals. Not because of religion or ethnicity as a trait, but because of context and pressure.
So if you’ve noticed yourself—or someone you know—getting attached to an AI companion, the goal isn’t to panic or label it as unhealthy by default. The goal is to understand why it feels good and make sure it stays supportive rather than consuming.
Why attachment happens so fast (the psychology in plain language)
Attachment isn’t just about romance. It’s about regulation. When you feel seen, your body calms down. When you feel ignored, your body gets edgy. AI companions can offer something that’s rare in real life: consistent responsiveness. No scheduling. No misunderstandings (most of the time). No “I’m too tired to talk.” Just a steady stream of attention.
From an attachment perspective, that steadiness can act like a soft emotional “hug.” For someone with anxious attachment, it can feel like relief: finally, a connection that doesn’t disappear. For someone with avoidant tendencies, it can feel safe because it’s intimacy without the risk of being overwhelmed by a real person’s needs. For someone simply lonely or stressed, it can feel like a quiet exhale.
And unlike human relationships, AI won’t judge your worst timing. You can message at 2:00 a.m., when your thoughts are loud and the apartment is silent, and you’ll still get an answer that sounds caring. That alone is powerful.
Why it can feel especially relevant in Israel (for some people)
Israel is a small country with a big emotional load for many people—again, not universally, but often enough that it shapes daily life. A lot of people live with a background hum of stress, whether it’s personal, economic, or tied to the broader environment. When life feels intense, the appeal of a stable, gentle interaction grows. Not because you’re fragile—because you’re tired.
Add a few more very normal realities:
High tech comfort is cultural. Israel has a strong tech culture. People are used to tools that solve problems quickly. If you’re already comfortable with digital solutions, trying an AI companion doesn’t feel like a strange leap.
Time is tight. Between work, family responsibilities, reserve duty for some, long commutes, or simply the pace of urban life, many people don’t have the energy for long, messy social processes. AI can feel like connection without the logistics.
Social circles can be both close and complicated. Israeli society can be community-oriented, which is beautiful—until it’s also intense. In tight-knit circles, dating and relationships sometimes come with social pressure, opinions, and “everyone knows everyone.” A private AI chat can feel like a relief: no gossip, no explanations, no performance.
Language and identity complexity. Many Jewish Israelis move between languages and cultures (Hebrew, Russian, English, French, Amharic, Arabic for some). AI chat can become a low-stakes space to express yourself in the language you feel most “you” in—without feeling judged for accent, vocabulary, or code-switching.
None of this means “Israelis are more likely” in any absolute sense. It means there are situational reasons why AI companionship can feel particularly soothing or convenient for some people living there.
The good side: when AI attachment is healthy
Emotional attachment isn’t automatically a problem. Sometimes it’s simply a sign that something is working: you feel supported. You feel calmer. You’re expressing yourself more. You’re practicing communication instead of shutting down. You’re less likely to make impulsive choices from loneliness.
Healthy use often looks like:
You feel better after chatting, not worse.
You can still enjoy your real life—friends, work, hobbies, family.
You don’t hide it in shame; you just treat it like a tool or pastime.
You use the AI to practice skills you bring into real relationships: clarity, boundaries, confidence, emotional regulation.
In that version, AI companionship is closer to journaling with feedback, or a comforting ritual—like a cup of tea at the end of the day, not a replacement for dinner.
Where it can slip into unhealthy territory (quietly)
The danger isn’t “having feelings.” The danger is outsourcing your emotional world to something that will never truly share responsibility.
Warning signs usually look like:
You cancel plans with humans because the AI feels easier.
You feel anxious when you’re not chatting, like you’re missing something.
You start needing the AI to reassure you constantly.
Your standards for human relationships collapse (“Humans are too complicated, AI is enough”).
You feel a “crash” after chatting—more lonely, more restless, more disconnected.
The biggest red flag is when the AI becomes your only reliable source of comfort. That’s not because AI is evil. It’s because any single source of emotional regulation—human or non-human—can become a dependency.
How to keep it healthy (without killing the fun)
Here’s the approach that works best: don’t ban it, contain it.
Give it a role.
Decide what the AI is for in your life: playful flirting, stress relief, practicing communication, roleplay, bedtime decompression. A defined role prevents the relationship from becoming vague and all-consuming.
Set a “time container.”
Not as punishment—just as hygiene. For example: 20 minutes at night, or during commute time, or only on certain days. Ending while you still feel good is the secret. Don’t chat until you feel hollow.
Keep one human anchor active.
A friend you text, a weekly family dinner, a class, a gym routine, a community event—something that keeps your real social muscles moving. In Israel, community can be a huge protective factor when it’s supportive. Use it.
Use consent and boundary language even with AI.
It sounds odd, but it trains your brain in healthy dynamics:
“Slow down. Keep it playful, not intense.”
“No jealousy talk. I don’t like that vibe.”
“Tonight I want comfort, not advice.”
If you can do that with an AI, you’ll be better at doing it with humans.
Watch the “replacement” impulse.
If you catch yourself thinking, “I don’t need anyone else,” pause and ask: is that empowerment—or is it avoidance? Sometimes it’s a protective story your brain tells when it’s tired of disappointment.
Check in with your body after.
Not your thoughts—your body. Calm? Lighter? More grounded? Good sign. Agitated? Empty? Restless? Time to adjust.
And if you’re noticing that AI use is feeding anxiety, sleep problems, isolation, or obsessive thinking, it may help to talk to a mental health professional—especially someone who understands attachment patterns. That’s not a dramatic step. It’s basic self-care.
People in Israel—Jewish Israelis included—can get attached to AI for the same reason people everywhere do: it offers consistent attention in an inconsistent world. Add the local realities of stress, pace, and social complexity, and it can feel even more comforting for some individuals. The healthiest path isn’t to judge yourself for it. It’s to use it intentionally, keep your human life active, and treat the AI as a supportive tool—not the center of your emotional universe.
Features
Three generations of Wernicks all chose to become rabbis
By GERRY POSNER Recently I was at a Shabbat service at Beth Tzedec Synagogue in Toronto and the day unfolded in some unexpected ways for me.
It began when I was asked to be a Gabbai for the service, that is to stand up at the table where the Torah is placed and to check the Torah reading to make sure there are no errors. I have done this before and it has always gone smoothly. I attribute that fact in large part to the Torah reading ability of the reader at Beth Synagogue. He is fast, fluent and flawless. Well, on this particular day after he had completed the first two portions, he began the shlishi or third aliyah. I could not find his reading anywhere. It was as if he had started somewhere fresh, but not where he was supposed to be. I looked at the other Gabbai and he did not seem to recognize what had happened either. So, I let it go. I had no idea where the Torah reader was. He then did another and still I was lost. He came to what was the 6th aliyah when a clergy member walked over to him and indicated to him that he had read the fourth and fifth aliyah, but that he had missed the third one. The Torah reader then said to me “this is what you are here for.” Now, it might have been one thing if I had missed it entirely. Alas, I saw the error, but let it go as I deferred to the Torah reader since he never makes a mistake. He ended up going back to do the third aliyah before continuing on. This was a very unusual event in the synagogue. I felt responsible in large part for this gaffe. A lesson learned.
The feeling of embarrassment was compounded by the fact that on this particular day the service was highlighted, at least for me, because of the rabbi delivering the sermon. This rabbi, Eugene Wernick, was none other than the father of my present rabbi, Steven Wernick of Beth Tzedec Synagogue. He was also the same rabbi who was the rabbi at Shaarey Zedek between 1979-1986 and who had officiated at my father’s funeral in 1981, also a few years later at my oldest son’s Bar Mitzvah in Winnipeg in 1984. As I listened to him speak, I was taken back to the 1980s, when Rabbi Gene was in the pulpit at Shaarey Zedek. Of course, he is older now than in his Shaarey Zedek days, but the power of his voice was unchanged. If anything, it’s even stronger. As in the past, his message was relevant to all of us and resonated well. Listening to him was a treat for me. Still, my regret in not calling out the mistake from the Torah reading was compounded by the fact that I messed up in front of my former rabbi, Eugene Wernick – never mind my present rabbi, Steven Werinck.
On this Shabbat morning, aside from all the other people present, there were not only the two Rabbis Wernick, but one Michelle Wernick was also there. Michelle, daughter of Rabbi Steven Wernick, is a first year student at the Jewish Theological Seminary. She is following in the family business – much like with the Rose rabbinical family in Winnipeg.
As it turned out, there was a Bat Mitzvah that day. And the Bat Mitzvah family had a very real Winnipeg connection as in the former Leah Potash, mother of the Bat Mitzvah girl, Emmie Bank and the daughter of Reuben and Gail Potash (Thau). It occurred to me that there might be a few Winnipeg people in the crowd. As I scanned the first few rows, I was not disappointed. Sitting there was none other than Chana Thau and her husband Michael Eleff. I managed to have a chat with Chana (even during the Musaf service). In the row right behind Chana and Michael was a face I had not seen in close to sixty years. I refer to Allan Berkal, the eldest son of the former rabbi and chazan at Shaarey Zedek, Louis Berkal. I still remember the first time I met Allan at Hebrew School in 1954 when his family moved to Winnipeg from Grand Forks, North Dakota. That was many maftirs ago. So this was another highlight moment for me.
Of course, there are other Winnipeggers who attend Beth Tzedec most Shabbats. I speak of Morley Goldberg and his wife, the former Marcia Billinkoff Schnoor. As well, Bernie Rubenstein and his wife, the former Sheila Levene were also present for this particular Shabbat. In all, this Shabbat had a particularly Winnipeg flavour to it. Truth be told, you do not have to go far in Toronto at any synagogue and the Winnipeg connections emerge.