Features
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
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.