Features
Rose’s Odyssey” is an absolutely riveting story of surviving the Holocaust that tells a story quite different from almost any other Holocaust story you might have read.
By BERNIE BELLAN In the spring of 1984, Dr. Meir Kryger (whose name is no doubt well known to many readers as the “sleep doctor” who spent many years in Winnipeg), his wife, Barbara, and daughter, Shelley, along with Meir’s mother, Rose, went to Rome where they were to spend Passover with Meir’s cousin, Henry Welch.
It was during a Passover seder in Henry’s apartment that Rose Kryger opened up – for the very first time, about what had happened to her during the Second World War. As a child of Holocaust survivors – and like so many other children of Holocaust survivors, Meir didn’t have a clue about his parents’ past, but as a child, he didn’t consider that unusual.
As Meir notes in his mother’s recently published memoir, “Rose’s Odyssey,” “I eventually learned that what is considered normal is quite different for children of Holocaust survivors. I never touched a single artifact from my family that predated the second World War. I thought that was normal. I never knew grandparents. I thought that was normal. As I was growing up every family that I knew had survived the horror of losing everything. I thought that was normal. Our family had no place it considered home, even when we were living in Montreal. I thought that was normal. Most of the adults I knew while growing up had horrible unspeakable memories locked up that were never discussed.”
Now, there have been countless memoirs and accounts of Holocaust survivors published over the years, but in many ways “Rose’s Odyssey” is unlike any other that I have ever read. In the first place, Rose, her husband Sam, sister Ghenia, and nephew Zvi (who later adopted the Anglicized name Henry), ended up traveling east from Poland to escape the Nazis, in contrast to so many other accounts of survivors who either remained trapped in Poland or managed to escape by going west.
Reading about the travails that beset those four individuals beginning in 1939 and through to 1945 is horrifying, but in a totally different way than it was for the millions of victims who didn’t manage to escape Poland.
A second aspect of “Rose’s Odyssey” that was so totally gripping is the matter of fact language that Rose uses in describing what happened to her. As it turned out, Rose had compiled a very detailed set of journals in which she described her experiences – both during and immediately after the war, along with those of her husband, sister, and young nephew.
As Meir Kryger notes in the prologue to this book, however, it was only after Rose’s death in 1993, in Montreal, that his sister and he actually discovered those notebooks, all written in Yiddish. As well, there were two audiocassettes in which Rose had also told what had happened.
Henry Welch actually translated Rose’s words and published a book in 2004 titled “Passover in Rome.” That book went out of print, but during Covid Meir reread the book and “felt the book needed to be made available again.”
Thus, after revising the original “Passover in Rome” and updating it with new maps, photos, and a glossary of Yiddish expressions, “Rose’s Odyssey” was published in 2022. It is available on Amazon as both a paperback and in Kindle format.
While the mere fact that the four individuals whose story is told in the book travelled over 18,000 kilometers from 1939-1947, which is when the story ends with Rose and Sam going to Palestine, is astonishing enough, it is reading about all the horrendous experiences they endured – yet somehow managed to survive, that makes this book so compelling to read.
In conversations with Holocaust survivors myself I’ve often asked them what it was that they think kept them going when so many others around them perished? In most cases, the answer that they would give is “luck,” and while that was certainly an ingredient in so many survivors’ stories, I often thought there was something else that had been at play.
Rose and her sister, Ghenia, were not exceptionally strong physically, and while the book also doesn’t indicate that Sam Kryger was much different from the average Polish male Jew, he was certainly capable of shouldering extreme physical challenges, it turned out.
But it was Rose and Ghenia whose abilities to endure anything thrown at them which made me write to Meir Kryger at one point when I was about halfway through reading the book, saing that I just “couldn’t put it down.” Of course, knowing that all four survived the war – even before I began to read the actual story of how they survived, told me that there wouldn’t be a shocking surprise – which might have made me hesitant to want to continue reading what is, in no uncertain terms, a true horror story.
Yet, some elements of the story related such abject descriptions of suffering that once I had finished reading certain chapters I just has to take a break from finding out yet another story about the absolute degradation that was forced upon those four individuals.
At the same time though, the book is a remarkable adventure. Traveling 18,000 kilometers – on trains, boats – leaky rafts at one point, camels at another point, and very often, simply on foot, would make anyone wonder where Rose and Ghenia, in particular, drew the strength to carry on?
From managing to survive a slave labour camp in Siberia their first winter after escaping to Poland to constantly seeking a warmer place where they might live, Rose and the others reached what must have been the nadir of their journey when they found themselves in Kazakhstan in 1941.
In a chapter titled “Worst Winter of Our Lives,” Rose describes having to deal with a typhoid epidemic that swept through the hellhole in which they found themselves, known as “Zhyd Ken Chek”:
“We were in the middle of the Kazakhistan Steppes, where the wind runs wild without any obstacles. Outside there were no trees and very scarce vegetation. The highest tree was a small bush not higher than 8 to 10 inches. That little bush dried by the wind became the only fuel we had to cook, bake and heat our kibitka. We collected these bushes and stored them in our hallway.”
In the course of the chapter, Henry Welch who, from time to time in the book, adds his own commentary to Rose’s words – sometimes to clarify certain aspects of the story, at other times to give his own perspective on something she has written, describes what happened to him in Zhyd Ken Chek:
“The minute we got into this settlement, I got sick. As my mother used to say, may she rest in peace; when it comes — it comes in bunches. I got measles. After the measles, I got pneumonia, then a horrible case of diarrhea and finally typhoid fever like everybody else. It was very unusual because I was never sick since we left our home in Lodz. I sure made up for it all at once in Zhyd Ken Chek.”
As typhoid fever swept through the settlement, however, everyone there became infected at one point or another that horrible winter.
Even as I’m writing this, I have to pause to consider what Rose wrote about that typhoid epidemic, in her typical unsentimental “just the facts” style of writing: “That winter Zhyd Ken Chek turned out to be a death trap. Of the 128 people who had arrived at the end of December 1941, only about 25 survived by the time spring of 1942 made its slow appearance. The four of us were among the survivors.”
But, as if that weren’t enough, Rose adds this note about one of the huts that had housed 45 men: “That ill-fated single men’s hut; out of 45 strong, young men, only two or three survived. The rest of them died during the typhoid epidemic. There was no medication, no medical assistance and not enough food. I would visit them from time to time and bring whatever food we had to spare.”
Returning to the question which I had posed previously: Was there something special that allowed Rose, Sam, Ghenia, and Ziv to survive when so many others didn’t? Rose herself gives no clue as to what it was that enabled those four to survive, but there is a hint that Ghenia had an exceptional ability to improvise to the point that she became a skilled black marketer in many of the outposts where they found themselves, and that proved crucial to the wellbeing of all four.
Whether it was trading various food items or other different commodities in their possession, reading about Ghenia’s resourcefulness is not only fascinating, it’s highly entertaining in many respects.
And, in the end, as gut wrenching as so many parts of “Rose’s Odyssey” are – and how could any story of surviving the Holocaust not be – it’s also a story of triumph – of taking all those blows leveled at the four individuals who faced unremitting challenges together, and persevered.
The book doesn’t end with the end of Word War II, however. Rose and Sam end up returning to Poland, where they found out that Rose’s other sister, Sally, has also survived the war. even though she had been taken to Auschwitz, as had several other of their relatives. But the Poles were decidedly unwilling to welcome Jews back into their midst, so Rose and Sam ended up making their way to Germany where, in one of the great ironies of the aftermath of the war, many Jews did find a welcome mat laid out for them.
Eventually though, Rose and Sam could simply not accept the notion that they would live their lives amidst the very people who had brought about the Holocaust in the first place. As noted, Rose’s journey ends with her and Sam emigrating to Palestine, along with their two children, Marylka, who was born during the war, and Meir, who was born in 1947. I should also mention that Rose did have another child – a girl named Gucia – in Siberia, but because there was so little food, Rose could not properly nurse the child, and she died after three months. Rose never got over the loss of that child and, while she didn’t attempt to put it out of her mind at any point, her iron will to survive led her to find the inner strength to carry on.
Again, reading out about Holocaust survivors who went from Poland to Siberia – and then to even more distant lands, never knowing when they would have to move again, and then returning to where it all began – is an engrossing story in itself. The fact that this book is so well written is a credit not only to Rose Kryger’s vivid account of horrific events, but also to Henry Welch and Meir Kryger, both of whom contributed to the editing of this absolutely compelling story.
Even though the book was self-published somehow it made its way on to the reading list of none other than Arianna Huffington, author, entrepreneur, and founder of he Huffiington Post, who was effusive in her praise of the book, writing “I love this book: it is compelling, enlightening and at times, heartbreaking.”
One final note: Meir Kryger had contacted me about this book back in August when it was first published. I told him back then that I simply didn’t have time to read it because I was quite busy putting out the paper – although I did say that I would try to find time to read it at some point. If only I had known then how good a book “Rose’s Odyssey” was; I can only hope that this review leads others to making that same discovery – sooner rather than later, as was unfortunately the case with me.
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.