Features
The enthralling account of the attempt to revive a drowning victim – as written at the time by Dr. John Eadie

By BERNIE BELLAN Fascinated as I was by the story I had received from Reid Linney about Aron Katz, there was something else attached to the information about Aron Katz that was equally compelling: A vivid account of an attempt to revive a drowning victim, also in Big Whiteshell Lake (which is where Aron Katz drowned). It turns out that, subsequent to publishing the story of Aron Katz’s life – and tragic death, in our Aug. 3 print issue, we received information that confirmed the drowning victim in the account you are about to read could not have been Aron Katz.
What happened was that years ago, Dr. Gerald (Yosel) Minuk, who was also a classmate of Reid Linney and Aron Katz at St. John’s, had read an account of a drowning in Big Whiteshell Lake in a book titled It was a photocopy of something that, as Gerald (Yosel) Minuk subsequently explained to me in an email, had appeared in a book titled “History and Folklore of the Whiteshell Park North,” which his wife happened to buy from a woman going door to door selling copies of the book about cottage life in the Whiteshell area.
After Dr. Minuk had read Dr. Eadie’s chapter in the book, titled “Triumph and Disaster,” he was certain that the story Dr. Eadie tells must have been that of Aron Katz’s drowning. He sent a photocopy of the chapter to Reid Linney who, in turn, sent it to me.
It turn out the author of the story, Dr. John Eadie, was a Director of Public Health in Manitoba who would eventually became the Director of Epidemiology for the Province of Manitoba.
In his obituary, it notes that Dr. Eadie, who died in 2014, was born in England, studied medicine at the University of Edinburgh, and served with the Royal Army Medical Corps in Burma/Rangoon during the Second World War.
in 1950 Dr. Eadie and his family moved to Portage la Prairie. “In 1955 the family moved to Winnipeg, and later he purchased a cabin on Big Whiteshell Lake, where he would spend his retirement years exulting in family and his beloved outdoors,” his obituary notes.
I’ve decided to reprint Dr. Eadie’s entire account of what happened one summer day in the Big Whiteshell. However, as you’ll see once you start to read Dr. Eadie’s account, he says that what happened occurred on a Sunday – and that he decided to record his recollection of the day’s events at 4:00 am the following day, which would have made that a Monday. Aron Katz drowned on a Tuesday – and, as you’ll see at the end of this story, Dr. Eadie’s own daughter, Sheelagh, offered further evidence that the drowning victim described in the story you are about to read was not Aron Katz.
Here is Dr. Eadie’s story:
BIG WHITESHELL LAKE
JOHN A. EADIE
LOT 8 BLOCK 4
TRIUMPH AND DISASTER
“A normally busy Sunday at the lake started, for me , at about 7:30 a.m., when I took my wife’s dog for a run up to the ‘mountain’ behind our cottage. After a rest to admire the start of another ‘Sunny Manitoba Morning,’ without a cloud in the sky – back downhill, with Tuffy in the lead, to breakfast alone, listening to the world political situation on C.B.W., as was my custom.
“A quick shave and out to do chores – gas up in readiness for a day’s water-skiing, etc. Still no one else astir in the cottage. So out comes the axe and finally dispose of that poplar stump that should wake someone.
“Now the boys are astir and we’re off water-skiing. The water’s a bit choppy and there’s plenty of traffic – so I do most of the driving. Kenny goes first – an old pro at 13 years, followed by his friend Lars – skiing for 24 hours, but keen to catch up. Then Maria – a beginner, but too shy to tell us to speed it up for her. Irene and Carmen – prospective sisters-in-law to my two older boys – go up double.
(At this point the story is cut off. It resumes here:)
“A swim to the point with my wife, Pat, and a friendly visit with the neighbours.
“Great Scot – it’s 3:30 p.m – so we’re up to grab some lunch. When that’s over, the day’s activities tell their tale and I drop off for 40 winks.
“A thunder of feet up the stairs, ‘Dad, there’s a drowning at the dock!’”
“Up and moving. Grab the keys – to the wagon – drive to the dock. The kids beat me to it by boat – tell me it’s out at the diving dock, but they take me over by boat – 13-year-olds think fast and act with purpose.
“At the floating dock – signs of tragedy. A lifeless young man in his prime, the centre of earnest ineffective efforts at artificial respiration and cardio massage. What to do? Find out what the chances are or try to improve the resuscitation techniques? I’ll have to try both, somehow.
“ ‘ How long was he under?’ – ’15 minutes – maybe 10 – maybe eight – Who had a watch – how accurate are the estimates?’ (five minutes is the limit.)
“ ‘Is he breathing “No!’
“ ‘ Any pulse?’ ‘Yes,’ says Nurse.
“ ‘Is his airway clear? Are we getting air into his lungs?’ ‘Not much!’
“ ‘OK – four men get an arm or leg up and lift him, head down, feet up. You “Nurse” – (she wasn’t, but we didn’t know for an hour) – help clean out the mouth of blood and vomit. Quick – back down – on his back and start massage and breathing.’ Not good – take over breathing and show breather how to get a good breath in – chest rises – ‘OK? Now you try it. Get the rhythm 1001, 1002, 1003, 1004, 1005 – breathe. Repeat – a beat a second and a breath every five beats.’
“Am doing the massage – ‘Who can take over?’ ‘I will,’ says a voice – strong and confident – and he has the build to see us through to Pinawa. ‘OK – use the butt of the palms, quick beats – right on the breast bone – see?’ ‘OK!’ – tries it.
“Nurse reports femoral pulses – colour poor – pupils not good. To continue or stop?
“No one knew how long he was under for sure – he’s turning pink after being tipped up a couple of time and improving technique. OK – he has a chance – let’s give it to him.
“Time to look to the next step. ‘We need a hard board and four men to help lift.’ ‘Here we are!’ A surfboard appears – ‘We need a boat to get him to main dock.’ ‘OK- change boats – yours is biggest. Can you bring it alongside?’ ‘Did anyone send for ambulance or Mounties?’
(At this point the story is cut off again. It resumes here:)
“new catch phrase -KEEP the SYSTEM GOING. ‘If you’re tired ask for relief.”
“ ‘When we move him onto the surfboard after the next breath – hold it, he’s filling up again – tip him up and clean him out. Well done!’ Back to the SYSTEM. It’s going again.
“ ‘OK, now move him on to the board after next breath – 1001, 1002, 1003, 1004, 1005 – Breath – MOVE!’ He’s on the board – KEEP the SYSTEM GOING.
“ “Next move – move the board on to the boat – head to front – breather and cardiac massager keep going. After next breath MOVE but KEEP THE SYSTEM GOING.’ He’s in the boat – the two men on the outside fall in the lake and get left behind. Nobody laughs.
“We’re moving – to the main dock. On to dock –
“ Get the crowd out of the way!’ Someone does.
“ OK. Four men move him down the dock, but KEEP the SYSTEM GOING!’
“ ‘Who’ll drive my wagon?’ – ‘I will.’ – ‘Here’s the keys – the blue wagon’ – back it on to the dock – tailgate down – four movers ready – into the wagon and the SYSTEM KEEPS GOING.
“Nurse” asks privately – ‘What are his chances?’ – ‘Just about zero.’
“The Mounties are here, flashing lights and the works.
“ ‘We need water in a cooler – bucket – anything.’ They appear.
“We’re off.
“ ‘Hey, not so fast – watch the corners – we can’t do massage at that speed.’ We’re all on our knees – never knew steel deck was so hard on knees, especially on corners and on my cartilage scar.
“ ‘OK – relieve the breather!’ ‘I’m OK, Doc.’
“ ‘You can’t do it all yourself – take a break and come back stronger.’ ‘OK.’
“He’s getting pinker – He’s got femoral pulses. His pupils seem smaller, are they really? Wish I had my glasses! ‘Good work –keep it up – Keep it up – change breather – change massager – keep it up. Get a rest.’
“A young guy in his car gets between us the Mounties and won’t pull over, despite our lights and horn. The Mounties radio ahead and he’s invited to stop for a ticket at Seven Sisters.
“Half hour to Pinawa. Twenty minutes to Pinawa. Ten minutes to Pinawa. He’s still pink, still got a pulse. But, what about those pupils? Keep it up. ‘Breather rest so you can take over again at Pinawa.’
(Cut off again. Resumes here:)
“femoral pulse – but hold it – those pupils are dilated and fixed and have been for half hour or more. Don’t tell the team – yes, we’re a team now – everyone knows his job and does it well.
“Last time – KEEP the SYSTEM GOING – back in to the Emergency door. A word with Pinawa doctor – into Emergency.
“Electro-cardiogram shows he still has pulses, still was pink – without the system pulses become few and weak – pupils still dilated. The patient is dead. DISASTER! Or is it triumph? – Seven total strangers – who didn’t even know each others’ names – worked themselves into a team in three hours of desperate effort for a patient whose name they didn’t know.
“When the verdict was finally announced – that he was dead – despite pulses and pink colour – the Nurse looked around the room and there wasn’t a dry eye to be seen. For a stranger? Who is a stranger?
“The dilated pupils showed the patient’s brain had died before he was pulled from the water He’d been down too long – but who could be sure? He had a chance – we gave it to him – but it didn’t work out.
“The team was totally exhausted. After a wash up and juice or coffee the Mounties took our statements His girlfriend’s father came in to thank us – she was too distraught.
“Then home to family and friends, bucking traffic all the way back to Big Whiteshell – where there is still no lifeguard!
“Dozens of these helpers who gave instant action and response to requests should not be forgotten.
“But for the seven people – four men: an orderly, a policeman, president of the Campers Association, and the doctor; three ladies: a nurse, an accountant, and a housewife we thought was a nurse – it will remain TRIUMPH AND DISASTER.
“(Above disjointed notes written at 4:00 am the following morning, when I couldn’t get b
ack to sleep for the drama going round and round in my mind.”)
Post script: As mentioned at the beginning of this story, despite the many similarities between Aron Katz’s drowning and the drowning described in Dr. Eadie’s account – which had led Dr. Minuk to assume that the account was indeed that of Aron Katz’s drowning, subsequent to publishing this story in the Aug. 3 print issue of The Jewish Post & News, we received an email that had been written by Dr. Eadie’s daughter, Sheelagh. In it Sheelagh wrote: “I am thinking that Aron is not the person John assisted.
Aron died on a Tuesday and given that Dad wrote his notes right away and refers to it being a Sunday it is not likely that he would confuse the day of the week. As noted this is a discrepancy that is noteworthy.
“Secondly, he refers to his son, Ken, as being 13 but in July 1973, he was 11 going on 12.
“Dad was a precise person, not sure that detail would be altered.”
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.