Features
The privileged, yet not unscathed, life of Baron Maurice de Hirsch
The Baron: Maurice de Hirsch and the Jewish Nineteenth Century
by Matthias B. Lehmann
Stanford University Press, 400 pp., $49
Reviewed by IRENA KARSHENBAUM
In reading Matthias B. Lehmann’s The Baron: Maurice de Hirsch and the Jewish Nineteenth Century what becomes painfully obvious is that despite owning chateaus and estates across Europe and being a member of the aristocracy, this elevated status still did not protect Baron Maurice de Hirsch, the wealthiest Jewish person of his time, from antisemitism.
How to find a solution to this eternal hatred haunted Hirsch his entire life and influenced not only how he envisioned the lives of his future grandchildren, but guided his philanthropic projects that changed the fates of millions of people.
It is a rare feat to acquire great wealth within a single generation. Hirsch was no exception.
Born Moritz von Hirsch — later to be known as Maurice de Hirsch — in 1831 in Munich, Bavaria, to Joseph and Caroline (née Wertheimer) von Hirsch, Lehmann describes how the young Hirsch grew up a member of “the noble class, with its privileges and rights,” yet was still the subject of the contradictory Jewish edict of 1813, which opened most occupations to Jews and granted them freedom of worship, but also imposed numerous restrictions, “designed to control and limit the overall number of Jews tolerated within the kingdom [of Bavaria]. Jewish immigration was banned, and the so-called Judenmatrikel established quotas for the permissible size of each Jewish community, limiting permission to marry and designed to keep the number of Jews static or reduce it.”
Yet despite this antisemitic decree, in 1818, Hirsch’s grandfather, Jacob Hirsch, managed to obtain the status of nobility from the King of Bavaria and the upwardly mobile family was allowed to be called “von Hirsch auf Gereuth,” after an estate the senior patriarch had purchased a few years earlier.
The Hirschs, however, were mere “cattle merchants” (albeit conducting business with the King of Bavaria) in comparison to the wealth and status of his mother’s family, the Wertheimers, who were descendants of Samson Wertheimer, the banker to Emperor Charles VI.
The Hirsch family had to wait another half a century, until 1869, when Joseph was awarded the hereditary title of baron for “contributions to the welfare of the Bavarian state,” following his establishing a field hospital during the Prussian-Austrian War of 1866. (The family’s philanthropic contributions were not limited to this singular charitable act, but this recognition speaks to Joseph having finally “played his cards right,” which secured “a place for himself and his descendants as members of the European aristocracy.”)
At age thirteen, Hirsch was moved to Brussels where, in 1855, he succeeded in doing what his father had done a generation earlier — he married up. His bride, Clara Bischoffsheim, was the daughter of Jonathan Raphaël Bischoffsheim, the partner of Bischoffsheim & Goldschmidt, one of Europe’s leading banks, which would one day become France’s BNP Paribas. Clara had worked as her father’s secretary, training that would serve her well to act as her husband’s “chief secretary” for their expanding business interests and philanthropic work.
Hirsch’s arrival in Brussels was of perfect timing, not only for his matrimonial aspirations, but it also coincided with the birth of the railway age when Belgium opened its first international railway line, linking Antwerp to Cologne.
At this time, Hirsch developed a passion for railroads. He formed an odd partnership with a known antisemite, André Langrand-Dumonceau, who advocated for “the building of an international Catholic financial empire to compete with… Jewish- (and Protestant-) dominated high finance.” The partnership eventually dissolved, Langrand-Dumonceau’s financial Ponzi scheme collapsed and the stake that he had owned in the Ottoman railway concession ended up in Hirsch’s hands thanks to the pursuit of an Ottoman public works minister, an Armenian named Davud Pasha, with whom he signed an agreement, in April of 1869, to link Constantinople and Salonika with central European railways.
The business deal became, as Lehmann writes, “The defining moment in Hirsch’s life as a businessman, and which was the main source of one of the largest fortunes in Europe of the late nineteenth century.”
Almost twenty years later, in the summer of 1888, after successfully maneuvering the corrupt Ottoman political and commercial landscape, the first train on the railroad that Hirsch had built, left Vienna for Constantinople. Yet even this remarkable achievement of linking Europe with the Ottoman Empire ignited antisemitic vitriol.
Lehmann writes, “The idea of building a Vienna-Constantinople-Salonika railroad link had sparked imperialist dreams in the Habsburg capital. When fantasies of colonial riches failed to materialize as the completion of the railway connections was repeatedly delayed, a narrative… became increasingly personalized, focusing on Baron Hirsch in the guise of the “Parisian financier” and “the Jew.” Rather than the bursting of a speculative bubble in Vienna in 1873 or the effect of the Russo-Ottoman War of 1877-1878, not to mention the machinations of the Great Powers of Europe or the political chaos in Constantinople in the mid-1870s, a story emerged in which it was Baron Hirsch, single-handedly, who betrayed the dream of Austria’s Oriental empire.”
Hirsch understood that antisemitism was impossible to defeat. In giving an interview, in January of 1889, to the New York Herald, titled “The Jews Must Disappear: A Hebrew Millionaire Spends Enormous Sums to Assimilate Them with Christians” he explained his solution, “The Jewish question can only be solved by the disappearance of the Jewish race, which will inevitably be accomplished by the amalgamation of Christians and Jews.”
In terms of his own descendants, when his son, Lucien, was in his twenties, Hirsch stated that, “He must marry an Englishwoman,” especially since, “younger members of the families of Rothschild and Montefiore” were assimilating through marriage.
Immersed in an antisemitic milieux, it is important to also consider that neither Hirsch, his wife, or their son even contemplated conversion unlike many members of the Jewish nobility of western Europe like, Benjamin Disraeli, the 19th-century British prime minister who converted to Christianity. Assimilation was for the next generation through the planned raising of their future grandchildren as Christians.
With the sudden passing of his only son at age 30, Hirsch — whose loyalties were still deeply intertwined with his co-religionists — shifted his energies to helping the Jews of the Russian Empire who were facing escalating antisemitism.
In 1891, Hirsch incorporated the Jewish Colonization Association (JCA) in London with initial capital of 2 million pounds sterling (the 2023 equivalent of about $2 billion) of his own funds “to assist… the emigration of Jews from any parts of Europe or Asia… where they may be subjected to any special laws,” and to help them, “establish colonies in various parts of North and South American… for agricultural [purposes].”
With his recent experience conducting business with the corrupt Ottomans, he objected, ““On principal,” to purchasing land for colonization purposes anywhere in the Ottoman Empire, where the authorities were bound to subject the colonists to endless “chicaneries and difficulties,” and, ““religious memories and ancient traditions” were a feeble ground on which to build a large-scale colonization enterprise.”
Hirsch rejected Theodor Herzl’s “fantastical plan, of creating a “Jewish state”” in Palestine. (Herzl himself went on to contemplate Hirsch’s efforts in an 1896 article for London’s Jewish Chronicle titled, “Shall we choose Argentine or Palestine?”)
By the fall of 1891, Hirsch decided that the focus of JCA’s work would be the evacuation of 3.25 million Russian Jews, primarily to Argentina, which he estimated would take about twenty-five years to complete. By 1896, the year of Hirsch’s passing, 6,757 colonists were living on 910 farms in Argentina.
In Canada, the majority of JCA’s work did not begin until after Hirsch’s passing and it is believed that most Jewish farming communities received at least some funding from the association. A number of the prairie settlements — Hirsch and Sonnenfeld in Saskatchewan, and Narcisse in Manitoba — were named after leading JCA figures.
Lehmann’s thoroughly researched biography and view into the Jewish nineteenth century rings eerily true for Jews today.
Irena Karshenbaum writes in Calgary.
irenakarshenbaum.com
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.