Memories of Berl

On June 8, 1953, Bernard Schiff, who died unexpectedly some weeks ago, celebrated his bar mitzvah at the Bagg Shul in Montreal’s Plateau district. Bernie, who was rather small for his age, stood at the lectern and declared in a voice most earnest that actions will speak louder than words and that growing up to be a good person is more than sufficient.

He was succinct, made his points clearly and returned to his seat, tout suite. Unfortunately, his father Willy, who worked in the garment industry was cut from a very different cloth. Willy appreciated neither his sons’ parsimony, nor the menschlichkeit which was emerging there and then. “Good people finish last,” Willy told his son. “Six million ‘good people’ were murdered in the camps.” It was a dog eat dog world out there, and Willy expected his younger son to be the top dog.

“Actually, your father didn’t expect a son at all,” Bernie’s mother, Freda, would tell him. “We wanted a girl who would maybe help around the house and be at her father’s side when he got old.” Instead, Freda would say with a smile, “I was handed the ugliest baby you ever saw. When the nurse brought you to me, I told her that there must be some mistake. The nurse insisted, so what could I do? I took you and I thought, ‘who does this baby look like?’ And I remembered an idiot cousin left behind in Poland.” Bernie giggled self- consciously each time Freda told the story

Berl, as friends called him, was hardly the idiot cousin. On the contrary. He loved books, and Miss Vaughn, the librarian in charge of old Montreal’s children library, allowed him more than the quota permitted. Berl was the valedictorian in elementary school and again in high school. He was good at everything he did. Except at being a son. He taught himself to engage with laser-precision. He delighted in the accomplishments of others. He was there for a hundred friends whose entire lives he was able to hold in thought. He believed he could fix anyone.

At McGill College, Berl was again a superstar. He won the coveted Bovey Shield awarded to the best undergraduate debater on campus. In his final year, Berl applied and was accepted to medical school, but was not keen on becoming a doctor and even less interested in living at home. As a graduation gift, he asked his parents for an Olympia Lettera 22 portable typewriter and declared that he would become a writer. His father was devastated.

Berl left town. He traveled to Greece and boarded a ship to Israel. When he returned a year later, he considered launching his writing career but knew he could not do so without confronting his demons (which mostly meant his father). He was not yet prepared to do that.

And so, Berl abandoned his literary aspirations and signed up for graduate school in Chicago.  He left home and never returned except for brief visits, weddings and funerals. A stint at Berkeley, a tenured track position at the University of Toronto, secured with little effort, followed. He married Gissa, who came with an infant daughter, Vanessa. Berl adored Vanessa and raised her as his own. Jacob was born, and for a while life could be no better.

But the young professor was restless. The lab could only tell half the story. He considered becoming a psychiatrist, dabbled in real estate, gravitated toward art and music. When he retired from the academy and joined me at the Walrus, he realized that there were some broken souls which even he could not repair. But he also realized how much he could help.

Berl was social in relation to the individual and an individual in groups. Dozens of intimate friends relied on his ability to put them together each time they fell apart. And Berl was always there for them. Ultimate truths made him nauseous, irritable, angry. He was a consummate analyst, but unlike Freud, who could not restrain the analytical urge, Berl sometimes could go easy on himself. When he did, he sometimes was able to experience the “oceanic feeling” which eluded Freud, but which reminds us that at the end of the day “all is one.”

Berl joined the Soundstreams Board in 1983 at a time when the AGM still took place over dinner at Sai Woo Restaurant. I first met him in the mid-70’s through Linda Kelly, his daughter Vanessa’s favourite baby sitter, and a girlfriend of mine who later became my wife. Whether it was the babysitting or the Chinese food, Berl became the longest serving member of the Board in our 36-year history, and was President from 2010-2016.  

Never one to pursue his enthusiasms in half measures, Berl had an insatiable curiosity about people and a genuine passion for understanding their concerns. Fortunately for Soundstreams, his passions extended to music. Not only was he a deeply engaged concert-goer, but his skills as mentor and advisor contributed greatly to the health, well-being and stability of our staff and board over so many years. His passion and commitment remain an inspiration to all of us.

To give you a flavor for the last few weeks in Berl’s life; they weren’t all devastating. In fact, in good Berl fashion, they were actually often quite funny and adventurous and intense and although not always actually orchestrated by Berl, it often seemed as though he was in charge and putting us through the hazing ritual, to let us into the club. 

So, Berl came down to visit us (Gary and Alison) in San Miguel two years in a row and this past year he rented a flat downstairs from us on Avenida Barranca, numero tres. He loved his flat..It had a long hallway into an open living-diningroom with a long rectanuglar table where he immediately set up his office..computer, papers, pills..and next to the kitchen and in easy reach of his jar of nuts. That is where he spent most of his daytime..and many of his night time, hours. That is where he was happiest- writing on the computer. 

Every day Berl would write….but every night..he would battle with his very familiar demons..and we could hear them even through the floor boards..growls, and gruffs, and barks as his stomach expressed their frustrations and stresses of the day…but eventually they would calm down and Berl would be asleep by 3-4 in morning and sleep in until a good 10 or 11am…. But everyday -sometimes at lunch time, but usually later in the afternoon, he would climb the stairs to our place and sit down in living room with Gary and some hours later they both would emerge into the daylight after conversations about life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness..well, not happiness..but life and liberty and other philosophic, political, religious, literary, logical, psychological, topics….and issues surrounding the meaning of ‘the coincidence’.

He and Gary often would then take a walk…either up in the botanical cacti gardens or down to the jardin where they would meet up with the other old men on the benches and continue to chat. Steven, Doug, and so on.

I would get Berl mostly around dinner time when we always all ate together-either out or in..but in both cases, we ate, berl said he didn’t but then did as well…..He didn’t care where we ate cause he wouldn’t eat and then he always did….his self -concept and cognitions and his stomach were giving him quite different messages. Often we would then take a walk and go to a concert at the local church promusica..or we would take in a skit or simply watch the dancers at the jardin in Centro. Always a wonderful and enjoyable experience and sometimes Berl would actually dance with moi….Gary never would…but Berl could be coaxed.

We would laugh a lot and kid around a lot and in general…he seemed to experience a freedom of being that was lovely to see…..but all the while his body talked to him and tried to drag him down….

Berl, as we all know, was interested in everything..and in everybody…..and would engage for hours with a new friend …I recall once having introduced him to our friend in san miguel, steven and by the end of the encounter, he knew about Steve’s marriage (of 40+ years ago), his present love life, his career trajectory, his favorite painters, his feelings about Donald Trump, and others and Berl’s description of a recent opinion piece in the Atlantic or New Yorker!

Patsy then arrived for her annual trip to Mexico and the 4 of us spent many hours hanging together, especially at the annual author’s conference.  There Berl became very excited about a number of new authors and quickly became their advocates. Says Ellen, my friend, who read from her new children’s book., “ I feel fortunate that I got to meet him and see him enjoying his Mexican time.  He was so enthusiastic about my "work in progress" and it was such a sincere vote of confidence that it will help propel me forward.”  And there were many others as well. 

And then Gary and I had to leave town to meet up with our own personal tragedy and loss-loss of Gary’s daughter.  And both Patsy (who had arrived for a visit a few days earlier) and Berl were there with us in san Miguel when we heard the terrible news and they comforted and cared and were there…for us.

We returned to san Miguel 10 days later…after Patsy’s departure and then also departure of Joan and Earl who had also come to hang in san Miguel with  Berl for 5 days, to find out that Berl didn’t like being on his own and had planned to leave San Miguel….. but decided to wait until we returned..feeling we needed him and indeed we did..but NOT this way..no way… This decision to wait does haunt me. 

He waited and  his body decided that the best place to wait was in the hospital… and that is where we then saw Berl. At the new American Hospital up the hill..and that is where I lived for the next 5 days along with Sari, his sister-in-law and his soul-mate, Solly-..trying with Patsy on the other end in Toronto to get Berl home to his beloveds in Toronto. The doctors  in Mexico first said it was a tumour and then that it was an angioma …knowing , I suspect, full well that it was a tumour…finally after days and days trying to get the Green Shield doctors to talk with Dr Maxwell, the Mexican doctor…to validate Berls’ condition and to get him moved by medivac to Toronto…medivac is a leer jet made with one bed and 6 seats, two occupied by the pilot. But I digress and am ahead of myself…

We had finally heard that Berl would be moved out the NEXT day and what happens??? Gary and I are taking a cab ride back from hospital to home and we discover we have left Berl’s backpack with wallet, cards, and PASSPORT in the cab and when we realize I run after the cab until it disappears out of sight..

We are completely utterly distraught and go to a friend’s house. Friend cleverly suggests that we go to the radio station and advertize loss of backpack and offer A REWARD…. I go down to the radio station in san Miguel with a friend, David Lippman, at 10pm at night and we write out the ad….with very little belief that it will be returned..BUT at 2AM in the morning the doorbell rings and there is a wonderful Mexican woman holding the backpack..and all its contents intact…

NOW BERL, THAT is an event I will give you indicates synchronicity…and a third way….I hadn’t before given credence to Berl’s belief in a 4th dimension of the soul…..why, did the backpack get lost in the first place..simply our inattention I say..but its rediscovery..THAT is by design, for sure…and cannot be explained by science….

Let me digress again, to emphasize the dilemma dear Berl lived with regarding these  beliefs vs scientific realities, I quote from his writings…

“My father  cut off his earlocks, and severed his roots   when he was young. He gave up religious practice and grew up to  become a communist, trading one set of beliefs for another. In reactions, perhaps, I grew up to become a well practiced skeptic eschewing the wooly world of belief.  I became an uncompromising empirical scientist. In my last year of college I had a significant awakening

In the 1930's a psychologist at Duke University, J.P Rhine claimed to have demonstrated what he called  Extra Sensory Perception. The ability for a person to know what another person is thinking without any known  means of communication. Knowledge not acquired by the 5 senses but in some unknown way by the mind. This challenged the  reductive materialistic positivism of contemporary science. 

In 1956  I was hired by my senior undergraduate thesis supervisor to run an experiment which, as he put it, would finally disprove those findings.  Well schooled in the sciences I knew that at best we could fail to find evidence for something but never disprove its existence. Non existence was  a matter of faith. no different, let us say, from the belief in the existence of god.. I asked what he would do if his experiment yielded positive results. He would not believe them. I learned at that moment that Science, which I had embraced to escape the world of belief,  was just another system of belief.

I  did not  lose confidence in the scientific enterprise. I  remained skeptical and critical of unfounded claims,  but was no longer constrained by that. I became open to consider phenomena that we could not prove to be true, but which beggared by their nature the conclusion that they did not exist. The results of that experiment were  never published, but they were, to the best of my knowledge, positive.”

In any case, having had the backpack returned, we were insanely happy and relieved and went back to sleep….

….and I awakened to be picked up by an ambulance to take Berl to the airport in Queretero. I was his accompanist….and that is NOT on the piano.

OK, now let me give you a slide show….of events that followed, flying on our own OWN leer jet…En route to the airport I sat next to the ambulance driver and he chatted away to me in Spanish-I don’t really speak adequate Spanish..so I was not confused when I suddenly heard the words ‘Jordan Peterson’..and realized that Berl was at it, talking to the male nurse and Dr in the back..and they had raised the name Jordan Peterson, or so he says.  

In any case, as with everybody that Berl meets, these Drs all became very enamoured of Berl..He was interested in them. They became the focus of attention, not him. He knew all about their children, their parents, their life of origin, their plans for the future..and if possible he would arrange connections so that the Dr who was also an improvisation artist would be set up to come and perform in Toronto…or the ambulance driver who wanted to get into journalism would be set up to speak with Daniel or David…and so it went….on and on and on….

The trip on the Leer jet was just fantastic and Berl was excited about it all…the pilots chatted with us and Berl chatted with the attendant Dr and male nurse and it was altogether a party-for the boys I might add. We heard all about the many They had facilities to pee for the boys but not the girl (me)..and that was pretty uncomfortable. Fortunately they warned me in advance but they didn’t take into account the fact that I am an old lady. Then there was the no food. Good thing the ambulance en route to Queretero stopped for 5 minutes so we could get tacos to go… if not for Berl, then at least for his attendants. Berl just had a great time, chatting away, laughing and being a goof….pic below….

We were supposed to arrive in Toronto Pearson airport but instead landed in Hamilton so that the pilot would not exceed his maximum on- duty time of 13 consecutive hours. He was under that time by 5 minutes. That entailed another ambulance ride from Hamilton to Toronto by yet another ambulance. Berl’s mood stayed good. Mine was less so. 

What a delightful energetic and wonderful few weeks of Berl at his mental best…but body worst.

I so miss him.

Berl never expected to be a magazine guy. He once described to me how his unexpected second career began: 

I took early retirement and had a plan to travel and write…. David [Berlin] said....lets start a magazine, With nothing else to do i said sure. … Joan Moss… knew Gerry Lazare who had told her of his friend Ken Alexander, who had a similar idea.  She had us all over for dinner, and the trio was formed.... 

The vision that Berl described was for a magazine “that can emotionally engage the public, whether with feeling of sadness, pride, amusement, indignation or anger,” and for a foundation that would be “a big tent” that would fund the mag and host talks and other activities. Of course, he added, “Tents are the traditional venue for circuses.”

There are only a couple of people The Walrus wouldn’t exist without. Berl was one of them. David says in those first months he was like a diplomat on steroids, somehow mediating every dispute so they actually got the first issue out. Once embarked, no role was as important to Berl, though, as running the internship program. He worked with Sandy Houston from the Metcalf Foundation, united in Metcalf’s mission of having an internship that was about interns. Four young people came in every six months. We checked facts, we wrote blurbs, we pitched ideas that incredibly only mostly got rejected. Even more incredibly, we were paid fairly to be there.

But it wasn’t just the opportunity that made the internship special—it was Berl. Few of us arrive at an internship knowing what we want from our careers, or from our lives, or entirely who we are. We’re looking for people to guide us and pattern ourselves after. Former interns—“pups” in Berl’s memorable formulation—who I’ve been in touch with the past two months describe him in terms like “unforgettable” and “truly singular.” One, Rebecca Silver Slayter, cast his presence just beautifully, recalling “how fondly and fiercely he championed all the young people who entered their life’s work and adult identities through the Walrus doorsill.”

I grew up in an oil-refinery suburb outside Edmonton, the son of a math teacher and a nurse, and I was alternately thrilled and intimidated to be where I was. After I was lucky enough to be kept on as an editor, Berl often drove me home after work, somehow genuinely interested in helping me sort out my life. Natalie Matutschovsky, another intern who remained particularly close with Berl, put it that when they chatted she always felt like she was talking to a skilled psychologist who could see beneath the surface of the conversation, but who never made her feel judged.

He often reminded me that he’d trained as a therapist. The Walrus, as everyone who’s worked there knows, often needed one. Josh Knelman, an editor who also worked closely with the interns, went one step further, affectionately calling Berl the Rabbi. Daniel Baird, another former editor, went one further still, describing him as a Beth Din—a kind of one-man rabbinical court.

The Talmud, though, has nothing on Canadian charity law, and in those early years the Walrus Foundation was having a hard time securing the government’s sanction, leaving the magazine in constant financial danger. Ken and Berl were working hard with our lawyer, David Stevens, to convince the bureaucrats. David told me it’s normally better in these kinds of meetings for the lawyer to do the lawyering, but Berl was so passionate, informed, and personable that he could disarm the bureaucrats. So, he talked, too. The Walrus got its foundation. 

Berl then helped put together its educational review committeee, a unique institution that endures today. He became publisher. But financial trouble was never far away. Eventually the dramas became too much, and Berl resigned, leaving it to Shelley Ambrose and a new team to build a stable big tent.

We made a huge second-retirement party for Berl at the family’s home, with practically every pup in attendance. The former interns in that house went on to work at some of the world’s most respected publications, to masters degrees and Ph.D.s, to important public-service and policy jobs, to forge Walrus marriages and have actual Walrus pups—a vast, Biblical legacy of Walrus begats. 

 Berl never stopped taking enormous pleasure in passing on word of a former intern who had a new byline or a new job or who was otherwise growing in some way. And we were eager to supply him with material. After getting a job as a climate reporter for the New York Times last month, my co-intern Chris Flavelle told me Berl would’ve been the first person he called with the news. He doubts he’d be in journalism if it weren’t for Berl’s encouragement and guidance. Berl spoke at Natalie’s wedding and officiated mine nearly three years ago today—yet another rabbinical task fulfilled. He gave my daughter her first toy piano and her first Margaret Wise Brown books.

While we were all carrying on the magazine’s legacy, Berl was, too, applying his experience there to the Literary Review of Canada and others. In those years I came to appreciate how deeply he believed in culture—how he understood the history of societies that become aggrieved and reactionary, and how important it was to him to bulid institutions that foster self-reflection and humanity. 

That belief eventually brought him back to his original retirement plan. One time he sent me an update that ended with him, for a change, saying he wondered who he was. When I probed, he spoke of a recent preoccuption:

Why, you may ask, have i become so picky about language.?? Confession. Its on my mind. Probably I should be writing. In my freshman and sophmore years in  college I was all words. A champion public speaker and debater and first prize winner of the McGill Daily short story contest. Then i got interested in rats...

He went on:

Identity is circumstantial and in that way can be provisional. Self reinvention is not required in life....but it is interesting.

Probably Berl should have been writing. He had incredible material to work with, as you all know. But rereading 15 years of correspondence with the hindsight of nearly as long as a professional editor reminded me that he could write with wit and style, too. I have to tell you one of my favorites. In the course of suggesting I arrive at an opera production of War and Peace at intermission, he wrote, “You will miss the romantic story, but get the war.” When I lightly suggested they were the same thing, he deadpanned, “i guess so...but in one of them you only die once.”

When Berl finally did resume what he called “the business of writing that has been stalled for 50 years,” he dove deep. He wrote a creative memoir and then dedicated himself to an article he felt increasingly called to write, about a professor he’d once championed who’d grown rich and famous and certain of the virtue of some reactionary ideas. 

When the article was published, many, many people read it, to his great satisfaction and pride. I was proud of you, too, Berl. You dug into yourself to produce something true, you followed through on a lifelong goal, and you stood up for your principles. You also lived up to your early ideals for The Walrus, emotionally engaging the public and challenging Canadian complacency with your own words, after many years of supporting our efforts to do the same. 

I don’t know how to say goodbye to you now. Chris Ellis, another pup who remained close to Berl well into doghood, says they often just skipped the formalities, barely getting out the word goodbye before darting away. That’s the sort of goodbye Berl preferred. After our last dinner before I moved to New York, I emailed him a heartfelt so-long, telling him how much he meant to me, and that although I knew we’d be in frequent touch, I had a hard time imagining my life not knowing he’d be around. He downplayed the parting in his initial reply: “I will be, as you point out, around… pretty much as always. Why would you imagine otherwise? That may be why its hard to imagine.”

You were right, Berl. You were around for many more years. All the rest goes without saying, but I want to say it anyway: I’m so grateful for your friendship and support—of me, of all of us who came through the Walrus doorsill. You’re so much a part of who I’ve become that it will always be hard to imagine life without you around. 

Berl and I were ardent opera fans. We attended all the COC operas at the Four Seasons and also live Met performances at Cineplex. I'd estimate that we saw about 15 operas every year.

 After every performance we used to exchange commentary and I can tell you we rarely agreed in most of our early discussions.  

I consider myself to be more of a traditionalist. I like to see operas the way they were originally performed. Berl seemed more open to innovation and had a greater appreciation for novel interpretations. So we clashed often. I am not against modernization and experimentation. But all of this needs to be done in proper context. Berl always looked for more creativity.

I loved our debates. 

Excerpts from a discussion about a recent COC production of Cosi Fan Tutte:

Tim: "The object of intelligent operatic stagecraft is to support the singers and musicians - not undermine them. In this production of Cosi Fan Tutte, the audience has enough difficulty with the recasting of the original story without being subjected to contrived gimmicks that continuously upstage the performers. Yes, that's what they are - gimmicks - to create the delusion that something important or profound is happening".

Berl: "The butterflies, the ships, they're gorgeous like the music...not distracting but enhancing the delicate sensory beauty of that opera. The classics need to be reinterpreted to keep them alive. The masked ball failed because it fought the music. In Cosi the music soared and was complemented by the visuals". 

And so we argued and the repartee went on for days.

 Yes, Berl had a refined sensory perception of the operatic world and could embrace both the music, singing and the sometime weird stagecraft. I wanted to be enveloped by the music, to listen, to enjoy, to laugh or to cry. I loath visual distractions or modifications to the librettos and settings.

 And then there was La Clemenza di Tito (which I hated).

Berl: "This could be bad news...I liked the second act.  Actually, I liked it a lot. Much more interesting treatment of character than we saw in the Met production.

Too bad Schade's replacement couldn't hold a tune...but everyone else was terrific. For further discussion.....if you are still talking to me" :-) 

Tim: "Only one word comes to my mind for both Acts - brutal! A disgraceful production from start to finish. I was on the verge of booing from the balcony. Au contraire, the staging was so awkward that character development was impossible. Annio - a joke. Tito...a wimp with a security blanket. The stage at the end looked like a Tepperman production".

And on it went. If only I could have recorded all our discussions.

But as time went by we both relented - our radically opposed views began to soften, our perceptions began to merge and after dozens and dozens of operas - we began slowly to agree on the singing, the presentation and staging with minor differences of opinion but with a growing appreciation of each other's views.

 It was a remarkable turnaround and it all began after The Marriage of Figaro.

I remarked - "Opera fundamentalists will be cringing with this version". And Berl replied - "Has it been three in a row we agree on? This production may be a turning point."

And so it was.

I will greatly miss him - especially at the opera,

Tim Kotcheff

Dear Friends,

We had a small gathering on Lucy Vincent Beach in Chilmark today, Sunday, the 23rd at 1pm.As you can see from the pictures, it was a glorious day here. We sat in the spot that Berl loved, looking out at the rock that he used to swim to. We all told stories about Berl, especially Steve and I who knew him so well. Present were: Bruce and Judy Golden and Bonnie Smolen and Jeff Nason. Steve and I were sorry not to be in Toronto at Hart House, but we felt that we honoured Berl in a way that he would have appreciated.

Lots of love to all in Toronto.

Ellen (and Steve)

Bernard Baruch Schiff (Berl or Bernie to some) died peacefully on Tuesday, April 9, 2019, two months shy of his 80th birthday. He was an emeritus professor of psychology at the University of Toronto, remembered fondly by students long since graduated. He had many passions - science, spirituality, literature, and the arts - but most of all he loved and was endlessly curious about people. He took particular pleasure and pride in mentoring young people who he affectionately called his "pups."

Berl is survived by his wife, Gissa; his daughters, Jade Schiff and Vanessa Coplan; his grandchildren, Adam and Jaimie Coplan, and Lia Schiff; and his nephews, Dov, Noah and Jeremy Schiff. He was a beloved friend to many in Toronto and abroad.

Berl's family will be forever grateful to Dr. David Hogg and the rest of Berl's care team at Princess Margaret Hospital. Donations may be made to The Princess Margaret Cancer Foundation at http://www.thepmcf.ca/ Ways-toGive/Donate-Now or by calling 416-946-6560, or 1-866-224-6560 (Option 1) directed to The Melanoma Immunotherapy Research Fund.