back. She graduated last June, and has gone on close to a dozen job interviews. Greenberg’s struggle to find work, even
with a graduate degree, is indicative of an economic climate that has thrust many into poverty in the past two years. Jo Michaels, manager of communications at JF&CS, has seen an increase in people applying for aid – particularly amongst the elderly – while her available funds have stagnated. “We’ve actually had to stop giving because
we don’t have anymore funding,” she says with visible emotion. “Tree hundred and ninety one seniors accessed our Holocaust Survivors Emergency Fund last year, but that’s a decrease of 20 per cent because of depletion of funding, not because of depletion of need. It’s a constant struggle for more funding. And it’s absolutely heartbreaking, because the last thing you want to do is put these people on another list.” Part of the pressure felt by Michaels and
While Greenberg’s family life remained
“I don’t like to ask you for a dime, I don’t like to ask him for a dollar, I don’t even like to ask for a cigarette from nobody.” Sammy “Solo” Kohn
chaotic, education became a way of proving her self-worth. Te tall, lanky teenager threw herself into her studies at Brock University with near-obsessive fervor, oſten studying two weeks before a test. She was months away from completing her Master’s degree when her fiancé leſt and she fell into a clini- cal depression so severe there were times she couldn’t leave her apartment for weeks. Help from her family was not an option. Her fa- ther died when she was in high school, and dealings with her mother remain complex. “It’s a toxic relationship,” says Greenberg,
matter-of-factly. “She’s like poison, and I can’t live with her, so that wasn’t even an option.” Te honours student was forced to seek
temporary financial assistance to finish her studies. While she is enormously grateful, the experience has been difficult. “I felt ter- rible. I still feel terrible,” she says, recounting the first time she approached the agency for help. “When I have to go there to pick up my cheques every month, it’s embarrassing. I put my sunglasses on, I slip in, I slip out. I don’t want to see anyone. It’s uncomfortable.” Greenberg insists the first thing she will do once she gets back on her feet is give
Photography by Geoff George
other agency workers regarding supporting the elderly in Toronto, particularly survivors, has to do with the realities of an imperfect system. When the Material Claims Confer- ence was set up in the early 1950s, its goal was to procure restitution for victims of the Holocaust. In many cases, it succeeded, and thousands of Jewish agencies worldwide rely on grants to assist their survivor populations. Countless others are still hoping to receive a response to their application before they suc- cumb to old age. In the meantime, a staggering number of
survivors, like Sammy “Solo” Kohn, are living out their final years in poverty. Sitting at his favourite coffee shop near the tiny downtown apartment he rents for $480 a month, Kohn pulls out the frayed, yellowing envelope that contains the record of his Claims Confer- ence application. A letter dated July 19, 2001, confirms his application was received. It’s the last he’s heard from them. “I don’t mind,” he says with a good-natured chuckle. “At my age, what do I need anymore?” Poverty isn’t foreign to the 70-year-old Bu-
charest native. Kohn was five years old when he met his father for the first time. Kohn Sr. had been shipped off to a Nazi labour camp before his son was born, and even though he was lucky to survive, he was leſt with noth- ing. “We didn’t have any food, and it was very hard [to] find vegetables to eat,” he says in his heavily accented English. Tey were caught at the Polish border
trying to flee the country, and were sent home. Only they didn’t have a home. Under
communist rule, Kohn’s family, like many others, lived in a state of abject poverty dif- ficult for North Americans to comprehend. Te family of four shared a single mattress in a tiny cellar until the mother died and there was a little more room. Kohn ended up in Toronto on a visa in
1968 aſter life in Romania became unbear- able. With his third-grade education, he was only able to procure wage-labour work. He happily toiled as a taxi driver until an accident 10 years ago damaged his back and ended his career. It was the first time the tough, ruddy- faced survivor had asked for help in his life. “I was [always] the man with the bud-
get,” he says with an easy grin. “I don’t like to ask you for a dime, I don’t like to ask him for a dollar, I don’t even like to ask for a cigarette from nobody.” Kohn manages to comfortably stretch the
few hundred dollars he lives on each month because it’s more than he ever had growing up. His only vice is smoking, and he spends most of his days at the “JCC” with friends, or chatting with the cast of neighbourhood characters who have become like family. At night, he goes home and watches movies on the TV for which he pays $30 a month. He considers himself very lucky.
fn *Names and details have been changed
to protect her privacy. Jordana Divon is a freelance writer in
Toronto. Looking to Help
Check out these agencies that help Toronto’s Jewish community
United Jewish Appeal 416-635-2883
Jewish Family & Child Services 416-638-7800
United Chesed of Toronto 416-250-7373
Ve’ahavta 416-964-7698
National Council of Jewish Women 416-633-5100
Hadassah-WIZO 416-630-8373
Out of the Cold 416-669-OOTC
MAZON Canada 416-783-7554
STUFF Canada 416-596-6822
Kehilla Residential Programme 416-932-1212
Winter 2011 friday night 35
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