Cherie Smith founded November House, one of the original imprints that comprised the Association of Book Publishers of British Columbia when it was founded in the early 1970s. The inaugural meeting was held in her home. She later founded the Jewish Book Festival in Vancouver in the 1980s, serving as its chairperson and ongoing inspiration. Intimately concerned with Jewish history, Smith's motivations were primarily literary rather than religious.

Born in Saskatchewan, she moved to Vancouver to attend UBC where she became a founding member of PRISM International, a long-lived literary publication. She first worked in publishing as an editor. She started November House to publish both fiction and non-fiction, including the first books by Allan Fotheringham and Barry Broadfoot in 1972, after she was approached as a literary agent by Jake Zilber of the University of British Columbia's Department of Creative Writing in 1969. Zilber sought her advice with regards to manuscript written by a student, Penticton-born Bill O'Brien, and Smith decided to publish the novel herself as Summer of the Black Sun (November House, 1969).

She wrote three books herself including Mendel's Children: A Family Chronicle (University of Calgary Press, 1997), the story of her own Russian-Jewish immigrant family over four generations, including its immigration to the Prairies from the shtetls of Poland and Latvia in the 1890s. She also co-wrote a children's book with her granddaughter and gathered a collection of sayings and quotations shortly before her death, Such Spoke the Maven. She died in July of 1999. An endowment fund has been established in her name to ensure the longevity of the festival, plus her name has been attached to the festival itself following her death. Cherie Smith also created several other scholarships and endowments for literature and Jewish history in British Columbia.

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The painter Pnina Granirer wrote an appreciation of Cherie Smith in 2009 for the Jewish Independent. This is a portion:

Sylvia Barbara, nicknamed “Cherie” by her father, was born in in the middle of the Great Depression, in the small town of Kamsack, Sask. Her father, a general practitioner, delivered her himself, since the local obstetrician was too drunk to perform. Both parents were Jewish immigrants from Poland and Russia, now living in this tiny town of 2,000, including many Doukhobors and First Nations. As a child, Cherie became keenly aware of the racism against minorities, and saw her father trying to offer assistance to those in need at every opportunity. Growing up in Kamsack was a very long way from Cherie’s later life in Vancouver. But, as I was to find out when I got to know her better, her modest childhood was the foundation for her generosity of spirit, her lack of prejudice, her warmth and her humanity.

Slim, well-groomed, her brown-reddish hair cut short, her dress casual but of good quality, Cherie was unaffected and friendly, a mover and a shaker. Once she made up her mind about a certain activity, there was nothing that could stop her. Speaking in quick, concise words, waving her hands about, she passionately advocated her ideas.

As I said before, books were Cherie’s world. She and her husband Buddy owned a bookstore for some time and later promoted writers whenever they could. Cherie would invite writers to speak and even subsidized them by paying their expenses. She was the founder of the Jewish Book Festival, which she tirelessly supported and organized, and now bears her name.

But I digress. Let’s return to that particular sunny morning in Cherie’s living room, where she listens to me worrying about the crazy idea of publishing a book.

“How can I do this? I have never done it before, what if it fails?” I am quite anxious. Perhaps the work is not good enough, perhaps I shall lose all the money lent to me so generously by friends, and perhaps I won’t find a publisher, perhaps, perhaps. But Cherie will have none of that. Doubt and fear of failure are not in her vocabulary.

“Do it! Just do it!” she urges me.

We revisit all the risks and all the benefits of this adventure. She tells me again and again that The Trials of Eve, the largest, most daring and risky work I have ever done, has to be published; it has to be launched into the world. She cajoles, encourages and prods me into taking the plunge. She is willing to help edit my poems; she will help with information and with whatever is needed for the publication process. “Just do it!” she says again and again.

And I did do it. The book came out in due time, first as a limited edition that won the Alcuin Citation Award and, later, as an expanded soft-cover version; both a victory of Cherie’s indomitable spirit.

When Cherie became ill with the cancer that would eventually take her life, she took it in her usual commonsensical style, bravely fighting her way through without complaining. While visiting her, she told me about her swimming routine at Kitsilano Pool and about her efforts to publish her own book as a special gift to her grandchildren. We would take long walks on the beach, soaking in the beauty of English Bay. She, as usual, continued asking about my activities rather than talking about herself, her warmth and interest flooding over me like sunshine. Later, when she lost her hair due to the harsh chemotherapy she endured, she bought an elegant wig, always putting on a brave front, always concerned about her appearance, but almost never talking about her illness. Only when it became apparent that she was losing the battle did she begin making remarks about luck and fate. She became obsessed with the urgency of finishing the book that she was working on, and kept writing as much as she was capable of in her condition. The book was published before her death.

My last visit with Cherie in her white, sunny living room, took place shortly before her death. Her illness had taken a huge toll. Her body, devastated by the disease, was like a shadow of itself, transparently thin, her face lined, her voice a whisper. She still wanted to know what was happening in my life, but this time she also talked about her own death. I could barely answer her, my voice choking in my throat, tears welling in my eyes. We said goodbye and I left. It was the last time I saw my friend, Cherie.

After this, she refused all visits other than family. She wanted us to remember her as the vibrant, energetic and lively person she had been. And this is how I remember her. But each time I walk past her house, which has now been sold, a dull ache in my chest reminds me that I have lost a very rare, true and irreplaceable friend.

[BCBW 2020] Alan Twigg / Holocaust Lit