Features
Bygone Winnipeg: A fictitous story based on true events: University of Manitoba Faculty of Medicine 1932-1944
By DAVID TOPPER Call me a witness. I was there and heard almost everything that’s relevant to this story.
Yet, thinking deeper, I guess you could call me a spy – well, at least, some may say that, for there was an element of skulduggery in my employment situation. It was all because of my father, who changed my name when I was born. Of course, we’re all born with a surname, but―
Wait. Let’s first go back to my grandfather, Moshe Levinstein, who was born in Russia, and who as a young man experienced a small pogrom – small in terms of later ones – which was enough to convince him to emigrate as fast as he could. Several people were killed, a house was burned down, and there was a rape – that ‘small’ event drove him to leave Russia, forever. He never looked back, even when Winnipeg, Canada turned out not to be quite the paradise he expected. Because he quickly found that anti-Semitism was endemic.
My father, Solomon Levinstein, while growing up, saw the struggle his parents went through being Jews in a Christian country (with the English majority Protestant, and the minority French Catholic), and he wanted to protect me as best he could when I was born. He wanted me to fit into the social fabric more than he ever could. And since I turned out to be a girl, there were even more barriers on my horizon – ‘closed doors,’ he called it. He told us that he was thinking about all this when I was still in my mother’s womb. You see, he liked to ‘plan ahead,’ which was another of his favourite phrases.
Oh, speaking of being in the womb: my grandmother died when my mother was eight months pregnant with me, and so I was supposed to be named some variation of Minnie Levinstein, as is the Jewish tradition. But since my father was obsessed with my fitting in better than he did, and he also wanted me to get through some otherwise ‘closed doors’ – I was named Mildred Evans. He said Evans and ‘Levins’ rhyme, and so do Millie and Minnie. It was also a nice Aryan-sounding name, “as the Germans would say,” he said.
Mind you, while growing up as Mildred Evans, I nonetheless didn’t hide my Jewishness. Indeed, I often went to synagogue on Saturday/Sabbath. But then, I also often went to church on Sunday and―
Um, I guess I need to explain that. You see, my best friend was Mary O’Brian, which tells you that she was probably Irish Catholic, which she was. Now, here’s my perspective in all of this. I was very precocious and very smart and I read a lot. I liked languages. On weekends I enjoyed Hebrew in the Synagogue and Latin in the Church. Two ancient languages, one dead except for the Christian Mass, and the other kept alive in prayer and Torah study. Plus, you must remember that Latin was still taught in schools at this time; it was part of a Liberal Arts education in the first half of the 20th century. Many universities required High School Latin for entrance to their freshman classes. As well, to me, the Mass was like an opera, with singing and those glorious organ pipes vibrating and echoing throughout the church. Mary and I, by-the-by, went to the beautiful Cathedral in St. Boniface, with the astonishing and huge Rose window. You see, there were no organs in any synagogue. And so, it was not so strange for this Jew to enjoy the Catholic Mass as a musical event. Think of Bach, a devout Lutheran, who wrote his wonderful Mass in B-minor.
Anyway, to me the Mass was a show, and it was free – well not completely free, since the church always passed around a collection basket near the end of the service – a sort of pay-what-may type thing, you could say. I remember that Mary, when I took her to her first synagogue service, was surprised that there was no collection at the end, especially since after the service there was an oneg in the social hall, with food galore. But I digress.
The service of the Mass, to me, was not entirely unfamiliar, since there were many prayers and texts that borrowed passages from what they called The Old Testament: many of the sayings of the prophets, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and others. “But what about the stuff on Jesus?” you may be asking, eh? Well, you see, I read a lot of history, as I told Mary – and I must say she was shocked when I first told her this; although eventually she (well, sort of) agreed with me – well, I told her that Jesus was not a Christian, but a Jew named Yeshua, and he always was; ‘Jesus’ was the later Latinized name. He had some differences with the Jewish hierarchy at the time, along with problems with the Romans who occupied the Holy Land, so much so that they (the Romans) crucified him. It was after his death that Christianity was born, due in large part to the preaching and writing of a Jew name Saul, whose name was later Latinized to ‘Paul’ after he had a vision of the resurrected Yeshua/Jesus. Saul/Paul made a strong case for rejecting many Jewish practices (such as circumcision), so much so that his sect broke free from its Jewish root. They became known as ‘Christians,’ since Paul preached that Yeshua was the real messiah (or ‘anointed one’), which in Greek is ‘Kristos,’ later Latinized to ‘Christus.’
Mary laughed when I said that therefore you might call the birth of Christianity a Jewish conspiracy. “Oh Millie,” she said. “You’re so smart it sometimes scares me. What is going to happen to you?”
Good question.
So, what did happen to me? Well it helped being smart, that’s for sure. Very smart, indeed. But not pushy. No, not pushy or impudent in any way. Not at all. You see, I was (and still am) happy with less – a lot less than I probably could have had. Yes, I lived (and still live) parsimoniously.
Well, I got a university education with excellent grades (as you might expect) but I didn’t go any further, although I could have, and was encouraged to do so. But I saw the university system as a barrier to women. And I was not inclined to fight the system. As I said, I was satisfied with less. While still a student at the University of Manitoba, I got part-time secretarial jobs, since I was a fabulous typist and proof reader. Even before I graduated, I was offered a full-time position as a secretary in the English Department, since their long-time-serving woman was thinking of retiring. And in the end, after graduation, I got the job.
It was the best decision of my life, looking back on it. You see, in this job I could go home at 5pm to my modest house not far from the university and forget about the job until the next morning. In the warmer weather I could walk to and fro; although in the dead of winter I took the short bus ride. After all, it was Winnipeg. And at home I could read whatever I wanted. Play the piano. Do my art work: drawing (pencil and/or pen & ink) and painting (only watercolour). Listen to the radio. And I read as much as I wanted: lots of books, magazines, and newspapers. I got the New York Times Sunday edition in the mail every week; it was a bit late, of course, but there were so many articles of interest that it was a source of almost endless reading throughout the week. For example, I recently came across this quote from the famous Albert Einstein in an article about him: “Perhaps it is due to anti-Semitism that we can preserve ourselves as a race; at least, this is what I believe.” I’ve been thinking a lot lately about this, especially in light of what I am going to tell you later. Incidentally, when I was a student, there were no Jewish professors on the faculty. Even as late as the mid-1940s, there were still only four Jewish professors.
In contrast to my life, my boss’s home life was filled with lectures to prepare, and even on weekends there were papers to mark, exams to compose and later to mark. And so it went. He often told me I was fortunate to be able to start a book and just read it at my leisure, right through if I wished. He confided in me that he seldom had time to read half of what he wanted to. I believe he liked talking to me, since I was smart. He often asked my advice regarding even the content of the texts that I was typing for him. We got along swimmingly, as you might surmise. We had a very good rela―
Okay, before you start fantasizing further, let me stop you. There was nothing beyond our professional relationship. Nothing at all. Throughout the university, in all my jobs – nothing. No flirting, never. I had no affairs in those years in various secretarial positions, if that’s what you’re thinking. And here’s why: I am not attractive. I knew this in High School, and was satisfied with it. Remember, I like a simple life, and I discovered that this unattractive state makes life uncomplicated – or, at least, less complicated than it otherwise might be. I could see among my classmates in school that the (let’s call them) ‘attractive’ girls had a life that was a roller-coaster ride. Up, happy, being gleeful; down, way down, when a guy dumped them. Yes, I saw some girls get really down; had to take pills; some even admitted to hospital. I thought: who needs this crap? I don’t want those ups and downs; I want a straight ride, flat. “Yes, just flat,” as I told Mary. She laughed, “Well that’s not the only thing that’s flat for you, huh”? We both had a good laugh at that. Remember we were best friends, and each could take a joke.
So, I tell you: my so-called ‘unattractiveness’ was a gift. Which I took and ran with, you might say. Today, you see: I wear no make-up, have a simple straight hair-do extending below my ears but not touching my shoulders, wear loose and non-flashy blouses, have only skirts far below my knees, and I wear sensible shoes – namely, flats (oh, that word again). All this ensured that my relationships with the men under whom I worked at the university would remain strictly professional. Let’s put it this way. I always had a good night’s solo sleep, if you know what I mean.
Of course, this is not to say that I never had an intimate relationship with anyone, but rather that it was not with any of my bosses – and I will leave it at that, for this has gone far beyond the original topic. But – and I emphasize this – all this is not a digression, for I very much want you to know about me and my life at the University of Manitoba, so as to put this story into context and to show how and why what I am going to tell you should not only be believed, but also taken seriously.
Further, to set the stage: I got along well with my fellow all-female secretaries and other staff at the university. My plainness was interpreted as a sort of prissiness, which is not true, but they didn’t know that. As Mildred Evans, I was asked what church I went to, and I told them St. Boniface Cathedral, since I did go to it when my friend Mary and I were kids, so strictly speaking my answer was no lie. Although I know their question had a different meaning. (Incidentally, Mary is now married and living in Toronto, raising her four kids.) They then asked why I go all the way to the other city to attend church and I told them it was about the music and the organ. They understood, and asked no more.
Also, due to my modest behaviour, they questioned why I was not a nun, and it led to them jokingly calling me Sister Millie. I said there was no such St. Mildred, although this may not be true, but then what do Protestants know about saints? – since Luther, Calvin, and the others eschewed them, along with the Virgin Mary, from their theology. And speaking of joking: being ‘Sister Millie’ among these Protestants, I was in an opportune position to reprimand them when they occasionally told anti-Semitic jokes or made similar remarks. And I did. As an art-lover, I also took the occasions to lecture them on the destruction of so much art by the Protestants during the Reformation: defacing and burning paintings, smashing statues, destroying stained-glass windows, and more. They knew none of this; it was a shock to them. They were not taught such things in Sunday-school, they said.
And that brings me to the reason for telling you all this in the first place. For, as I began, I said I was a witness, or even a spy. But for what? Well, for what may be called the backroom conversations. The secret disc―
Wait, I’m getting ahead. Uh, let’s start here: After many years with the English Department, I was promoted to being secretary for the new Dean of Medicine, Dr. Warren Matthews. It began for me at end of term in late May 1932. Although the Dean’s term began in September, he occasionally came around during the summer months to bring things (books, files, and such) so that his office was ready in the fall. He got to know me a bit and seemed very pleased and comfortable with me. His wife, Eleanor, even came with him one summer day – I believe, to check me out. She was nicely dressed, looking very Anglo-Saxonish prim and proper, if there is such a thing. When she saw me, she first looked me straight in my eyes and, while she was saying some pleasantries, she panned down my body to my feet and back up to my face, and ended with a self-assured smile on her face. I passed, since I was clearly no threat to her sexuality, whatever there was of it.
I spent the summer getting adjusted to the new office, going through the files and sometimes reorganizing them my way, and changing some things around in the physical space of the office. For one thing, I preferred keeping my office door to the university closed, but with a COME IN sign, when I was there. I didn’t like the constant background noise and chatter, as well as obtrusive eyes walking past an open door. That summer, I also had lots of typing to do both for the new Dean and for others in the Department of Medicine.
By the fall, when the Dean came in for the new term, we could get right to work. And we did. We quickly developed a good working relationship. He was obviously comfortable with me, for he shortly said that I should just call him ‘Warren.’ Interestingly, he liked me keeping my door closed, since he preferred keeping his door open. He said he was a bit claustrophobic, plus he liked to hear my typing – it had a musical rhythm that he found restful. Importantly, this meant that I was privy to confidential remarks by the Dean and those who ran the administration of the university when they were in his office. In short, I was able to eavesdrop. And eavesdrop I did! And that’s why I’m telling you this.
But this spying came later. The reason I am telling you this is because of an event that took place not long after he got settled into his new office. I can still remember the day. It was first thing in the morning, and after the “how are you” etc., he told me to look at the records of students admitted to the Medical School in terms of their ethnic origin, particularly noting how many of them were Jews. “We already have too many Jews, Millie,” he said. It was a jolt, and although I’m sure I showed no visible signs of my reaction, internally I was shaken. So much so that I almost blew my cover. Yes, even as Mildred Evans, Sister Millie, it―
Well, it’s hard to explain. I was tempted, of course, to ask why, … but, of course, I didn’t. “I’ll get to it right away, Warren,” was the best thing I could say at the time, and I turned away walking toward a filing cabinet, as any loyal Anglo-Saxon secretary would do, but with shaking hands that I hid from my boss.
I found that on the application form there was a line for ‘racial origin,’ and so I was able to do my job. I discovered that throughout the 1920s there were usually about 64 students per year admitted, with 18-25% being Jewish. Other ethnic groups also came – Ukrainian, Polish, German, and so forth, but in smaller percentages. Most, not surprisingly, were Anglo-Saxon – good English stock, according to Warren. When I presented my finding to him, I added another category, and I prefaced it by saying that I hoped he didn’t think I was being impudent in doing so. It was the number of women admitted, which was very low – often none, sometimes one or two. Warren smiled and said it was fine for me to be “conscious of my sex” and he blushed after he said it. I think hearing himself saying the word ‘sex’ out-loud to me, well, it jolted him – the way, on the previous day, his word ‘Jews’ jolted me.
Subsequently, my eavesdropping elicited more examples of anti-Semitism endemic to the faculty, as he chatted in his office with other administrators, keeping his door open. They all agreed. “Too many pushy Jews.” “Since they invariably get high grades in school, if we don’t put a lid on the enrolment, soon they will all be Jews.” “If we don’t do something now, well Jews will take over the faculty.” “First the Jews and then Ukrainians or Poles.” “At least the Frenchies have their own college in St. Boniface.” And so it went – a litany of bigotry, discrimination, and prejudice straight from the mouths of the administrative faculty to the ears of Mildred Evans. At most, a few made mild queries as to the efficacy of it, and the possibility of “aggressive Jewish lawyers” filing a legal case against the practice.
In the end there was a quota system initiated for all incoming classes, keeping the Jewish enrolment low. In 1936, for example, only nine got in. In later years even fewer. Out of 60 or more students, sometimes only four to six were Jewish. Of course, this meant that Anglo-Saxon students with far lower grades than Jewish students were admitted in place of them. And this was for a school to train physicians, dealing with life and death. “Just what we need – dumber doctors,” I told my Jewish friends. You see, I didn’t hide my clandestine information. I told anyone who would listen to me. Unfortunately, where it might make a difference, I got indifference, brought on by fear. Rabbis were afraid to do anything. They went along with the quota rule. “Don’t make waves, things could get worse,” was a standard response. Yes, they went along with the quota system. “Don’t look like a ‘pushy Jew,’ at least we get the ones that we get,” I was told. “Look, honey, be happy with four to six doctors a year,” I was told to my face by a rabbi’s wife. The same thing from the Jewish establishment. The B’nai Brith was afraid to do anything because it might backfire and only make matters worse. Similarly, for the Canadian Jewish Congress, which was reluctant to get involved in this Winnipeg issue. “What wimps,” I told my friends. I did the best I could. I didn’t blow my cover.
For me this thing came to a head in 1943, when the med school again turned down many Jewish and some other ‘ethnic’ students, so as to admit Anglo-Saxon students with (in this case) not only lower grades – but they also admitted some students who didn’t even pass their university exams and thus were required to go to summer school! To me, this was the last straw. The Jewish students’ Avakah Zionist Society got wind of this and began to bring all this out into the open. They eventually got the help of a Jewish lawyer and, yes, a fuss was raised and pressure was put on the Board of the University of Manitoba.
Finally, in 1944, after a dozen years of overt discrimination, the Medical School removed the racial and religious categories in their application. The quota rule finally ended. I celebrated with my Jewish friends. And, yes, Mildred “Prissy” Evans got a little tipsy.
Speaking of celebrating. In 1949, Dr. Warren Matthews was awarded an Honourary Doctor of Laws for his dedicated service to the University. I was invited to a private party for him, but I made up some excuse as to why I couldn’t make it. You see, I was afraid that if I did go, I would not be able to control myself, and proper Mildred Evans, aka Sister Millie, would perform the very unladylike act of making a scene by copiously spitting into the party’s punch bowl.
* * *
Features
Israeli Government Report Ranks World’s 10 Most Influential Antisemites
Israel’s Ministry of Diaspora Affairs and Combating Antisemitism published this week its official ranking of the 10 most influential antisemitic figures in the world in 2025, and the No. 1 spot was given to social media influencer Dan Bilzerian, who is running for US Congress in Florida.
The Armenian-American entrepreneur and US military veteran is a prominent critic of Israel and Judaism who has promoted antisemitic conspiracy theories and Holocaust denial. He has said he wants to “kill Israelis” and thinks Judaism is “terrible.” He recently claimed antisemitism is a “made-up term” and there is a “big Jewish supremacy problem” in the United States. He formally filed paperwork earlier this month to run as a Republican and unseat incumbent Jewish Rep. Randy Fine in Florida’s 6th Congressional District.
Swedish climate activist Greta Thunberg is the world’s second most influential antisemite, according to Israel’s Ministry of Diaspora Affairs, which highlighted her use of terms such as “genocide,” “siege,” and “mass starvation” in reference to Israel’s military actions in the Gaza Strip.
Third place was given to Egyptian comedian and former television host Bassem Youssef, followed by far-right American political commentator Candace Owens in fourth place and Palestinian-British journalist and editor Abdel Bari Atwan in fifth.
The list includes American imam Omar Suleiman, Denmark-based doctor Anastasia Maria Loupis – who has shared online conspiracy theories about Jews and Israel – far-right commentator and white nationalist Nick Fuentes, and conspiracist Ian Carroll.
Rounding out the top 10 is far-right podcaster and former Fox News host Tucker Carlson, who regularly promotes antisemitic conspiracy theories about Jewish influence.
Israel said the 10 most “prominent influencers in the global antisemitic and anti-Zionist arena in 2025” were selected based on “both the severity of their actions/statements and the scope of their influence” related to their activities last year. “Each of them has expressed antisemitic views or promoted false information related to Jews, Israel, or both,” the ministry explained. The list does not include individuals with formal political or government positions.
Each individual was ranked based on their influence on social media, but also other factors such as their repeated appearances on news channels, “perceived influence on public opinion, and prominence in certain communities.” The ministry also took into consideration each person’s “level of impact and risk,” which includes how often they upload antisemitic and anti-Israeli posts on social media. The report was released ahead of Israel’s Holocaust Remembrance Day, known in Hebrew as Yom HaShoah.
In a separate section of the report dedicated to antisemitic and anti-Israel influencers in the US, Israel’s Ministry of Diaspora Affairs singled out YouTuber and children’s educator Ms. Rachel, who has “increasingly used her social media accounts to amplify pro-Palestinian messages and criticize Israel.”
“Her posts have been interpreted by pro-Israel organizations as one-sided and hostile to Israel, and organizations such as StopAntisemitism have accused her of spreading anti-Israel or pro-Hamas propaganda and called for an examination of her activities,” the ministry stated.
Features
4000 Quarters for my Uncle Lew – a new story by David Topper
Introduction: David Topper has been featured on this website many times. His stories about Albert Einstein have drawn huge audiences, but David’s interests range far beyond writing about science. Most recently, we have featured stories about “Jews in strange places.”
If you want to find all of David Topper’s stories that have appeared on this site, just enter his name in our search engine (the magnifying glass). Here’s David’s latest story – but be warned: As David told me, it’s a “story”:
I adored my Uncle Lew. He was one of many uncles in the large extended family on my mother’s side. Of course, this means that there were many aunts too. But there were not many cousins – at least, none my age. And I was an only child; so I guess you could call me an “only cousin” too. At least when I was very young – say, from ages 6 through 12 or so – until many cousins were eventually born. In all, it seems that I was alone, in those early years.
But I’m digressing already, and I just want to tell you about my grandmother’s brother, my Uncle Lew. You see, he lived in the same city when I was very young, and he came to visit a lot – especially on Sundays, when there was a large gathering of the extended family at my grandmother’s home, with lots of food. He came with his wife, Aunt Lil. But it was Lew who was especially nice to me. He always came with jokes; jokes that the adults laughed at – and I did too, but often not really knowing what was funny.
Most importantly, for me, sometime during the visit, Uncle Lew would sneak up behind me and put his hand in the right side-pocket of my trousers. I knew what was happening, and so I’d just walk away to a quiet part of the house, reach inside my pocket, and pull out a shiny quarter. Rubbing it in my hands, thinking about what I might buy, and putting it back in my pocket – I was happy, and set for the week to come. You must realize that this was sometime in the late 1940s and into the 1950s – and a quarter was worth a lot to a kid. These were the days when a penny could buy a nice treat at the candy store nearby where I lived. And, well you do the math: a quarter was worth 25 pennies. Yes, I adored Uncle Lew, although I’m not sure I would have used that word at the time.
Speaking of money. I remember that the family, especially the men, talked a lot about money. I’m not sure that many of them had a lot of it, since most were of the working class. Maybe that’s why they talked about it. Although I suspect that rich people spend a lot of time talking about money too. Yet, what do I know?
I mention this because, at some point – I don’t remember the date or my age – but Uncle Lew and Aunt Lil moved to another city. Thus: no more shiny quarters in my pocket at the Sunday dinners. Instead, I listened to the talk, mainly among the men, about Uncle Lew. And as best I could surmise: Uncle Lew owed people money that he didn’t have, and so he had to skedaddle to save his skin. It made me think about my quarters, and if I had put them in the bank, maybe I could have helped Uncle Lew pay back his debts. But now it was too late. Uncle Lew was gone and I spent all the quarters on myself – my selfish self, I thought sadly.
But Uncle Lew was not completely out of my life. A few years later he came to town for a short visit. He came for a weekend; and had Sunday dinner with the family. I guess he thought it was safe enough. And nothing happened. So, he did it again, a few months later. And so it went. Thus, Uncle Lew was not out of my life completely. And yes, a quarter was deposited in my pocket on the Sunday dinners. As well, by now, I had a bank account; and I occasionally put Uncle Lew’s quarters in the bank – just in case he might need a loan someday, I thought.
Oh, I forgot to mention: he now came alone. From the talk of the adults, I figured out that he and Aunt Lil were divorced – something my mother later explained to me, because in those days it was not a common occurrence. And people were often embarrassed to talk about it.
Now fast forward several years to the late 1950s, when I was in High School. One day Uncle Lew appeared out of nowhere, carrying all that he owned in a few suitcases. I don’t know why, but he stayed with us. Being an only child, I had a room of my own and so the family got a cot from the basement and they put it in my room. I was okay with this, since I always liked Uncle Lew and was glad to know that he was safe with us.
Our first night together – I in my bed and he a few feet away in the cot – was memorable. Because, in the middle of the night, I woke up and saw a spark of light moving around the room near Uncle Lew’s cot. I guess I forgot to tell you that Uncle Lew was a smoker. Of course, smoking was common in those days, so it was no big thing that he smoked. In fact, if you watch any movie from that period, every time people walk into a room and sit down to talk, someone takes out a pack of cigarettes and they all light up. But I digress, again. Anyway, as you may have surmised, the spark of light moving around in the dead of night was Uncle Lew having a smoke. He was so addicted to cigarettes that he couldn’t get through a night’s sleep without one. And so it went: night after night.
Also, at the time he moved in with me, I was working on building a model airplane out of balsa wood. I usually worked on this in the evenings, after I did all my homework. The parts were strewn across a table in my room, and Uncle Lew often watched me assemble the plane – saying he hoped to see the plane actually fly someday. He said he enjoyed watching me put the thing together (since he seemed to have nothing else to do), and I enjoyed the conversations. I glued pieces of balsa wood together and he smoked cigarettes, depositing the ashes in a tray on my table.
In a short time, I came to understand why Uncle Lew was here. When I was at school during the day, my relatives were taking turns driving Uncle Lew to the hospital for treatments. In those days, people didn’t talk about some things directly. Especially cancer, which was a word that was often spoken in a hushed voice. So that was it; he had lung cancer.
At the same time, Uncle Lew was seeing a dentist for the pain he was having with a tooth in the right side of his mouth. He showed it to me one day, while I was working on my airplane. He was sure that the dentist knew what he was doing, and Uncle Lew was looking forward to getting it removed and replaced with a new tooth. We didn’t talk about the cancer, but looking back on this I can only surmise that Uncle Lew was in denial – or he was overly optimistic about the cancer treatments.
In a short time, the tooth was removed and replaced by the false one. Uncle Lew was elated, and told me that it was the best $1000 he ever spent. Yes, $1000 for the tooth. I don’t know where he got the money. And I’m afraid to ask, for obvious reasons. But I now also question the ethics of that dentist, allowing a patient undergoing cancer treatments to spend so much money. But maybe the dentist didn’t know. Then again, where were my relatives in all this? I am only thinking of this now. As for all things in life while growing up: what is, is reality for that time, and you just go with the flow. Only later, looking back, do you see the quirks and foibles of the past.
Indeed, did I think of helping Uncle Lew with his dental bill? I had a bank account. And some of that money was from deposits of Uncle Lew’s quarters. I don’t know. What I do remember is that not long after the new tooth was planted in his mouth, relieving him of that pain, the cancer got worse – and he spent the rest of his days in the hospital. And that’s where he died.
At the funeral I wanted to mourn. To grieve at the loss of this beloved uncle, who lived with me in the last stage of his life.
But I kept thinking about that tooth – that damned $1000 tooth. While saying the prayer for the dead, the Kaddish, I wanted to concentrate on the meaning of the prayer – even though I couldn’t read Hebrew. But that costly tooth kept flashing in front of me – like the spark of Uncle Lew’s cigarette in the middle of the night.
Even when the body was lowered into the grave, and I took my turn throwing several shovels of dirt over Uncle Lew’s plain wooden coffin – in my mind, I was doing the math: how many quarters are there in $1000?
In a way, on that day, and in my mind, I really buried a tooth – and it just so happened that a body came along with it.
My one consolation in all this is that about a few weeks after the funeral, I finished building my airplane; and I took it out to an empty ball-field near where I lived. Just me and my airplane.
The propeller was attached to a rubber band, and so I wound it up and gave it a push. It took off, rising up, almost as high as the trees beyond the outfield. Then it banked a bit toward the left; and, after heading back towards me, it moved in a circle – almost overhead. It continued circling – rather as if it were caught in a tornado – moving down and down.
When it crashed into a heap of shards of balsa wood right next to me standing on the pitcher’s mound … I laughed, a deep laugh – a laugh that turned into crying. A deep cry – a cry I sorely needed.
Sitting in that empty field next to my shattered airplane – looking up and beyond the trees – I screamed to the sky. “There are 4000 quarters in $1000.”
I walked home, and went to my room. Sitting at my empty table, I said to myself out loud. “I guess I should build another airplane. What do you think Uncle Lew? Let’s go to the store and use some of those quarters to buy another model airplane. Maybe this one won’t be jinxed. What do you think?”
But before leaving the house – and for the first time since Uncle Lew died – I was able to fold up that cot and put it back in the basement.
Features
Part 1 of the story of the delusional Winnipeg con man who actually believed his own elaborate con and led one victim in Africa to consider committing suicide
The first part of a multi-series story
By BERNIE BELLAN
Introduction
The story you’re about to read originally began as a work of non-fiction. Although everything in this story is true, I’ve changed the names of most of the individuals mentioned in this story – to protect their identities.
This story is about a very sick man who lives in Winnipeg and who has caused terrible damage to many different people over a long period of time by promising he would invest in projects with different individuals. The reality, however, was that the person making all those promises was – and still is, deeply delusional. In fact, while he has very little money, for years he has believed he was someone of immense wealth – and has been telling people all over the world that phoney story. Further, because he is actually highly intelligent and, at one point, had a very successful business career, he has been quite adept at convincing different people all over the world who were looking for someone to help invest in their particular projects that he would invest in those projects.
I originally posted that story – in two parts, on two separate days, to this website in early February 2026. When I posted that story though, I didn’t hide the name of the person who is now the subject of this story. Two days after the first part of that story appeared on this website, however, I received a warning email from a lawyer – who happens to be someone I’ve known for a long time, but who also explained that he’s a cousin of the individual who was the subject of my story. In that email the lawyer wrote that, unless I removed that story from my website immediately, I could be sued for defamation.
That lawyer said that he was acting for the parents of the man about whom I had written my story. Receiving that email incensed me because, as you read on, you will see that many of the individuals who suffered greatly as a result of what had happened to them when they were contacted by the “con man” about whom this story is written, had attempted to reach out to the con man’s parents, asking them to do something to keep their son from continuing to deceive individuals with promises that he would invest in the various projects which these individuals hoped to see succeed.
But – that email had the desired effect. As I will explain, I’ve had previous experience with being threatened with a defamation lawsuit and I had no desire to go through that experience again. So, I took the story down.
This story though, was something I was very ambivalent about writing in the first place because it’s about someone who suffers from a very serious mental disorder and, in my career as a journalist, I’ve preferred to stay away from doing medical stories, especially ones that relate to psychiatric illnesses. I have had writers who specialize in medical stories work for me and I know how much effort they would put into understanding what it was they were writing about when it came to specific illnesses. It’s time consuming to do the necessary research and not easy for a writer who doesn’t have a medical background to understand the terminology involved in doing those kinds of stories.
This story, therefore, is not intended to offer a deep dive into the one particular form of mental disorder that, it seems apparent, has affected the principal subject of this story – in this case a delusional disorder – or psychosis. I don’t know his medical history, so when I say that he has a delusional disorder, I’m offering that assessment based entirely on his behaviour, not on any actual medical reports.
In speaking with his mother many years ago, after I had first met the man who is the subject of this story, I was told by her that her son is bi-polar. Whether he is or is not bi-polar though, he is totally delusional. About that, there can be no doubt. Further, his behaviour clearly fits a diagnosis of a delusional psychosis, so I am going to refer to him throughout this story as someone who is suffering from a delusional psychosis. For the purpose of this story, I’ve given him a name which is not his real name: Fred Devlin.
I have no idea what may have triggered the delusion that so clearly manifests itself in Devlin’s behaviour, but the harm he has caused to so many people over the years is a clear indication that his disorder has not been brought under control or, even if it has been brought under control at times, it couldn’t have been for very long, since I spoke to many individuals who had been contacted by Devlin, going back quite a few years – all of whom told similar stories of being totally deceived by him.
I won’t pretend to understand what may have led Devlin to become so totally delusional that he can no longer distinguish fantasy from reality. He has been hospitalized many times, according to individuals with whom I spoke, but it is apparent that even when he’s been hospitalized, he still behaves in a delusional manner.
According to material found on the internet – “Delusional disorder is a psychiatric condition characterized by the presence of one or more fixed, false beliefs (delusions) lasting for at least one month, without other prominent psychotic symptoms like hallucinations or disorganized thought. Individuals often function normally apart from the delusion, which can be non-bizarre (situations that could occur in real life)….Their delusions are not caused from drugs or general disorders.”
“Delusional psychosis (or delusional disorder) is treated primarily through a combination of antipsychotic medications and psychotherapy, such as cognitive-behavioral therapy (CBT), often requiring long-term management. Treatment aims to reduce symptoms, improve functioning, and build trust, as individuals frequently lack insight into their condition and may resist care.”
I don’t know enough about Devlin to know what kind of treatment he may have received over the years but, whatever treatments there may have been, they clearly didn’t work. He has carried on a long pattern of promising substantial financial support to a great many different individuals – who put their trust in him, often signed contracts with him and, in many cases, spent huge numbers of hours working on projects, only to learn that it was all for naught because Devlin was a total fraud. Many of those stories will be told in the following pages.
Further, when he has been confronted over his lies, Devlin has consistently lashed out at anyone who would dare suggest he’s delusional, threatening those individuals with lawsuits or other forms of retaliation. Even as I’ve been writing this story, apparently word of what I’ve been doing has filtered back to Devlin, and he’s threatened different individuals who have been telling me their stories that he will commit great harm to them if they continue to cooperate with me.
Some of the individuals whose stories are told in this story related to me that they would often get phone calls from Devlin while he was hospitalized in different psychiatric wards. He would make excuses for his being hospitalized – that he was sick with various physical illnesses whose nature would vary, but he would never admit that he had been placed in a psychiatric ward.
It is also possible that, since he is totally delusional, he did believe that he was in the hospital for reasons that had nothing to do with him being mentally ill. At one point, for instance, when he was asked by another psychiatric patient why he was in the psych ward, Devlin replied that he owned the hospital and he just wanted to see how they were treating patients there. As you can read when I tell that story in more detail later on, the psych patient who asked Devlin that question didn’t think there was anything unusual about Devlin’s answer. That tells you all you need to know about the state of mind of the person who told me that story.
Although I was somewhat amused that he didn’t find Devlin’s having told him that he owned the hospital where they both found themselves at all difficult to believe, I found that a great many of the other individuals who were caught up in Devlin’s con also suffered from various psychological disorders of one sort or another. In some ways it goes to explain how otherwise intelligent sounding people might have fallen for stories that one would normally expect would be dismissed as utter nonsense.
One of the mysteries in learning about Devlin though, was who was putting him into the hospital on those occasions when he ended up in the psych ward? Was it his wife? Was it his parents? It really doesn’t matter – but his wife and his parents have been complicit in allowing Devlin to perpetrate his delusional behaviour for years and, I would argue, bear responsibility for the damage he has caused to so many different people. What does matter is that he has engaged in communication with so many different individuals over a great many years while suffering from the delusion that he is immensely wealthy and is capable of offering huge financial help to trusting individuals. (There are other aspects of his delusion too, about which I’ll write, such as that he is guarded by agents from Israel’s Mossad, that he is very involved in helping maintain Israel’s security, and that he owns huge tracts of land in Winnipeg and in Israel.)
One of the things I learned during the course of my investigation into Devlin’s long career as a con artist – and I have to reiterate that he didn’t actually realize he was a con artist, was that he likes to spend his days in a very fancy Winnipeg hotel that’s very popular with Winnipeg’s business crowd – the Fairmont, where he holds court. Devlin has a regular table in a restaurant there and is well known by many of the staff there.
He also likes to hang out an another nearby spot that’s also popular with the business crowd: Hy’s. In fact, after I had finished writing most of this story I was surprised to be contacted by Devlin himself, inviting me to meet him at either the Fairmont or Hy’s. That very strange meeting, which happened to take place at Hy’s, forms the basis of the final chapter of this story.
One of the things I asked Devlin at that meeting, however, is who was paying for all his meals at those two establishments? As I will show, Fred Devlin has no visible means of support, which means that someone else is providing him with the money that is allowing him to continue perpetrating his con – even as I write this. I asked Devlin that very question when I sat face to face with him, but when he still insisted that he is fabulously wealthy – a trillionaire nine times over as a matter of fact, I persisted in asking him whether it’s not the case that his parents have been providing for him for years? In fact, it’s his parents’ role, also his wife’s, in allowing Devlin to carry on his nonsense for so many years that has allowed him to inflict so much damage on so many people’s lives.
Many of the individuals with whom I spoke – or with whom I exchanged a lengthy email correspondence in one particular case, recounted their having reached out to Devlin’s parents in attempts to have them intercede once those individuals realized that Devlin was a complete fraud. Those attempts were all met with the same explanation from Devlin’s parents, I was told: that Fred Devlin was not well – and to leave it at that. In no case did his parents offer to intercede, even when told how much Devlin’s behaviour had so negatively affected so many individuals.
You may be asking yourself: Why write about someone who was – and still is, so clearly mentally ill? The reason is that what Fred Devlin did – to so many different people and, even as I’m writing this, is apparently still attempting to do, was so awful, that when I was first told about him in an email I received on January 16, 2026, my initial reaction was: What could I do to expose this guy and keep him from harming anyone else? My thinking was that if I wrote about him and published something on my website, at the very least others who might be contacted by him, but who would do an internet search to verify who he was, would see my story and realize he’s a total fraud.
Unfortunately, when I was threatened with a lawsuit over what I had written – and I immediately withdrew what I had published, I thought that instead, I’ll write the same story, but I’ll use a different name for the subject of my story – and not use his wife’s or his parents’ real names either.
In addition, I had already promised everyone with whom I spoke for the purpose of gathering material for this story that I would not use their real names in whatever story I would write. I didn’t want to embarrass any o f them by revealing that they had fallen for Devlin’s deception. Thus, my giving everyone different names than their real ones is consistent with what I had told each of them I would do. What I had told each of the individuals whose lives were impacted by Paul Devlin though, was that I wanted to write about what had happened to each of them and include it in a larger story.
Each part of this continuing story will tell a different story – as told to me by each of the individuals with whom I communicated over a period of time in an attempt to understand just how Fred Devlin had convinced each one of them that he was fabulously wealthy and he was going to help each of them with particular projects in which they were involved. How Devlin found each of these individuals is in itself a mystery. Apparently, he is very adept at networking, so that one individual whom he would contact would put him in touch with another individual – and so on, to the point where he built up a large network of contacts.
As I’ve become immersed in this story, however, I’ve been playing a more active role than simply as a journalist trying to write a story. I’ve been quite involved in trying to help one of Devlin’s victims – who suffered the worst financial losses of any of the individuals with whom I spoke who had told me they had fallen victim to Fred Devlin’s promises of financial help. I’ve been trying to help this one individual launch a lawsuit against Devlin. Although we did garner the interest of one of Winnipeg’s top civil litigators, in the end the notion of filing a lawsuit against Devlin was abandoned for the simple reason that it’s pointless to sue someone who has no money or assets and, as the lawyer explained, it would not be possible to attach either Devlin’s wife’s name or his parents’ names to any lawsuit – no matter how much one might argue they bore responsibility for his behaviour by not keeping him under careful supervision.
I’ve also been attempting to contact various police agencies to see why no fraud charges have been filed against Devlin. That story is ongoing as I write this, but here we’re running up against bureaucratic police behaviour – in which one police agency is reluctant to cooperate with another police agency. To illustrate, a detective in the York Regional Police department did open an investigation into Devlin back in January 2026 at the behest of an individual who lives in Toronto who was one of Devlin’s victim but, since Devlin himself lives in Winnipeg, that detective sent the file to Winnipeg Police Service. However, the detective in the York Regional Police department attached a file number to that file. When the individual in Toronto who had filed the complaint with York Regional Police contacted WPS to ask whether a file had been received from York Regional Police the answer he was given was that the “case file number you refer to would not be associated with a WPS numbering system as our case numbers would start with a letter, year, and file. (C2600XXXXX).
“As such, I did not find a any case number associated with Mr. … in our police records.”
What was strange though, was that the detective with the York Regional Police had sent that file by registered mail – and it had been signed for by someone in the WPS.
When the person who filed that original complaint asked WPS to search for the file, he did receive a confirmation that they had found the file – but would not provide any further information. So, who knows? Maybe long after this is published we’ll hear something about the WPS actually launching an investigation into the person we’re calling Fred Devlin here.
I’ve also been trying to help another of Devlin’s victims – this time someone who lives in Africa, try to restore his reputation in his community. This poor fellow had gone so far, at Devlin’s behest, as to set up a charitable foundation in the phoney name of Devlin’s supposed group of companies – using money borrowed from someone in his community, after Devlin had promised him he would provide funding for that charitable foundation. That African individual has told me several times that he is thinking of committing suicide, both because he is now a pariah in his community for having promised the members of his community that a large charitable foundation was about to be set up there, and because he is in debt to a money lender in his community to whom he owes a great deal of money with no practical means of paying off that debt.
I actually went so far as to send this poor fellow enough money to stave off the money lender from coming after him for a few months. As I write this, I don’t know what the African individual’s status is re the debt he owes, although I am staying in constant communication with him – in no small part because I don’t want him to kill himself over what Fred Devlin did to him. The story of the African man who just wanted to help others by starting a charitable foundation – that was supposed to be funded by Fred Devlin, is told in the second last chapter of this story.
So, I have more than a dispassionate interest in telling a good story. I’ve placed myself directly into the story itself – and my hope is that, at some point I’ll be able to report that, at the very least, Devlin is no longer perpetrating his frauds on anyone else. That could happen in one of three ways: The individual whom I’ve been assisting in finding a lawyer who would be willing to sue Devlin has also been in contact with police authorities. Perhaps there will be a charge or charges laid against Devlin but, in truth, it’s been more than three months since the police were first contacted about Devlin by that individual and, to date, nothing has happened.
The second possibility is that we may discover that Devlin actually has a sizeable amount of money – perhaps given to him by his parents. He does spend his days in fairly expensive surroundings – as I noted. While a lawsuit seems improbable at this point, the lawyer who was considering whether to file one certainly agreed that there are very solid grounds to file one, but warned that it would be fruitless unless it can be shown that Devlin either has money or owns some assets of real value.
The final possibility is that the individuals who are closest to Devlin – his wife and his parents, would take concerted action to put a stop to his behaviour. All they have to do, realistically, is make sure he never comes into contact with a phone or a computer ever again. It’s by contacting unsuspecting people all over the world and feeding them a line about how wealthy he is that Devlin has been able to carry on his gigantic fraud for so many years. But, if he’s not able to contact anyone – via a phone or a computer, then it would be possible to put a stop to his behaviour. Is that so difficult to do? I suppose the answer is yes, it’s very difficult to do. How do you keep someone from obtaining a phone these days? At the very least, if he could be monitored closely then Devlin might be prevented from reaching out to more innocent victims which, unless he’s stopped, he is bound to persist in doing.
I should note that, in writing a story that is still ongoing, I’m having to make constant additions to the story as new information comes to my attention. For instance, even though I’ve already noted that I had published a story on my website about the real person whom I’ve chosen to refer to as Fred Devlin here – and I did remove it, I have now been made aware that apparently someone managed to retrieve what I had posted even after it was expunged, and another website was created with the sole purpose of republishing what I had written. Thus, I might still be held accountable for what I originally published – even though I did remove it from my website. But, since that story has apparently been quite accessible for quite some time, according to what I was told, and I haven’t heard anything more from the lawyer who warned me I could be sued for defamation, my guess is that Devlin’s parents realize that suing me would only cause them greater embarrassment than if they simply did nothing.
Perhaps, too, the embarrassment of seeing that story still disseminated on the internet might be enough to motivate Devlin’s parents to keep him in check – something, I would suggest, they have been fully capable of doing ever since he developed his psychosis. Since his parents have refused to discuss their son’s condition with me, I have no idea what steps they may have taken over the years to harness his behaviour, ever since they learned that their son is mentally ill. I do feel compassion for them – and how much anguish their son must have brought to their lives, but the fact is he has brought so much grief upon so many others that any compassion I feel for them is outweighed by the anger I have that they have been complicit in allowing him to con so many people.
Next: My own meeting with the delusional con man six years ago