Features
The River – an excerpt from a new novel by former Winnipegger Zev Coehn
Introduction: The following story is an excerpt from a longer story in Zev Cohen’s new novel titled “Are You Still Alive?”
As Zev wrote to us recently, “this is Chapter One of my novel, “Are You Still Alive?” It is partially based on events recounted to me by my late father Moshe. The story, beyond being one of the countless tales of Jewish survival against all odds during the Holocaust, is also an allegory for the indomitable human spirit intertwined with Rabbi Akiva’s maxim ‘V’havta l’raecha kamocha’. I hope to have the complete novel published soon.
Zev’s writing has appeared several times in the past in this paper. His collection of short stories, titled “Twilight in Saigon,” was published in 2021.
Born in Israel, Zev lived in Winnipeg until he was 17, when he returned to Israel with his parents. He now spends half the year in Israel and half the year in Calgary, where his two sons live.
Chumak leads the way towards the river in the dark. I had walked the route from his hut to the riverbank in daylight a few times and am confident I know the path down to the water and back. This time, though, I intend to cross to the other side under cover of darkness. Chumak, who came up with the idea, eagerly insists on guiding me so, he says, I don’t get lost. He claims he can find his way blindfolded. I think he believes that if this works, he might soon be rid of us, although he hasn’t said anything openly about it. To be fair, my suspicion just might be a projection of my own pressing desire to escape on to Chumak, whom I trust implicitly.
This summer has been uncommonly wet, and tonight the clouds are scudding low, hiding the moon and stars and making it difficult for others to spot us. At first, the only sounds are those of our movement through the brush and the occasional whoosh of passing nightbirds. The path is not overly challenging, and my labored breathing and rapidly beating heart stem more from fear than physical effort. Though I’m soaked to the skin by the constant drizzle, it is a minor irritation in the face of what I expect lies ahead. The sudden rattle of machine-gun fire causes us to instinctively fall flat on the ground, but luckily it isn’t close by, and we move forward a moment later. Distant flickers of lightning and muffled thunder are the backdrops as I blunder through the undergrowth and futilely attempt to avoid trees. Banging my knee against a tree trunk while trying to keep up with Chumak, I stifle a cry of pain, and then suddenly, I slip and slide down the muddy embankment, unable to get any traction. He grabs me before I plunge headfirst into the river.
“Quiet, you’ll get us caught,” he whispers as he holds my arm in his vicelike grip. “There are German and Romanian patrols on both sides of the river. Be more careful, or you will end up dead before you begin.”
The slope ends at the lapping water’s edge, but the river is barely visible in the blackness. A dog begins to bark incessantly on the other side. Has it picked up our scent even before I start to swim? I have no choice but to take my chances. Along the opposite bank downriver, dim points of light seem to be moving—smugglers perhaps or night fishermen. It’s hard to estimate how far away they are. I hope the current doesn’t drag me to them, but there is no going back. At least, for now, no searchlights are combing this particular area. Chumak seems to have picked the right spot.
Lightning flashes again, stronger this time, and in that instant, I realize how far it is to the other side across the rippling current. My swimming experience is limited to a small, calm pond near home, where my brother taught me some strokes. The wide, flowing river looks ominous, but I’ve made it this far, and I can’t give up now. And Chumak urges me on. I’m already knee-deep in the water, shivering, but not because the water is especially frigid.
“You can do it,” he encourages me. “The current isn’t so strong at this time of year. You must do it. It’s your only hope. Go!”
I stop for a moment and turn to him. “If anything happens…if I don’t make it back, help Ella and Sophie, please. They have no one else.” I don’t want to sound as if I’m pleading, but I am.
“Go, nothing will happen. You’re going to save them and yourself,” he says. “It’s the only way. I will wait here till you reach the other side and when you get there, clap some stones together three times to let me know you are safely there. The sound carries far at night. I’ll hear it, and I’ll tell Pani Ella that you made it.” Amid everything, I notice that this is the first time he calls Ella by her name.
I move slowly into the deeper water. At first, it’s easy; the water is up to my chest, but my feet still touch the soft muddy bottom. Then, without warning, it drops away, and I’m flailing and swallowing water. Finally, I calm down, gain control, and begin to swim. The current takes hold and starts pushing me downriver. Sputtering, I force myself to fight the rising panic and use my arms and kick with my legs in a crawl that will hopefully propel me towards the unseen shoreline. It’s working, and I’m not drowning, but I’m weakening rapidly. The combination of sickness I haven’t completely recovered from since the camp and general malnutrition has sapped me of strength. My clothes are waterlogged and drag me down. This can’t continue much longer. How idiotic would it be, I think, if I drowned now before beginning my mission? Rolling over on my back, I take the pig’s bladder that Chumak wrapped the note in from my pocket, and holding it tight, I squirm out of my pants to lighten the load. I let the current carry me and turn on my back to stroke and move gradually in the riverbank direction. It is less exhausting this way.
I’ve lost any notion of time as I float on my back and see nothing but the overcast sky. Has it been minutes? An hour? I fear trying to stand. If it’s still deep, I might sink and not be able to come back up. At least the rain has stopped. Some clouds have dispersed, and I can see stars in the black sky. Then I hear it. A baying sound getting closer. Maybe a dog? Then barking. Yes, a dog. Thankfully I must be near the shore. My feet hit bottom. I totter through the shallow water and, in the faint moonlight, survey a pebbly beach fronting the tree line. There is no sign of the huts nor of the large two-story house Chumak had pointed out some days earlier opposite my point of departure.
The house, he told me, belonged to a certain Nicolescu, a wealthy Romanian and well-known smuggler before the war. Chumak suggested that my woman, as he called Ella, write a letter to Nicolescu in Romanian asking for his help crossing the river. I imagined that he would get the letter to the Romanian or at least knew someone who could do it, so it took me by surprise when he said, “You will bring the letter to him, and he will make the arrangements.”
It seemed like a far-fetched idea. Beyond the problem of my crossing the river, in itself seemingly suicidal, why, I asked, would any Romanian, not to mention a wealthy smuggler, have anything to do with helping Jews? This is probably a punishable offense in Romania and meant certain death in German-occupied Poland. Only gypsies were desperate enough to offer their services. Even if Nicolescu was willing to help me, I had no money to pay him.
Moreover, those who did pay were often betrayed and delivered to the authorities on one or the other side. There was no guarantee of success, and many lost their lives in the attempt. A few days earlier, I saw a clump of corpses roped to each other floating down the river. I didn’t consider my death an issue anymore, but I was afraid of exposing Ella and the child to the risks involved. I told Chumak to forget it. I couldn’t do it.
“What choice do you have?” Chumak pressed. “Don’t be a fool. You, the woman, and the child definitely won’t survive on this side of the river, and you will stand a better chance over there, as far away as you can get from the Germans.”
His understanding of the situation is correct. The local peasants were handing Jews over for some butter or sugar and an opportunity to steal their belongings. They say a drowning man will grasp at a razor blade to save himself, so I agree.
“Even if I manage to make it across, how will I convince him? I have no money.”
Chumak was skeptical about my claim of penury. This wasn’t out of spite that he had thought through but rather an inherited bias. He was of the age-old school that believed Jews always had hidden treasure somewhere. He was convinced that if I couldn’t offer cash immediately, Nicolescu would accept a promise of future payment from a “high-class” Jew like me. To me, this appeared to be just wishful thinking since Chumak admitted never having actually done business with this Romanian smuggler, who was out of his league.
Chumak remained adamant, and his confident tone was hard to resist. “Tell your woman to write that she comes from an important, prosperous family in Romania that will pay him generously for his efforts. Give him a written guarantee.”
Before I could change my mind, he produced a slightly greasy lined sheet of paper from a child’s copybook and a blunt pencil stub. I took it to our hideout in the nearby forest, where I cajoled Ella, who also thought the plan was absurd and not doable, into writing the requisite supplication and promise of reward.
Standing on the flat terrain on this side of the river, I realize that the current took me downstream, and I need to walk back to the Nicolescu house. I’m not sure how far it is, but at least I can see where I’m going in the moonlight. I find some stones and strike them together three times, as I promised Chumak, hoping that he hears me, and goes back to report to Ella. Not expecting a response, I walk close to the tree line, off the riverbank pathway used by locals and military patrols. When a searchlight sweeps the river from the Polish side, I scamper into the trees, waiting, breathing hard, and picking up a dead branch for self-defense. Going forward, I detour through the woods to avoid a small group of men sitting by the embers of a fire smoking and passing around a bottle. Hunters or fishermen, I believe.
The house lies ahead through the gate of a stone-walled enclosure. No light escapes from the windows. Nearby in the compound, there are two thatched-roof peasant huts, weak light emanating from one of the windows, and a barn where a horse nickers. I stop to consider which building would be best to approach, and then, as I take a step closer, the dogs come at me, snarling. I fend them off with the branch, hitting one of them in the head. It runs off whimpering while the others keep their distance, growling, and barking. I’m done for. They are going to wake everyone. I retreat into the adjacent cornfield, crouching there cold, miserable, and afraid, as a woman appears holding a lantern outside one of the huts. She calls off the dogs and shoos them into the barn. As she locks the barn door, she stares into the darkness in my direction before going to draw water from a well in the yard and returning to the hut.
I can’t stay here much longer as indecision eats away at my remaining determination. It’s time to make a move, either forward to Nicolescu, whatever the risk and chances of success, or back across the river in abject failure. I run to the hut showing light and knock hesitantly. The dogs continue barking hysterically in the barn. Nothing happens, and I try again more decisively.
“Who’s there,” asks a muffled woman’s voice in Ukrainian.
“It’s me,” I reply. What else could I say?
She opens the door a crack. People must be accustomed to seeing strange sights around here because she doesn’t slam the door in the face of the wet, disheveled, half-naked specter that stands before her.
“What do you want? Who are you looking for?” the woman asks as if I was routinely passing by.
“I have an important letter for Mr. Nicolescu. He needs to see it,” I say, also in Ukrainian.
She invites me into the hut. Alone in the single, earthen floor room, she wears widow’s black. Wrinkeled but unbent, her age is indeterminate. Most of the space in the room is taken up by a traditional wooden loom, while a large blackened icon of the Savior hangs above a stove. I rarely devoted attention to Christian symbols, having never, so far, entered a church and always hurrying by the ubiquitous roadside shrines in our vicinity with eyes averted. The narrative of Christianity and Christians as moral and physical threats was, since time immemorial part of our Jewish psyche, but I have no direct personal experience of it. Even the murder of my father by Jew-hating thugs, which undoubtedly weighed heavily on my perception of the people who surrounded us, didn’t feel like a religious issue. Now though, as I stand here shivering, Jesus on the cross seems to be observing me ominously. But, immediately, my attention is drawn away to a piece of bread on a side table, and without invitation, I grab it and chew hungrily. The woman sees that I am exhausted and soaked and tells me to sit and rest. She brings me a blanket and pours a cup of water, watching silently as I continue chewing the bread thoroughly.
When I finish, she says, “You are from over there. You’re a Jew.” It’s not posed as a question, and she clearly knows why I have come. I’m not the first desperate Jew who has shown up on her doorstep. To my relief, she doesn’t take long to make her decision. “I will take you to Mr. Nicolescu’s mother. She lives in the other hut. Maybe she will help you.”
“Thank you.” I’m wary of digging too deeply into the subject for fear of treading on sensitive toes, but I’m also anxious to find out what has happened on this side of the river and know what to expect if Ella and Sophie are to cross with me later. “Are there any Jews left around here?” I ask warily. “What about the Jews in the city?”
“They got rid of all our Jews,” she replies in a matter-of-fact tone. “They say the devil came for them. You need to watch out.”
“Come,” she beckons. “We should go to Nicolescu’s mother before anyone else sees you here. People won’t hesitate to give you up.” I follow her to the neighboring hut, where a tall, old woman approaches us. “Who is that with you, Bohuslava?” she calls out in Romanian. “Beware of robbers. I’ll get a stick and run him off.”
Bohuslava walks over to her. “Shh, be quiet,” she says in Ukrainian. “Stop fussing. He means no harm and just wants to show you something. “Come here quickly,” she gestures to me.
Grey-haired, slightly stooped, with one eye clouded by a cataract, she must be in her seventies but looks far from frail. She takes my hand with a firm grip. “Let’s go inside,” she says.
She lights a kerosene lamp. This is a much bigger and well-appointed abode with an ornate porcelain stove dominating the room and a dining table covered in a hand-embroidered red and white tablecloth. Adjacent to the stove stands a single bed occupied by a young woman sleeping, oblivious to us.
“Bohuslava, you may go,” the Romanian says. “Just keep your mouth shut, or it won’t be long before everybody is aware that you take in Jewish strays. We don’t need that kind of trouble.”
“What will I say?” answers the other woman on her way out. “That you have a new lover and a Jewish one at that,” she cackles.
“Sit,” the tall woman says, pointing to a chair beside the table. Like most Romanians living on the border, she is fluent in Ukrainian, while my Romanian is rudimentary at best. “Show me what you brought,” she asks. I remove it from the pig’s bladder and hand the grotty piece of paper to her. She dons reading glasses and concentrates on the message.
“Good Romanian,” is her first reaction. “Who wrote it? It couldn’t be you.”
“My wife,” I say tersely.
“Is she from around here?”
“She is from the city,” I reply. “Actually, we’re together but not officially married. She has a small child, her daughter, with her. They were forced across the river with others a few months ago, and we are trying to get back to the city to join relatives who might still be there. The situation on the other side of the river is deadly.”
“Yes, I know. It’s not really safe here, either. If you’re caught, they will send you back there without a second thought. Don’t expect much pity here because nobody wants to get in trouble for hiding Jews from the authorities.”
Not wanting to get into a discussion on motivations. I prefer to get to the point. “I was told that your son, Domnul Nicolescu, has experience getting people across the river. If your son could help us, we will take our chances. It’s preferable to certain death over there.”
“I can’t speak for him,” she says. “He is a good man, but I doubt, though, that he would be willing to take such a great risk. He was never involved in the smuggling of people across the border. It’s a bad business. For him, it has always been cigarettes and other contraband.”
I am surprised, honestly, that she speaks so openly of her son’s activities to a stranger… especially to one with a price on his head. Though she doesn’t hold out hope, her demeanor and attitude give me a sliver of confidence. “You should get some rest,” she suggests, “and I will take you to him in the morning.”
“What is your name?” I ask.
“Margareta. And yours?”
“I am Emil. Thank you, Doamna Margareta, for your kindness. I hope your son takes after you.”
She wakes the girl rudely and pushes her into the other room. “Here, take this bed. The servant girl can sleep in my room. I will leave some dry clothes for you and wake you when we need to go.”
“Thank you again. Good night.” I kiss her hand.
“Good night, Domnule Emil. Sleep well.”
I feel exhausted and drained, and my shriveled muscles ache from the unaccustomed effort of swimming across the water, but sleep remains elusive. It’s not the discomfort of the thin, lumpy mattress and the scratchy wool blanket that still hold the sour odor of their previous user, nor is it the constant, sometimes frantic, barking of dogs outside that keep rest at bay. By now, I’m also habituated to grasping moments of sleep in more dire circumstances, whether in the camp barracks or on the cold forest floor. Tonight I’m kept wide awake by the train of thoughts and questions running in a relentless loop through my mind. Are Ella and Sophie safe on the other side, alone with the Chumaks? Will Nicolescu agree to help without payment in advance? Will we be betrayed by the smuggler as so many have been before us? What lies in store for us on this side without any means for survival at our disposal? Should we hide in the countryside here or take the risk of heading for the city? I try to block out the most subversive, monstrous, cowardly, and tempting considerations, but they are there. The palpable fear of swimming back across the river toward the near certainty of death, tries to convince me that I’m now safer and that on my own, I stand a better chance of hiding and surviving. Yes, I would be abandoning Ella and Sophie, but by going back, I would only join them in being captured and killed. They would be safer staying with the Chumaks, who certainly would take pity and continue to conceal and support a defenseless woman and child. Or maybe I could remain here and just send the smuggler for them. I want to scream. I will go back.
The sun is up when Margareta nudges me awake and offers me a mug of hot tea while waiting as I put on the clothes she brought. They belong to a larger man, but they will have to do. I walk with her to the door of the house. A few people, already out and about, are on their way to work in the fields, some leading cattle and a flock of sheep. The men doff their hats and greet her, paying no attention to me.
Margareta instructs me to wait outside and enters without knocking. I hear raised voices inside. “Have you lost your mind? Why did you bring him here? Do you want to get us arrested? Send him away!” A few moments later, Margareta reappears with another woman, a pale ash blonde of about forty, holding a cigarette in her long elegant fingers with a worried look on her face — definitely not of the farming class. The woman scans the yard nervously.
“My mother-in-law told me what you want. I am sorry, but Mr. Nicolescu doesn’t do this business. We cannot do anything for you.” Her voice trembles and she is obviously terrified. “Anyway, he is not here. He is in the city, and I don’t know when he will be back. You must go. It’s dangerous here, and you will get us into trouble. Please go now.” She starts to retreat into the house.
I can’t hold her against her will, and if Nicolescu is indeed away, there is nothing more to be gained here. “Thank you, Doamna Nicolescu,” I say in Romanian and press my luck. “I will go, but could you kindly give me some bread?”
She goes inside and is soon back with half of a large loaf. I once again kiss her well-manicured hand and turn to leave.
“Mr. Emil,” says Margareta, “You should not wander around here in daylight. It’s dangerous to stay out in the open. Why don’t you hide in the barn till dark? It will be safer that way.”
“Again, you are so kind, Madame, but I must return to my family. It has been too long already. They are alone and will worry that something bad has happened to me. I will be as careful as I can.”
“Very well, if you must, but follow me.” She leads me into the forest on a narrow footpath that is a roundabout way down to the water’s edge. “Eat the bread, you need the strength, and it will be ruined in the water,” she says. I need no more encouragement as I almost choke, devouring it. She turns to leave. “Be careful, Emil, and good luck to you. I will talk to Nicolescu when he returns. Maybe he will agree to help. He has more conscience than that frightened ornament he calls his wife. How can he find you?”
“There is a peasant named Chumak. He knows where we are,” I tell her.
“Yes, Chumak. I know him. He also used to smuggle cigarettes before the war.”
“Thank you, Madame. I will remember your generosity.” She is gone.
I sit brooding among the trees looking at the river as the sun glints off the streaming water and listening to cheerful birds chirping. I can’t help but ponder the difference between the elderly women, Bohuslava and Margareta, and the wife of Nicolescu. I’m not surprised by the younger woman’s reaction. It is one version, slightly less brusque, of the general refusal to help Jews. But, all other considerations aside, who can blame people for fearing the fatal punishments meted out by the Germans and their Ukrainian lackeys to so-called Jew-lovers? Would I behave any differently in their shoes? I am more impressed, not to say astonished, by those candles in the darkness, people who have everything to lose, yet whose basic humanity causes them to stretch out their hands to support their fellow men and women. That rough peasant Chumak, whose whole universe is his tiny homestead next to an unknown village on the banks of the river, heads my list of the righteous. Now I add Bohuslava and Margareta to it. The existence of such people, beyond their contribution to our physical safety, keeps alive my essential positivity toward humankind and allows me to still retain some belief in our survival.
What next, I ask myself? I achieved nothing and have no other plan in reserve. Swimming back in broad daylight now seems suicidal. Maybe drowning is a good option? But that means abandoning Ella and the child, and I have already decided this is not an option. Bring back yesterday’s rain, I pray. I pray, though my belief in the idea of an Almighty, never cast-iron, has been dramatically undermined by the past year’s events. Then the wind picks up, and the miracle unfolds. Dark clouds scud across the sky, and the first drops wet my face, replacing the tears. In moments the downpour becomes torrential. I tie the new clothes around my neck and dive into the river, feeling more energetic on my way back. The current is slow enough for me to gradually dog-paddle most of the way across and finish with a few crawl strokes.
I’m carried only about a half-kilometer downstream, and elation replaces caution as I drag myself onto the riverbank and start walking. Climbing up the steep slope, Chumak’s hut is soon ahead, but when I approach and enter it, nobody is there. I look for Ella and Sophie, but the barn is empty too, and figuring that Chumak is probably out working in the field, I continue upwards into the forest towards our erstwhile hiding place. Ella and Sophie are supposed to wait there for me in case of trouble. I call out not to surprise them but there is no reply. I run to the hideout. They are gone.
Features
Gangster Mickey Cohen was a strong supporter of the Irgun – or as he liked to call them: “those Jew guys”
By BERNIE BELLAN The confluence of money and corrupt politicians is something we read about all the time. It’s never been as brazen as it has been under Donald Trump – who will take money from anyone who’s willing to give it to him – almost always for immediate favours or in return for favours down the road.
But Jewish history is replete with stories of corruption, much as many of us like to think that the “chosen people” are somehow more removed from the venal behaviour of the “goyim.”
My story about the brutality of a Jewish gang known as Zwi Migdal, which operated with almost total impunity in Argentina (and several other countries as well) for almost 70 years happened to coincide with my reading a book about a famous Jewish mobster by the name of Mickey Cohen.
This book though happened to be a sort of autobiography of Cohen, as told to a writer by the name of John Peter Nugent. It’s quite an old book – having been published in 1975, just one year before Cohen’s death.
What sets this particular book apart from other books about mobsters, however, is it’s told in Cohen’s own words.
When he refers to his fellow Jews, for instance, he often describes them as “dem Jew guys” or something like that. There was nothing particularly admirable about Cohen. He was a thug, a thief, and a killer, but to read his descriptions of his various sordid activities, you’d think: “Well, that’s one way to make a living.”
Perhaps best known for his friendship with Benjamin Siegel (who hated to be called “Bugsy,” by the way,) I suppose what sets Cohen apart from so many others of his ilk is that he died peacefully in his bed, at the age 62. There had been nine separate attempts on his life during his lifetime, so you might say this guy was extraordinarily lucky to have survived them all.
Cohen is very matter of fact in his descriptions of mob hits – even hits on his own guys. When someone had to be killed, more ofen than not he says the guy “had to have his lights out.” While he certainly enjoyed beating up people – he was only 5’3″, yet he was a terrific fighter who had fought many times as a boxer when he was younger. Still, quite often, while he was beating the crap out of someone – and could easily have killed whoever it was he was mauling, he would hold off. It was just business – you understand. The next day, he would often sit down with the same guy he had just about killed – hey, just because you had to teach someone a lesson didn’t mean you couldn’t still be friends.
I suppose one way you could describe Mickey Cohen was “cruel, but fair” – if you can accept that there is an accepted code of conduct among mobsters.
But, in reading his colourful autobiography, one chapter jumped out for me. Cohen’s being Jewish almost never comes into play in any of the stories he tells. He doesn’t describe having family gatherings during Jewish holidays, for instance and, as for attending synagogue – forget about it.
Other than his preferring to be in the company of other Jews – in the same way that Italian and Irish gangsters also prefer to associate with individuals with whom they share common backgrounds, there wasn’t much about Mickey Cohen that made him seem Jewish – other than his name.
It was in the year 1947, however, that Mickey Cohen’s otherwise totally submerged Jewish identity came to play a prominent role in leading him to become heavily involved in the fight that was going on at that time between Jewish groups and British soldiers in what was then British Mandate Palestine.
Mickey Cohen describes how he first became aware that Jews were trying to get the British kicked out of Palestine. He explains that he had a friend by the name of Mike Howard, who introduced Cohen to the famous Hollywood screenwriter Ben Hecht (of whom Mickey Cohen had never heard. As you might expect, MIckey Cohen was hardly what you would call “worldly,” although he did enjoy the company of many famous Hollywood celebrities, including Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., and for a time, Lana Turner – with whom he had a love affair.)
In any event, here’s how Cohen explains what led to his becoming a strong supporter of the Irgun (a para-military force that fought against the British, but which was also a rival to the Haganah, the widely recognized Jewish military force established prior to Israel’s establishment as an independent state and which became Israel’s de facto army during the 198 War of Independence.)
“Mike knew that I would do anything for a cause that was right, and particularly Jewish causes. So they come back and we sit down to talk. And the guy tells me this story about the Haganah, which was organized by the David Ben-Gurion guy. And he tells me especially about the Irgun and the type of war they’re fighting against the British, and they type of guys they are and all this. And I got high on him.
“But you know when you’re kinky, your mind runs kinky. I still figured this must be a racket thing. So I says to the guy, ‘Lookit, I don’t know nothing about these things. I didn’t even know there was a war going on in Israel. Let me think it over.’ “
Later, Cohen explains that he was invited over to meet with someone from the Irgun: “This guy (from the Irgun) got me so goddamn excited. He started telling me how these guys actually fight like racket guys would. They didn’t ask for a quarter and they gave no quarter.”
Cohen goes on to describe how he got quite caught up in raising funds for the Irgun: “Now I got so engrossed with Israel that I actually pushed aside a lot of my activities and done nothing but what was involved with this Irgun war. It’s a nature of mine, see. Either I go whole hog or nothing. So I got involved with this goddamn Israel war…”
He goes on to tell how incensed he was when the British hanged three Irgun members. He warned Ben Hecht that unless the Irgun got a hold of three British officers and hanged them in the same public square as where the Jewish kids from Irgun were hanged, “that’s going to be the end of my involvement with it.”
“And they done it. They hung up some British officers right in the public square.”
The same chapter describes how, with the help of some of his Mafia buddies out East, like Albert Anastasia, they were able to get a hold of a lot of U.S. army surplus that had come back from World War II and was destined to be mothballed, but instead a lot of it was sent to Israel because the Mafia controlled all the docks on the Eastern seaboard.
Why am I writing about Mickey Cohen? you might be asking yourself. Well, it’s the same reason that when I write about what went on during Israel’s War of Independence I say there’s a lot we don’t like to admit happened. I don’t want to revisit all those arguments over the “Nakba” and what happened to the Palestinians. I just thought it extraordinarily interesting to introduce one little known aspect of that war – and that was how Mafia types – some Jewish, some Italian, lent their support to Jews fighting, first against the British, then later against the Arabs.
Just as my story about Zwi Migdal exposes a little known side of Jewish history – including how cruel Jews can be to their own fellow Jews, writing about a famous Jewish mobster may awaken some people to the realization that not all Jews aspire to “Tikkun Olam,” which is a phrase we hear repeatedly is the maxim by which Jews should live. No – there is a very dirty side to Jewish history, but one we should not shy away from examining. I don’t suppose you’re ever going to hear a sermon from any rabbi about Zwi Migdal or Jewish gangsters though. It doesn’t really jive with the notion that Jews are righteous and the “People of the Book.”
Features
Hamilton Hebrew Academy refuses to let 2 Jewish students enrol – because their mother had a Conservative, not an Orthodox conversion
By BERNIE BELLAN (This story was originally posted July 14)
From time to time we receive a request to do an investigative piece about one matter or another. Before I even begin to entertain following up on that type of request I pose quite a few questions to the person or persons who sent me the request. I also send copies of whatever it is that I might consider publishing to subjects of the story for them to comment prior to its publication.
Recently I was contacted by a former member of our Winnipeg Jewish community by the name of Fabio Chusyd, who now lives in Hamilton with his wife, Soraya, and their two daughters (whose names will not be given here.)
Fabio Chusyd first contacted me on July 7. Here is what he wrote in an email:
“My name is Fabio Chusyd. We met years ago while I was living in Winnipeg, and I have always respected your work. My family and I are active members of the Jewish community in Hamilton.
“Hamilton Hebrew Academy is the only full-time Jewish day school in Hamilton. It shares its premises with Adas Israel Congregation, an Orthodox synagogue, and its Dean is Rabbi Daniel Green.
“At the same time, its mission states that it is “dedicated to fostering an inclusive learning environment that welcomes and embraces children and their families from diverse Jewish affiliations and backgrounds.”
“Our daughters, (names redacted) have experienced antisemitism in the public school system, which is why we sought a safe Jewish educational environment. They have received Jewish education at home and through Temple Anshe Sholom. …. also previously attended HHA’s daycare, where Saraya’s Conservative conversion was known and accepted. The girls were invited to visit the school, met the teachers, toured the classrooms, and naturally became excited about attending. They were then ultimately denied admission.
“After two meetings with Rabbi Green much of the discussion focused on Saraya’s Conservative conversion and our willingness to pursue an Orthodox conversion path. Shortly afterward, our daughters were denied admission.
“I lawfully recorded both meetings under Ontario’s one-party consent law. We later submitted six written questions seeking clarification of the decision, but the school declined to answer any of them, stating only that it had nothing further to add.
“The Hamilton Jewish News declined to publish our family’s response, which is why I am reaching out to you.”
I responded to Fabio and asked him whether he might consider trying to contact the Canadian Jewish News and ask them to do a story about his family’s situation – since the CJN website is by far the most important Jewish website in Canada, also Hamilton is only a short distance from Toronto, so it made more sense to try to get the CJN to cover the story.
Fabio wrote back: “Following your suggestion, I have also reached out to the Canadian Jewish News. I wanted to let you know out of courtesy.”
In a later email Fabio elaborated on the Hamilton Jewish News’ refusal to do a story about what had happened to his family. Further, the Hamilton Jewish Federation had also refused to intervene in the situation. By the way, the Hamilton Jewish News is run by the Hamilton Jewish Federation.
I found that all so surprising. And yet, while Hamilton is far removed from Winnipeg physically, a fair number of former members of Winnipeg’s Jewish community have moved to Hamilton in recent years. Hamilton now has a Jewish population over 5,000 and it has become a popular alternative destination for families looking for a cheaper place to live than Toronto. I was quite surprised that both the Hamilton Jewish Times and the Hamilton Jewish Federation had refused to delve into what had happened to the Chusyds. So, I told Fabio that I would be willing to write an article, but only after a thorough investigation of what had happened.
Hamilton actually has two Jewish day schools: the aforementioned Hamilton Hebrew Academy and a school called Kehila Heschel School. Hamilton Hebrew Academy offers classes from JK- Grade 8 (It also may be adding a Grade 9 this coming year.) and has approximately 200 students. On its website HHA describes itself as “dedicated to fostering an inclusive learning environment that welcomes and embraces children and families from diverse Jewish backgrounds.”
There is another important aspect to Hamilton Hebrew Academy. It is directly connected – both physically and spiritually, to Hamilton’s Orthodox synagogue, the Adas Israel. Here is what I was able to find about that connection: “The Hamilton Hebrew Academy (located at 60 Dow Ave) is located adjacent to and was founded by the Adas Israel Congregation (located at 125 Cline Ave S).
“The Orthodox synagogue established the school decades ago to serve the community, and they often share leadership; for instance, the spiritual leader of Adas Israel serves as the Dean of the academy.” (That last point is key to understanding what has happened to the family in this story.)
The other Jewish school in Hamilton, Kehila Heschel School, bills itself as an “independent, egalitarian, community school that welcomes families from the full spectrum of Jewish life” but, as was previously noted, it had only 35 students this past year, according to Fabio Chusyd.
One other point of interest from a Winnipeg perspective: The CEO of Hamilton’s Jewish Federation (until he retired in April) was Gustavo Rymberg. Like the Chusyds, Gustavo and his family first moved to Winnipeg after having emigrated from South America in the early 2000s. I wonder how Gustavo would have reacted to what has happened to the Chusyds? By the way, the new CEO of the Hamilton Jewish Federation, Marion Zeller, does not take over her role until August 10, 2026.
In a subsequent email, Fabio Chusyd elaborated on what happened after the family had been invited to visit Hamilton Hebrew Academy:
“What happened is that they invited the girls to visit the school, they were welcomed by students and the principal – who happens to be a rabbi as well.
“We explain (to)…- the rabbi of the synagogue (who is also) dean of the school that we are happy at the reform synagogue. But he made it mandatory to join the orthodox synagogue with openess to a future orthodox conversion.”
Fabio Chusyd recorded two conversations Rabbi Green had with Fabio and Soraya Chusyd. Fabio sent me transcripts of both conversations – one recorded on June 26 and one on July 2. In both conversations Rabbi Green hinted quite strongly – without ever spelling it out as a direct stipulation, that in order for the Chusyds’ daughters to be allowed to enrol in HHA, Soraya Chusyd would have to undergo an Orthodox conversion and the Chusyds would have to join Adas Israel Congregation.
On July 6 the father received a Whatsapp message from Rabbi Green:
“Hi Fabio,
“I just wanted to give you a headsup. Kym (Gazda, the director of admissions for HHA) will be sending an official email from the school. Based on our conversations, I don’t think the school is the right fit at this time. If you have a change of heart, pls let me know. Wishing you much success.”
That ‘change of heart” apparently referred to Soraya’s reluctance to undergo an Orthodox conversion. In a subsequent email Fabio Chusyd explained that his wife did not want to go through another conversion process after having been converted by a Conservative rabbi in South America. Further, the couple was reluctant to leave their Reform congregation and join the Orthodox Adas Israel congregation, which also seemed to be a prerequisite to their daughters’ being able to enrol in Hamilton Hebrew Academy
Just as Rabbi Green’s email was opaque, the email from the director of admissions was equally opaque in not offering a specific reason for the school’s refusal to admit the Chusyds’ two girls this coming school year. Here is what Kym Gazda wrote in an email on July 7:
“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Chusyd,
“Thank you for your interest in Hamilton Hebrew Academy and for taking the time to meet with us.
“Upon careful consideration, and based on the information provided, we are unfortunately unable to accept …. to the HHA for the 2026–2027 academic year.
“Should anything change, please feel free to let us know, and we would be happy to reconsider your application at that time.
“We wish you and your family all the best.”
I received a further email from Fabio Chusyd, in which he reprinted the Hamilton Jewish News’ editor, Wendy Schneider’s response, also dated July 7, to his request that the paper consider doing a story about what happened to him and his family:
“Dear Mr Chusyd Thank you for this note. I appreciate how deeply upsetting and frustrating this is for you. As I explained yesterday, at this time, I feel I cannot act without advice from the Federation CEO because of the nature of your complaint i.e. a local issue. I sincerely hope this issue is resolved to your satisfaction. Unfortunately, for now, there’s nothing I can do at this point to help ease your distress. “
In response, Fabio Chusyd wrote to Wendy Schneider:
“Thank you for your time on the phone yesterday and for your supportive words.
“However, several years ago, you published a letter titled “Censorship Has No Place in Our Community.” Yet by not allowing me to use the online letters section, you are effectively censoring my voice.
“The slogan of the Hamilton Jewish News is “The Voice of Jewish Hamilton.” By refusing to publish or even accept my letter, you are silencing a member of the very community the publication exists to serve.
“How does this decision align with the principles of free expression and with the mission of your newspaper?”
This was all so puzzling. Here we have a case of a couple with two young children whom they would like to attend a Hamilton Jewish school – and the school simply turns them down flat – without any explanation beyond saying the “school is not the right fit at this time.” It seems clear though that the mother’s refusal to undergo an Orthodox conversion and the parents’ unwillingness to join the Adas Israel Congregation were key to the school’s decision not to accept the couple’s children as students this coming school year.
Now, ordinarily, one might expect that after receiving a slap in the face like that, the parents of the girls would simply say they’ve had enough of that – and resign themselves to sending their daughters back to public school.
But, when I asked Fabio Chusyd why he and his wife were so eager to send their daughters to HHA – or whether they had perhaps considered sending their daughters to Kehila Heschel School , here is what Fabio wrote back:
“We did consider Kehila Heschel School. We visited a few years ago, but with only about 35 students in the entire school, we didn’t feel it was the right fit for our girls. For us, school also means exposure to a larger group of children and a broader social environment. HHA has over 200 students. Also HHA appears to be opening a Grade 9, so I am thinking long-term.
“… is going into Grade 4 and … into Grade 2. As a family of immigrants without an extended support network here, we felt it was important for both girls to attend the same school.
“And then we had moved them out of HHA daycare because our local public school is only five minutes from our home.
“Oct. 7 happened, antisemitism reappeared, and the girls were victims. Hence, HHA that call themselves open to all Jewish affiliations seemed to be the safe spot. Rabbi Green and Kim Gayza were told that the girls had been victims of antisemitism. Mainly …, who gave Hanukkah goodie bags last year and her classmates ripped it, spitted on it and throw them in the garbage, while saying offences.”
There is another factor that one might consider in this entire matter. According to its own annual report, the Hamilton Jewish Federation provided $289,000 in funding for the Hamilton Hebrew Academy for the fiscal year ending June 30, 2025, so the HHA is hardly operating independently of the Hamilton Jewish Federation.
It may not be the place of the publisher of a Winnipeg website that focuses to a large extent on the Winnipeg Jewish community to poke into the affairs of another Jewish community such as Hamilton’s, but where that community’s Jewish newspaper refuses to delve into what appears to be a clear case of wrongdoing by a Jewish institution and, as of writing this, the Hamilton Jewish Federation has also refused to intervene in this matter, then we thought it an important enough issue to broach on this website.
We contacted both Hamilton Hebrew Academy and the Hamilton Jewish Federation, offering them an opportunity to respond to this article prior to its being published.
On July 21, we received a response from Rabbi Green:
“Hamilton Hebrew Academy’s inclusive character and the diversity of its parent and student body are well known throughout the community. Our families include individuals from a wide range of Jewish backgrounds, including converts of all denominations, and many who are not Jewish whatsoever. The school is family-oriented, where we strive to be on a journey of growth togther. (emphasis mine)
“Through Project Lifeline, HHA has also taken a leading role in supporting children who experience antisemitism in public schools, particularly those who may be the only Jewish student in their school or community. For this purpose, we operate transportation routes serving students from Niagara, Kitchener-Waterloo, and other communities outside Hamilton, and provide free bus service and often tuition. This project, I believe, is unprecedented in North America and speaks to the proactive nature of our school in supporting Jewish students at risk. “
I responded to the rabbi:
“With all due respect Rabbi, your email here would seem to directly contradict how you behaved with respect to the Chusyd family. If there is some reason that you have turned down the two Chusyd girls for enrolment in your school – but you are not at liberty to discuss that reason, then I could include that in what I publish.
“But – as it stands, the only reason that I have seen in your correspondence with the Chusyds. is that you don’t think it would be “a good fit” for the Chusyd children to attend HHA.
“I am going to give you every opportunity to explain what you meant by writing that, but I would suggest your latest response is somewhat disingenuous.”
The rabbi responded:
“As I mentioned, I am not at liberty to discuss the admission decision of any specific child or family. “
Also in an email sent to Fabio Chusyd on July 21, Rabbi Green wrote:
“Our position remains unchanged. As previously indicated, Hamilton Hebrew Academy will not engage in public discussion regarding the admission of any individual applicant or family. We have nothing further to add on this matter.”
Features
The horrifying story of how thousands of Polish Jewish women were forced into prostitution in Argentina by a Jewish organization known as “Zwi Migdal”
By BERNIE BELLAN Often the most interesting story ideas come in the oddest of circumstances.
Such was the case recently when I was attending the unveiling of an old friend. The rabbi who was officiating at the unveiling was Rabbi Anibal Mass.
Following the unveiling I walked over to Rabbi Mass to say hi. We were engaging in an amiable conversation when out of the blue he asked me: “Have you ever heard of Zwi Migdal?”
“Zwi Migdal?” I answered. “What is a Zwi Migdal?”
Rabbi Mass proceeded to tell me a story that I found so utterly amazing I told him that I would definitely follow it up – and write about it.
Zwi Migdal, Rabbi Mass explained to me, was the name of a leader of Argentinean Jewish gangsters who had originally come from Poland – thus the name of the group came from his name.
But it was the principal activity in which those gangsters were engaged that I found so horrifying, and almost unbelievable: They lured young Jewish women from Poland into coming to Argentina with promises that they would find work there – perhaps as au pairs or as seamstresses, but once they arrived to Argentina they were forced into prostitution.
They were forcibly kept in brothels and warned that if they ever tried to escape they would be hunted down and forced back. The enforced confinement of thousands of Jewish women in brothels in Argentina occurred over a very long period – from the 1860s to 1939.
According to Wikipedia, “During the 1920s the organization grew to its largest-ever size. At its height, 430 individuals, acting as pimps and in other criminal roles, oversaw a network of 2,000 brothels and approximately 4,000 women in Argentina alone.”
There were also branches of Zwi Migdal in other countries, including Brazil, the United States , Poland, South Africa, India and China.
Actually, if you want to read a detailed description of how Zwi Migdal operated, the entire Wikipedia article lays it out in graphic detail, including the modus operandi that Jewish pimps in Poland used to lure young women – who almost always came from poor families where the opportunity to have a better life in Argentina was so alluring that thousands of women fell prey to those false promises
Now, there was a reason Rabbi Mass brought up the story of Zwi Migdal in a cemetery. As he told me more about what happened in Argentina – and I was quite stupefied by the story he was telling me, he explained that eventually – and it was as a result of one very brave woman by the name of Raquel Liberman, that the members of Zwi Migdal were finally brought to justice.
Over 100 of them were put on trial – but even though many of them were convicted and sentenced to prison, the judicial system in Argentina was so corrupt that all but three were released from prison in short order. However, the public outcry over the release of all those pimps was so huge that justice officials were forced to rescind their releases. Many of them ended up moving to Uruguay.
It was what happened to them when they ended up being buried in one particular cemetery in Buenos Aires, Rabbi Mass told me, that was so unusual – and was the reason he was telling me this particular story in a cemetery: They were all buried in one section of that cemetery and a huge wall was built around the area of their graves – so as to forever cordon them off from the rest of the cemetery.
Something else that Rabbi Mass mentioned to me during our conversation was that Orthodox conversions are not allowed in South America. I asked him why that was? He said it was because many Jewish men had been marrying non-Jewish women who had gone through a “conversion of convenience.”
Here’s what I found when I asked AI why Orthodox conversions are not allowed in South America:
“Mainstream Orthodox communities in Latin America are traditionally highly tight-knit and conservative. Local leadership often uses the restriction to filter out ‘conversions of convenience’ (converting solely to marry a Jewish partner). By requiring candidates to travel to Israel or North America for final conversion, authorities ensure the applicant has the financial means, intense dedication, and long-term commitment required to live an Orthodox life.”
Later that same day Rabbi Mass sent me even more information about Zwi Migdal, including a link to a movie about Raquel Liberman on Vimeo. The movie is called “Raquel: a marked woman.”
The movie is somewhat of a docudrama in that it intersperses actual footage from the early 20th century with dramatizations of Raquel Liberman’s life in Argentina. Her courage in defying the gangsters who were forcing her to work as a prostitute is something to behold.
Another fascinating aspect of Zwi Migdal is that, while its members were held in total contempt by mainstream Argentinean Jewish society, they were able to fashion their own separate society, including building their own Orthodox synagogue – for which they had rabbis who were willing to serve as rabbis despite knowing what complete degenerates the members of Zwi Migdal were.
The notion that there was a Mafia type organization made up entirely of Jews is not in itself so difficult to comprehend. After all, there is a long tradition of Jewish gangsters; Murder Incorporated, for instance, which was made up of murderers for hire, was a Jewish organization.
But to think that hundreds of Jewish men – for a period lasting almost 70 years, were engaged in forcing young Polish Jewish women into prostitution? I was so amazed by the story Rabbi Mass told me that when I told him I would just have to write about that story, he responded that “This is worth, at least, a Limmud session.”
I responded in kind, saying that while it was something I would certainly consider proposing to the organizers of Limmud, rather than me conducting a session about Zwi MIgdal, given his own South American background, he would be far more suited to telling the story of Zwi Migdal at Limmud. Wouldn’t that be fascinating?
