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
Part 9 of the delusional Winnipeg con man: His phoney promises to fund a charitable foundation in Africa lead one trusting individual to contemplate suicide
By BERNIE BELLAN This is the ninth part of a story about a delusional Winnipegger who believes he is someone of great wealth and has spent the better part of 30 years contacting people all over the world telling them that he wants to invest in their businesses or projects. The first eight parts of this story are all available to read under the FEATURES category on this website.
Here is part 9 of my story:
Of all the deceptions in which Fred Devlin engaged over the years, arguably the one that inflicted the most damage was on the man I’ve been calling Charlie, who lives in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
As I’ve explained, that initial email which I received on January 16, 2026 was supposedly sent by Charlie (whose real name sounded much more African than that). While I was impressed by the quality of writing that went into that email and responded to it immediately it came as a surprise to me that the follow-up email which I received did not come from Charlie. Instead it came from the man I’ve been calling Rick.
Why was Charlie’s name being used as the author of an email whose contents were so explosive if, in fact, it was someone else entirely who had written that email?
I’m still not sure of the answer to that question. Clearly Rick had his own reasons for not attaching his name to that January 16 email, but when I finally did hear from Charlie it wasn’t until March 7 – and what he wrote was so plaintive that I was prompted to send him some money.
Here is the line of communication that began between Charlie and me – and which is still ongoing as I write this:
emails between Charlie and me sent on March 7, 2026
Hi Bernie, I’d like to kill myself and leave a note, because I’ve got a bad reputation now because of Fred. Next week I have to pay $1200. Fred told me to borrow it and start a charity he was going to fund on January 25th, but so far he hasn’t done anything; it seems like he forgot. I need to find this money and I don’t know how. I’m considering suicide because I have no other options.
Thank you.
Hi Charlie,
To whom do you owe the money?
Bernie
He’s the owner of a cooperative and savings association, and luckily he knows Fred too, because he gave me that money in two installments. Fred also emailed him asking about the banking procedures for transferring the money from Luxembourg. He also knows Fred. He owns this association. He gave me that money because he saw Fred on the video call and it was Fred speaking. But at some point, Fred denied it; we have all the evidence.
Fred said he was going to put down $450,000 or $300,000 in January to start the projects. Everyone in my town knows this story, and everyone is a witness.
Charlie
Did the fellow who gave you the money make you sign something?
Bernie
Yes, he did
He gave us 1000 dollars, and we have give him 1200$.
Charlie
I don’t understand. This fellow gave you $1,000 but you’ve given him $1200. Do you mean that you owe him $1200?
Bernie
Yes, the $200 is for his benefit. If you borrow $500, you have to repay $600. If you take out a loan of $1000, you’ll repay $1200. I owe him $1200. And besides, we wanted to take out a loan of $3000, but I had my doubts. I’d like to kill myself because I’ve lost my reputation. Fred even sent me to the leaders of my town, telling them he was going to improve living conditions here and create many jobs, telling them he was going to implement “Congo Improvement Projects.”
Charlie
Maybe I can negotiate a deal with this guy that you owe money to. What if I offer to pay him $500? Will he let you off the hook? $1200 is a lot of money.
Bernie
If you could help me by just paying him $600, that would be great because he can give me another three months. And I can also arrange to pay in installments. But it will depend on your availability. I really thank you so much.
Charlie
Before I agree to send any money I want to see something in writing from the guy you borrowed from promising that he will give you another 3 months to repay the other $600.
Bernie
That’s a good idea, we can thank you because you just saved my life. I’ll do it, but on Monday. Because tomorrow I can just tell him this and complete the document. Once we receive the money, that’s how we can sign. But also, here our official language is French. The document will be written in French.
Charlie
By the way – I’m Canadian. Our dollar is worth far less than an American dollar. I will only give $600 Cdn.
But you’re going to have to tell me more about how you got involved with Fred.
Bernie
Fred had contacted me alone since 2020. He told me he was a businessman with an organization called Xanadu Charitable Foundation which he wanted to establish in Africa, and that I would be the future project manager, but first and foremost, I had to be a volunteer, and I agreed to that. My story is very long; I’ll gather all the evidence tomorrow and send it to you.
I have several documents that Fred sent me, letters of recommendation to show to the leaders of my city. I have everything, and Fred himself knows this. Try asking for it; he can’t refuse because he knows I have all the evidence.
Charlie
emails sent March 8
Hi Bernie, I was talking to Rick. He told me to send more emails about Fred’s situation. I told him I’m waiting until we can finalize things with you, or until he tells you first. I’ve already promised the landlord I owe him half this week, and we’re going to complete the paperwork with him tomorrow. But right now I’m completely overwhelmed; I don’t know what’s going on anymore. You said you don’t really know my story? But I wrote it to you a long time ago. (Charlie is referring here to the January 16 email. For some reason he was still maintaining the pretense that he wrote that email.) Double-check your emails. And if you have any questions, you can ask me.
Charlie
Yes, I read your story, but it doesn’t tell me how Fred found you. I want to know exactly what you did when Fred contacted you.
I also want to see something in writing that shows what Fred promised you.
Finally, I want to know the same thing I’ve asked everyone else: Did you ever do anything to check out whether what Fred was telling you bore any relation to reality?
All that I’ve heard from everyone I’ve talked to is how convincing Fred was. Am I the only person who’s met Fred who realized early on he was full of shit?
Bernie
At my age, it wasn’t easy not to believe an older person like Fred. The evidence and documents I have are, firstly, the confidential agreement he had me sign, and secondly, a letter of reference he gave me to show to the leaders of my city so they could investigate, telling them he was going to build here. I even managed to print t-shirts for his organization with my own money, and one day, I even managed to feed 250 orphaned children in Fred’s name. The promises are in our conversations, and sometimes we had video conferences with him. I’m not here to smear him because I respect him greatly; I’m here to tell the truth. I have screenshots, images, and documents to prove all of this.
Charlie
Charlie, I’ve got to know who wrote that original email I received from you on January 16. Was it Rick? If so, why didn’t he send it himself? Why did it come from you?
Bernie
For the first time, Fred sent me a Messenger invitation. After I accepted, he told me I was lucky and that God loved me very much because I had just met a great person and the owner of a large organization called Xanadu, A few days later, he told me I would be Xanadu’s future representative in Congo. I was surprised too, and I immediately checked his profile. I found he was real, even though I still had some doubts until we started video calls for conferences. We continued our discussions for a year. Afterward, he told me I had to work hard to get the representative position. He suggested I volunteer to gain experience. I was easily convinced because during our video calls, he was always sitting in a luxurious office with computers. I couldn’t have any more doubts. And that’s where it all began.
Charlie
email received from Charlie March 9
Hello Bernie, I acknowledge my mistake in not realizing Fred was mentally ill. It was difficult for us not to believe him because during video conferences he seemed serious. I was right because he always made promises he never kept. He also told me he had meetings with Donald Trump and Benjamin Netanyahu. I also wonder how someone who talks to these adults can have the time to talk to me.
Regarding the names of the people I know that Fred told me he spoke to about his businesses, I suspect he defrauded and lied to.
Charlie
On March 11 I sent Charlie $600 Cdn. It wasn’t easy completing that transaction. In fact, I attempted to send the money several times through different methods. I finally settled on using something called Remitly, but I had to have a phone number for Charlie. It turned out that he gave me the phone number for a friend who is registered with Remitly. When I entered Charlie’s name as the recipient, however, the transaction didn’t go through – and it took me some time to get the money back into my bank account. I was quite upset with Charlie over his not telling me that the phone number he gave me wasn’t his – but in the end I was able to send the money to him successfully – after I changed the name of the recipient to his friend’s name.
emails sent March 12
Hi Bernie, I’m writing to you to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I only recently met you, but you helped me with problems that weren’t yours. I’ve never met someone as kind-hearted as you. You’ve sacrificed so much for me; you’re so kind and understanding, like a parent to me. I handed over the money today, and I’ve been granted another three months. I’m looking for a job, and if I find one, I hope I can finish the rest on my own.
I have a report I’m going to send you. It’s a report from the field trip I did across the entire country. Fred told me he was going to implement a project here called the “Congo Improvement Project.” He told me to identify the problems facing Congo and propose solutions. It was work I did with all my heart, but in the end, Fred was always there to betray me. The report is 33 pages long. It’s work I myself greatly appreciated. Right now, it’s become a real obstacle for me because I used Fred as a reference on all my CVs, and no one can trust me anymore because I defended him so much here. I said he was a good and genuine person. I deeply regret my life. Fred has just destroyed it.
Charlie
Hey Charlie,
I was glad to help. Your story was one of the worst I heard of all the people Fred sucked into his orbit. I’m still wrestling with how I should write this story. Your part of the story is especially poignant because you actually put out money that you didn’t have – all in pursuit of a worthy project that was intended only to help people.
I consider myself very lucky in that I was born and grew up in a great country like Canada. I’ve done okay financially but my no means am I rich. Still, I contribute a lot to charity. Helping out someone like you is all part and parcel of the same thing as far as I’m concerned. And just because it was difficult getting you the money – and I got upset with you a couple of times – doesn’t mean I won’t help you again. If you find it a real struggle paying off the rest of what you owe let me know. I’m prepared to help more if necessary.
-Bernie
email from Charlie March 14
I understand, Bernie. Luckily, you understood everything. What Fred did to me will hurt me for the rest of my life. Here, several people keep asking me, “When are you going to implement the project with Fred?” I always feel ashamed everywhere.
Charlie
email from Charlie March 17
Hi Bernie, I hope you’re doing well. I received some annoying messages from Rick. He told me he doesn’t believe in anyone anymore, and that we’re all corrupt. I didn’t reply because I didn’t understand. I can’t threaten anyone; I can only respect what’s in order. Personally, I wanted to write a long letter and then kill myself. I didn’t need to bother anyone or say too much. I was really surprised to see his messages saying we’re corrupt.
Charlie
emails sent March 18
Just ignore him Charlie. I don’t really know him but from what he’s written to me lately he’s clearly not well.
Bernie
Thank you so much for your advice. This time Fred isn’t calling me anymore. He did call me once, offering me money for a small project to calm me down, but I knew it was just a scam. In the next two weeks, I’m going to explain Fred’s story to the people in my town, because many people are waiting for funding from him and they don’t know what happened. In the meantime, I’m waiting for a job here. If it works out, everything will be fine, but if it doesn’t, I’ll still be in a bad situation.
Charlie
The fact Fred has stopped calling you could mean one of two things: Either he is at times aware of his behaviour and can control it for periods of time or more likely, there are people closely monitoring him now and trying to keep him from continuing his delusional behaviour online. I’d be curious to see whether he continues to leave you alone. Keep me posted and of course I hope things work out for you.
Bernie
Maybe.
Do you know why I wanted to kill myself? It’s because I sang (?) Fred a lot here in my town. We were promised great leaders that we would create jobs here, but now everyone sees me as a liar, nobody believes me anymore, everyone says I’m a scammer too. It’s difficult for me, that’s why I’m desperate.
Charlie
Well, if you need to show people something that will prove you never intended to mislead anyone I’ve been writing a story about what Fred Devlin has done – and is continuing to do. I’ve finished the first 4 chapters and you’re welcome to read it if you like – and share with anyone who is angry at you. Of course, it’s in English but I can try to translate it using AI.
Bernie
emails from Charlie March 19
The big problem is that Africans think that a crazy white person, a scammer white person, and a poor white person don’t exist; it’s difficult to convince them. Africans think that white people are perfect.
Charlie
Hi Bernie, I tried to sit down with my father and some of the elders in my town who know Freds story well. Because I’m the son of a reverend pastor, and Fred had promised my father he would build him a church. Now I’ve made them understand that Fred is a con artist; he also has a mental problem. I apologized to them. They told me it wasn’t possible, but in the end they understood, though they were very surprised to hear it. My father cried. The elders in my town told me I must be in cahoots with Fred and that maybe I’m the con artist. They asked me about the money I borrowed, and I told them I’m paying it back myself. They asked me how I met him and advised me not to trust people anymore.
Charlie
emails sent March 20
Well, you can tell them that there’s at least one white guy out there who’s nice, who believes in you, has helped you and is doing everything he can to stop Fred Devlin from making your life and other people’s lives miserable.
Bernie
Thank you so much, Bernie. They also have some questions, asking me how I had the courage to sacrifice myself like that for someone like Fred. Bernie, maybe you only know the debt I owe because of Fred, but you don’t know the story behind me, and that’s why I wanted to kill myself. For my part, I can only thank you for giving me hope for life again. But here at home, no one can believe in me anymore. I can’t leave my city, I can’t work here except start a business because everyone knows I’m waiting for funding from Fred. I’d also like to ask you a question out of curiosity: do you have any people here in Africa? Do you know Africa? Have you ever been to Africa?
Charlie
emails sent March 21
Sorry Charlie – I don’t know anyone in Africa except some people in South Africa – and I don’t really know them. I just have a good friend who’s from South Africa who still has lots of friends and relatives there and he’s introduced me to some of them online.
I don’t understand how the people in your home town still believe that Fred is going to provide you with funding. How much proof do they need to understand he’s a very sick person and nothing he has ever said is real?
Do you want me to send you what I’ve written for my story so far? I supposed you could translate it into French if necessary. Maybe then people would understand how crazy Fred is.
Bernie
Hi Bernie, I was with another team today, some of the people Fred had promised to start with me. I tried to explain things to them, and they understood, even though it wasn’t easy for them. Tomorrow I have a general meeting with them and some of the leaders here. I can even send you the photos tomorrow. Despite everything, it’s very embarrassing for me; no one believes me anymore. Some even tell me they’ll never trust me again.
I’m hated in my community now. How can I continue living this life with a bad reputation? Bernie, if you ever stop seeing my messages, know that I’m no longer in this world. It’s not easy being hated by your community; you can’t buy a reputation, it’s earned through your actions. Goodbye.
Charlie
Charlie – don’t lose hope and please don’t think of killing yourself. Of course I understand what a difficult situation you are in. Is there anyone in your town that I could speak to to try to tell them that you were just an innocent victim of a very sick person – who also victimized many other people? What would it take for your reputation to be reburnished?
Bernie
Bernie, I’m African, but somewhat civilized. I know Africans well, which is why I don’t want to put you in contact, because he’ll only ask for money. The only solution is to change my environment. When I pay off this debt, I’m just going to move far away from here. Otherwise, I risk getting stressed. I’m waiting for tomorrow’s meeting, and then I’ll tell you what happens next.
Charlie
emails sent March 24
Hi Bernie, I have a long letter to write to you today because I had a big meeting with everyone who knows Fred because of me. But first of all, I apologize if this is going to bother you. By the way, I wanted to show you the plaque that a village chief made for Fred, because Fred promised he would arrive here in 2023. He also asked me how Fred is doing.
Charlie
I hope your people listen to you & understand how you were completely fooled by Fred.
Bernie
Yes, only the wise ones understood. The others say that if I didn’t take the money, it means I was Fred’s accomplice. The others say they’re going to file a complaint against me. The others understood. Here, where I come from, promising an orphanage and not keeping that promise is a great sin; it’s taboo here. But I don’t see my future in this city. I have a bad reputation right now.
Charlie
On March 26 I wrote to Charlie that the lawyer I had contacted about taking on Jonathan as a client had told me that he had asked the head of civiil litigation at his firm to get in touch with me. I also told the lawyer that there was someone else who had been very badly hurt by having been duped by Fred Devlin – but that this poor fellow lived in Africa. I said that I really hoped a lawsuit could proceed so that Fred Devlin’s parents might finally take steps to harness their delusional son and keep him from contacting anyone ever again with a promise to invest in a project with that person.
I sent Charlie a copy of what I had written for this story to that point.
He responded: Thank you so much, Bernie. I just translated and read part of it. Congratulations on what you’re doing; you’re a true writer. Fred called me 10 minutes ago saying he wants to work with me, but fortunately, I ignored him.
Charlie
Can you keep a record of every time he calls you and I hope you keep all messages he sent you.
Bernie
Yes, I keep just messages and mails
Charlie
ok that’s good. Do you think you could send some to me – not all of them, just ones where he promises he’s going to fund the charitable foundation he wanted you to set up. I want to use them in my story – with the names changed of course.
Bernie
But he did a lot of things via video calls and other things in writing.
Charlie
emails sent March 27
I don’t know that anything I would do would make any difference, but I’d like to have as much written material as possible for what I’m writing.
Obviously, you can’t send me videos or memories of conversations.
Bernie
I have a lot of evidence and documents because I have a Xanadu folder on my computer with everything. Unfortunately, I gave my computer as collateral to the person I owe, so I can only use some of the evidence on my phone. Fred is asking me how much money I want to give him back his website because it contains all the information about him and who he claimed to be. He’s afraid I might reveal it.
Charlie
Charlie sends me a screenshot of a text message sent from Fred to Charlie:
“Your land, your house, your pharmacy your phone your books, computer and your future revenue. You sided with my enemies and will legally lose everthing.”
March 28 Charlie sends me another screenshot of a text message from Fred to him:
“I have hired lawyers to take all your life’s assets. You have until 12noon Central time to take down internet slander and apologize on facebook.
“You have assisted in publicly attempting to lie and ruin my reputation.
“If you decide to lie about our good relationship my family and I will sue you. If you continue to slander my reputation you will be sued. You better take down the slander sites immediately.”
emails sent March 28
Bernie, as I told you long ago, I’m not here to smear Fred, but to tell the truth. I wanted to commit suicide because I’m worthless in my community because of him. I have all the testimonies, as well as witnesses who know my story with Fred well. There are even documents he sent me to show the leaders of my town, showing him that he was going to implement several projects here. Since I needed a job in the future, I was always obedient to him because I had no choice. I printed t-shirts, I bought food to feed 300 orphans twice a year in Xanadu’s name, and Fred congratulated me, telling me I was the best. He lied to my father, saying he was going to build his church because my father is a reverend pastor. I have a lot of evidence that proves everything. He told me to spend what I have to buy hectares of land he was going to finance in January, but so far he hasn’t done anything except deceive me. He was video conferencing with several people from my village using my phone, telling them he was going to finance it in January. Now everyone in my community is against me. If you talk about Fred or Xanadu, they might kill you. I deleted all my posts about Xanadu and burned the knitting (?) too. Right now, Fred is threatening to destroy me.
Charlie
Can you forward me actual messages showing that they were from Fred? Someone could say that you wrote these messages yourself.
Bernie
Hello Bernie, Fred spent all night threatening to kill me, saying he’s going to take everything I have spiritually, and that anyone I work with will hate me. He said he can’t help me with anything anymore and that I’ll be back to square one. For my part, I’d like to take my time and write at least 5 or 6 pages about my story with Fred, because right now I’m still saddened by what he keeps saying. He writes things and sometimes deletes them; luckily, I’m taking screenshots. Sometimes he calls me and insults me. He told me if I publish his website where all his information is, I’ll die and he’ll kill me spiritually.
Charlie
Also, on March 20, Charlie began sending me messages on WhatAapp in addition to emailing me.
His first message was: Good morning Bernie. I’m Charlie. I asked you for your WhatsApp number because that’s where I can easily send you several pieces of evidence and that’s where I always communicate.
Attached to Charlie’s message were several images, most of which were indecipherable, but two of which showed Charlie – one with a group of kids from his community who, I assume, were to be beneficiaries of the charitable foundation Charlie was going to create – using money from Fred Devlin’s Xanadu Foundation. The other photo was of Charlie meeting with women from his community. From one of his previous emails I surmise that he was trying to explain to them that he had been duped by Devlin.
Also attached to Charlie’s WhatsApp message was a message from “David Simkin,” the supposed CEO of the Xanadu Group of Companies. It’s particularly galling that within Devlin’s enormous delusion he actually would have gone so far as to create a fictitious character who became part of his story – and whose name was used to add a patina of respectability to what was utter nonsense.
Sequel to Charlie’s story: I eventually sent Charlie another $800 so that he could pay off the rest of the debt he had incurred by having t-shirts made with the charitable foundation logo on the front, along with food that he bought for 300 orphans in his community.
I’ve remained in touch with Charlie, who tells me how difficult it is for him to find work in Africa, even though he’s highly educated and speaks seven different languages. The immense toll that being strung along by Fred Devlin for years will never be ameliorated.
Coming next: I receive a surprise phone call from the man I’ve been calling Fred Devlin, who asks to meet with me. I end up confronting him over all the cons he’s been pulling.
Features
BOOK REVIEW: “Fighting the Hate: A Handbook for Jews Under Siege”
Reviewed by MURRAY BENDER “Thinking on your feet”—quickly defending a position in a coherent, persuasive manner—is a situation that many people find challenging and stressful. “If only I had said this.” or “Why didn’t I say that?” Hindsight is always 20-20.
Following the Hamas atrocities of October 7, 2023, it has become increasingly necessary for diaspora Jews to “think on their feet” as they unwittingly face a barrage of tough, sometimes hateful, questions about Jews and their Israeli homeland.
Why is Israel committing genocide in Gaza? Why doesn’t Israel return the land it has stolen from Palestinians? Why are Israeli settlers attacking Palestinian farmers? How is Israel different from apartheid South Africa? Why can’t I criticize Israel without being called antisemitic? Is it true that Jews control the world? The list of potential questions is nearly endless.
Engage or hide? This is the difficult choice that confronts Jews as they look to deal with anti-Jewish and anti-Israeli behaviour. Fortunately, author and journalist Melanie Phillips comes to the rescue with her practical and insightful book, Fighting the Hate: A Handbook for Jews Under Siege.
According to Phillips, the dilemma has no single answer. “People need to decide how to behave in accordance not just with the specific circumstances but also with their own attributes and limitations.”
Some regard engagement with their opponents as a sacred duty. “They believe it is a betrayal of the Jewish people not to uphold Israel’s case.” Ohers may be uncomfortable with such a direct approach, but “those who decide to keep their heads down and avoid any altercation may well find that this leaves them with a permanent sense of regret and even failure,” she says.
As a result, it’s probably a good idea to adopt some sort of balance. And that’s where Phillips’ 150-page handbook comes in.
She starts by providing context around the “crisis of legitimacy and acceptance” from which Jews are reeling post-October 7. On the basis of extensive conversations with Jews from across the U.S., Britain and Australia, the author found that many “were near stupefied by the terrifying hatred and irrationality that was unfolding around them.” Again and again, they asked: “What should we do? What can we do?”
In response, Phillips offers a pragmatic approach to help prepare for the inevitable conversations, including a number of key principles:
- Get smart rather than emotional
- Stop playing defence
- Find common ground
- Be positive and confident
- Keep physically safe
Based on these overarching criteria, she provides an extensive list of quick and clever retorts to a range of different situations, emphasizing that “it’s our duty to our children and grandchildren to fight for truth and justice.”
So, the next time it is necessary to “think on their feet,” diaspora Jews will be able to respond quickly and confidently to those difficult questions about themselves and Israel. And they can thank Melanie Phillips for coming to the rescue.
Fighting the Hate: A Handbook for Jews Under Siege by Melanie Phillips is available online from Amazon and Indigo.
Features
ESports Meets Casinos: Overview of Bet Sport Gaming
ESports has become part of the interactive entertainment of online casinos. In fact, many fans already have the opportunity to use Dragonia Casino Bet Sport options while watching the matches of their favorite teams. The hybrid entertainment model opens up many possibilities and increases audience engagement. When video games intersect with betting, it creates a unique collaboration where participants have the opportunity to get a completely new experience right in their own home. At the same time, you can continue to enjoy the usual viewing of familiar tournaments and competitions.
How ESports and Casinos Interconnect
ESports has become a multi-billion-dollar industry that attracts spectators. Traditional casinos are focused on luck. But now they are introducing additional methods of encouraging their customers. Among such options, eSports events deserve special attention. Such bet sport offers combine the usual excitement with an element of competition. The structure of the casino entertainment provides participants with the opportunity to test their skills and reveal their own hidden talents. There are several forms of integration of eSports mechanics into the structure of a classic online casino:
- Competitive betting. Online casinos provide the opportunity to bet on eSports tournaments, which is similar to the usual sports betting. In addition, the possibilities are significantly expanded compared to simple viewing platforms.
- Skill-based casino games. Games inspired by eSports encourage players to actively participate in what is happening on the screen. The games reward the player’s results with certain prizes.
- Interactive arenas. Some casinos broadcast eSports events in real time. This allows players to follow the games directly online, which creates a feeling of real participation in familiar entertainment.
- Cross-platform interaction. Online casinos are introducing eSports-style leaderboards and achievements to attract more participants.
Such innovations appeal to new participants. Cultural changes are part of the development of the infrastructure of the classic casino, and eSports fans find a new environment for entertainment and communication.
Growth of ESports Betting
Global eSports revenue in 2025 exceeded $1.5 billion. Each bet sport option has made a significant contribution to the development. Surveys show that over 60% of players will express interest in betting on eSports, which reflects the demand and the need to develop an updated infrastructure for participation.
ESports events attract 15-20% more new participants compared to conventional casinos. The eSports betting market will exceed $20 billion by 2027, according to analysts’ forecasts, which encourages new participants to more actively watch tournaments and participate in various types of activity.
Why Fans Choose ESports
Bet sport gambling is gaining popularity. This is due to several reasons. For example, large casinos in Las Vegas and Macau now host full-fledged eSports tournaments alongside traditional entertainment. Venues are also experimenting with separate fan zones where sports betting and classic gambling are available.
Some of the most popular eSports disciplines are League of Legends and Counter-Strike: Global Offensive. Some online casinos even introduce eSports mechanics into slots so that players can try something new.
In short, the intersection of eSports and casinos is a natural development of the industry. Competitive play and an optimized betting system create a comfortable environment for true fans who want to diversify their leisure time.