“A big man, who was dressed mighty proud in a double-breasted brown suit, was giving the orders.” J. Loy Harrison, white, was testifying as to what happened leading up to the lynching of the four African-Americans. On July 25, 1946, they were riding to their homes in his car after bail had been posted to free one of the four from jail. At Morris Ford, they were stopped by a car filled with white rough necks. My blood curdled as I continued to read the rest.
“The big man pointed to Roger Malcolm (the one who had been in jail) and said, “We want that n****r.” Then he pointed to George Dorsey (the other man, a five-year veteran of World War II) that is also my n****r, we want you too, Charlie.” Harrison butted in. “His name ain’t Charlie, he’s George. Someone said,” he continued. “Keep your damned big party shut. This ain’t your party.”
The four African-Americans, two men and their wives, who had recognized the men who stopped the car, were dragged out taken down below the Morris Ford Bridge in Walton County, Georgia, and lynched. It was a very hot day and the site was 50 miles west of Atlanta. The news spread fast – the Walton County police notified, came to the scene and the bodies were found.
The description of the lynching spread quickly through the US. When the FBI reported the incident to US president Harry S. Truman, he established the “Human Rights Commission.” Despite the action of the president, the investigations of the FBI and the county police, the killers were never found.
A few days later in the end of July, I was sent, for a month, to Camp Daniel Morgan, the Educational Alliance Camp. I have never been able to understand why. My parents had driven back with me from Norfolk Virginia, where we were staying when my father was overseas from January 1945 until March 1946. It was nice, as you can imagine, to be with my father again. As pictures show on his return, I had grown into a “cowboy in full dress, hat and all,” with my cap guns firing.
Now I realize the atmosphere for the 20,000 Jews in Atlanta was chilling. The antisemitism resulting from this incident was fanned by the KKK. We might have been white, but we were targets. My parents wanted to get me out of town. When I returned late August, there was calm in Atlanta as this lad of 7 then recalls it.
In September 1946, I started Hebrew school at Shearith Israel synagogue. Rav Tuvia Geffen, my grandfather, was the head rabbi. Rabbi Hyman Friedman, the assistant rabbi, was running the school. Along with Hebrew, our main studies in the three weeks in September were the High Holy Days.
On September 23, I attended slihot at our synagogue on Washington Street. I pressured my father to let me go with him, even though slihot began at midnight. Those penitential prayers began. Of course, I fell asleep.
Rosh Hashanah was now at hand. We went to shul never missing a service. Arriving at home after Mincha and Maariv prayers, around 8 p.m., already seated were my Zaddie, my Bubbie, my mother and father. For first time, I ate from the tasty round challah dipped in honey. Then we made a special blessing over the apple and dipped it in honey. (Here in Israel, since 1977, I have eaten many more symbolic foods.)
The next morning, I went to shul with my father. I knew Hebrew, but the machzor was forbidding so I ran out as often as I could. After ten minutes outside with my friends, my father came and dragged me back. The ba’al koreh was our cousin, who was really good.
Torah and Haftorah completed, we all arose. My father pointed in the machzor to the prayers to be recited. Almost secretly, our cousin, Abe Edelstein, climbed on to the bima in the middle of the shul. He put the shofar to his lips. The sounds so struck me and excited me.
Now, after reading the “lynching” report of the Morris Ford tragedy, I can only imagine what a relief it must have been for the members of the synagogue. The sounds of the shofar said, “we are here – standing very proud as Americans and Georgians – O God – president Truman has done it – please destroy the antisemitism which has been our plight for over 2000 years.”
After that first Rosh Hashanah I can recall several notable New Years, 5716 up to 5822. They are a significant part of my life experience. I am sure that your personal High Holy Day observance, no matter how you and your family make it meaningful, is a part of your Jewish life which you remember well.
Becoming a rabbi changes one’s type of participation in these dramatic days. At first, in your early schooling, you are a student rabbi. In the five years, I conducted services in that status, I usually had real kavanah doing all the davening, reading the Torah, the haftarah, blowing the shofar and giving quite a number of sermons. Of course, this format was good training for me. In 1960 my first pulpit was at Temple B’nai Israel in Easton Maryland. Elmer Fox, the president, knew I was very green, so he asked the congregants, 45 families, to overlook mistakes that I might make except for jumping over an essential prayer completely or missing a Torah portion. What a wonderful beginning, my spirits elevated, and I was paid also.
How did I learn this vast variety of High Holy Day skills? We had no courses in any of these “major” Jewish ecclesiastical tasks at Rabbinical School. Because I was a regular attendee with my father at our shul, I had a strong base. Since my grandfather Rav Tuvia Geffen was very robust and inspiring in his eighth decade, 1950s, I took the opportunity of being with him five often six days a week; along with learning Chumash and Rashi, Gemara, he taught me the nusach for all holidays but especially the High Holy Days.
My grandfather taught me my basic shofar skills. In addition, I had an inspiring teacher, a fellow student, Rabbi Raphael Ostrovsky. A Jerusalem native he was awesome playing “When the Saints go marching in” at all student parties.
Special for me was tashlich (throwing your sins as bread in a live stream), which had to be observed no matter where I was. The most difficult was a two hour walk to a reservoir in Athens Ohio. What I did achieve in my full rabbinic pulpits in Wilmington, Delaware and Scranton Pennsylvania was finding a river and a stream in which we performed Tashlich each year. My best Tashlich service came on the second day of Rosh Hashanah.
In many Conservative synagogues, at times, there are one day “shul” goers. In Wilmington – the first four hundred pews with names were near the bima. First day filled; second day about 200 people used seats. I announced, that the second day of Rosh Hashanah was a family service. Bring breadcrumbs.
When services ended, we marched out of the synagogue, crossed over the street (blocked by the police) then walked down through Brandywine Park right next to the shul. Arriving at Brandywine River, I gave explanation of tashlich; Everyone had the Hebrew text for the occasion and English translation. Six hundred men, women and children were there so we had to take turns getting close to the Brandywine shore. The next day the local newspaper headline: “The Beth Shalom congregation prays Down by the Riverside.”
All my 11 High Holy Day pulpits were in a regular shul. However, I was once recruited to conduct Maranno-like services in the Old City of Jerusalem. We hired our own guards – and to this day I’m not sure where we were. I was led there secretly by hand.
Who knows, with coronavirus, what our Rosh Hashanah in 5782-2021-2 will be?
Leshana Tova Tikatevu! May you be inscribed and sealed in the Book of Life) for a good year!
The writer is a native Atlantan and Conservative rabbi who lives in Jerusalem.