DAVID ISAY: The city of Greenwood, on the banks of the Yazoo River, sits right in the middle of the Mississippi delta.
The old downtown is filled with worn one and two story red-brick buildings, most put up just after the turn of the century, when Greenwood was the nation’s cotton capital. A bustling port city.
Today, all that’s left of that era are faded painted signs on the sides of some of these buildings: advertisement for general stores and cigar shops and nickel Cokes. Many of these businesses had names not readily associated with the deep south.
JOE ERBER: This building on this corner used to be Klein and Blumenthal’s department store. The sign’s still on the building. You can see it.
ISAY: This is Joe Erber, postman and one of the last remaining Jews of Greenwood, Mississippi.
ERBER: The building we’re going into now to deliver mail used to be Gelman’s Café — belonged to my uncle.
(Sound of entering a building with clinking bells on the door.)
ERBER: Hey, how are you this morning?
WOMAN: Turning a little cold, isn’t it?
ERBER: It sure is. I believe it’s going to snow tonight.
ISAY: Joe Erber is a sight in his untucked postal blues with his long handlebar mustache. At six foot two, weighing nearly three hundred pounds, Joe looks more like a linebacker than the town’s rabbi. But he is. Along with his duties as a full-time postman, and part-time policeman, Joe is the spiritual leader of congregation Ahavath Rayim, which roughly translates ”brotherly love.”
While certainly not an area of country normally associated with Judaism, small southern towns from El Dorado, Arkansas to Lockport, Louisiana were once home to sizable communities of Jews. While Jews first began trickling into the Deep South as early as the 1700s, the bulk arrived around the turn of the century: Eastern European immigrants seeking relief from tenement life in New York and other northern cities. Most came as peddlers, eventually opening dozens of shops up and down the main streets of these towns.
ERBER: At one time the store next door to this one was Jewish. The store up the street was Jewish. On down the street was a Jewish laundry. On down the street was a five and dime store — Jewish. There was Bennett’s Bargain Store. Across the street there was a kosher butcher, a kosher tailor. There were two or three ready-to-wear stores — some of the biggest stores in town . . .
(Sound of a train passing, blowing its horn.)
ISAY: The tracks of the C & G railroad run down the middle of Johnson Street in Greenwood. It’s here that you’ll find one of only two Jewish stores that remain in town today.
(Sound inside Kornfeld’s Store)
Kornfeld’s is an old-fashioned dry goods store, dealing mostly in clothing and shoes.
LESLIE KORNFELD: We were here when the streets was mud and dirt. We’ve been here a long time.
ISAY: Leslie Kornfeld is 79 years old and owns this store, which his father, Wolfe, started. No one is exactly sure when.
Leslie Kornfeld is tall, thin, and nearly-bald, dapperly dressed, with a little accounts notebook in his breast pocket. Kornfeld was born and raised in Greenwood, Bar Mitzvahed at congregation Ahavath Rayim. He says that growing up a southern Jew was not so bad.
LESLIE KORNFELD: I had fights. I was called ”Christ Killer.” I told ’em, ”What the hell did I have to do with killing Christ? I had nothin’ to do with killing Christ!” But when I got to high school, I was center of the basketball team, I made the track team, and we got along fine. They looked at me and said, ”He’s a human being after all, maybe.”
BUBBA KORNFELD: But I think it was a lot different when I was coming up than when you were coming up . . .
ISAY: Leslie Kornfeld’s son, Bubba, has wandered to the back of the store, where we’re talking.
BUBBA KORNFELD: Because there were a lot more Yehudim here when you were coming up. When I was coming up there were like four or five of us. I mean, I’ll be honest with you, I had a hell of a time coming up. There were people that wouldn’t have anything to do with me because of who I was and what I was and because my hair was kinky instead of straight, and my name began with ”Korn-” instead of ”Smith” or ”Jones” — I know that.
ISAY: Bubba Kornfeld is the only one of Leslie Kornfeld’s children to remain in Greenwood. The other two moved on, one to Chattanooga and the other to Memphis.
Like his father was before him, Leslie Kornfeld is the president of congregation Ahavath Rayim. But unlike his father, he has had to witness the demise of Greenwood’s once thriving Jewish community, and watch his congregation whither away to next to nothing.
It was a process set into motion in the late 1940s in the Delta, with the arrival of the mechanized cotton picker, which drove huge numbers of field-hands north, and caused small businesses to suffer. By the 1960s, Jewish migration was in full swing.
LESLIE KORNFELD: The older people died out. The young people went to college, got their degrees for lawyers, doctors. They didn’t want to go back to the little towns. There’s nothing. You take a town with 1,500 people, 1,000 or 3,000 — these little communities around here — there’s nothing there for them! So they went either to Memphis or New Orleans or Birmingham — to the city. And they left us old folks here to ponder what the future, and dream about the past.
ISAY: A past in which Ahavath Rayim would have standing-room-only crowds at the synagogue. Now it is almost impossible to pull together a minyan on Friday nights — the minimum ten men required by Jewish law to conduct services. A past when Ahavath Rayim’s Sunday School supported several hundred children. Today there are only four young Jewish people left in town. Most congregants are in their seventies or older.
LESLIE KORNFELD: We’re trying to keep going — it’s all we can do. ’Cause after all what can 12 people — I don’t know if we’ve got 12 people left ’cause we’ve lost . . . in the past year we’ve lost two members . . . three members! It’s really a pitiful situation! And it’s not gonna get no better, it’s gonna get worse. We lose any more members what do you got? But we keep plugging along.
(Sounds of Kornfeld’s store fade to police siren and radio.)
ISAY: On most Friday afternoons after he’s done delivering the mail, Joe Erber sheds his postal uniform in favor of police sergeant’s stripes. Joe has been an auxiliary policeman in Greenwood for the past 12 years.
ERBER: Okay, son, you’re under arrest.
ISAY: And at about quarter of eight in the evening Joe Erber calls in ”Ten-Six,” or ”busy,” to his dispatcher, so that he can begin making his way over to Ahavath Rayim to lead services.
(Sounds of street.)
The synagogue sits just on the outskirts of downtown Greenwood.
It’s a good sized red brick building, with white pillars out front. Most members of the congregation begin arriving a few minutes before services and gather together in the vestibule.
(Sound of congregants arriving at temple.)
ERBER: Gutten tagen.
ISAY: The last to show up is Joe Erber. He is not an ordained rabbi, but ever since 1968, when Ahavath Rayim could no longer support its full-time rabbi, a congregant has had to lead the services. Erber, as usual, arrives a little out of breath in his police uniform — a walkie-talkie and a billy club on one hip, a .357 Magnum on the other. But even the president of the congregation doesn’t seem to mind.
LESLIE KORNFELD: He keeps us all quiet. (Laughs.)
ERBER: I asked a rabbi about that, and he said, ”If soldiers in Israel carry a gun and they daben and they pray, then it’s perfectly alright in America, too.”
ISAY: The congregants begin making their way into the sanctuary, which is stunning. Old, but immaculately kept up, with high arched ceilings, dark wood and stained glass all around. They pull prayer books off a shelf at the back of the synagogue. The men take tattered prayer shawls off a wooden rack, kiss them, and drape them over their shoulders. Joe Erber walks to the front of the synagogue. And steps up onto the pulpit. This room, he says, brings back a lifetime of memories.
ERBER: I can close my eyes. My father wore hearing-aid glasses — he had a hearing aid in both ears. And we used to have a Rabbi that reminded me of a Baptist preacher when he started the sermon. He would rant and rave and pound the pulpit to get his points across. And when he got up and it became time for the sermon, my father would reach up and you would hear ”click click” as he hit both hearing aid switches. And he would sit there with the prettiest smile on his face and his eyes closed, and pretty soon he’d start snoring. And I can see that just like it was yesterday.
(Sounds of prayers in Hebrew.)
ISAY: Joe Erber stands with his back to the congregation, facing the simple mahogany ark which holds the Torahs.
It is a rather unforgettable sight: this hulking good ole’ boy — handlebar mustache, pistol and all — gently rocking back and forth, his eyes closed, the tassels of his prayer shawl brushing the podium.
(Erber whispers prayers in Hebrew.)
Behind him, the curved wooden pews are mostly empty. The congregants have spread out comfortably in the last three rows on one side of the temple. There are nearly 20 people here tonight. It’s the largest crowd they’ve had in months. With myself included, they have a minyan for the first time since the High Holidays.
ERBER (to congregation): Mourner’s Kaddish.
(The congregation begins to chant the Mourner’s Kaddish.)
ISAY: There are worries that for next year’s High Holidays — the most sacred, holy days in the Jewish religion — the congregation will not be able to pull together a minion.
In Meridian, Mississippi, orthodox congregation Othel Jacob had resorted to taking out ads in Jewish newspapers offering to pay males to come to Meridian for their services, but it didn’t work. Othel Jacob closed its doors this past spring, leaving Ahavath Rayim as the only remaining orthodox congregation in the state — and as one of the last holdouts in a chapter of Jewish history which seems destined soon to end.
(Erber and congregation sing a Hebrew prayer.)
ERBER: I can see the handwriting on the wall — it’s just not going to be. Eventually this is going to fall the way of all the other little synagogues and temples in the state. I can take you to Canton, Mississippi right now and show you where they had a fine temple — the only thing left looks like a gravestone that says: ”This marks the spot of the Temple so-and-so.” And that’s what it is — a gravestone for the congregation. And eventually I think that’s what we’re gonna have.
One of the younger members, younger than I am, he and I have a saying every time we go to a funeral for another one of the olders: The last one out, please close the gate. You know — last one out, close the gate.
(Erber recites the closing prayer.)
Shabbat Shalom, good Shabbas.
A gutten Shabbas, a gutten Shabbas. Hava, nagilah. Hava, nagilah. You ready? She and I used to do the hora . . .
(Klezmer music, then fade-out.)