(Contains Sensitive Racial Content) A Witness to Hatred

Saturday, October 12, 1958 - 4:39 a.m.

Rabbi Jacob Emden’s phone rang. It was bright green, a fancy new color Southern Bell had just introduced to the Atlanta market. The rabbi’s congregation presented it to him on his fifty-first birthday. He took one look at the colorful gift and, showing off his legendary Talmudic humor, said, "A green phone. Oy vey! Now when I call God, I'll be sure I'm using the ‘kosher’ line!"

The blessed thing rang…and rang…and rang mercilessly in the dark, shattering the silent stillness of his bedroom. Rabbi jerked in his warm bed and fumbled for the receiver, his synapses tingling, his muscles taught, his heart throbbing in his ears. In the black confusion, he knocked the handle to the floor but held on to the cord. Hand over hand, he fished the receiver up the side of the bed and held it against his ear. A familiar voice, but not familiar at this ghastly hour, said, “Did you feel it?”

“Feel wha…?” Rabbi Emden mumbled, his mind foggy, his voice thick.

Between gasps, the voice on the phone choked out the word, “Shockwave.”

The rabbi's jaw clenched as he tried to place the disembodied voice. After a long moment, he whispered a one-word question, “Shmuel?”

“Yes, Rabbi, it’s me, your cantor.”

"My cantor." Rabbi mouthed the words. He cleared his throat and, becoming more alert, said distinctly, “Shockwave. From what?”

“An explosion,” Shmuel wailed into the phone, his voice breaking as he took in quick, short breaths.

Rabbi Emden drew the phone away from his ear and shook his head, trying to clear the web of confusion from his brain. “Shmuel, please gather yourself,” Rabbi urged in a quieter tone. “And did you say—explosion?”

“Yes, Rabbi, someone blew up the Hebrew Benevolent Temple in Atlanta…on Peachtree Street.”

“Good God!” Rabbi Emden's voice rose to its full strength as his heart sank. He pressed the receiver against his chest, the weight of the news settling on his neck and shoulders like a bag of wet cement. Moments later, he let the receiver slip from his hand, hitting the polished oak floorboards again, hard. The jarring sound of fancy green plastic hitting the hardwood shocked the rabbi, but he didn’t pick up the receiver. He let the evil thing spin on the floor, hissing out the cantor’s heavy breathing like the thing was a horrid living creature.

The rabbi’s wife sat up and took a shallow gulp of air. He glanced at her, now awake but cloistered in a tangle of blankets. Extending her left arm to its fullest, she flicked on the antique Tiffany lamp with its hand-cut glass shade. A kaleidoscope of light filled the corner of the bedroom. In a dry, sleepy voice carrying a hint of annoyance, she echoed her husband’s question, “Jacob, did you say—explosion?” The only time she dared to use the rabbi’s forename was in the confines of their bedroom.

Rabbi Emden spoke softly, his thoughts racing, his eyes focused on his wife's face. He suddenly stood, “Yes, Sara, I did…rather Shmuel did.” His words hung in the air like a late-day thunderstorm as the couple stared into each other’s eyes. The realization that a treasured Jewish sanctuary and historical landmark had been violated washed over the rabbi like a cold shower.

Rabbi Emden retrieved the phone and listened to Shmuel gush out the few details he had.

An hour later, Rabbi sat with his wife on the front porch under the yellow flush of a ceiling lamp. Their property was surrounded by tall pines and one sturdy oak, guardians of their sacred home. In the corner of the lot, closest to the street, stood the rabbi’s favorite tree—the massive White Oak with muscular branches stretching out as if shielding the couple from the world’s harsh realities. To the rabbi, this tree was a gift from God, a manifestation of Adonai's grace. In divine reverence, he named it Goliath. He relished the spiritual irony that a magnificent tree in a rabbi's yard would be called Goliath. It was a hated name in Jewish history, even though Goliath had been felled by a Jewish boy named David, armed with a sling and a stone. But this great oak served as a constant reminder of the fearlessness and inner strength the future King of Israel possessed. Strength that he, Rabbi Jacob Emden, hoped to call on in the face of any adversity that he or his congregation might encounter.

The autumn colors were hidden in the pre-dawn darkness, a stunning splash of October waiting to be revealed in the light of dawn. The early morning air was fresh and clean, yet neither Rabbi Emden nor his wife could draw a normal breath. They sat in rigid silence, wrapped in wool blankets, their chairs barely creaking. Both were aware that their enjoyment of an early Sabbath morning had now been replaced by stone-cold fear.

On most Saturday mornings, the rabbi, a small man with a long narrow face, thinning black hair, and round horn-rimmed glasses resting on a predominant nose, would peacefully meditate upon the message God had placed on his heart. But this morning, Rabbi Emden’s hand shook as he stared at the open notebook on his lap. His handwritten words becoming tear-stained smudges on the white paper.

Sara, his wife and helpmate of twenty-six years, placed a warm palm over her husband’s cold hand. “What is happening, Rabbi?” she said softly, her voice a cocktail of confusion and disbelief. She didn’t say it, but another question, a terrifying, stomach-churning, life-threatening question, bathed her face. “Will our temple be next?”

Rabbi looked into his wife’s coffee brown eyes glistening with unshed tears. He knew her questions would hang like boulders from the hearts of the flock at his Bevis Marks Temple in Decatur. Anti-Jewish sentiment had been on the rise in the south, and he needed to have an answer. But at that moment, he felt empty, like a rusty tin bucket lying in the ditch, crumpled and worthless.

Rabbi Emden looked out at Goliath’s muscular branches, its thick trunk, its overwhelming height. He groaned.

* * *

About two hours later, 6:26 am

A middle-aged man, unusually thin, with a narrow bony face pale as paper and rodent eyes like black beans, sat with his two companions in a grungy booth at a run-down restaurant on one of Atlanta’s back streets. His rippling jaw muscles revealed some kind of inner agitation. With a cigarette dangling from his lips, he posed a question that hung in the air like a Mexican piñata. "What's our next move, boys?"

The symbolic request was followed by a long draw on his Pall Mall, followed by a blue cloud spewed into the air. Not fully understood by his small audience, the question was loaded with white-man morality and nervous energy. He paused and shot severe, rolling eyeballs at his two mute followers. He then sucked in the last drag of smoke from the butt and exhaled two solid streams from his nostrils. The smoke splayed out on the Formica top like morning fog as he crushed the cig into his half-empty cup.

The thin man’s bluster drew the full attention of the two dullards seated across from him in the old plywood booth with flattened cushions and an unsteady table that rocked when touched. Both men, brothers, were stricken with wide-eyed enthusiasm as they sat in the presence of this rising star, a star who hopefully would take them back to the promised land.

Before either dullard could answer, the thin man declared, "I’ll tell you our next move,” his stale breath engulfing the booth. He took an extra moment to slide his yellow-stained fingers from his temples to his ears, smoothing down his varnished black hair. “We keep stoking the fire, boys," his voice rang with unchecked conviction. "Make some noise, stir up the chaos,” he rubbed his gnarly hands. “Ruffle a few damn feathers," his eyes now ablaze. He finished with a huff and a smile, his grayish teeth in full display while pulling a fresh pack of Pall Malls from his shirt pocket. He slapped the pack down on the faded red Formica; the table shuttered, and the cold coffee in each brother’s cup rippled as if a pebble had been dropped into the black liquid.

Lee, the dumbest brother, arched a thick eyebrow over his hazy, alcoholic eye. His heavy brow, partially shaded by the brim of his baseball cap, was rough and pitted like a piece of old cowhide. He then said, sluggishly and with a sophomoric giggle, "George, can we blow up another Jew-boy Temple?"

George, their pale, thin leader, ghosted a disapproving scowl as his beanish eyes glistened with passion. “Keep your voice down, dumb ass.” He shook his head slowly. “Loose lips…” he stopped and looked about the restaurant suspiciously, “…sink ships.” George held the dumb man’s eyes with a steady fierce glare for a painful moment, then said calmly with moral wickedness. “Nothing would make me happier than to blast another synagogue, Lee, but we must be smart…which you ain’t.” George hesitated, ripped open the Pall Mall package, and clawed out a cigarette with his long fingernail. “Lee, you are built to take orders, not to think, got that?” Lee sat mute, head hanging. “I’ll take that as a yes,” George mocked.

George placed the fresh stick of North Carolina tobacco between his lips and held it there, stiff as a bean pole, unlit. He stared at his comrades and swiveled his craggy head to survey the restaurant one more time. After a quick snort, he flipped open his Zippo and lit the cigarette. “Jews are clever, you know,” the smoking stick now bobbing with his moving lips like a maestro’s wand. “They plan on taking over America, one bank at a time.” He slapped the table, it rocked; heads turned. “Just like my old daddy said years ago, the bastards will do it if you let them. By sure God, they will do it.”

The brothers looked at each other with genetically matching grins and squinty eyes. “George,” said the smarter brother, who everyone called Roy Ray, hooked his left thumb on the strap of his bib overalls and rummaged through his breast pocket with his other hand. Feeling around for several seconds, he finally pulled out a bent pipe and a pouch of black shag. “We still have a crate of dynamite in the shed,” he muttered in a Southern drawl with the timbre of gravel being turned in a cement mixer.

Lee rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s fifty sticks, ain’t it, Roy Ray?” he said, keeping both eyes locked on George, hoping to earn a smile.

Roy Ray cleared his throat, but the gravel grinding continued. “Give or take fifty, but yeah, a crate full of beautiful TNT.”

Lee spoke up, timid, “So, if we have to be smart, George, does that mean we ain’t gonna blow no more…” he caught himself, remembering what loose lips sink.

“Boys, relax yourselves. First, we expose the truth to the citizens of Atlanta and our God-forsaken country,” he coughed and scratched the side of his aquiline nose. “We should have learned from the Germans years ago. Juden and Afrikanischare are out to destroy the white man…and our natural way of life." Nods of agreement across the table.

At the mention of Germany, George's rhetoric took on a higher pitch, fueled by his unbridled scorn for both the Jews and the Negroes. He leaned back in his chair and, for five full minutes, released a litany of hate-laced words with table-rocking, hand-wringing fury.

When Lee thought George was finished, he stared, eyes unblinking, at his rising star and asked, “Ain’t you worried about them sinkin’ ships no more, George?”

Just then the waitress, a smallish Negro girl in a crisp white apron, white shoes, and carrying a pot of hot coffee stopped to see if anyone needed a warm-up. She stood quietly six inches from the table but was ignored. Finally, she smiled and took a step toward another booth. “Where you goin’, jungle bunny?” George barked.

“I thought all y’all were fine, Mr. George,” she said sweetly. The waitress was, unfortunately, acquainted with George and his bunch as they frequented her section. Sometimes, it was just George; sometimes, like today, he had Lee and Roy, and occasionally, he had enough men to fill two booths and a table.

George turned sideways in the booth and cocked his narrow thin face, a cloud of smoke rising from his mouth. “Don’t ever interrupt me when I’m speaking, you got that?”

“Sorry, I didn’t see y’all was a speakin’, Mr. George,” she said in her high-pitched sweet voice.

“Well, I was. Run along, we’re done with you.”

As the trio got up to leave, Roy Ray huddled up to George and whispered, "So how do we get our message out to the folks of Atlanta and the whole United States?"

George leaned in, his voice a hissy whisper. "Damnation, Roy Ray, do I have to do all the thinking?” he paused and rubbed the back of his neck. “We let fear do it. It is our loudest and best weapon against them Jews and Negroes.”

Roy Ray shook his head, confused.

“Don’t you see, fear of the unknown is on our side? No one knows when our next bombing will happen…next week…next month…next year. Atlanta is scared…at least the Jews are. They’re all waiting and watching. They want to hear from us. The whole damn town wants to hear from us.”

George stood and laid two dollars and ninety cents on the table, and with a sweep of his arm he said, “Boys, if all this excitement don’t light your fire, your damn woods wet.”

With Atlanta’s heartbeat pulsing around them, the men marched into the crisp Southern air, pungent with the smell of car exhaust, the honk of taxis, and a bright early sun. Three men in lockstep, a shared resolve in their hearts.

* * *

Later that evening, the headline in the Atlanta Journal newspaper read: Jewish Temple on Peachtree Wrecked by Dynamite Blast

At 3:37 a.m. this morning, the Hebrew Benevolent Congregation Temple on Peachtree was bombed. A satchel containing approximately fifty-four sticks of dynamite blew out the north wall of the landmark building. Not only was the Temple severely damaged, but the blast terrorized members of the congregation and shocked the city of Atlanta.

After the explosion, one question remained—who did it?

Joseph Gossin, the Temple’s rabbi, said: “We know what message the explosion meant to deliver. Jews are not wanted here or in the South.” The rabbi was referring to a dispatch sent to the Atlanta press corps by a radical group called the Confederate Underground. The message read as follows: “We are going to blow up all Communist organizations. Negroes and Jews are hereby declared aliens.”

The editor of the newspaper added his voice to the rabbi’s: “You cannot preach and encourage hate for the Negro and hope to restrict it to that field alone,” he wrote. “When the hounds of hate are loosed on one people, then no one is safe.”

The detonation was heard for miles around. According to the governor of Georgia, hundreds of people felt the blast, and many were shaken out of their beds. The ear-splitting explosion rolled like a tidal wave through neighborhoods and between the buildings downtown. Near the Temple, windows shattered, leaves were blown off trees, and the sidewalk buckled. Some people thought the blast was the start of new bombardments of Atlanta by Union forces.

Because the explosion occurred early in the morning, no one was in the building or within the immediate vicinity. There were no fatalities or injuries. But the deep psychological and emotional trauma felt by members of the Temple and Jews throughout the southern United States is immense.