An Eden Amid The Spanish Moss (06/17/2004)

Jewish history plays out in a distinctly genteel way in a South Carolina city where memory is sacred.

Sandee Brawarsky - Jewish Week Book Critic
 

Charleston, S.C. — A street here called Cabbage Row is the inspiration for George Gershwin’s opera “Porgy and Bess,” set in 1925, around the same time that a ragtime dance that borrowed the city’s name captured the nation. In those years Charleston had three synagogues, one Reform and two Orthodox, formed through a chain of secessions.

Charleston’s Jewish history dates back to the 1690s, when the earliest members of the community, descendants of Sephardim who fled from Spain, arrived by way of Western Europe and the Caribbean.

Although Charleston is no longer the largest Jewish community in America as it was in 1800, the city still has a vibrant Jewish life.

“I think the South generally loves its history,” says Martin Perlmutter, director of the Yaschik/Arnold Jewish Studies program at the College of Charleston. “Southern Jews are as much Southerners as Jews. They have Southern values. They love their home.”

In this city founded in 1670, pale pastel-colored architectural gems line the streets. Downtown, church steeples dominate the skyline and, in fact, Charleston is known as “the holy city.” Oak trees draped with Spanish moss, like a threadbare shawl, catch a Northerner’s eye. The surrounding harbor lends an openness to the urban view, and the raised sea wall at the water’s edge entices walkers. In early summer the city is fragrant with Confederate jasmine.

Once a great Colonial trading port, the city was a major battleground in the Revolutionary War. And across the harbor, the first shots of the Civil War were fired.

Charleston is a place where stereotypes about hospitality and gentility prove true. A New York reporter is still startled to be addressed as “ma’am.” In Jewish Charleston, six degrees of separation are reduced to two or three. These days the city has a Jewish telephone directory, a glatt kosher restaurant, as of this year the first Jewish sorority at the College of Charleston and a black Jewish chief of police. Businesses with Jewish names anchor the main shopping street, and a restaurant featuring soulful Southern cuisine has a mezuzah on the door and its own Jewish story.

The Jewish community numbers about 5,500, according to Ellen Katzman, joint executive director of the Charleston Jewish Federation and the JCC. Katzman’s office is on the campus shared by the federation, the JCC and the community’s day school, the Addlestone Hebrew Academy, across the Ashley River from the downtown area.

The state of South Carolina has a long history of religious tolerance and religious diversity. The state Constitution, as drafted by John Locke, offered tolerance to “Jews, Heathens and other Dissenters from the purity of the Christian religion.”

As Eli Evans, a much-respected historian of the Jewish South, explains, this was “a place of dreams where Jews could live free in a kind of promised land, worship as they saw fit, practice any profession, trade and make partnerships with gentiles, vote, serve in the militia, own property and will it to their heirs.”

A History Of Synagogues

Charleston’s Jewish narrative is connected to the history of its synagogues. In 1749, Jews organized their first congregation, Kahal Kadosh Beth Elohim (KKBE), which is still thriving. More than 20 members served in the War of Independence, including Francis Salvador, a delegate to the South Carolina Provincial Congresses of 1775 and 1776.

One of the first Jews to serve in an American legislature — and perhaps the first Jew in modern history to be elected to office — Salvador was the first Jew known to die in the war.

After meeting in private spaces, congregants in 1794 moved to their newly constructed building, a formal Georgian temple, in the style of other houses of worship in the city. The building was destroyed by fire in 1838; the current grand Greek Revival structure was built on the same site.

The synagogue is now a National Historic Landmark, but the congregation is known for more than its building.

In the 1820s, a group within the congregation pushed for changes in the traditional Sephardi service — more English, shorter services, one-day holiday celebrations and eventually an organ. Although their initial efforts were turned down, resulting in communal ruptures and new alliances, the congregation adopted liberalized rituals in 1841 and became the first Reform synagogue in America. In 1844, a women’s group was formed, the Society for the Instruction of Hebrew Doctrine, later renamed the Hebrew Ladies Sewing Circle — the first organized Sisterhood.

The Orthodox and Conservative congregations have an interconnected history. In 1852, a group of Eastern European immigrants who sought a more traditional Ashkenazi service began organizing a new congregation, Berith Shalom, which began meeting regularly in 1854 and was incorporated a year later. As the membership grew, they erected a building in 1874. The Reform synagogue donated an ark along with some used pews to the new congregation.

A newer wave of Eastern European immigrants seceded to form their own Orthodox congregation, Beth Israel, in 1911. And in 1947, another group broke off from the older congregation to form a Conservative synagogue, Emanu-El.

Eventually the two Orthodox synagogues combined to form one, Brith Shalom Beth Israel (BSBI), which celebrates its 150th anniversary this year.

Some of these transitions were smooth, others less so. As Jeffrey Gurock, professor of American Jewish history at Yeshiva University, recounts in a forthcoming book, “Orthodoxy in Charleston: Brith Shalom Beth Israel and American Jewish History,” the board meetings of the newly united congregation were contentious. At one point the rabbi was so annoyed that he grabbed the Torah from the Ark and said, “Y’all quit fighting with each other. This is what you have to fight for.”

In October, all three congregations, along with the Southern Jewish Historical Society, the Jewish Historical Society of South Carolina and the Jewish studies program at the College of Charleston, with the support of the city, are sponsoring a weekend-long conference, “Jewish Roots in Southern Soil,” commemorating the 350th anniversary of Jews in America and the 150th anniversary of BSBI.

About relations between the three denominations, Rabbi Anthony Holz of KKBE says, “We have an unusual thing: a very civil community.” It also seems unusually cohesive. Borders between the three communities are permeable, and in fact many families belong to more than one congregation. Synagogue leaders make an effort not to schedule bar mitzvahs on the same weeks as the other congregations. Religious distinctions also are not sharp: Some members of the Reform congregation keep kosher homes, and some families regularly drive to the Orthodox synagogue on Shabbat. In a previous generation, the rabbi of KKBE would walk to the Orthodox shul on the second days of holidays when his congregation wouldn’t meet. The three current rabbis — Rabbi Anthony Holz of KKBE, Rabbi David Radinsky of BSBI and Rabbi Chezi Zionce of Emanu-El — do twice-yearly presentations together at the College of Charleston on a topic of Jewish interest.

After one such program, Rabbi Holz approached Rabbi Radinsky about studying a rabbinic text together, and they began a program of weekly study, then including the previous Conservative rabbi. Now the three rabbis are engaged in Sefer Agadah, the Book of Legends and Midrashim. They also have traveled to Israel together.

Rabbi Zionce, the newcomer of the group who arrived four years ago, says he had grown used to bickering and divisiveness in Jewish communities but sees Charleston as “this little Gan Eden, a really golden place in Judaism.”

Soon after he moved to town, Rabbi Zionce received a call from Rabbi Radinsky asking if he would cover for the rabbi should any needs arise while he was away briefly.

“Your congregation should only be well, but I’m here for you,” he recalls telling his colleague. Then Rabbi Zionce received a call from Rabbi Holz with the same request.

“I had the whole city. I was shocked,” Rabbi Zionce says. “In other cities this would be like putting milchigs and fleishigs in one pot.”

The community also seems in strong agreement that Rabbi Radinsky will be missed when he retires this summer after serving the community for 34 years, the longest tenure for any rabbi in the city’s history. He is close to the mayor and city officials, his classes have been attended by congregants as well as others curious about Judaism, and he and his wife, Barbara, have opened their home to many.

While Rabbi Radinsky doesn’t bend on principles, he has led BSBI in a spirit of openness and Jewish learning.

The Orthodox community is now facing the challenge of whether to stay in its historic home downtown, where few congregants still live, or move across the river to the suburban area where many members reside. Since 1964, the synagogue has maintained a satellite congregation, known as the Minyan House, where Sabbath observers in the area can worship.

Southern Family Ties

“In Charleston, the dividing lines in the Jewish community are less about denominations and more about how long someone’s family has been here,” says Dale Rosengarten, a historian who is curator of the Jewish Heritage Collection of the College of Charleston library.

Rosengarten created a traveling exhibition, “A Portion of the People: Three Hundred Years of Southern Jewish Life,” and co-edited the companion volume.

From conversations with those who lent their family heirloom objects and others who viewed the exhibit, the show was a success not only for the sheer interest and beauty of the materials collected but for the cultural assertiveness it encouraged among local Jews. Although never shy among themselves, they were quite pleased by the national interest in their history.

Mordenai Hirsch and Rachel Raisin, sisters, are sixth-generation Charlestonians on their mother’s side. Their father, Rabbi Jacob Raisin, who served as spiritual leader of KKBE for 31 years, until his death in 1946, emigrated from Lithuania. They now live in the house in which they grew up — the family moved here in about 1928 — where congregants would drop in frequently on their father, whom they describe as a scholar and “a real Southern gentleman.”

For them there was no particular burden associated with being the rabbi’s daughters, and they continue to attend services regularly at KKBE. They recall their roles as members of the Jewish Juniors during World War II, when their group would alternate with the Junior League meeting trainloads of soldiers at the Charleston train station, sharing food and answering questions.

Theirs is a “single house,” a distinctive Charleston style where the balconies, or piazzas, run the length of the house. On their enclosed side porch, Hirsch demonstrates how to sit on a joggling board, with its springing, soothing motion; joggling boards were once as popular as hammocks. This 18-foot cedar plank set on two end posts has been in their family for almost 200 years.

“We used to play on it as children,” Hirsch reminisces. “And my mother would joggle my son.”

Last month at KKBE, a bat mitzvah recalled the congregation’s founding more than 250 years ago, as Chelsea Lanigan, a descendent of Joseph Tobias, the synagogue’s first president, was called to the Torah. Although Chelsea’s mother, Sallie Arnold, was not raised Jewish, this synagogue, her grandparents and great-grandparents were always part of her life.

For the bat mitzvah celebration, relatives from around the country, who had not been in the synagogue in years, returned to Charleston. They celebrated afterward at Wickliffe House, a historic mansion that had been Arnold’s great-grandmother’s house.

“I always knew that I’d raise my children as Jews, but I didn’t know I would come back to KKBE,” says Arnold, wearing tiny Stars of David as earrings. “Since the moment I returned, people have been thrilled, telling me that they knew my grandmother.”

As for Chelsea, who wore a turquoise silk tallit as she was passed the Torah from her uncle and mother, the family connections are “pretty cool.”

Andrew HaLevi has lived in Charleston for nine years, but he realizes that he might always feel like a newcomer.

“You can’t count how long you’ve been here in years,” says HaLevi, 37. “You have to count in generations.”

Among his colleagues at the all-black high school where he teaches, the Sabbath-observing HaLevi says there is a lot of religious talk.

“Charleston is a place where it’s not so important what religion you are, but that you’re serious about it,” he says. “When people know that I’m a practicing Jew, I get a lot of respect thrown my way.”

Recently named district Teacher of the Year, HaLevi became Orthodox when he married his wife, a federal public defender. They chose Charleston in part for its Jewish community and are committed to living in their racially mixed neighborhood walking distance from BSBI. If the Orthodox synagogue were to move to the suburbs, HaLevi says they would have to think about leaving Charleston.

Collard Greens And Long Memories

Jewish stories can be found throughout the city, and many sites are listed in a pamphlet written by historian Solomon Breibart. The 1816 Federal-style home of merchant Moses C. Levy, heralded for saving a Torah scroll at KKBE from the fire of 1838, still stands. Now restored as a bed and breakfast that’s both holistic and Southern in accent, the inn is named for his granddaughter, Phoebe Pember, who worked in hospitals during the Civil War and wrote “A Southern Woman’s Story.”

On King Street, a Banana Republic replaces Silver’s “five and dime” store and an art gallery occupies a space built in 1839 by Rachel Florence Lazarus, a sole trader, a woman permitted to do business separate from her husband.

Rabbi Radinsky, a historian by training, points out that in the 1930s, about 30 to 50 stores on the main shopping streets were closed on Saturdays. The immigrant Jews who came to Charleston were observant Jews — “few Yiddishist socialists here,” he says. The stores would reopen on Saturday nights in time for mill workers receiving their pay.

Shops with Jewish names still operate along the main shopping streets. Henry Berlin runs the clothing business founded in 1883 by his grandfather, Henry Berlinsky, an immigrant from Poland. Berlinsky was religious and when his sons wanted to keep the store open on Saturdays, he said that no business with his name on it would be open on the Sabbath. So the sons shortened the name to Berlin’s. It has since stretched up the block. Henry Berlin’s son and two daughters are the fourth generation to work there.

Berlin, a longtime member of BSBI, turns 80 this year. Every day but Sundays he’s at the store, always in a bow tie, pulling fashionable suits out on the racks that are older than he is. He’s long been involved in civic affairs and for this Berlin, the Civil War is still going on.

“And we’re going to win,” he says.

His daughter Ellen Berlin moved to New York City for a while but returned to Charleston in 1989 for what she thought would be a few years. But she’s still here.

“Berlins never leave,” she says. “I think my grandfather is buried in the back.”

About the differences between Northern and Southern Jews, Ellen Berlin says, “We’re just a little more assimilated down here.”

At Jestine’s Kitchen, Dana Berlin (Henry’s niece) runs a restaurant based on the home cooking of Jestine Matthews, who was first hired by Dana’s grandparents as a housekeeper in 1928 and stayed with the family for generations. Matthews died at the age of 112, two years after the restaurant was opened. Dana Berlin speaks of her as a friend and recalls her cooking traditional Jewish dishes as well as Southern foods.

The restaurant is an ode to Southern cooking, with fried chicken, collard greens and fried oysters. But dishes like okra and red rice do not include meat, the way Matthews would have cooked them for the Berlin family. The restaurant has mezuzahs on its three doors. Dana Berlin’s great-grandfather, Ezekiel Ellison, was a shochet who butchered meat for the Orthodox community and also kept the synagogue records, beginning in 1883.

Jewish art is being created across the harbor on James Island, where painter Renee Kahn has her home and studio. Just behind the house, a long wooden dock extends across marshlands to the oyster beds lining Parrot Creek. A New Yorker by birth, Kahn moved with her husband to his hometown four years ago from Rhode Island. In the last few years she has taken on Jewish subjects in her work and recently showed some of her paintings at Charleston’s annual high profile arts event, the Spoleto Festival.

“Charleston has given me a tremendous sense of peace,” says Kahn, a member of Emanu-El, noting that she has been studying biblical texts as inspiration for her paintings. Capturing sacred moments, her subjects — painted in muted colors with multi-layers of glaze — include “Female Scholar” and “Sukkot.” Her painting “Moses in the Bulrushes” seems to show the influence of her own location; the bulrushes resemble her backyard marsh.

Of all the Charlestonians interviewed, Anita Moise Rosenberg traces her lineage back furthest, to Luis de Torres, a translator for Columbus. She’s a proud descendent of Isaac Harby, who pioneered the movement to Reform Judaism, and poet and teacher Penina Moise, the first Jewish woman published in America. Her home is contemporary in structure, decorated with ancestral portraits and the very furniture used by those pictured. Rosenberg feels strongly about passing the legacy — and her love of it — to her children (two of them have Moise and Harby as middle names) and grandchildren.

A member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, Rosenberg is a past president of the JCC, belongs to the Reform and Conservative synagogues and sings in the KKBE choir. Her gold bracelet with seven thimbles attached, each one used by a family member going back generations, seems symbolic of how linked she is to this community. This month, 175 of Rosenberg’s relatives will gather for an annual reunion.

This summer, Rabbi Ari Sytner takes on the leadership of Brith Shalom Beth Israel, facing a congregation and city where history and memory matter, where people understand that in recollection there is holiness. n

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