Beth Jacob and the Orthodox Migration

Lyrics

The record begins in 1945.
A year of silence from one continent,
and a year of new contracts on another.
The Beth Jacob Congregation is entered into the DeKalb County books.
A beginning.

Rabbi Harry H. Epstein, his name is here.
The charter members, a list of men.
They did not choose Toco Hills. Not yet.
They chose a room, then a building.
A place to stand together after the news came.
Or didn't come.
They chose to count themselves present.
Ten men, then twenty.
The ledger notes donations in single dollars.
A down payment on a future that could be walked to.

And then the migration.
A quiet exodus to the new plats of land off LaVista Road.
They chose the split-levels for the walkability.
They chose the shopping center for the Sabbath.
They chose the proximity to Emory for the work of healing.
A life measured in footsteps, not miles.
A geometry of survival, drawn on a developer's map.
This was not an accident.
This was a decision.

The year is 1958.
The deed is signed. The land is cleared.
The Chevrolet station wagons arrive for the groundbreaking.
Meyer Tenenbaum is listed as a witness.
The women brought brisket and challah from home kitchens,
the smell mixing with the Georgia dust and pine.
The sound of new shoes on new concrete.
The heat already rising at dawn.
A wooden bimah was ordered for 1959.
The ledger is precise on this point.

The record is also an artifact of its omissions.
The first names of the wives are not listed.
Only "Mrs. Tenenbaum." "Mrs. Adler."
The names of the Spanish-speaking men who worked this land before 1954,
they are not here at all.
History is a selective document.
And it has a quiet sense of humor.
The cornerstone, laid that summer of 1958,
spells his name wrong.
T-E-N-E-N-B-A-U-N.
A single letter, dropped. A testament to human hands.

And so, the migration.
The quiet exodus to the new plats of land off LaVista Road.
They chose the split-levels for the walkability.
They chose the shopping center for the Sabbath.
They chose the proximity to Emory for the work of healing.
A life measured in footsteps, not miles.
A geometry of survival, drawn on a developer's map.
This was not an accident.
This was a decision.

You can still see it.
The misspelled name on the cornerstone.
Tenenbaun.
Visible only from the east parking lot.
At dusk.
When the light is just right.
The record stands.