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to temple every Friday night. “My Jewish identity is just about the most important thing in my life right now,” he said. “That’s partly whyI go. But the main thing is, I’m afraid that if I
don’t
go, no one will be there, and I don’t want our temple to be empty on Friday night. I just couldn’t handle that at all.”
    We entered the sanctuary, where Keely and her mother were still working on the model succah. “How does it feel to be one of the last Jewish women in Natchez?” I asked Betty Jo, and she looked at her husband before answering. “Oh, I’m not Jewish,” she said finally, laying holly branches over the roof of the small structure. “I belong to the First Assembly of Christ. Charismatic Christians?”
    “You ever hear of a Christian woman who keeps kosher?” Jerry demanded. “Well, you’re looking at one right here.” His tone indicated that he was not pleased by her piety.
    “Why are you kosher? For Jerry?” I asked, and she shook her head emphatically. “Him? Please, he’ll eat anything.” She said it in a determined tone of voice; obviously this was territory they had been over before. “I just feel like the Lord had a good reason to forbid those foods. I can’t help it, that’s mah belief.”
    We said good-bye to Betty Jo and Keely and drove across the river for a barbecue lunch that Jerry’s wife would not have appreciated. “Betty Jo is a very religious woman, and religious people have a tendency to get carried away,” Jerry said, chewing thoughtfully on a hickory-smoked rib. “Now, I’m not saying I’m perfect, either. In fact, I’m about the most prejudiced person my wife knows. I believe most Christians hate Jews. They think we killed Christ if you want to know the truth. I’m anti-Christian myself, and I guess that’s pretty strange considering that both my wife and my mother are Christian women.”
    Macy almost choked on his Dr Pepper. “You mean to tell me Miz Krouse wasn’t Jewish?” he said incredulously, and turned to me. “Miz Krouse was one of the most active Jewish women in this state. She helped us with the camp, and I believe she was president of the sisterhood right here in Natchez.”
    Jerry nodded his assent. “My mother practically ran the temple. Hell, she organized everything, but she never
was
Jewish—at least not that she’d admit. But she raised me Jewish because that’s what she promised my father, and that’s just exactly what I intend to do with my children.”
    “Why?” I asked him. “I mean, what kind of Jews can they be down here, anyway? There’s no community left. What’s the point?”
    “Do you play chess?” Jerry asked, and I nodded. “Well, I’m a chess player, three-time champion of the state of Mississippi. Down here I’m considered good, but let me tell you, I’m nothing compared to the really great players. Look at them and what do y’all notice? Every last one of those boys is a Jew.” He ticked the names off on his fingers. “Fischer, Spassky, Kasparov—his real name is Weinstein—Mikhail Tal, all Jews. Now what does that tell you about the Jewish mentality?”
    “Good at board games?” I asked, but Jerry was serious. “Hell no, what it tells you is that Jews are naturally smart. That’s our heritage, and I intend to pass it along to my children.”
    After lunch we dropped Jerry off at his scrap yard and headed down the highway for Port Gibson, a small town that U.S. Grant reputedly spared because it was too beautiful to burn. Near the entrance to the town we stopped in front of the temple, a small, domed building that is, according to Macy, the only example of Moorish architecture in the state.
    The temple, which was built in the 1890s, looked foreign among the surrounding southern mansions. Back when there were Jews in Port Gibson, the building must have excited local curiosity; it speaks of strange rituals and exotic customs. But over the years, the Jewish community dwindled down to two people and