ByARIEH O'SULLIVAN

JUNE 6, 2026 01:39

This is a true story.

For most residents, it hardly mattered that their new police chief was Jewish. In a community divided between Catholics and Protestants, being Jewish placed him outside local rivalries, much like a neutral party in Belfast.

Back in the summer of 1979, my father, Efraim O'Sullivan, a veteran officer from the New Orleans Police Department, earned the unique honor of serving as the first and only Jewish police chief in Mississippi history.

Ocean Springs rested on a modest bluff overlooking the Gulf of Mexico, across the bay from Biloxi. Its protected harbor sheltered shrimp boats, small yachts, pelicans, and catfish. Whenever locals struggled with his name, he would respond with a grin: "How do you like your eggs in the morning?"

"Ah fry 'em," they would reply.

"Well then, that's my name," he would answer with a chuckle.

The American South, people often note, is less a compass direction and more a distinctive mindset. It remains one of the most discussed and debated regions in the country.

The phrase evokes many pictures: magnolias and sweet tea for some, football and stock cars for others, or civil rights struggles and burning crosses for still more.

When musical digital watches appeared, Efraim acquired one that played "Dixie." He would phone me at Louisiana State University and play the tune over the line.

"Hey chief," I would reply. "One day the Ku Klux Klan or the Black Panthers might catch up with you."

Efraim and my mother, Dina, constructed a Creole-style cottage beside the bayou on the town's north side, complete with a broad front portico, hurricane shutters, and an oval gravel driveway.

As moving day approached, Efraim mentioned to several acquaintances that he planned to affix a mezuzah to the doorpost. It may have been unwise to invite Mayor Connor to the modest event.

"Why, we'll all make sure to attend when you christen your little home," the mayor replied, giving him a hearty pat. "We wouldn't want anyone calling us anti-symmetrical, now would we."

News traveled fast.

"The police chief is hanging some kind of lucky Jew charm on his house!"

"Did you hear? They're hanging a Jew at the police chief's house."

Combining the words "Jew," "police," and "hanging" was sure to attract attention in that state.

The Ocean Springs Record, a weekly paper often found stained with shrimp and fish on local piers, usually featured high school sports photos and debutante gossip. Editor Wayne Weidie sensed a big story.

He learned of the lucky charm ceremony from Pee Wee the dogcatcher, who had heard it from the mayor's maid while dealing with a stray dog.

When O’Sullivan heard Weidie's voice on the phone, he sensed trouble ahead.

"No, it's not a lucky charm," the chief explained. "It's a ritual tradition that we..." He paused, realizing his words were not landing. "Why don't you come see for yourself," he added reluctantly.

Action was needed. He knew how Mississippi curiosity could grow. Front-page headlines or late-night drive-bys might follow.

He decided to invite the entire town. It seemed the only solution.

"But I don't know any special prayers for putting up a mezuzah," Rabbi Joseph Lifshitz complained over the phone. "It's not usually done in public."

O’Sullivan had called Lifshitz, the rabbi at Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi, for help.

The bachelor Lifshitz, who had recently shortened his name from Lipschitz, had chosen military service because he disliked addressing large groups.

"Will there be many people there?" the rabbi asked nervously.

"Who knows?" the chief replied. "But I can't just nail it up without a prayer. I need you to say something. I'm not asking for the Stations of the Cross, just make it up."

O’Sullivan sent a patrol car for the rabbi. Lifshitz rode nervously in the back, thankful for the wire screen separating him from the tobacco-chewing officers with large pistols. They paused on the bridge as shrimp boats passed beneath the open drawbridge.

One officer radioed ahead, announcing their arrival with the "Jew rabbi." It was likely the first time these officers had transported a rabbi, and Lifshitz shared the thought.

Attempting friendliness, one policeman offered the rabbi some SKOL chewing tobacco.

"Wanna pinch, rabbi?" he asked, holding the container to the screen. Lifshitz declined.

"Will there be many people?" the rabbi repeated.

"Well, the city council canceled their meeting, so they'll all be there," said patrolman Bill Gautreaux in his Cajun accent.

A sigh came from the back seat.

"And court is postponed, so Judge 'Chubby' Wilson will be there too," the officer added.

Lifshitz still lacked a plan. The Sheheheyanu blessing seemed too brief.

By late afternoon, people gathered at the O'Sullivans' new home. Aldermen arrived with housewarming gifts. The Master Grill owner brought bottomless coffee mugs, eager for an early view of the charm.

Icabod ("IW") Bendy, a 76-year-old Black man from the junkyard, also appeared. He felt a connection to the Hebrew people and even had a Hebrew name.

The patrol car arrived slowly, and silence fell over the crowd of nearly one hundred guests, neighbors, reporters, and onlookers.

An officer opened the door and spat tobacco into the ditch.

Skinny Rabbi Lifshitz stepped out meekly. The crowd stared in eerie silence at the young rabbi, likely seeing one in person for the first time.

The crowd parted as he walked to the porch. Climbing the steps, he whispered to the chief, "Oy vey, they offered me a pinch of tobacco."

Efraim pressed forward. "You got the prayer?"

"Sure, but..."

"Let's get on with it."

The crowd filled the porch. Police radios crackled as officers watched. The rabbi recited a short Hebrew prayer and closed his book.

"That's it?" the chief whispered.

The rabbi shrugged.

"Come on," the chief urged.

Rabbi Lifshitz nodded.

The chief added his own touch, reciting the Four Questions from Passover in Hebrew with flair.

It was excessive. The crowd wanted to see the mezuzah. The actual prayer is only twelve words long, affirming one God and the command to place the item on doors. The chief had recited Passover questions instead.

The rabbi continued.

'I do proclaim this house sacred'

"With this mezuzah I do proclaim this house sacred," Lifshitz declared. Feeling inspired, he added: "May it watch over its inhabitants and protect them from ill health, poverty, despair..."

"Dayenu!" whispered a smiling O'Sullivan, meaning enough already.

The chief held the mezuzah high for all to see, then nailed it to the doorpost. The rabbi entered the house. O'Sullivan signaled officers to prevent any rush. "I want to thank everyone for coming and welcoming me to Ocean Springs. Y'all feel free to drop by anytime now, ya'hear," he said.

The food table sat on the back deck by the bayou. Guests mingled there but each took a look at the mezuzah. The crowd seemed content.

"He ain't so bad," someone remarked, and neighbors headed home, feeling they had witnessed something rare.

It was probably one of the most unusual public hangings in Mississippi that day.