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Lett: Gilbert and Ginny Cymbalist of Sault Ste. Marie
reflect on the paradox of UP Jewry. The less they
have, the more they experience. The Soo Jews are
hardly fossilized. PHOTO BY RUTH LITTMANN

Where JUPers Live

Above: Beral Cohodes in Iron Mountain attended
cheder at this shul. Once upon a time, Mr. Cohodes
led an Orthodox life style. He wonders why some
people don't seem to care anymore. PHOTO BY JERRY BIELICKI

together at the home of Mr. Cymbalist's mother, Lore,
who lives just three blocks away.
Today, about eight Jews reside on the Michigan side
of the Soo Locks. In Canada, where Beth Jacob Syna-
gogue was built 50 years ago, the Jewish population is
larger. The congregation, which includes several young
parents with children, offers a religious school with 21
students. Jewish hikers, bikers and motorcyclists at-
tend services at Beth Jacob when they pass through
town.
They have no full-time rabbi, and religious school
hinges on volunteer instructors. The Cymbalists point
to the paradox. The less they have, the more they ex-
perience.
"Growing up in Philly, I never touched a lulav and et-
rog. Never. Judaism was always a spectator sport," Mr.
Cymbalist says. "Here, every kid takes part. Everyone
can do these mitzvot."
At Kinross Correctional Facility, where a different
type of lock puts yet another constraint on Jewish life,
it's hard to say how many Jews try to keep the faith. At-
tendance at biweekly services varies.
John, serving a life sentence, regularly observes Shab-
bat as best he can. Behind bars for 26 years, he has
taught himself Hebrew. He writes Hebrew. He speaks
Hebrew. He doesn't speak about the crime that put him
behind bars.
John, 50, grew up Christian, but hopes a rabbi soon
will help him convert to Judaism.
"My formal entry into the Jewish community means

1.St. Ignace
2. Sault Ste. Marie
3. Ishpeming\ Marquette
4. Menominee
5. Iron Mountain

6. Crystal Falls
7. Iron River
8. Ironwood
9. Houghton-Hancock

everything to me and it will change everything; yet, it
will change nothing," he writes in a letter.
Under the guidance of Mr. Cymbalist, the Jewish pris-
oners pray and sing. Only one of the three inmates at-
tending the service grew up Jewish, the son of parents
active in a metro Detroit synagogue. This prisoner has
traveled to Israel. The others haven't. They probably
never will, but they enjoy talking about the land, the pic-
tures they've seen and articles they've read.

B

atya Schreiber of Oak Park pointed and gasped
as her husbagd drove their Volvo over a bridge
toward Michigan's Copper Country. Directly
across the Keweenaw Waterway, in the city of
Hancock, Mrs. Schreiber spotted a Star of David.
It rose up from a dome above a brick building — no
doubt a synagogue, she thought. Colorful stained glass
windows offered another clue.
The Schreibers learned that the Houghton-Hancock

congregation, Temple Jacob, had been founded in Sep-
tember 1912, by a Jewish community that already had
reached its zenith.
The temple's original name, Adat Yisroel, memori-
alizes Jacob Gartner of Gartner's Department Store, lo-
cated in Hancock. At one point during the temple's
history, about 150 Jewish families comprised the mem-
bership list. That was during the late 1800s, when cop-
per mining was at its most lucrative. The Jews, mostly
retailers like Mr. Gartner, made money serving the needs
of loggers and miners.
These days, six Jews belong to Temple Jacob. Every
other week, they gather there for a chavurah, which mix-
es Reform, Conservative and Orthodox traditions for the
sake of a denominationally diverse group. High Holiday
services and seders attract between 30 and 45 people
from a radius of 150 miles.
"Some of them come out of nowhere," says Harley
Sachs, synagogue president.
On High Holidays, a student rabbi flies in from the
Reform movement's Hebrew Union College in Cincin-
nati, Ohio. But, the expense for this is steep, and mem-
bers wonder how long they'll be able to afford rabbinical
guidance.
"We're not going to be able to do it this year. Maybe
next," Mr. Sachs says. "Instead, each member is going
to lead a service. We're going to take turns."
Typical of synagogues in the UP, dues are optional,
and luckily the Temple Jacob building has been paid for.
The land on which it stands was donated at the turn of
the century by Quincy Mining Company.
Mr. Sachs speculates the gift was made by one of the
mine's old-time, Boston-based owners, who was Jewish.
Quincy closed many years ago. The region's last mine,
in the western city White Pine, shut down last month.
Sawyer Air Force Base, the UP's biggest employer, also
closed in August. Despite the out-migration of youth in
search of jobs, the UP retains a culture of its own.
Mr. Sachs, a retired professor at Michigan Tech Uni-
versity in Houghton, has documented the life of UP Jews
in his new book, Threads Of The Covenant: Growing Up
Jewish In Small Town America. He bases the stories on
real people and situations in the outback.
Another individual aware of the JUPers' story is East
Lansing's Marlaina Kreinin, a professional storyteller,
formerly of Crystal Falls, where she was known as Mar-
lene Miller.
"My mother (Jean Miller) got her kosher meat in dry
ice from Milwaukee," she says. "She got her Passover
packages from Chicago. We were in the midst of the
whole Christmas and Easter scene, but I never want-
ed a Christmas tree. Our roots were strongly Jewish."
Many accounts of northern history refer to the Co-
hodas family, a well-known clan of bankers who initial-
ly achieved wealth through a fruit and produce business.
The Cohodases remain prominent UP businesspeople
and philanthropists to Jewish as well as secular causes.
It's a shame, a horrible pity, that most Jews through-
out metro Detroit don't realize that their community ex-
tends beyond suburbia, say the traveling Schreibers.
Each year, the family camps in the UP and makes of
point of scouting out Jewish landmarks.
Their modus operandi? Find a phone book and look
up Cohodas — any Cohodas. Where there's a Cohodas,
there's probably a Jew or two living nearby.

I

n Iron Mountain, past stretches of summer cottages
and roadside gas stations, 71-year-old Beral Co-
hodes approaches a white wood house where he
grew up. (The Cohodes and Cohodas families are
related.)
Someone, a while back, tore the Jewish star from the
facade above the door, but its backing remained. From
the outside, the Magen David is the only indication that
this building remains a Jewish house of worship.
"The other boys and I used to talk and carry on. You
know. The rabbi, who lived next door to the shul, would
take the stick. I got slapped over the hand more than
once, but that's youth for you," says Mr. Cohodes, re-
membering afternoons at cheder.
"It still stings," he laughs.

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