By: Rochelle Rickoff Wilensky
In 1950, Pensacola, FL was the last place you’d expect to find a Jewish, Ukranian refugee in a standoff with a klansman over doctor’s office signs. The refugee, a newly-minted podiatrist, suddenly owned the office. He had arrived to the city the day before with $2.57 in his pocket, a bag of potato chips, his new wife, and zero understanding of the South, segregation or humidity. Two broken signs lay on the ground — instigator unknown. Neither man would have any idea that the broken signs would one day live in a museum documenting the beginning of Jim Crow’s end.