The World War II Veterans Who Took Aim at the KKK

Science History Image, Alamy
Science History Image, Alamy

It’s unusual for a man to see his name scrawled on a coffin, but Robert Hicks couldn’t say he was surprised. As a black man living in the segregated city of Bogalusa, Louisiana in 1965, Hicks had been subjected to threats of violence on a consistent basis. He was also a vocal supporter of equal rights, and very publicly demanded that black workers at his local mill be granted similar promotion opportunities as their white co-workers. He earned even more hostility by endorsing the grassroots Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) organization.

The coffin bearing Hicks's name and the adjacent burning cross were evidence that the Ku Klux Klan was growing increasingly irate. It was going to get worse. Recently, Hicks had invited two white CORE workers to stay at his house while they were in Bogalusa. The Klan was alternating between spectacle and bomb threats directed at his home. The police were no help; they refused to stand against the Klan, even if it meant ignoring the Civil Rights Act of 1964.

Despite the lack of law enforcement, Hicks and the CORE employees were still protected. Every night, a small band of armed guards patrolled his property, keeping an eye out for suspicious activity. The squad was acting as an intermediary in the event the Klan decided to make good on their threats. While these were locals protecting their neighbors, they’d soon join a much larger organization, a group that supported the values of civil rights leader Martin Luther King, Jr., but didn’t subscribe to his nonviolent philosophy. They would become part of the Deacons for Defense and Justice, who were prepared to use any means necessary to protect their fellow activists.

“We will never go on the offense,” Bogalusa Deacon leader Charles Sims later said. “But if the Klan or anybody else comes in here to hit us, I guarantee they will get hit back.”

 
 

Although racial tensions were pervasive throughout the country in the 1960s, some of the most charged animosity to be found anywhere was in the deep South. The Klan had a strong foothold in Louisiana, so much so that their activity was being normalized in areas like Bogalusa. Klan gatherings were publicized over public radio; half of the cars flew tiny rebel flags. Of the town’s 23,000 residents, 9000 were men and women of color who endured malevolent opposition to their very existence.

Protestors and leaders alike advocated for peaceful demonstrations. Violence, Martin Luther King Jr. advised, would only be met with more violence. The Deacons disagreed.

A midnight meeting of the American white supremicist movement, the Ku Klux Klan
Topical Press Agency/Getty Images

The Deacons for Defense and Justice traced its history to July 1964 in nearby Jonesboro, Louisiana, when Earnest “Chilly Willy” Thomas and Frederick Kirkpatrick started a defense group to protect CORE workers and unarmed protestors from Klan violence. (The name may have come from the deacons of church, who were typically charged with taking care of business.) The group was made up primarily of World War II and Korean War veterans who had grown tired of seeing black Americans physically abused, threatened, and killed for asserting their civil rights. War had erased any apprehension over taking up firearms or meeting force with force.

The movement migrated to Bogalusa when the Deacons first heard that Hicks was being targeted. Following the bomb threats, they sat down and talked with Hicks, and convinced him that having a local chapter would be of benefit to an area so heavily oppressed by Klan influence. Hicks co-founded the chapter along with a Bogalusa local named Charles Sims.

While all of the men received publicity for their efforts, it was Sims who captivated the media. Described as “grizzled” and with the sullen attitude of someone resigned to dispensing violence when necessary, Sims became something of a reluctant spokesperson for the Deacons. Jet magazine called him the man “most feared by whites in Louisiana.” Asked if he’d ever been arrested for battery, Sims estimated he had—about 20 times. “Battery with what?” reporters asked. Sims just held up his fists.

 
 

Sims had little patience for King’s pacifism. “Martin Luther King and me have never seen eye to eye,” he told the Associated Press in July 1965. “He has never been to Bogalusa. If we didn’t have the Deacons here there is no telling how many killings there would have been.”

Indeed, King had never visited Bogalusa. He vowed never to appear where there was a concentration of Deacons because he disagreed with their methodology. To Sims’s thinking, however, there was no choice but to take up arms. The Klan harassed protestors, threw logs in front of motorcades, and shot through the windows of the homes of minorities, all of it largely undisturbed by police intervention.

Dr Martin Luther King at the Alabama civil rights march which he led on March 25, 1965
William Lovelace, Express/Getty Images

What the Klan didn’t account for was the willingness of the Deacons to escalate the conflict. During one public gathering, a white man harassing black attendees was shot three times in the chest by a Deacon carrying a pistol; it was reportedly the first time lethal force had been used by black civil rights supporters in the modern era. (The man survived.) At night, when black residents might be subject to harassment and assault, Deacons toting weapons acted like an impromptu neighborhood watch. Rather than risk getting into a gunfight, the Klan scattered. The window shootings ceased. Despite having only 15 or so members in Bogalusa, the Deacons carried themselves like a small army.

Because they couldn't cover the entire town with numbers, Sims and his fellow Deacons often relied on intercepting police or Klan calls to pinpoint trouble. When a black physician was having problems driving into town, Sims and his men piled into a car and met him at a gas station. Approaching three white men who were following the doctor, Sims addressed the one nearest to him: "Partner, if you want to keep living you better go back, because if you come any closer to this car, I'm going to kill all three of you." The doctor proceeded down the road without incident.

“If you were black, you couldn’t walk the streets,” Jackie Hicks, Robert’s wife, told a reporter in 2014. “If a group of whites saw you, they would jump on you. But if the Deacons were around, they wouldn’t mess with you.”

Rather than become a war zone, Bogalusa’s tensions simmered just below the surface, with one side waiting for the other to make a move.

 
 

The presence of the Deacons in Bogalusa did not go unnoticed by the FBI. Alarmed by the idea of a full-blown race war being played out with two armed parties, the Bureau kept a close watch on Sims, Hicks, and the other Deacons. Occasionally, some would go on the offensive, like the time a number of Deacons fired into the windows of the home of Herrod Morris, a reverend who had criticized the black community. Fearing the conflict would become combustible, the federal government invoked Reconstruction-era laws to force police to protect civil rights workers. It was the first time such laws had been referenced in modern times. In raising the stakes, the Deacons had forced lawmakers to back the Civil Rights Act with substantial action.

With law enforcement slowly embracing responsibility and more militant groups like the Black Panthers taking up headlines, the Deacons—which had grown to around two dozen chapters in the South, including Mississippi and Alabama—were largely dissolved by 1968 and rarely mentioned in historical accounts thereafter. Some historians have theorized it was because their eye-for-an-eye approach didn’t fit the nonviolent narrative of the civil rights movement. Yet their legacy was largely one of deterrence. Adversaries didn’t act on violent impulses, for fear of retaliation.

Hicks went on to fight racial injustice in other ways: He sued the paper mill where he worked for bypassing black employees, and became a supervisor there in 1971. He also sued the police for harassing civil rights protestors, and got an injunction enforced by the U.S. Justice Department. The Hicks home, which at one time had been guarded by the community, now sits recognized on the National Register of Historic Places.

In 2013, Robert's son, Charles Hicks, told The Washington Post that both his father and the Deacons were to be commended. "Growing up, we had a lot of admiration for the Deacons," he said. "Their philosophy was, 'It’s better to die on your feet than live on your knees.'"

15 Fascinating Facts About Schindler’s List

Universal Pictures
Universal Pictures

In 1993, Steven Spielberg’s Schindler’s List brought to the screen a story that had gone untold since the tragic events of the Holocaust. Oskar Schindler, a Nazi party member, used his pull within the party to save the lives of more than 1000 Jewish individuals by recruiting them to work in his Polish factory. Here are some facts about Spielberg’s groundbreaking film on its 25th anniversary.

1. The story was relayed to author Thomas Keneally in a Beverly Hills leather goods shop.

In October 1980, Australian novelist Thomas Keneally had stopped into a leather goods shop off of Rodeo Drive after a book tour stopover from a film festival in Sorrento, Italy, where one of his books was adapted into a movie. When the owner of the shop, Leopold Page, learned that Keneally was a writer, he began telling him “the greatest story of humanity man to man.” That story was how Page, his wife, and thousands of other Jews were saved by a Nazi factory owner named Oskar Schindler during World War II.

Page gave Keneally photocopies of documents related to Schindler, including speeches, firsthand accounts, testimonies, and the actual list of names of the people he saved. It inspired Keneally to write the book Schindler’s Ark, on which the movie is based. Page (whose real name was Poldek Pfefferberg) ended up becoming a consultant on the film.

2. Keneally wasn't the first person Leopold Page told about Oskar Schindler.

The film rights to Page’s story were actually first purchased by MGM for $50,000 in the 1960s after Page had similarly ambushed the wife of film producer Marvin Gosch at his leather shop. Mrs. Gosch told the story to her husband, who agreed to produce a film version, even going so far as hiring Casablanca co-screenwriter Howard Koch to write the script. Koch and Gosch began interviewing Schindler Jews in and around the Los Angeles area, and even Schindler himself, before the project stalled, leaving the story unknown to the public at large.

3. Schindler made more than one list.

Liam Neeson, Agnieszka Krukówna, Krzysztof Luft, Friedrich von Thun, and Marta Bizon in Schindler's List (1993)
Universal Pictures

Seven lists in all were made by Oskar Schindler and his associates during the war, while four are known to still exist. Two are at the Yad Vashem in Israel, one is at the US Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C., and one privately owned list was unsuccessfully auctioned off via eBay in 2013.

The movie refers to the first two lists created in 1944, otherwise known as “The Lists of Life.” The five subsequent lists were updates to the first two versions, which included the names of more than 1000 Jews who Schindler saved by recruiting them to work in his factory.

4. Steven Spielberg first learned of Schindler in the early 1980s.

Former MCA/Universal president Sid Sheinberg, a father figure to Spielberg, gave the director Keneally’s book when it was first published in 1982, to which Spielberg allegedly replied, “It’ll make a helluva story. Is it true?”

Eventually the studio bought the rights to the book, and when Page met with Spielberg to discuss the story, the director promised the Holocaust survivor that he would make the film adaptation within 10 years. The project languished for over a decade because Spielberg was reluctant to take on such serious subject matter. Spielberg’s hesitation actually stopped Hollywood veteran Billy Wilder from making Schindler’s List his final film. Wilder tried to buy the rights to Keneally’s book, but Spielberg and MCA/Universal scooped them up before he could.

5. Spielberg refused to accept a salary for making the movie.

Though Spielberg is already an extremely wealthy man as a result of the many big-budget movies that have made him one of Hollywood’s most successful directors, he decided that a story as important as Schindler’s List shouldn’t be made with an eye toward financial reward. The director relinquished his salary for the movie and any proceeds he would stand to make in perpetuity, calling any such personal gains “blood money.” Instead, Spielberg used the film’s profits to found the USC Shoah Foundation, which was established in 1994 to honor and remember the survivors of the Holocaust by collecting personal recollections and audio visual interviews.

6. Before Spielberg agreed to make the movie, he tried to get other directors to make it.

Part of Spielberg’s reluctance to make Schindler's List was that he didn’t feel that he was prepared or mature enough to tackle a film about the Holocaust. So he tried to recruit other directors to make the film. He first approached director Roman Polanski, a Holocaust survivor whose own mother was killed in Auschwitz. Polanski declined, but would go on to make his own film about the Holocaust, The Pianist, which earned him a Best Director Oscar in 2003. Spielberg then offered the movie to director Sydney Pollack, who also passed.

The job was then offered to legendary filmmaker Martin Scorsese, who accepted. Scorsese was set to put the film into production when Spielberg had an epiphany on the set of the revisionist Peter Pan story Hook and realized that he was finally prepared to make Schindler’s List. To make up for the change of heart, Spielberg traded Scorsese the rights to a movie he’d been developing that Scorsese would make into his next film: the remake of Cape Fear.

7. The movie was a gamble for Universal, so they made Spielberg a dino-sized deal.

When Spielberg finally decided to make Schindler’s List, it had taken him so long that Sheinberg and Universal balked. The relatively low-budget $23 million three-hour black-and-white Holocaust movie was too much of a risk, so they asked Spielberg to make another project that had been brewing at the studio: Jurassic Park. Make the lucrative summer movie first, they said, and then he could go and make his passion project. Spielberg agreed, and both movies were released in 1993; Jurassic Park in June and Schindler’s List in December.

8. Spielberg didn't want a movie star with Hollywood clout to portray Schindler.

Kevin Costner and Mel Gibson auditioned for the role of Oskar Schindler, and actor Warren Beatty was far enough along in the process that he even made it as far as a script reading. But according to Spielberg, Beatty was dropped because, “Warren would have played it like Oskar Schindler through Warren Beatty.”

For the role, Spielberg cast then relatively unknown Irish actor Liam Neeson, whom the director had seen in a Broadway play called Anna Christie. “Liam was the closest in my experience of what Schindler was like,” Spielberg told The New York Times. “His charm, the way women love him, his strength. He actually looks a little bit like Schindler, the same height, although Schindler was a rotund man,” he said. “If I had made the movie in 1964, I would have cast Gert Frobe, the late German actor. That’s what he looked like.”

Besides having Neeson listen to recordings of Schindler, the director also told him to study the gestures of former Time Warner chairman Steven J. Ross, another of Spielberg’s mentors, and the man to whom he dedicated the film.

9. Spielberg did his own research.

In order to gain a more personal perspective on the film, Spielberg traveled to Poland before principal photography began to interview Holocaust survivors and visit the real-life locations that he planned to portray in the movie. While there, he visited the former Gestapo headquarters on Pomorska Street, Schindler’s actual apartment, and Amon Goeth’s villa.

Eventually the film shot on location for 92 days in Poland by recreating the Płaszów camp in a nearby abandoned rock quarry. The production was also allowed to shoot scenes outside the gates of Auschwitz.

10. The little girl in the red coat was real.

Promotional image for 25th anniversary rerelease of Schindler's List.
Universal Pictures

A symbol of innocence in the movie, the little girl in the red coat who appears during the liquidation of the ghetto in the movie was based on a real person. In the film, the little girl is played by actress Oliwia Dabrowska, who—at the age of three—promised Spielberg that she would not watch the film until she was 18 years old. She allegedly watched the movie when she was 11, breaking her promise, and spent years rejecting the experience. Later, she told the Daily Mail, “I realized I had been part of something I could be proud of. Spielberg was right: I had to grow up to watch the film.”

The actual girl in the red coat was named Roma Ligocka; a survivor of the Krakow ghetto, she was known amongst the Jews living there by her red winter coat. Ligocka, now a painter who lives in Germany, later wrote a biography about surviving the Holocaust called The Girl in the Red Coat.

11. The movie wasn't supposed to be in English.

For a better sense of reality, Spielberg originally wanted to shoot the movie completely in Polish and German using subtitles, but he eventually decided against it because he felt that it would take away from the urgency and importance of the images onscreen. According to Spielberg, “I wanted people to watch the images, not read the subtitles. There’s too much safety in reading. It would have been an excuse to take their eyes off the screen and watch something else.”

12. The studio didn't want the movie to be in black and white.

The only person at MCA/Universal who agreed with Spielberg and director of cinematography Janusz Kaminski’s decision to shoot the movie in black and white was Sheinberg. Everyone else lobbied against the idea, saying that it would stylize the Holocaust. Spielberg and Kaminski chose to shoot the film in a grimy, unstylish fashion and format inspired by German Expressionist and Italian Neorealist films. Also, according to Spielberg, “It’s entirely appropriate because I’ve only experienced the Holocaust through other people’s testimonies and through archival footage which is, of course, all in black and white.”

13. Spielberg's passion project paid off in Oscars.

Schindler’s List was the big winner at the 66th Academy Awards. The film won a total of seven Oscars, including Best Picture and Best Director awards for Spielberg. Neeson and Ralph Fiennes were both nominated for their performances, and the film also received nods for Costume Design, Makeup, and Sound.

14. Schindler's List is technically a student film.

Steven Spielberg gives a speech
Nicholas Hunt, Getty Images

Thirty-three years after dropping out of college, Spielberg finally received a BA in Film and Video Production from his newly minted alma mater, Cal State Long Beach, in 2002. The director re-enrolled in secret, and gained his remaining credits by writing essays and submitting projects under a pseudonym. In order to pass a film course, he submitted Schindler’s List as his student project. Spielberg describes the time gap between leaving school and earning his degree as his “longest post-production schedule.”

15. Spielberg thinks the film may be even more important to watch today.

In honor of the film's 25th anniversary, it's currently back in theaters. But Spielberg believes that the film may be even more important for today's audiences to see. "I think this is maybe the most important time to re-release this film," the director said in a recent interview with Lester Holt on NBC Nightly News. Citing the spike in hate crimes targeting religious minorities since
2016, he said, "Hate's less parenthetical today, it's more a headline."

Additional Sources:
The Making of Schindler’s List: Behind the Scenes of an Epic Film, by Franciszek Palowski

An earlier version of this article appeared in 2015.

What is Wassailing, Anyway?

iStock
iStock

It’s easy to think that wassailing is some cozy wintertime tradition that’s fun for the whole family. After all, there’s a jaunty, wholesome Christmas carol about it! But the truth is, if you ever see a minor out wassailing, you may want to call his or her parents.

The word wassail has many meanings. For centuries, it was a way to toast someone’s good health. Before the Battle of Hastings in 1066, English soldiers reportedly sang:

Rejoice and wassail!

(Pass the bottle) and drink health.

Drink backwards and drink to me

Drink half and drink empty.

But, in England, wassail also denoted the alcoholic beverage you imbibed during that toast—an elixir of steamy mulled mead or cider. Sometimes, wassail was a whipped dark beer flavored with roasted crab apples.

Wassail was usually slurped from a communal bowl before, during, and after big events and holidays. It was supposedly on the menu during Lammas Day, a pagan autumnal harvest holiday that involves transforming cornhusks into dolls. It was also imbibed on Twelfth Night, a January holiday that involves lighting a fire in an orchard, dancing, and singing incantations to apple trees in hopes of encouraging a bountiful harvest.

By the Middle Ages, the practice of sharing a giant bowl of wassail—that is, the practice of wassailing—evolved from a holiday celebration to a form of boozy begging. “At Christmastide, the poor expected privileges denied them at other times, including the right to enter the homes of the wealthy, who feasted them from the best of their provisions,” Robert Doares, an instructor at Colonial Williamsburg, explained. The poor would either ask to sip from their rich neighbor’s wassailing bowl or would bring their own bowl, asking for it to be filled. According to Doares, “At these gatherings, the bands of roving wassailers often performed songs for the master while drinking his beer, toasting him, his family, his livestock, wishing continued health and wealth.” The original lyrics of Here We Come a-Wassailing are quite upfront about what’s going on:

We are not daily beggars

That beg from door to door

But we are neighbours’ children

Whom you have seen before.

Not all rich folk were happy to see wassailers at their doorstep. One 17th century polymath, John Selden, complained about “Wenches … by their Wassels at New-years-tide ... present you with a Cup, and you must drink of the slabby stuff; but the meaning is, you must give them Moneys.”

Misers like Selden may have had a point: Since alcohol was involved, wassailers often got too rowdy. “Drunken bands of men and boys would take to the streets at night, noise-making, shooting rifles, making ‘rough music,’ and even destroying property as they went among the wealthy urban homes,” wrote Hannah Harvester, formerly the staff folklorist at Traditional Arts in Upstate New York. In fact, boisterous wassailers are one reason why Oliver Cromwell and Long Parliament passed an ordinance in 1647 that essentially banned Christmas.

By the 19th century, wassailing would mellow. Beginning in the 1830s, music publishers started releasing the first commercial Christmas carols, uncorking classics such as God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen and The First Noel. Among them were dozens of wassailing songs, including the circa 1850 Here We Come a-Wassailing and dozens of others that are now, sadly, forgotten. As the custom of caroling became the dominant door-to-door pastime, alcohol-fueled begging dwindled. By the turn of the 20th century, carolers were more likely to sing about libations than actually drink them.

But if you’re interested in engaging in some good, old-fashioned wassailing, the original lyrics to Here We Come a-Wassailing are a helpful guide. For starters, ask for beer.

Our wassail cup is made

Of the rosemary tree,

And so is your beer

Of the best barley.

Don’t be shy! Keep asking for that beer.

Call up the butler of this house,

Put on his golden ring.

Let him bring us up a glass of beer,

And better we shall sing.

Remind your audience that, hey, this is the season of giving. Fork it over.

We have got a little purse

Of stretching leather skin;

We want a little of your money

To line it well within.

Screw it. You’ve sung this far. Go for it all, go for the gold, go for ... their cheese.

Bring us out a table

And spread it with a cloth;

Bring us out a mouldy cheese,

And some of your Christmas loaf.

Thirsty for your own wassail? Stock up on sherry and wine and try this traditional recipe from The Williamsburg Cookbook.

Have you got a Big Question you'd like us to answer? If so, let us know by emailing us at bigquestions@mentalfloss.com.

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