"I must have had good enough hands for them," said Goldstein, 78, of Atlanta, who lectures around the world, is considered a pioneer in his field and wrote the first comprehensive textbook on cosmetic dentistry.
The men were accepted to the school because admissions were handled by the broader university and not the dental school alone, said history professor Goldstein (no relation to Ronald). While quotas worked against Jews in many institutions at the time, the Emory dental school story was unique in that these students faced discrimination after they arrived.
The issues were talked about in small circles, but they weren't discussed loudly.
What student would announce he'd flunked? What parents would talk about such news, especially in a community that put such emphasis on academic achievement? And this was Emory, a hometown liberal arts jewel many local Jews attended; who would criticize -- or believe criticism about -- such a place?
Beyond these hangups was the worry about backlash that permeated Atlanta's Jewish community. It was rooted in fears born of history and reality -- Atlanta's infamous lynching of Leo Frank in 1913, the ongoing activity of the Ku Klux Klan, the 1958 bombing of the city's most prominent synagogue. Israel was still a fledgling nation. This was also the immediate post-Holocaust era, a time when Jewish people in America were just starting to understand the magnitude of what had happened abroad, said Deborah Lauter, the Anti-Defamation League's civil rights director.
"It was a real period of insecurity for the Jewish community, and that didn't really shift 'til 1967," after the Six-Day War between Israel and its neighbors, she said. "With a war victory came a newfound confidence of Jewish people."
But a small handful of Atlanta Jews refused to let go of what was happening at the dental school. Art Levin, 95, paid attention to every snippet. Then the Southeast regional director of the ADL, Levin was determined to make Emory own up to and deal with the dental school's anti-Jewish bias. He collected graduation programs, which included lists of students in all four years, and studied how the Jewish surnames disappeared or were held back while their classmates moved ahead. He nurtured contacts who helped get him inside information from the registrar's office to back up his calculations. He wanted to make the case not by outing any victims but by presenting irrefutable facts.
When the local Jewish Community Relations Council wanted to tone down pressure on the university, Levin's response, as he stated in an Emory-commissioned documentary that premiered Wednesday evening: "Screw that. This guy has been torturing students for 10 years."
Levin, at the time, was "villified" by segments of the Jewish community for making waves, said ADL's Lauter, a former Atlanta resident who, like Levin, did a stint as the organization's Southeast regional director. "But that's why we're here for people who face discrimination. Sometimes ADL has to be the tough guy. We take no prisoners in the fight against anti-Semitism."
While Levin takes great satisfaction in knowing the story is finally getting public acknowledgement, Lauter said it's "bittersweet" for him. "He did feel stung by the whole experience." In 1962, after nine years in his position, he left the world of Jewish community work.
Levin, who now lives in Florida and is hard of hearing, was not able to be interviewed for this story.
A form devised by Buhler, which at the top asked students to check a box -- Caucasian, Jewish or other (Emory was not racially integrated at the time) -- ended up being his downfall, many say. The university president, S. Walter Martin, had been dismissive of the concerns Levin and some others raised. So when Martin was out of town, Levin brought a copy of the form to Judson "Jake" Ward, the dean of faculty, and Ward grew incensed. He marched down to see Buhler, who resigned soon after.
Emory's president still refused to acknowledge what had been going on and wrote off Buhler's resignation as coincidental. Martin even insisted to local press, Goldstein said, that Buhler could have stayed at the dental school as long as he wanted.
With the dean gone, Atlanta's Jewish community essentially closed the book and put it away.
Not the man he knew
That book only recently opened for the former dean's son.
A sister-in-law sent John E. Buhler Jr., 65, a copy of a recent story in the The New York Times about the episode. What he read "caught me completely off guard," he said. "I was completely unaware of that situation."
He was a kid when his father landed at Emory and always believed politics in academia prompted his departure, nothing more. Everything he ever knew about his father, who died on Easter Sunday in 1976, belied what is being discussed now.
The younger Buhler, a retired oral surgeon living in Huntington, Indiana, said he grew up with a man who cared about "helping kids stay in school and not throwing them out of school." When he got into the field himself, he proudly watched how former students sought out his father at conferences, showering him with gratitude. One even boasted that he had named his child after Buhler.
"It just sort of blows me away. ... He did so many positive things for dentistry and students," the younger Buhler said. "It's hard to believe."
Trying to make sense of it all, Buhler Jr.'s daughter sent her father an article that appeared in The Spartanburg Herald in South Carolina in 1964. It was written soon after the older Buhler assumed the dean's post at the new dental school of what was then known as the Medical College of South Carolina -- and after the Jewish community there weighed in with concerns about past anti-Semitism, demanding his appointment be rescinded.
The 1964 article quoted the chairman of the Medical College's board of trustees defending Buhler, saying he was recommended for the new position after a committee concluded the Emory charges were "not as serious as painted at one time."
The former dean's namesake doesn't remember his father ever saying a derogatory word about Jewish people. In fact, he's quick to point out that when the family lived in Atlanta, some of his parents' closest friends were Jewish.
These sorts of claims get former students like Brickman, who led the charge to humanize the dental school's history, riled up. He has collected too many stories and seen too many documents, including incriminating notes written by Buhler himself, to call the former dean anything but an anti-Semite.
But for Buhler Jr., none of this adds up. Really, how can it?