Prohibition, the Klan, and a 'Moist' New Year

In 1925, Indiana was supposed to be the dryest state in the nation. South Bend didn't get the memo.

BY AARON HELMAN // POSTED DECEMBER 23, 2025

“Driest ever watch-night proves moist.”

That's how the South Bend Tribune described New Year's Eve 1925, a night that was supposed to be the driest celebration in the city's six-decade history. It wasn't the first time the city had rung in the New Year under the curtain of Prohibition. It wouldn't be the last.

But this one was supposed to be different — a uniquely sober New Year filled with church services, charity dinners, and wholesome, temperate cheer. But because this is South Bend, there was, of course…

…also a little booze.

Prohibition became the law of the land in 1920, but early enforcement was difficult and irregular. There were plenty of carveouts that made it possible for anyone to find a drink if they were willing to exploit a loophole or look hard enough. And don't forget, Prohibition had come with plenty of notice — meaning that people had plenty of time to stock up on their own illicit supply before the day liquor production came to its end.

By the end of 1925, that had changed across the nation. For starters, enterprising alcohol hoarders had generally worked through their stash during the first five years of Prohibition. That meant people were more dependent than ever on the loopholes — medicinal prescriptions, sacramental wine, and the creative interpretations of the law that had made drinking possible, if not exactly legal.

But in Indiana, those loopholes had been slammed shut. The Wright "Bone Dry" Law, passed in March 1925, went further than the federal Volstead Act had ever dared. No more medicinal whiskey prescriptions. Old laws had punished sellers of illicit booze. The Wright Law allowed for the punishment of purchasers and possessors. The law even provided bounty payments — a $25 bonus for each liquor conviction prosecutors could secure.

If that last part seems like a recipe for corruption, you're exactly right, and maybe you shouldn't be surprised. After all, the loudest voices behind the passage of the Wright “Bone Dry” Law were the members of the Ku Klux Klan. It was the greatest legislative victory in the history of the Indiana Klan — maybe even their only legislative victory.

Within a year, the Klan's leader would be convicted for murder. He'd reveal the full extent of the organization's corruption and tell of all the ways they'd bought and installed politicians. The Indiana Klan would dissolve by the end of 1926.

Their Wright Law would stay on the books until 1933.

South Bend had a complicated relationship with sobriety, especially when it was forced upon them. The city had had a Temperance Society dating back to the 1860s, and plenty of the city's early luminaries — including former Vice President Schuyler Colfax — had been notable members.

At the same time, South Bend represented its state's most Catholic community and the one most marked by distinct waves of European immigration. For generations of Irish, Poles, Hungarians, and Italians, alcohol was a distinct cultural connection — not just a way to unwind at the end of the work week.

For them, Prohibition was a cultural threat.

For the Klan members who authored the bill, that was part of the point.

While I would never advocate for anyone to break the law, if having a beer on New Year's Eve will stick it to the Klan, well, then I'll drink to that.

South Bend's supposed sobriety was a group effort on December 31, 1925. Not only were police and prosecutors out in force, but churches and social clubs offered a massive menu of large group celebrations. All of it was part of an attempt to make sure people were too busy, too watched, and too scared to drink.

It didn't work.

Police arrested 15 across the city, and even then, it was noted that the cops were more lenient than the Wright Law would have directed them, only arresting public drunks and brawlers. The newspaper points out that the police brought a large assortment of liquors to the county jail, but it does not mention what they did with it.

That doesn't seem like too many arrests, but it's worth noting that police and prosecutors kept their patrols only to the hotels, restaurants, and public gatherings. That was more than enough for the county prosecutor, who stood to earn $375 in bounty payments. Adjusted for inflation, that's more than $6,000 in today's money. Not bad for a night's work.

As for the rest of the drinking, the newspaper admits — without naming a source — that there was plenty of drinking at private parties in private homes. The paper even notes the alarming presence of many young men walking back and forth from their cars without proper winter gear. According to the Tribune, “only liquor could cause so many youths to venture into the cold without coats or hats so often”, an observation clearly written by someone who has never met a middle school boy.

In the end it was a quiet enough night, but the arrival of 1926 still “caught the city with a bottle to its lips, a small and inconspicuous bottle, to be sure, but nevertheless containing liquor.”