City of Rogues and Schnorrers: Russia's Jews and the Myth of Old Odessa

City of Rogues and Schnorrers

RUSSIA’S JEWS AND THE

MYTH OF OLD ODESSA

JARROD TANNY

Indiana University Press

Bloomington and Indianapolis

This book is a publication of

Indiana University Press

601 North Morton Street

Bloomington, Indiana 47404–3797 USA

www.iupress.indiana.edu

© 2011 by Jarrod Tanny

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The Association of American University Presses’ Resolution on Permissions constitutes the only exception to this prohibition.

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48–1992.

Manufactured in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Tanny, Jarrod.

City of rogues and schnorrers: Russia’s Jews and the myth of old Odessa / Jarrod Tanny.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-0-253-35646-8 (hardcover: alk. paper)

ISBN 978-0-253-22328-9 (pbk.: alk. paper)

ISBN 978-0-253-00138-2 (e-book)

1. Jews—Ukraine—Odesa—History. 2. Jewish criminals—Ukraine—Odesa—Biography. 3. Odesa (Ukraine)—Social conditions. 4. Odesa (Ukraine)—Ethnic relations. 5. Odesa (Ukraine)—In literature. 6. Cultural pluralism—Ukraine—Odesa—History. I. Title.

DS135.U420358      2011

1   2   3   4   5   16   15   14   13   12   11

For Allie, Sarah, and Max

Your father, he once said to me, "was one of your real wild Jews. A bonditt. A mazik. A devil. I could have sworn he was out of Odessa."

—MORDECAI RICHLER, Barney’s Version

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Note on Transliteration

INTRODUCTION

Why Is This Town Different from All the Rest?

CHAPTER 1

The Birth of Old Odessa

CHAPTER 2

Crafting Old Odessa

CHAPTER 3

The Battle for Old Odessa

CHAPTER 4

Revival and Survival

CHAPTER 5

Rewriting Old Odessa’s Mythical Past

EPILOGUE

The End of Old Odessa

Notes

Bibliography

Index

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Lest you tire of reading this book before reaching the end of these acknowledgments, I would like to thank the most important people first. My wife, Allison Rosen, who has supported me emotionally, intellectually, and in every other way possible through the many, many years of graduate school at University of California, Berkeley, my two-year postdoctoral stint at Ohio University, and now in my new home, the history department at the University of North Carolina, Wilmington. Of no less significance are our twin children, Max and Sarah, who have yet to read this book in its entirety, even though I have read their collected works on Elmo’s escapades from cover to cover.

I have accumulated many intellectual debts over the years, scholars who have shaped my thinking and stimulated my mind. Yuri Slezkine embodies everything one could want in a mentor—intelligence, open-mindedness, an unrivaled understanding of history, and exceptional translation skills for cryptic Judeo-Odessan criminal slang. At various stages of writing, I received invaluable feedback and advice from John Efron, Victoria Frede, Eric Naiman, Peggy Anderson, and Ned Walker. Reggie Zelnik exerted a profound influence on my scholarship, and his tragic death in 2004 meant the loss of a teacher, a friend, and a family member.

Numerous other friends and colleagues have helped me in countless ways with this project at various stages. Eleonor Gilburd, Elena Shulman, and Victoria Smolkin—two authentic Odessans and one Odessan in spirit—were always there to help me with convoluted Russian translations whenever my dictionary (surprisingly often) failed me. David Shneer has similarly bailed me out of innumerable thorny Yiddish-related problems. Eugene Avrutin, Stephen Brain, Nicole Eaton, Olga Gershenson, David Shneer, Christine Evans, and Greg Thomas each read and commented on specific portions of this book. My best friend Billy Druker, whom I have known since the Brezhnev era, has been incessantly hearing about this project from its very inception, and was even kind enough to read some of it.

I could never have become a specialist on Odessa were it not for Patricia Herlihy and Roshanna Sylvester. Through their own scholarship, their constant advice, and their help in getting me indispensable contacts in Odessa, my research trip was a smashing success, and I was able to briefly transform myself from a Montrealer into an Odessit and thus get the most out of my time in Russia’s (now Ukraine’s) Eldorado.

In 2005 Odessa was my home away from home. This would not have been possible without the kindness of Tat'iana Khersonskaia who opened up her humble apartment to me, and always insured that I had a warm place to sleep and a bublik for breakfast, even if she could guarantee neither a stable water supply nor electricity. A successful research trip would have been impossible without the immeasurable help of Ana Misiuk, Alena Iavorskaia, Elena Karakina, Liliana Belousova, and Mikhail Rashkovetskii. They facilitated my acquisition of material by providing me with advice, contacts, and resources; they opened doors and cleared the many passageways obstructed by post-Soviet bureaucracy. I also thank Michael and Mary Katz, whose trip to Odessa coincided with mine. They provided me with great company and an occasional much-needed refuge from the libraries, archives, and power outages of Odessa.

Between 2008 and 2010 Ohio University’s history department served as my second home. My fellow faculty members in history and Jewish studies welcomed me with open arms, providing a most hospitable work environment. In particular, I would like to thank Norman Goda, Patrick Barr-Melej, Marvin Fletcher, Patricia Weitsman, and Danielle Leshaw. Without their tireless support, I could never have managed Ohio University’s nascent Jewish studies program while devoting the necessary time and energy to my own research. Living across the street from Gillian Berchowitz proved to be a blessing in more ways than one.

In 2010 I moved the gantseh meshpuchah eastward once again, this time to the Carolinas, where I assumed an endowed professorship in Jewish history at the University of North Carolina (UNCW), Wilmington. In the brief time I’ve been here, my new colleagues and their families have gone out of their way to help four displaced Canadians acclimate to Dixieland. Paul Townend, Michael Seidman, Lisa Pollard, Sue McCaffray, and Mark Spaulding, in particular, have given me their time, advice, and resources to complete this project and get on with the serious business of building up Jewish Studies at UNCW.

It has been an absolute pleasure to work with Indiana University Press. Janet Rabinowitch and Angela Burton have gone beyond the call of duty in guiding me through the process of transforming a manuscript into a monograph. My anonymous peer reviewers prudently compelled me to take a step back and rethink my project’s intent, while drawing my attention to the ambiguities and inconsistencies that seemed to undermine my thesis. While I write these words, my meticulous copy editor Rita Bernhard is returning dozens of frantic emails from me, as we work together in refining my prose, eliminating far too many typos, and sorting out the frustrating array of diacritical marks from far too many alphabets.

Portions of chapters 3 and 4 were previously published as "Kvetching and Carousing under Communism: Old Odessa as the Soviet Union’s Jewish City of Sin" in East European Jewish Affairs 39, no. 3 (December 2009). I am grateful to Taylor & Francis Ltd., http://www.informaworld.com, for permission to reprint these segments.

Finally, I thank my parents Laurence and Rosalie Tanny for always supporting me in every way possible; Cordell Tanny for being a great brother and uncle; my in-laws Joel and Julie Rosen for allowing their daughter to move far, far away from home; and my grandparents Professor Edward and Sarah Rosenthall, and Phil and Phyllis Tanny.

NOTE ON TRANSLITERATION

For Russian transliteration, I have adopted the Library of Congress System. For a handful of personal names known to English readers, I have used the more familiar spelling (such as Isaac Babel instead of Isaak Babel'). For transliterating Yiddish, I have used the YIVO system. In the case of individuals and terminology that are rendered differently in Russian, Yiddish, Hebrew, and English, I have used the most common spelling, in the interest of clarity and consistency.

City of Rogues and Schnorrers

DURING THE CHAOS of the Russian Revolution and civil war, Konstantin Paustovskii witnessed a curious and somewhat comical incident. Observing a street-corner queue in Odessa, Paustovskii noted the presence of

a short, old, Jewish gentleman in a dusty bowler and a worn black coat reaching to his ankles. Smiling and nodding benevolently, he observed the queue through unusually thick spectacles. Now and then he took out of his pocket a small black book with the Star of David embroidered in gold on the cover, read a page or two and returned the book to his pocket.

Paustovskii was certain that he must have been "a scholar, perhaps even a tsaddic, an old philosopher from Portofrank Street, a figure not uncommon in early-twentieth-century Ukraine. Suddenly, a young rather insolent-looking man appeared wearing a black skullcap and canary-colored leather shoes. The young man," Paustovskii continues,

was wondering how to jump the queue without causing a fuss and a row. He saw the old gentleman with the book, and naturally took him for the very embodiment of mildness and non-resistance to evil. Making up his mind, he skillfully inserted his shoulder between him and his neighbour in the queue and, pushing the old man, muttered casually:

Excuse me.

Still with the same smile, the old man bent his sharp little elbow, drew it back, took aim and, dealing the young man a swift and forceful blow in the chest, right under the heart, said politely:

"Not at all. Excuse me."

The young man grunted and flew back, hitting an acacia tree. His cap fell off his head. He picked it up and walked away without looking back. Only at the corner did he turn and shake his fist at the old man, whimpering,

Jailbird! Bandit! …

The old man took his book out of his pocket and immersed himself in it, evidently searching for some kernel of truth which he would later discuss with his cronies in the quiet of Portofrank Street.

Paustovskii recounts this incident in his memoirs with neither shock nor disbelief, even though, in an era noted for its anti-Semitism and violent pogroms, a pious Jew forcefully defending himself against a hooligan was hardly a common sight. Paustovskii’s tone suggests otherwise, intimating that a Jew who is at once pious and pugilistic is not implausible—an unlikely, droll occurrence perhaps, but not an impossibility, at least not in Odessa, in any event.¹

Odessa is a city with an infamous reputation. It has at times evoked rapture, wonder, laughter, and revulsion, but it has never evoked indifference. It has been depicted as a fantastic realm, a fabled land of gold, abundance, and sin, where the unlikely seems natural and the implausible is expected to happen. Odessa’s history is encased in legends of its imagined gilded and wicked past, a body of lore that has been compiled, enriched, embellished, and passed down for more than two centuries. Old Odessa is Russia’s Great Southern Babylon, and successive generations of mythmakers have commemorated it in literature, film, humor, and song.

The myth of old Odessa is the tale of a frontier seaport boomtown on the Black Sea whose commercial prosperity, lax legislation, and balmy southern climate attracted legions of adventurers seeking easy wealth and earthly pleasures throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. As a hub for contraband, prostitutes, and other commodities of sin, the multiethnic settlers of old Odessa were both entrepreneurial and dissolute, lining their pockets with ill-begotten riches and then emptying them in their pursuit of iniquity. Much like Shanghai, New Orleans, and San Francisco’s Barbary Coast, old Odessa was both venerated and vilified as a city of sin—heaven for some, hell on earth for others—a haven for smugglers, thieves, and pimps who boasted of their corruption through endless nights of raucous revelry. But old Odessa is unique among cities of sin, for old Odessa was also a Judeo-kleptocracy, a city overrun and governed by Jewish gangsters and swindlers. Odessa’s rebellious Jews pursued dreams of opulence and immoderation, exhibiting a passion uninhibited by the weight of a traditional culture rooted in nonviolence and moral rectitude. Old Odessa was the Russian Jew’s golden calf—gilded, wicked, and ostentatious in its intemperance.

Old Odessa was thus mythologized as a Jewish city of sin, but the city’s unique Jewishness does not end with its crime and debauchery, as Odessa is also depicted as a land of wit and irony, where thieves and lowlifes induced laughter through their crooked and dissolute behavior. Odessa’s Jewish criminals are notoriously funny, but it is a brand of humor that was not native to Odessa, having been brought to the city from the Yiddish-speaking shtetls of Eastern Europe. Along with the Jews themselves, Jewish humor found a new home in Odessa, where it quickly became the dominant mode for articulating the myth of old Odessa—the celebration of a pleasure-drenched seaside frontier town whose inhabitants were ironically proud of their chiseling and giddy merrymaking.

With the Revolution of 1917 Odessans migrated to Moscow and the interior, and disseminated the Odessa myth throughout the USSR using literature, comedy, and music. More than anyone else, Isaac Babel popularized the image of Odessa as a city of swashbuckling Jewish swindlers and sinners, who all at once embodied the physical strength, revelry, and wit for which Odessa was famous. The larger-than-life Jewish gangster emerged as the prevailing icon of Odessa in Soviet culture, and he was depicted in stark contrast to the stereotypically passive shtetl Jew of Eastern Europe who was steeped in tradition and victimized in an endless cycle of bloody pogroms. Despite frequent attacks by the Soviet government for its frivolity, its celebration of criminals through folksongs and anecdotes, and its Jewish roots, the Odessa myth survived the twentieth century and continues to flourish today.

This book traces the rich and multifaceted history of the Odessa myth from its eighteenth-century origins until the twenty-first century. Although there have been several excellent monographs on Odessa’s history and culture, this is the first comprehensive examination of Odessa from the perspective of its myth, an improbable fusion of criminality, Jewishness, and humor.² No other place in tsarist Russia and the Soviet Union was seen as so inseparably impish and Jewish; no other prominent Jewish community in the modern world was considered as sardonic and brazen in its dissipation. Such an amalgamation of attributes ensured Odessa an enduring infamy, much to the delight of its admirers, and much to the horror of its opponents, for an unconstrained enclave of Jewish rogues and merrymakers was both alluring and inherently dangerous. Old Odessa challenged Jewish tradition no less than it challenged the tsarist state, exemplifying the limitless heretical possibilities of a disorderly frontier town. It later confounded Soviet communism by mocking the Revolution’s gravity and the transformative project of building socialism. Old Odessa was a threat because it empowered the Jew through his trickery and his irreverence. The city’s inhabitants refused to take themselves seriously, and their lack of solemnity was key to the survival of their culture, identity, and collective memory.

Old Odessa as Myth

Old Odessa is myth, the folklore of a secular age, rooted in fantastic imagery of heroes, outlaws, and enchanted cityscapes, ranging from the idyllic to the apocalyptic.³ Myth, however, need not imply falsehood (and hence fiction), and should not be viewed as a category separate and distinct from reality (and hence empirical history). History and myth are not fundamentally at odds with each other; their relationship is complex and fluid, a bond that Bo Strath likens to a Venn diagram of two overlapping discourses, linked by the narrative technique employed to order and connect disparate events, people, and places.⁴ And it is a relationship that is far from obvious. Many of the self-professed fictional tales written about old Odessa depict Jewish gangsters who actually lived, debaucherous festivities that actually took place, and humorous words that were actually spoken. Conversely, many accounts that purport to be historical contain an obvious element of invention, involving fabricated dialogue, the conflation of discrete events, and the appropriation of folkloric motifs that developed in other times and other places, far removed from the city’s social and political context. But there is a striking parallel in how narrative in both these genres is constructed, the way the story is told, the language that is used, the discursive blueprint that governs every tale of old Odessa. It is not so much a question of whether or not what is being described really took place; a particular tale is part of the myth of old Odessa because of the rhythm, intonation, language, and themes that are deployed in the act of narration.

Nor is it a question of belief and sincerity versus conscious appropriation and invention on the part of the mythmaker. Odessa’s mythmakers are a heterogeneous cohort, made up of writers, musicians, comedians, and many other actors who have each played a different role in the myth’s creation, reproduction, embellishment, dissemination, and reception. Some of these actors have consciously engaged in inventive mythmaking, craftily seeking to inscribe their stories and their own lives into Odessan lore. Others, however, have unconsciously reproduced the themes, language, and humor that define the myth of old Odessa without giving much thought to authenticity versus fiction. But all these actors have played a similar role in the mythmaking process, insofar as they continue to use the language and folkloric motifs that have governed the myth of old Odessa since it first coalesced in the nineteenth century.

It would be presumptuous and naïve of me to suggest that my own analysis is somehow objective and located outside the realm of the Odessa myth. My imagination was initially piqued through Isaac Babel’s exotic Jewish gangsters and Sholem Aleichem’s fantasies of Russia’s Eldorado. I spent hours wandering the streets of Odessa, wondering where old Odessa was, whether it had ever existed at all. I embraced every sign and every clue that spoke of old Odessa and undoubtedly rejected many of the city’s aspects that did not fit my vision. Nevertheless, I have tried to provide a sober assessment of how such a myth—certainly unique in Imperial Russia and the USSR, and perhaps unique in the world—could and did develop. And I have sought to provide sufficient context for each era to explain why mythmakers may have constructed their old Odessa in their particular fashion, using specific imagery, language, and tone.

Old Odessa and its colorful characters have appeared in memoirs, music, jokes, novels, films, newspapers, dictionaries, guidebooks, and histories. Each instance of these sources is a distinct mythological artifact, yet similar to every other such artifact because of its capacity to encapsulate the myth’s spirit. A three-sentence anecdote, a stanza or melody from a two-minute criminal folksong, or the combination of words in a newspaper headline was often rich enough to symbolically represent the Odessa myth in its totality. As the Soviet era progressed the act of mythmaking became more sophisticated, and the myth’s articulation took place with greater brevity and implicitness. Such subtlety allowed the myth of old Odessa to survive the assault wrought by the ideologues of proletarian culture, which lasted from the Stalin era until the collapse of Soviet socialism.

The Myth of the City

Mythmaking is a practice that has flourished in the modern secular world, and the stories produced by mythmakers are critical for understanding the histories, ideals, and identities of modern secular societies. Mythology is at the core of nations, cities, and any sort of imagined community unified through ideology, shared rituals, or collective memory.⁵ Dissecting the myth of old Odessa by tracing its evolution from the time of Catherine the Great through the Soviet era and then into the twenty-first century is an important and necessary approach for understanding Odessa’s past, present, and perhaps its future. But exploring the myth has value that goes beyond the quest to know the history and culture of one particular city. Knowing the Odessa myth in all its facets enriches our perspective on how we view the city as a cultural phenomenon in its own right.

Cities, by their very nature, lend themselves to the enterprise of mythmaking. Even the smallest cities are by definition big, insofar as one resident can never know every individual, every street, and every building that constitute his city. Anselm Strauss maintains that the city, as a whole, is inaccessible to the imagination unless it can be reduced and simplified.⁶ The imagined city is therefore limited in scope, often characterized by one or more specific symbols that implicitly come to represent the city as a whole. Even cities with a multitude of symbols coming in a variety of forms—neighborhoods, street corners, markets, monuments, clock towers, annual events—must ultimately be finite in number; the six-hundred-page guidebook must also simplify the city into a coherent narrative, omitting all that its author deems unnecessary or unworthy for inclusion. The inhabitant, the visitor, and the observer of the city all participate in this process of reduction as well, by infusing their necessarily limited urban experiences with specific meanings, even preconceiving a vision of the city that will shape their subsequent physical encounters with it. The city that we seek, write William Sharpe and Leonard Wallock, conditions the city that we will find.⁷

The myths of cities tend to combine two opposing sets of images—the city as paradise and the city as nightmare. Utopia and dystopia often coexist in the same representations of a particular city, and one can find this in depictions of many modern cities. But this duality is not a modern phenomenon: it has its roots in the ancient world. Peter Preston and Paul Simpson-Housely suggest that the city has always appeared as the physical embodiment of the Utopian community, an orderly and ultimately perfectible realm segregated from the chaos and violent forces that exist beyond its surrounding walls. However, they continue, the city has, since ancient times, been depicted as the site of guile, corruption, intrigue and false values, as against the positive, natural, straightforward values of the countryside.⁸ The connection between modern representations of cities and antiquity is further underscored by what Sharpe and Wallock call ruling metaphors:

as it symbolized human faith and aspirations, the contemporary metropolis took on aspects of the Heavenly City, the New Jerusalem; as it embodied the failure of these hopes, it partook of the depravity of Babylon or Sodom; its smoke, industry, and avarice suggested the Infernal City of Dante; and its confusion, noise, and lack of direction or community likened it to Babel, the original urban chaos.⁹

Mythical cities have their origins in biblical theology and post-biblical folklore; this legacy affects the way we view the cities of our own times.

There are many wicked cities in the Bible, including Sodom, Gomorrah, and Nineveh; they endure the bitter harangues of the prophets and are ultimately consumed by the fires of God’s apocalyptic anger.¹⁰ But the emblematic city of sin is Babylon, the great commercial and cultural center of the ancient Middle East, whose gilded streets harbored sexual transgression and material excess. According to Wolf Schneider, Babylon embodied everything that constitutes the attractiveness and the danger of giant cities: culture and depravity, arrogance and money, temples of faith and those of hectic amusement, splendour and misery.¹¹ The Book of Revelation brands Babylon the mother of harlots and abominations of the earth, a city that made all nations drink of the wine of the wrath of her fornication.¹² Such nefariousness could only lead to decimation, according to the Prophet Isaiah, who declares that Babylon, the glory of kingdoms, the beauty of the Chaldees’ excellency, shall be as when God overthrew Sodom and Gomorrah.¹³ The Bible’s most gilded city is also its most wicked, with opulence and debauchery forming an inseparable bond that foretells the city’s fated downfall.

Modernity inherited the Bible’s template for understanding the city, a blueprint to mediate one’s encounters with an imagined world at once divine and gilded yet fiendishly dissipated. Mythmakers of modern cities are working within this dualistic framework; they have access to a rich arsenal of terminology for defining their subjects, and they borrow from these ancient idioms and ideas—intentionally at times but often not—in constructing their visions of earthly paradise and urban jungles. But it is clear that certain types of cities lend themselves to such dichotomous representations more easily than others. Among those most commonly associated with paradise and hell, Eldorado for some but Gomorrah for others, are seaports, particularly those on the geographic frontier of large states or empires.

Alien and mysterious, cities such as San Francisco, New Orleans, Shanghai, and Odessa have become legendary for both their allure and their depravity.

Although such modern cities of sin have distinct histories, ethnic compositions, and cultures, they share certain socioeconomic and political attributes that help explain why they have been depicted as latter-day Babylons. Many of these cities experienced frenetic commercial and demographic growth during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, usually because of a widespread perception that they suddenly had something to offer, something that could enrich those who settled there. San Francisco’s development was the product of the Gold Rush of 1849;¹⁴ at the very same moment, European imperialism transformed Shanghai into the Far East’s commercial center for opium and Asia’s other reputed riches;¹⁵ New Orleans served as an important hub for the slave trade and, during Prohibition, a smuggling point for liquor from the Caribbean;¹⁶ and nineteenth-century Odessa became the center of Russia’s lucrative grain trade and the frigid empire’s gateway to the lush Mediterranean world. All these cities were perceived as boomtowns, where wealth could be easily acquired, often through activities deemed illicit or immoral.

Modern cities of sin tend to be port cities, with easy access to the sea and to inland trade routes. They are conduits (and sites of consumption) of diverse commodities, illegal or otherwise. The perpetual movement of goods from faraway places through these cities gives them an atmosphere of exoticness and abundance. These cities are often frontier towns, existing on the edge of urbanized society, where undergovernment abets a feeling of freedom, chaos, and danger. It is not surprising that many of them are on the American continent and developed their notorious reputations during their early histories, when they were geographically outposts of the civilization their settlers left behind.¹⁷ Although Shanghai is a much older city with a different historical trajectory, the Opium Wars and the Treaty of Nanjing made it into a frontier town of sorts, dividing it into three separate jurisdictions, controlled by three different regimes.¹⁸ Multiple governments may be viewed as a form of undergovernment, as both facilitate the proliferation of crime, vice, and disorder.

Another important factor is the sociological character of these cities. Seaports are, by their nature, cosmopolitan cities, attracting an ethnically diverse population, settlers and merchants who often arrive as transients seeking to take advantage of opportunities in trade. As a commercial entrepôt, the port city is a city in demographic flux, swarming with a seemingly rootless populace. They are lands of migrants who add to the cities’ reputations as diverse and foreign, and therefore exotic. Port cities and frontier towns also tend to attract a particular type of person—young, single, searching for adventure, wealth, and pleasure, someone who believes that infinite riches exist in his imagined Eldorado. And although it is far too simplistic to draw a direct line between demography and the proliferation of vice and crime, there is undoubtedly a connection, and, perhaps more significant, observers perceive a connection. The merchant and the transient are frequently defined as criminal, and the criminal of the seaport is imagined as the merchant of contraband, the pirate in the bay who is romanticized, feared, and condemned for his depravity.¹⁹

Finally, mythmakers are often complicit in manipulating the image of a city to achieve certain ends. This was particularly true in nineteenth-century America when urban boosters competed with one another in selling their cities (and disparaging neighboring ones) in order to encourage settlement.²⁰ But boosters often marketed their cities as Gomorrah as much as Arcadia. During the post–Civil War recession, boosters in New Orleans exploited the city’s reputation for decadence and vice, promoting it as the Great Southern Babylon to ensure that seekers of revelry would continue to come and keep its faltering economy alive.²¹ Like their counterparts in America, Odessa’s proponents harnessed the city’s dualistic reputation as heaven and hell. With sensational fanfare they flaunted Odessa as Russia’s golden calf: lurid, mesmerizing, and irresistible.

Myth and reality reinforced each other in these imagined cities of gold and sin. Migrants and visitors entered such cities expecting to find certain things, things that undoubtedly existed, even if they were not representative of the city’s totality. Mythmakers portrayed the city as decadently opulent, exoticized its cosmopolitanism and abundant goods, condemned and celebrated its deviance. The seaport has lent itself to such mythmaking, as it was easy to find both Nirvana and Gomorrah within its walls. Paradise and sin were two sides of the same coin, part of a tradition inherited from ancient representations of the city.

Jewish Criminality

The archetypal city of gold and sin is imagined as the playground of the rapacious, the godless, and the criminal. In old Odessa’s case, the dissolute criminal inhabitants were largely Jewish. Jew and criminal, in fact, became synonymous for Odessa’s mythmakers, and in representations of the city, the one almost always implies the other. But the idea of the Jewish criminal and the attributes he allegedly embodies were not inventions of Odessa’s mythmakers. Jewish criminality has a long genealogy in European culture—both Christian and Jewish—and when it surfaced in Odessa during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the city’s myth inherited this legacy.

Historians of Europe and America have demonstrated the involvement of Jews—often disproportionate to their numbers—in particular types of crime, especially nonviolent offenses such as theft, trade in stolen goods, counterfeiting, and swindling.²² This should not be surprising, given the historical prominence of Jews in commerce, peddling, and other financial industries. Europe’s Jews were mobile, often relocating to new lands because of persecution in old ones but also to pursue fresh economic opportunities. Transnational connections and multilingualism gave the Jews additional advantages for commerce, legitimate or otherwise. Medieval European Jewry also played a fundamental role in money lending, engaging in this profession for both theological and practical reasons.²³ The Bible proscribes the lending of money at interest to one’s brother but not to the stranger, and this principle guided both state and church for much of the middle ages. With money lending deemed sinful, Christians were compelled (under tight Church regulation) to borrow from Jews, and the Jews often had the capital to lend to them.²⁴ Other occupations, moreover, were closed off to Jews in many European states, including land cultivation and handicrafts, thereby rendering money lending one of the few viable professions open to them.²⁵ Although money lending was a legal and necessary business, Christianity’s negative attitude toward it criminalized the Jews who practiced it, discursively relegating them to the company of murderers, thieves, and highwaymen.²⁶

The image of the Jew as villain thus had a socioeconomic basis, but it was markedly intensified by medieval Europe’s interpretation of Scripture, with the New Testament providing evidence of the Jew’s avarice and thirst for blood.²⁷ The biblical Jew and his descendants were branded the killers of Christ, deicides in league with the devil who crucified God for their selfish ends. Judas, the original betrayer of Christ, embodied and personified the guilt of all the Jews, having sent Jesus to his death for thirty silver coins.²⁸ Accordingly, the Jews relinquished their standing as God’s chosen people and were consigned to the category of the eternally accursed, sentenced to wander the earth as vagabonds, thieves, and practitioners of black magic. Medieval Europe viewed the Jews through this biblical lens, further compounding the convoluted relationship between socioeconomic realities and the myth of diabolical Jewish rapacity.

Depictions of Jewish thieves in European literature reveal the enduring influence of medieval theology in the modern era. In the English theater, the avaricious money-lending Jew became a dramatic cliché, appearing, according to one scholar, in more than sixty plays between 1553 and the outbreak of the English civil war in the 1640s.²⁹ Shakespeare’s Shylock was the most infamous fictional Jewish usurer, and he became the archetypal Jewish villain of the Elizabethan era and beyond.³⁰ Perhaps the most notorious Jewish criminal in modern European literature is Fagin, the leader of a thieves’ den in Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist. Although the novel is set in nineteenth-century London, Fagin’s hideous appearance and his sordid escapades are rooted in the medieval conception of the Jew. Fagin is compared to some loathsome reptile, engendered in the slime and darkness through which he moved, whose toothless gums contained a few such fangs as should have been a dog’s or a rat’s.³¹ Fagin personifies the proverbial Jew’s treachery, greed, and connections to both underworlds, the criminal dens of London and the unholy fires of hell.³²

Other observers, particularly in German lands, contended that criminality was inherent in the language of the Jews. Martin Luther insisted that the Hebrew alphabet was a hidden code for criminals to exchange messages and that crime was the natural expression of the Jewish spirit.³³ Luther published what was probably the first criminal slang (Gaunersprache) dictionary to prominently feature words of Hebraic and Yiddish origin.³⁴ More dictionaries would follow in later centuries, with their authors presenting them as scientific evidence that the Jew and the thief were one and the same.³⁵ Most striking in these volumes is the extent to which commonplace expressions are incorporated, words and phrases that have no obvious relationship with depravity and misconduct.³⁶ These writers deployed the dictionary to demonstrate the Jew’s criminality, another window into the lives of those who were socially and spiritually outside Christian society.³⁷

The relationship between the activities of European Jewish criminals and the representations of their misdeeds is complex, varying significantly according to time and place. Jews were disproportionately usurers and traders who operated (legally or otherwise) on the margins of European society for much of the medieval and early modern eras. They