Odessa Story: Reading Isaac Babel in Ukraine
The Ukrainian Black Sea port has lost most of its Jews, but not the vestiges of the muddled, criminal city Isaac Babel imagined
Over dinner, I asked a TV journalist friend who understands the Ukrainian and Odessan political situations intimately to explain the specifics of the corruption and graft to me. He spent the rest of the meal drawing an intricate Venn diagram with sub-graphs and charts on the white table cover to illustrate the mind-bogglingly complex interrelations of the various oligarchs, local political fiefdoms, competing mafias, rogue intelligence services, London-based gangsters, Russian political machinations, and operations of the state. Every time I spoke with a young person about what they thought of the political situation, what was reflected back was apathy and exhaustion. Everyone made the comparison to Russia. In almost every case the person making the comparison would tell me that Ukraine used to be better off politically and economically, but now the situation was approaching what they called “Russian levels of corruption and political instability.”
The dreaded regional prosecutor’s office was across the street from my Odessan apartment on graceful, cobblestoned Pushkinskaya Street. While eating my lunch at the café on the corner one day, I asked the owner of the café why no one protested the ongoing usurpation of their businesses. She just shrugged fatalistically as if I had asked her why she did not flail at the trade winds, and then said with typical Odessan brio, “What am I supposed to do? Not serve them soup?”
Odessa’s last Jewish mayor, the infamous and flamboyant Edourd Gourevitz, who served three terms in the 1990s, began accumulating his fortune during Perestroika when he was the manager of the city’s paint factory. (In the late ’80s he would often be seen walking the streets of his wealthy cul-de-sac hocking paint.) A constant thorn in the side of both regional and national authorities, he was swept from power for a second time this past November. Already holding an Israeli passport, he absconded to the land of milk and honey immediately after the elections. Safely out of the reach of the authorities, he finances the city’s only legitimate anti-government, dissident television station. This summer, my fiancée, a native of the city, would occasionally come home from an evening out with her Odessan friends to tell me that another acquaintance or a friend of a friend who had worked as an aide to Gourevitz had been jailed.
On another occasion, my fiancée’s friend invited us to attend the local Chabad synagogue and the Shabbat dinner afterwards. His name was Yoel, a pleasant, black-frocked Chabadnik who teaches math at the university. His parents live in Denver, and he is waiting to immigrate to the United States with his young bride and their daughter. The crowd at the synagogue was split between the black-coated Hasidim and the rougher looking gentlemen with arm-length prison tattoos. When I marveled at the sheer quantity of prison tattoos exposed by short-sleeved shirts, Yoel explained that the Odessan community’s unique nonchalance and acceptance of “problematic social pasts” was one way it distinguished itself. This respect is a prerequisite for reestablishing a functioning community when the majority of Odessan Jewry is to be found in New York, Haifa, Montreal, and Berlin. Mass immigration has brought the proportion of the city’s Jews down from a high of 41 percent between the wars to the estimated 4 percent they make up today. There are not that many Odessan Jews left. It is a way also, he told me, to integrate the community’s base of potential donors.
“Men in this community who have not done any time are the exception to the norm,” Yoel told me as I gawked across the hall at a gentleman with a boxer’s face and a tattooed neck “Since the professions were closed off to us, many here had to figure out alternative ways to make a living. The breakdown really runs along generational lines. The guys here in their twenties sat in jail for making money, that is, for the prosecution of economic crimes. Those in their thirties sat in jail for the anti-Semitic prosecution of economic crimes. The ones in their forties who did time were ‘politicals.’ Anyone older then that who spent time in jail—the dissidents—those guys immigrated.”
Hearing of my exotic travels, occasional Russian passport problems, and serious interest in crossing over to the Transdniesterian border to buy false Moldovan papers or acquire a Romanian passport under an alias, Yoel very kindly offered to make introductions to the Chabadnik whose business it was to acquire “any papers in Eastern Europe you might need for less than 800 American.”
As we walked slowly to his house after services, I was introduced to Yasha. Handsome and strapping in his late forties, he had come to pray wearing a sailor shirt, designer jeans, and sandals. A naturalized Dutchman, he had made his money importing luxury cars from Europe and often commuted between Amsterdam, New York, and Odessa. He extended a powerful hand, proffered a steely stare, and greeted me with a barrage of piercing questions: “Bro, you circumcised? If not, it’s time. You aren’t a boy anymore. I did it at 42. Why do you keep using their name? You should carry your real name with pride!”
I was later told that the wrong answer to his question could have had perilous ramifications: During the alcohol-drenched revelry of the previous year’s Simchat Torah party, he and a group of the congregants, carousing with the zeal of the newly religious, had seized an uncircumcised teenager and had prepared to perform the operation with the kitchen knife they had been cutting meat with. Only the timely physical intervention of the Israeli rabbi had saved the kid from entry into the covenant.
After the kiddush at Yoel’s apartment, I spoke with his brother-in-law, a journalist and spokesman for a political party. The contrast between him and the effete, evenly spoken, intellectual Yoel could not have been more striking. His head was shaved down to military-length stubble, and his enormous muscles strained his tank top. He had sat all through dinner with a Glock pistol tucked into the back of his jeans. He told me that journalism was a different vocation here, carrying a weapon was mandatory, and that the rules and values of the profession were not ones I might understand. I pressed him to explain, but he refused to elaborate. We spent the rest of the night talking about our mutual love of Muay Thai boxing and resolved to go to the gym together.
A few nights before I left, my friends and I were again standing in the middle of Deribasovskaya during the annual klezmer festival. We stood in a ring at the side of the stage speaking with the king of Russian klezmer, Psoy Korolenko, after his show when a group of passing young men turned and without breaking their strides screamed at us, “One grave for all the Zhids.”
This is when I realized that things change very slowly in Odessa, and that it was time to get back to New York.
Emma Lazarus’ “The New Colossus” is a greater symbol of freedom’s light than the Statue of Liberty