Odesa is a city that holds the salty wind of the Black Sea, the bustle of bazaars, and the echo of prayers. Its soul is a polyphony where the Jewish community has woven its own unique motif, full of laughter, tears, and quiet wisdom. This article is not just a journey through the archival trails, but an attempt to touch the heart of Jewish Odesa, where living people are hidden behind the dry lines of documents, and stories whisper in the old streets.
Archives are like the breath of the past
The cosy halls of the State Archives of Odesa Oblast, which smell of old paper and the dust of time, are home to treasures: yellowed lists, auditor’s tales, letters, and plans. Here, for example, are records from the eighteenth century, with the names of Jewish merchants who transported grain through the port of Odesa to distant shores. The Frankel family or the Ashkenazi family are not just surnames, but people who held the threads of trade, weaving Odesa with Vienna, Constantinople, and the world. Their contracts contain not only numbers, but also dreams of a better life for their children, of a home where Hebrew and laughter will be heard.
Or take the report on the construction of the Main Choral Synagogue. A few sheets of paper and you can see the majestic building that grew thanks to the donations of the Brodsky and Rabinowitz. In 1905, when a pogrom burned its roof, the archives recorded the damage, but not the pain. But this pain lives on in the memories that were passed down by word of mouth – about how people saved Torah scrolls by hiding them under their shirts.
Moldovan woman – a beating heart
Moldavanka is not just a neighbourhood, it is a living legend. Here, among the crooked streets and noisy courtyards, you could smell freshly baked bread and hear Yiddish songs. The archives recall Mishka Yaponchik, the king of bandits, whose true identity is lost in police reports. But people remember something else: how he gave away the loot to the poor, laughing, and his eyes sparkled with anger or tenderness. Babel’s Benka Kryk is his shadow, which comes to life in every Odesa anecdote.
And then there was Rosa Lieberman, about whom the archives are silent, but the old-timers whispered. A small woman with big hands, she baked the best halos in the city and hid notes in them for those fleeing the pogroms. Her courtyard on Moldavanka Street was a haven where children played and old people sang psalms. These stories are like the wind, you can’t catch them in paper, but you can feel them when you step on the pavement.
Spiritual lights and laughter through tears
Odesa breathed not only bread and sea, but also thought. In the Brody synagogue, where the high windows caught the sun, Sholem Aleichem read his stories. Imagine: a room full of people, and an old man laughing so hard that tears flow as Sholem tells the story of Tevye the milkman. These moments, recorded in the letters of the emigrants, are like gems in the crown of the city.
There was also Chaim Rosenfeld, a humble teacher whose Hebrew lessons in the basement on Prokhorovskaya Street became a light in the darkness of the tsarist prohibitions. The children sitting on the benches listened to his stories about King David and quietly repeated the words. He left no books behind, but he left his memory with those who later took his lessons to America or Israel.
And the humour? Oh, that’s another song! “Sara, why are you crying?” – “Because my husband went to the sea.” – “So he’s a fisherman!” – “Yes, but he said he’d come back with a pearl earring!” This laughter, born at the crossroads of misery and hope, was a weapon that helped me survive.
Shadows and light
The archives of the Second World War are wounds that do not heal. Lists of those shot, deported, and disappeared without a trace. More than one hundred thousand Odesa Jews died, and each line is someone’s mother, someone’s daughter. But even then there were heroes. Grandmother Fira from Tiraspolska Street hid her neighbours’ children in the cellar, feeding them potatoes and fairy tales. Her name is not in the archives, but in the hearts of the survivors, she is a saint.
Today, Odesa is coming to life. Synagogues are singing again, klezmer melodies are heard on Primorsky Boulevard, and children are learning Hebrew in new schools. This is not just a revival – it is the return of a soul that has never faded away.
Odesa – an eternal story
Jewish Odesa is not a history in the past; it is a pulse that beats in its stones, in the laughter on Deribasovskaya Street, in the whispers of its archives. It is a city where every stone remembers a prayer and every street a song. People lived here who loved, fought and created, leaving us not only documents but also the warmth of their hearts. And when you walk around Odesa, listen – it still speaks, quietly and gently, like an old mother waiting for her children to come home.
Author: Aleksandr Potetiuiev
