They were known as Pepi Litman. And long before Marlene Dietrich donned a top hat, long before the term “drag king” entered the vernacular, this immigrant from the shtetls of Ukraine was blurring every line on the map of gender and performance. The exact date is lost to the chaos of empire, but scholars place the birth of the performer known as Pepi Litman around the early 1880s in the Pale of Settlement, specifically in the region of Volhynia, Ukraine—then part the Russian Empire. To be Jewish and talented in the shtetl was to be born with a target on your back and a song in your heart. The pogroms of the 1880s sent waves of refugees westward, and young Pepi—born either into a family of modest klezmer musicians or small-town merchants, depending on the fragmented record—was among them.
One reviewer in a 1907 edition of the New York Herald (translated from Yiddish) wrote: “When Litman appears in her tails, the girls in the gallery forget to breathe. And then she speaks, and the men laugh—because she is more of a man than they are, and they know it is a joke only on them.” By 1905, Pepi Litman had landed in the United States, settling into the vibrant ecosystem of Second Avenue—the “Yiddish Rialto.” She joined the roster of the Hebrew Actors’ Union and found a home in the wandering troupes of the Thomashefsky and Adler families. It was here, in theatres like the Thalia and the Windsor, that her legend grew.
Her most famous number, rarely recorded but often described, was a parody of the operatic tenor. She would stride out in a frock coat too large for her, a fake mustache that seemed to have a life of its own, and proceed to butcher a Puccini aria with deliberate, hilarious off-key notes—before ripping off the mustache mid-crescendo and finishing the song in a pure, beautiful soprano. The audience would erupt. It was drag, deconstruction, and virtuosity in a three-minute package.