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By Anya Shapiro
What is clear is that she worked constantly but never became a wealthy star. Male impersonation was a novelty, not a career. By the 1920s, as American vaudeville calcified into radio-friendly formats and Yiddish theatre began its slow decline with the rise of Hollywood, Pepi found herself playing smaller houses, touring the Catskills’ “Borscht Belt” circuit, and eventually taking bit parts as character actors—usually as a gruff grandmother or a comic neighbor. Pepi Litman died in relative obscurity in the mid-1930s, though the exact date and location are contested. Some records suggest 1935 in Brooklyn; others, a 1937 pneumonia death in a sanatorium in the Bronx. There is no grand obituary in The New York Times . Her grave, if it exists, is unmarked. pepi litman male impersonator birthplace ukraine
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. By Anya Shapiro What is clear is that
But the ghost of Pepi Litman has a way of lingering. In the 1970s, when feminist theatre historians like Sandi Holman began excavating the archives of Yiddish vaudeville, they found her name scribbled in margins of playbills, whispered about in old actors’ memoirs. She became a touchstone for the lesbian and queer theatre movements of the 1980s—a proof that the gender-bending stage was not invented by punk rock or post-modernism, but was already alive in a Ukrainian immigrant’s wink. Today, Pepi Litman’s influence can be felt anywhere a female performer takes the stage in a suit and tie and refuses to let the audience look away. She is the great-great-grandmother of every drag king who has ever popped a button on a vest, every cabaret artist who has sung a torch song in a baritone, every queer immigrant who has understood that performance is not escape—but survival. Pepi Litman died in relative obscurity in the
She was born in Ukraine, a land of blood and black soil, and she carried that weight across an ocean. Onstage, she transformed that weight into a feather in a fedora. And for a few glorious decades on Second Avenue, Pepi Litman proved that a woman pretending to be a man could tell the truest stories about what it means to be human.
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.