Just before Passover of this year Evgeny Slovack visited Chabad-Lubavitch in Tomsk, Russia, to pick up matzah for the holiday.
Speaking with Rabbi Levi Kaminetzky—who moved to the Siberian city with his wife, Chana, in 2004, and has served as rabbi ever since—Slovack shared something that had been on his mind for some time.
“The time has come for me to have a bris,” Slovack said. “I’m ready.”
The announcement caught Kaminetzky off guard. He has known Slovack, a local Jewish businessman, for years. Around 60 years old, Slovack is a familiar face in the community, though not a regular at the synagogue. The rabbi had never even raised the subject with him.
“Most people who decide to get a bris later in life do so after hearing about the importance of the mitzvah and giving it a lot of thought,” Kaminetzky says. “Evgeny came on his own initiative. It was Heaven-sent.”
While Kaminetzky says Slovack has his own reasons for why the time was right, the bris—which took place last week amid a joyous celebration—closed the circle on a story that began nearly 90 years ago, at the height of Communist persecution.
A Grandmother’s Determination
The bris (brit milah) is a physical symbol of the relationship between G‑d and the Jewish people, a constant reminder of what the Jewish mission entails. Ideally performed on the eighth day of a Jewish male’s life (Leviticus 12:3), the ritual is carried out by a trained mohel and marks a Jew’s entry into the covenant of Abraham.
Several years into his tenure leading the Jewish Community of Tomsk, Kaminetzky was teaching a class about the importance of brit milah. He spoke about how, in earlier times, performing a circumcision required real self-sacrifice. Today, he told his students, it required only willingness.
A man in the class raised his hand.
“Can I say a few words?” It was Felix Slovak, Evgeny’s father.
Felix was born in 1937 in Zhitomir, Ukraine, at the height of Stalin’s Great Terror. His parents decided against giving him a bris out of fear of persecution. To be caught could cost them their jobs, their freedom, and even their lives. But his grandmother had other plans.
One day, while Felix’s parents were at work, she quietly summoned a mohel. By the time they returned home, it was too late—the bris was already done.
Word spread. Soviet authorities dismissed both of Felix’s parents from their jobs and expelled them from the Communist Party—effectively ending their career prospects. Felix’s mother, who had trained as an accountant, spent the rest of her career as a kindergarten assistant.
“Felix told me that for many years his parents couldn’t hold good positions because of what his grandmother had done,” Kaminetzky recalls. “It was a very high price to pay. The whole class was moved by her self-sacrifice in such difficult times, just to ensure her grandson would enter the covenant of Abraham.”
Felix became deeply involved in the Jewish community, attending services and events regularly.
His son Evgeny was less engaged, though he came occasionally, especially on the High Holidays, and sent his child to Chabad’s Jewish school—the only one in Tomsk.
A Bris in Tomsk
Tomsk sits deep in western Siberia, a university city of several hundred thousand where, Kaminetzky estimates, around 3,000 Jews live. They are descendants of Cantonist soldiers conscripted under the Tsar, refugees from the world wars, and students who arrived in the mid-20th century, when the local university—unlike Moscow’s—imposed no Jewish quotas.
For decades, almost none of the Jewish men in the city were circumcised, due to fear of Soviet punishment. In his more than 20 years in Tomsk, Kaminetzky says around 100 men have undergone a bris, each one an act of real courage.
“At an older age, it’s real mesirut nefesh,” he says, using the Hebrew term for “self-sacrifice.” “It’s actual surgery, with anesthesia and a significant recovery. Everyone who does it is incredible.”
When Slovack said he was ready, Kaminetzky cautioned him that the mohel he works with comes from Moscow, a five-hour flight away. If there was any hesitation, now was the time to say so.
“There’s no doubt in my mind,” Slovack replied determinedly. “I’m getting a bris.”
A week and a half later, the mohel confirmed he could come on Tuesday, April 21.
As word spread, others in the community were inspired, and several younger men arranged to have their own bris at the same time.
At the ceremony held last week in the synagogue, Evgeny was given the Hebrew name Chaim, the name of his late grandfather. During his remarks, Kaminetzky returned to the story of Slovack’s great-grandmother, describing how the moment brought a historic circle to a close.
“It’s an incredible story. I think it happened on the merit of his grandparents and great-grandmother’s sacrifices for this mitzvah,” Kaminetzky said. “This family’s connection to brit milah lay dormant for decades until it surfaced again and inspired others along with it.”
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