c. 2004 Religion News Service

(UNDATED) In June, two months shy of his 59th birthday, Valeriy Kozlov did the unthinkable: He went under the knife for religious reasons.

Kozlov, a Belarus native, followed the example of his friend Leonid Marder, a Russian emigre who was circumcised at age 66. Both resettled in Reisterstown, Md., a city near Baltimore that is home to many ex-Soviet Jews.

“As with any operation, a person is afraid of blood _ of being cut,” Kozlov said. “But when a person becomes more spiritual, he understands that physical pain is less significant.”

Communist oppression in their homeland made it virtually impossible to observe an ancient custom performed on the eighth day of life and embedded in the Jewish faith. Now in America and free from persecution, a number of men _ some well into their golden years _ have chosen to fulfill this quintessential commitment.

“It was a criminal act in Russia at that time. They jailed people for much less,” said Yakov Krug, who secretly opted for circumcision in Leningrad when he was 17 years old. “My parents found out a day later.”

At 36, Krug continues to enlighten his fellow immigrants in the Baltimore area with audiocassettes and books about Judaism. He encouraged Kozlov to proceed with circumcision.

“It’s never too late to change the course of life,” Krug explained, “and ask yourself a question: `What am I doing in this world and why am I here?”’

The decision to undergo ritual circumcision often comes after decades of deliberation and gradual acceptance of Orthodox practices. At times, panic prolongs the process.

“There are a significant number of Russian Jews in this country who would like to be circumcised but are afraid because they mistakenly believe that it’s a very painful operation for an adult. In fact, it’s not a painful operation for an adult,” said Dr. Marc Goldstein, professor of urology and chief male reproductive surgeon at New York Weill Cornell Medical Center in New York City.

As part of their religious reconnection, emigres learn the meaning behind circumcision. Jews believe it is the first commandment God instilled in Abraham, father of the Jewish people, who circumcised himself at age 99, attaining biblical perfection. Spiritual leaders believe that every Jew who avails himself of this opportunity, regardless of age, answers the faith’s higher calling.

“Circumcision is actually a physical bond between a Jewish man and the creator,” said Rabbi Yosef Y. Okunov, the 25-year-old New York program director at Friends of Refugees of Eastern Europe (FREE), a Lubavitcher-affiliated international organization that assists Russian immigrants with their spiritual and material needs.

Okunov’s grandfather was arrested for his Jewish involvement and remained captive in Siberia. His father, Rabbi Mayer Okunov, vowed to spare future generations. He became chairman of this organization, commonly known by its acronym.

One of the group’s aims is to provide emigres easy access to a “mohel,” a rabbi who performs the ritual under the watchful gaze of a urologist. Since its founding in 1969, FREE has coordinated the circumcisions of more than 13,000 ex-Soviet Jews, the oldest at 82. Private donations allow the service to be performed at no cost.

In Avigdor Roppoport’s case, FREE paid for a room in Crown Heights, in New York’s Brooklyn, where he stayed for three days after traveling by train from his home in Rockville, Md., before Hanukkah in 2003. The 45-year-old telecommunications businessman stumbled upon the organization on the Internet. It was the only place where he came across information on ritual circumcision in Russian.

“I decided a long time ago when I lived in Moscow,” Roppoport said of his decision to be circumcised as an adult. “For Americans, it’s difficult to understand why someone hasn’t done it yet.”

Since the circumcision, he said he feels closer to God and hopes his American wife, Vickie, will convert to Judaism now that they’re planning to start a family. “Gradually, I’m trying to become Orthodox,” Roppoport explained.

Rabbi Michael Rovinsky, a mohel and St. Louis-area coordinator for the National Conference of Synagogue Youth, an arm of the Orthodox Union, remembers a circumcision in Dallas shortly after moving there in 1990. A 24-year-old Russian, speaking in broken English, taught the young rabbi an unforgettable lesson.

The phrases “Me be like Abraham” and “Me do cut” puzzled Rovinsky, who replied: “Excuse me?” Then the young man made himself clear.

“I cut. I do `bris,”’ he said, using the Yiddish word for ritual circumcision.

At that point, the rabbi recalled: “I gave him the knife, helped him make the blessing, and he gave himself a bris. I went to my car and I cried, because here is an individual who knows nothing about Judaism. He was persecuted his entire life and didn’t know what it meant to be a Jew, and he was so committed and dedicated to want a bris. This was the only thing he knew.”

(OPTIONAL TRIM FOLLOWS)

Yan Brunshteyn, a native of Moldova and a recent graduate of Hebrew Academy in San Francisco, wasn’t religious when he opted for a bris a year ago, after Rabbi Aaron Hecht _ who teaches Jewish ethics, law and history at the Orthodox high school _ broached the topic with him.

“My mom wasn’t for it, and she wasn’t against it. My dad told me, `You’re crazy,”’ Brunshteyn recalled. “I was hesitant, of course. It’s not an easy decision. But something told me it was the right thing to do.”

Brunshteyn, who is 19 and works as an office administrator at the school, convinced his 9-year-old brother, Eric, to join him that day. Their mother accompanied them. The little boy went first, and his circumcision was done at no charge. Hecht paid $500 for the elder one.

And so Brunshteyn was among 13 Hebrew Academy students and three others who underwent circumcision that school year, said Rabbi Pinchas Lipner, the school’s dean. Although teachers have stressed the ritual’s significance, this was the first time the school made such a concerted effort. About 90 percent of the 180 students _ from nursery school through 12th grade _ are children of Russian emigres.

“We know that Jews in the Soviet Union did not have the opportunity to have circumcision, so we started a program where we teach the children that circumcision is a critical `mitzvah,”’ said Lipner, referring to the Jewish commandment meaning any good deed. “It’s something very important for a Jewish boy,”

While adult circumcisions tend to proceed without complications, Brunshteyn and his 16-year-old friend, Anthony Goloub, who emigrated from Russia, encountered problems. In each case, a blood vessel was severed by accident, so they came back one at a time for corrective surgery.

“The rabbi who was doing the circumcisions flew in from New York, and the airline lost his luggage, so he had to use somebody else’s tools,” said Brunshteyn, who missed playing hockey for a month and a half instead of an expected week because of the mishap.

“I had a lot of doubts during recovery time, but I knew I wasn’t supposed to think that way.”

He said that once the pain passed, so did the regrets.

MO/PH END RNS

(Susan Kreimer is a New York City writer who immigrated to Chicago from Odessa, Ukraine, at age 5. Some of these interviews were conducted in Russian and translated into English. An earlier version of this story appeared in The Forward, a Jewish newspaper published weekly in New York City.)