Vaeira and Zchut Avot: Recalling a Father’s Bar Mitzvah Speech in Troubled Times

Rabbi Avram Jacob Twersky speaks at his son’s bar mitzvah at Lincoln Square Synagogue, with his son seated in the background. (Photo: Fred Marcus Photography, 1977, family album)

Forty-eight years ago this week, on a frigid winter evening in the red rotunda of Manhattan’s Lincoln Square Synagogue, I sat nervously in an ornate chair behind the rabbi’s podium, clasping my speech and trembling with fear as I awaited my turn to speak.

My father, of blessed memory, Rabbi Avram Jacob Twersky—an orator who masterfully wove a tapestry of his native Romanian Yiddish, Hebrew, and elegantly acquired English into stirring sermons—was about to introduce me, but not before delivering what he intended as ‘brief’ opening remarks. Then, with hundreds of guests in rapt attention, his speech took a dramatic turn, interrupting my silent, final practice.

“I can honestly ask, ‘Ma nishtana hasimcha hazeh mikol hasimchos?’—Why is this celebration different from any other?” my father asked.

“Exactly thirty-five years ago, just at this time of the year, one of my sisters and myself trespassed the concentration camp in the Ukraine. A military court sentenced us both to be executed by a firing squad.”

What did I just hear?

My heart skipped a beat, and my mouth went dry. I looked up from my script and heard a low chorus of whispers and sighs from the guests. Sitting behind my father and looking out at the assembled crowd, I noticed some covering their mouths in shock, while others’ jaws dropped. From that moment, I stopped hearing what my father was saying and started listening.

“My dear friends,” my father continued, “you didn’t think about the future, about life. Life was of no value whatsoever. And we had all kinds of thoughts in those days. What will happen? What will the world say about it? Will it bother anyone? Will it bother the conscience of the world? Will anyone lose sleep over it?”

He drew a stark contrast to the international outcry surrounding the execution by firing squad of death row inmate Gary Gilmore—just three days earlier—and singled out the New York Times for its opposition to the death penalty.

“If our sentence were to take place, I assure you no United Nations, no League of Nations, no conscience of the world would feel in any way sorry that they have not done their share to save our lives,” my father said emphatically.

I could no longer review my speech. I struggled to remain composed, to appear calm—as if to assure the dignitaries, teachers, and classmates present that this was common knowledge in the Twersky household. The mood turned somber, and the air of joy seemed to vanish from the room. Where was this heading?

My father continued:

“Naturally, we believe that a Jew must always have faith in Hashem Yisbarach (God, Blessed Be He). Ein lanu al mi l’hisha’en ella al Avinu shebashamayim (We have no one to trust but our Father in Heaven). We have no choice! Every Jew in the world, even today, must always rely on Hashem Yisbarach to do what is righteous for us.”

My father continued:

“In those days, in that little town in Ukraine, there was a group of Hasidim of my great father, zichrono livracha (of blessed memory). News spread immediately, and they gathered whatever they could—gold coins, rings, watches, even stones—anything of value. They managed to approach the German and Ukrainian authorities, and by a miracle, they secured our release from these murderers.”

“So, my dear friends, I’m asking you the question. Is this simcha a different simcha? Is this simcha different from any other simchas? I’m sure you will agree, and I can see the answer on each and every one of you.”

By then, my speech was folded and stuffed into my vest pocket. My father almost didn’t make it to this moment. Neither did I. My father just delivered a bar mitzvah speech – a revelation — for the ages. How does one follow that?

My father asked me to rise and approach the podium. Thirteen years to the day after he first declared my name—in the presence of his father-in-law and my maternal grandfather, the Kopitchentizer Rebbe, Reb Avrohom Yeshoshua Heschel—he called me by my full name: Mordechai Yisrael, the name of his martyred father, the Grand Rebbe of Khotyn.

Was I worthy?

This moment coincided with my Torah portion, Va’eira, in the Book of Exodus—rich with themes of zchut avot (the merit of Biblical forefathers), the Four Expressions of Redemption promised by God to Moses to free the enslaved Israelites, and the divine promise of the Land of Israel.

Having read the Torah portion a day earlier in the synagogue that bore my grandfather’s name—and donned the tefillin, just as my father once wore his martyred father’s pair—it dawned on me: I was the child not only of rabbinic-Hasidic royalty, but of witnesses and survivors. The Four Expressions of Redemption from Exodus 6:6-7 —VeHotzeiti (“I will bring you out”); VeHitzalti (“I will deliver you”); VeGa’alti (“I will redeem you”); and VeLakachti (“I will take you”) – took on a new and very personal meaning.

My father arrived on America’s shores in 1946. He could have abandoned his faith in the flames that consumed his city and family. But he and my mother, Pearl—a native of Vienna who, along with her family, was expelled from their home during the Anschluss—held steadfast to their faith.

Despite the brutal murders and near-total destruction of their families, my parents never abandoned their belief in zchut avot. They believed the virtues, righteousness, and good deeds of the patriarchs, matriarchs, and their own Hasidic ancestors carried lasting spiritual merit that could benefit future generations. For the rest of their lives, they invoked this blessing as a source of divine favor and protection, especially during the most challenging times.

Ten years later, at my younger brother Yitzchock’s bar mitzvah, my father once again articulated his belief in zchut avot. Before praising God by reciting aloud the 150th ‘Hallelujah’ Psalm—a passage he said the rabbinic sages compared to the Thirteen Attributes of Divine Mercy—my father added this startling coda:

“I feel this celebration is only in the great zchut of our holy fathers, who influenced and pleaded for us, so we could merit this day.” He would repeat this theme at the wedding of my sister, Batsheva.

Tragically, zchut avot did not ‘save’ the untold thousands of Twersky and Heschel rabbinic families—among the six million murdered throughout Europe. Even in peaceful times, the senseless calamities that claim the lives of innocent men, women, and children—whether of noble lineage or humble origins—remain beyond understanding, regardless of race, color, or creed.

In his recently discovered wartime diary, written through a teenager’s lens, my father had questions, too. It is a chilling account of a young son’s last Shabbat encounter and final moments before the murder of his holy father and brother—of a declared Jewish communal fast and prayer before the siege of the city by the Germans and their collaborators—his harrowing escape from the barbarity of Eastern Europe’s killing fields during the Holocaust—and his fight to survive famine, numbing winter frost, and the death marches in Transnistria.

How my survivor-parents—how any survivor—retained their faith, rebuilt their lives, and led ‘normative’ existences surely ranks among the most incredible feats of human resilience.

Va’eira’s Four Expressions of Redemption did not merely echo in my father’s past as a survivor; they became a roadmap for his life as a leader. He understood that redemption is not just a divine promise, but a call to action. For him, faith was not passive—it was a driving force to uplift others, rebuild what was lost, and safeguard the future of Israel and the Jewish people.

This sense of purpose guided his work as a proud, patriotic American rabbi and communal leader, with his empathy, compassion, and deep concern for truth and justice serving as cornerstones of his legacy.

Listening to a recording of my father’s speech 48 years later, I realized it had ‘stolen the show’—not by overshadowing my bar mitzvah, but by elevating it with a timeless message. His voice, rising from a harrowing past, speaks with renewed urgency today as we face a similarly fragile moment—for America, for Israel, and for a world yearning for truth, authenticity, the preservation of the rule of law, and the dignity of life.

We must not allow ourselves to descend into anarchy.

As the world wrestles with rising polarization and a fragile sense of order, my father’s story reminds us that even in the darkest times—when we pray for Divine Mercy and invoke His promise to our biblical forebears—we have the capacity and the obligation to rise, lead, and uphold the values that sustain us.