PREFACE

I used to have a dream where I enter a drab airy room filled with nervous people sitting in a circle on wooden chairs. All eyes turn to me as I creep to the front, then I turn to face them and make my admission, a brave confession after years of denial. "My name is Steve and I'm a … Jew."

Why the dream? Well, the fact is that there was some truth in it, brought on by vestiges of shame from deep within my psyche. You see, I was not always upfront about my racial origins, even when confronted by direct questioning. "But you do look Jewish." "No, not me, mate, you're mistaken." I was never sure where this shame came from. Perhaps it was the desire not to be different, perhaps it was a need not to be stereotyped. Or, most likely, perhaps there was fear of rejection, the least serious of the whole gamut of emotions and reactions provoked by making the statement, "my name is Steve and I'm a … Jew." Because, let's face it, earlier generations have faced a lot worse than mere rejection.

As far as I could remember the only thing Jewish about my family was when we gorged ourselves with food at Uncle Syd's at Passover time. We even had a Christmas tree at my Nana's house every year, though I don't recollect us actually going as far as singing carols. In fact, I was the only religious person in my family, as far as I could see. For as long as I could remember, up to my thirteenth birthday, I was blessed (or cursed?) with the weekly visit of Rabbi Jacobs. He was the one who taught me to be a Jew. I became the World authority on Deuteronomy 12. I could read it forwards and backwards, sing it, even yodel it. My whole reason for being, in a Jewish sense, was to learn that passage until it permeated every pore of my body. And the whole reason behind that was that, on some fateful day in some far-off time, I would be able to stand up in confidence at the front of a Synagogue congregation at the time of my Barmitzvah and sing that passage with the unwavering voice of a pre-pubescent Cantor. And the whole reason behind that was that my dad, a few rows ahead of me, and my mum, hidden among the hats in the gallery, could get that warm glow of satisfaction that only comes from the knowledge that you've brought up your son in a proper Jewish manner. That's what being Jewish was to me. I could say that with confidence because, the day after my Barmitzvah, there was no Rabbi Jacobs, no Hebrew lessons, no Deuteronomy 12. At last I didn't have to be Jewish any more, I could be like everyone else!

Deprived of Jewish friends from childhood, due to having a private Hebrew tutor, I drifted more towards Gentiles. If it was up to me I would have hidden my Jewishness under a bush at the school entrance. As things were, my religion was down on the register. I was excused RE and worship in the chapel, being given far more interesting things to do such as learning Braille and corresponding with blind kids. We occasionally had to sit through the odd RE lesson, though, curiously, I can't remember anything about religion being taught. Of the Jewish boys in my class I was only friendly with two of them, one a committed Zionist, no doubt by now a respected settler in Israel and the other a rabid Atheist. The others were more typically Jewish and at least two of them grew up to become very high achievers. One is now a highly acclaimed Q.C. and the other a nationally known journalist.

At eighteen I left for University. At last real freedom and this time I not so much left my Jewish identity behind as buried it 12 foot underground! It wasn't without a great deal of shame, and, later, regret, that I went through my three years at college as a WASP (White Anglo Saxon Protestant, or, in my case, Weak Anti Social Person). This was fine until the last month, of my last term, of my last year, just after Finals, when I inexplicably fell for a Christian girl and I was introduced to Jesus and my life was never to be the same again. But that's another book!

Why should I be ashamed of my heritage? I wasn't alone, I knew of many family friends who changed their surnames after the Second World War, to distance themselves from the shame of the Holocaust and the realities of post-war anti-Semitism. Would they have done the same if they had been born Greek, or Swedish, or Icelandish? I very much doubt it. Being Jewish has always been a provocation to others around you, whoever they are, whatever period of history you are living in. Don't you find that strange?

It is strange and really needs to be examined.

Steve Maltz London 2004.