PREFACE
What you are about to read is a weekly
serialization of his story. One chapter after another detailing the sequence of
events. My aim throughout has been to tell it straight. There’s been no
glossing up or dumbing down here for the sake of literary finesse. My notes,
carefully, meticulously transcribed, tell a real shocker. Today some might call
it racism but therein lies a problem. Today the word only officially applies to
the experiences of black people, Asians or Muslims. It excludes Jews. Jews,
officially, do not experience racism, only anti-Semitism which is not really
racist but something different. Something of a lower order. Officially Jews do
not experience racism!
In way it’s convenient. The word itself is
something the Jewish Establishment in Britain do not like. It’s troublesome.
Rather like allegations of anti-Semitism which in the last fifty years it has
sought to downplay yet still remains in the hearts and minds of so many Jews
who have experienced it. A whole history of unwritten, untold experiences
buried deep but never forgotten.
The history of anti-Semitism in modern
Britain is a history waiting to be written. The official line of the Jewish
Establishment, particularly the Board of Deputies of British Jews and its media
mouthpiece the Jewish Chronicle is that anti-Semitism is not an important issue
for the Jewish Community and never has been. Their point of view is that
although there may be incidents of anti-Semitism, they are irregular and taken
together don't add up to much. There is nothing 'official' behind them. They
are the acts of unpleasant people or those opposed to the policies of the
Israeli Government. There is nothing institutional in their character and none
of it is really worth getting upset about anyway.
This Jewish Establishment has always had
the same soothing words of advice to give to Jews in Britain who have had to
bear insult, hostility and contempt to say nothing of outright prejudice.
Don't
complain… Don't make a fuss… Don't rock the boat… But above all, don't make trouble! At the same time, in recent years, it has devoted much energy and
commitment to what may best be described as Interfaith Issues. This has
involved cuddling up with Muslim organizations who refuse to condemn
fundamentalist terror attacks on Jews, Jewish property and the Jewish State of
Israel and similarly the broad swathe of the Christian Church that still believes
the Jews murdered Jesus! In practice this has meant open collaboration with
such groups as the wretched Council for Christians and Jews while turning a
blind eye to church anti-Semitism. Elements of this Jewish Establishment,
furthermore, have not been shy in getting into bed with sections of the British
media whose reports and editorials are endlessly hostile to the Jewish State
and whose vicious one-sidedness has done more than anything in recent years to
create a fast rising tide of venomous hostility towards British Jews current
throughout the entire British Labour movement.
It has downplayed and minimalized the
complaints of so many. Marginalizing those offended or humiliated into non
persons or people said to be making too much of nothing. In this story, the
victim of a long horrific experience got no help whatsoever from them and had
to fight his long fight on his own. When help eventually came it was from some
surprising sources.
There are many surprises in this story
which is what makes it a tale of optimism and hope. A very British story in its
very best sense.
CHAPTER ONE WHAT A DIFFERENCE A NAME MAKES
The central character of this story, a
short, stocky man of thirty-two is sitting at a Victorian roll top desk in his
living room busily writing application letters for jobs. Outside, early Spring
rain lashes against the windows. Inside all is warm and comfortable. The home
he and his family occupy is richly furnished with antique oriental carpets and
furniture. The living room contains broad shelves of books, cases of tropical
butterflies and his copies of Gauguin, Monet and Van Gogh paintings mounted on
walls. These sumptuous surroundings, put together down years of dreary
employment before he became a university student belie the state of their
finances. Since leaving Oxford with a postgraduate degree and sporting
distinction he has been mostly unemployed. Having tried to find a permanent job
as a teacher for almost a year without success he is seriously worried though
tries to hide his anxiety from the wife he adores. Apart from an occasional
week’s work filling temporary vacancies for teachers off sick, he has earned
little money to feed his family, pay the rent and other bills. What savings
they had are almost gone.
The bright, happy disposition he displays
is an attempt to encourage his wife who studies hard during the day to gain a
long sought after place at university to read Geology. Despite their
circumstances he is resolved to do everything he can to help her achieve her
ambition. Driven by his determination he has become increasingly dispirited by
his lack of success in finding work and has come to believe that the cause of
the problem lies in his name. He is a Jew of Russian descent and his name
sounds like it. After all when he shortened it before as an experiment to get
casual work he didn’t have any problem so why not do it for real? Change it
once and for all. Make it more acceptably English.
He communicates his thoughts to his wife.
Though not Jewish herself she finds the idea upsetting. There are difficult
exchanges between them. She doesn’t see why he should have to do it. She likes
the name of the man she married. He should be who he is.
He remonstrates. It doesn’t matter who he
is. What matters is what he wants to be and right now he wants to be someone
who can keep a roof over their heads, pay the bills and give them a holiday
once in a while. The arguments between them reach no conclusion but beneath it
all his mind is made up. His wife worked to support him during his time at
college. He will do whatever it takes for her now.
A week later, telling her nothing, he
consults a solicitor and uses the last of their savings to get what he wants.
Now sounding altogether more English he begins the process of applying for
teaching jobs anew. His first letter, responding to an ad in a journal, brings
immediate results. A Church of England Secondary School in Essex invites him to
attend for an interview. They are looking for a teacher of Sociology and
History and he seems eminently qualified.
Happy with his first good break for months
he tells his wife what he did. The result it seems justified his decision. Her
reaction is surprisingly muted. Changing his name might be one thing, telling
them he’s a Jew quite another. What would he do if they asked? He shrugs his
shoulders. There’s no reason they should. Not anymore.
That afternoon he phones the school to
confirm the appointment and a few days later gets up early to drive 130 miles
to the venue outside London. Alone with his thoughts he approaches his
destination with his heart in his mouth. Does he tell them or wait till he’s
asked? Practical considerations take over. He was never really much of a Jew
anyway so what does it matter if he says nothing. Deny it he won’t, but he
won’t volunteer anything either.
CHAPTER TWO INTERVIEW
A cold dry day late February. A long wide
road somewhere in Essex. Fields of bare earth on one side with cottages and a
large red brick farmhouse. Directly opposite a series of modern but run down
looking glass and concrete blocks of light and dark blue adjacent to which are
grassy playing fields. A large sign in the driveway announces the school.
The story continues in his own words…
Finding a place in the car park I got out
and walked to the sign announcing Reception at the main building. Having found
it I tapped on the glass, told them who I was and what I was there for. After a
brief wait a tall woman appeared and introduced herself as the Senior Mistress.
I can’t help noticing how ugly she is. Her long face filled with big teeth
under a top of seriously artificial curled hair is enough to terrify the most
recalcitrant pupil. I accompanied her along a series of corridors to the
Headmaster’s Study. Apart from an occasional child coming into view there’s
nothing but silence. After a quick firm knock on the door she opened it onto a
small room.
My first sight as I entered was of many
shelves lining the walls then filing cabinets and a large desk. The man sitting
behind it got up and introduced himself as the Headmaster. My immediate
impression was of a short wiry looking fellow with a pointed face, a bit like a
whippet. I judged him to be somewhere in his early sixties. The briefest of
smiles flits across his face as though it’s an effort before it just as
suddenly vanished. Having shaken his hand I was invited to sit down after which
he nodded at the Senior Mistress who hurried out. He conveys a sense of
crustiness. Old world Edwardian authority.
The atmosphere brightens. “Did you have a
good journey?” he asked pleasantly, broadening the introduction. I told him I
did after which he instantly continued, “I see you are well educated. A first
class honours degree then a Masters from Oxford and a Blue to go with it!” I
smiled modestly, waiting for him to comment on my lack of teaching experience.
He didn’t but went on instead to talk about the school. A church institution.
State maintained.
“We give a good Christian education here,”
he said firmly. “Religion plays an important part in the life of the school.” I
nodded positively. “Yes of course. After all it is a church school.” He seemed
to like that. “Then you’d have no objection to attending our morning religious
assemblies?” “None whatsoever,” I
quickly replied, thinking of the routine I’d known from previous experiences. A
few hymns for starters. All Things Bright
and Beautiful or Rock of Ages,
followed by the Lord’s Prayer before
they got down to calling out the kids names for good or diabolical reasons.
After all, it was a Church School!
The man’s demeanor still seemed cautious.
The school was attached to the church at the centre of town. Its vicar was the Chairman of Governors.
“You’ll be expected to attend church services at times with the school,” he
said, looking at me fixedly. “Just occasionally mind you. Easter, Christmas and
Lent. All the High Holy days.”
“Of course,” I said quickly, very matter of
fact.
My easy acquiescence seemed to assure him.
There was a distinctly positive look about him now. Nothing else about religion.
No questions about my personal beliefs, like whether I did or I didn’t. I
wasn’t averse to religious practice, that was the key. It was therefore
accepted. I was a god fearing Christian soul. A member of the faith and
therefore no need to ask. And no problems on my side. Jesus was after all a god
fearing Yiddisher boy. Time now for more mundane matters. He gave me a brief
history of the school. Subjects taught, staff numbers, class sizes, backgrounds
of the children, reputation. Then more positively as far as I was concerned,
details of the Social Studies Department where I’d be working. My ears pricked
up. There were three others teachers in the Department and I’d be the fourth.
“You’ll be teaching History to the Lower School, Sociology to the Lower and
Upper Sixth. Up to GCE ‘A’ level standard.”
It sounded very interesting I said
brightly. “A real challenge.”
“You’ll be a probationer of course,” he added,
ignoring my enthusiasm. “Your first year will be on probation during which your
teaching will be inspected.” I nodded but stayed silent. He clearly wanted to
say more. He knew my undergraduate degree qualified me to teach. That was
Government regulation. However teaching was a profession that had to be
learned. Something that required great skill. I agreed, saying that I knew he
was right. He liked that and went on to tell me about the Social Studies team.
I’d be the junior in the Department. I said “of course,” thinking it was all
looking good. I was half way there I told myself. Half way and more. Twenty
minutes gone and everything okay so far. Much better than I’d expected. Above
all, nothing about my lack of experience.
“You’ll be employed by the Board of
Governors,” he said out of the blue, “but paid by the local authority.” I’m
thrown a fraction. Is he letting me know I’ve got the job or is he going to
tell me there are other applicants? That he’ll be writing to me in due course.
He hasn’t mentioned anyone else yet!
The question in my head was quickly
answered. “I see you’re a family man. From Bath. You’ll be looking for
accommodation I take it.”
“We’d be planning to buy a house in the
area,” I replied.
He smiled a fraction. I sensed it was a good
sign but he still hadn’t told me anything definite. My doubt was answered with
him getting up. “You’ll be starting on Monday 26th of April. You’ll get a
letter from the Governors making it official. In the meantime maybe you should
give the Borough a call. Ask for the Housing Department. They provide temporary
accommodation for teachers coming into the area. It’s a special arrangement.
You can tell them you’ll be employed at the school.”
I rose promptly to shake his hand. I was
delighted. Thanked him for giving me the job. Said how grateful I was for his
suggestion. I’d contact the Housing Department straight away.
He didn’t leave his office to show me out
but called up Reception. The Senior Mistress reappeared and I left with her but
not before thanking him again. He showed no pleasure or emotion, only a hurried
formality. I sensed no genuine warmth.
I walked out the building to the car park
feeling elated. It seemed to have happened so quickly. No searching questions
or exploration of my views or attitudes to education. The only things that
seemed important to him were my academic qualifications and willingness to
participate in the formal aspects of religious school ritual. No problem for me
there. He’d never asked whether I was a believer. Whether I went to church.
Whether I was even a Christian.
I got into my car with a clear conscience
as well as a job. I hadn’t told him a lie nor would I have done. When I got
home that night Louise had a spaghetti supper ready and waiting. I’d phoned her
earlier with the news and she’d gone out and bought wine. We were both over the
moon. I’d got my first permanent job as a teacher. The future looked bright.
Soon we’d have our own house. It was just as I’d thought. See what a difference
a name makes!
CHAPTER THREE CHANGING FORTUNES
A week later I was contacted again by the
school. Invited to spend a day there 12th March. Meeting people. Getting the
feel of the place. It was fine with Louise. We’d go together. Begin looking at
houses soon as the visit was over. Everything went fine. I got together with
the Headmaster right at the start who gave me the itinerary along with my
salary details. Much better than I’d expected with a whopping big bonus of four
months a year paid holiday. I was inwardly delighted but didn’t show it. I
conveyed an affable but quiet, modest disposition and spent the next six hours
meeting staff and pupils including two periods sitting in lessons. I was
introduced to my departmental colleagues in the Staff Room after which came a
decent midday lunch. The aim of the day was getting the feel of the place.
Making contact with people. Sniffing things out. I appeared to impress the
Headmaster and teachers with my ‘learning’ and ‘modesty’ though I made no
effort with the former. The Head told me so when I left using those very words.
It kind of made my toes curl!
We began house hunting in earnest the
following day with our daughter staying with my mother in London. We saw many
places and met many strange people, all telling us one tale or another and
showing us the delectable ‘beauty’ of their little semi-detached castles in
Essex. There were only two that we fancied. One sold before we arrived, the
other still available on a lower middle class housing estate in Upminster close
to some fields. We looked round and liked it. Decided it had the right feel and
the right price.
I went to Paris the following week for my
grandmother’s funeral. Met many members of my father’s family I’d not seen for
years. They were rich and I wasn’t. Because of my parent’s divorce I’d been cut
out of the will. I still went, for the sake of old memories. Louise stayed in
London with her mother. On my return I found she’d been busy organising finance
for the house. Spent a sunny Sunday afternoon walking happily arm in arm with
her in Regent’s Park in excellent mood and returned to Bath that evening after
visiting Granny, my mother’s mother of whom we were very fond. Louise stayed in
London with our daughter, intent on sorting out the house purchase once and for
all.
Back in Bath I found myself being contacted
by schools urgently requiring temporary teachers. Now there was a thing. It
never rains so they say! I spent the next three weeks working in Bristol,
teaching subjects as varied as the schools themselves. Sometimes the kids were
great, other times hell. Sometimes they were bright but more often remedial.
The work was enjoyable though occasionally depressing. In one class the kids
only wanted to play ‘jacks’. In another I told them about Einstein. The worst
was a class of 15 year old boys. Some of them were threatening and violent,
others clearly drunk. Once I had to call for assistance. At another all-girls
school, there was real success. Lessons rewarding and the feedback a dream. One
child offered me sweets from her precious supply. A wonderful gesture. I was
much moved.
End of March I heard from the Housing
Department. They could give us temporary accommodation. The news heartened
Louise, still in London trying to sort out what was now becoming a tricky house
purchase. Soon after I drove down and we went together to look over the offer
having obtained keys to the premises. Our hearts sank. An unfurnished dump on
an underclass housing estate. On the bright side it had to be cheaper than a
hotel. Set against that there was no way I could leave my car there at night
without finding it vandalized next morning. The important thing however was
that it meant we’d all be together again. No more separation. The task now was
to find a place for our daughter in a suitable local nursery.
More part time teaching early April. The
money invaluable, helping pay some of our bills. Middle of the month I came to
London to search for Larissa’s nursery. On the day that we found one Louise
heard she’d gained a place at Bristol to read Geology. Great news, everything
she’d hoped for, then suddenly it hit us. If she accepted it meant we’d really
be separated. Split up all over again from October. Together only on weekends.
The thought hung over me like a dagger. Louise silent. Confused. We’d been
overtaken by events. Our close knit loving little family faced being broken up.
Why couldn’t she have got a place somewhere in London?
A few days later the nursery came through.
Good news for now but maybe only a stop gap. First things first. Move into the
temporary accommodation and start the job at the school. We drove to the
housing estate at Rush Green. All three of us. Mattresses in the car boot.
Unloaded and bedded down for the night. Apart from anything else the place
stank. At least the cooker provided was working. The plan was to be there just
a few weeks. Louise could always be relied upon to work miracles in the
kitchen.
That night we lay close, staring up at the
ceiling of a damp empty flat in the dark. The situation was unsettling in more
ways than one. With my academic background of degrees and publications I should
have been teaching at a university not a church secondary school. It was all a
pig’s ear. Changing my name I took the first thing that came up. Maybe I should
have waited. Seen if there was anything better closer to home. Home was Bath
after all. Strange the way things had worked out. The situation moving along
almost out of control.
Three days before I was due to start at the
school we finally tied up the house purchase. The die was cast. Everything
seemed definite. I had a job. We had a house. Three months back it was
everything I’d wanted. Thinking about it now I wasn’t so sure, not with the breakup
of my family looming. Would it really be worth it or would our close knit lives
run to dust?
The night before the big day. My head ached
so bad I felt it would bust. Another night in the hole but at least those who
loved me were there. How would it be on my own? I’d so much wanted things to
change for the better and now this. Soon I’d be riding a tiger.
If only I’d known. That night before my
first day.
CHAPTER FOUR MURDERING JEWS
With the end of April approaching I drove
to the school. It was a really big day for me. I was starting my career as
teacher. It began with assembly, prayers and hymns. I participated, watching my
colleagues do likewise, most of them vigorously but not all. I was introduced
to pupils by the Head as a new teacher. Saw hundreds of faces staring my way
and couldn’t help smiling. Assembly dismissed, followed by tea in the Staff
Room. I went over the time-table with my Head of Department then walked into my
first class. The lesson went well. I thought the kids learned from it. After
that I continued teaching a mixture of classes, mainly English medieval
history, making the lessons lively. I asked questions, got discussions going,
wrote summaries on the blackboard and felt full of enthusiasm. The kids were
keen and attentive. The day went well as did others in the first week.
On the other side there was the Staff Room.
There I discovered distinct rituals along with a well-defined pecking order
among my fellow teachers. There was a marked difference between seniors and
juniors which determined many things, like when to take tea, where one sat and
with whom. Everything bound up with status. Seniors sat with seniors, juniors
with juniors. Occasionally a senior would come and sit with a group of juniors.
Occasionally a favored junior was allowed to join a seniors group. It struck me
as antiquated. I soon learned the importance of knowing my ‘place’ and the
necessity of sitting with a group, most definitely not on my own reading a
paper. Such little ‘mistakes’ were corrected by a ‘word in my ear’ from a
‘concerned’ senior helpfully giving me advice. Failing to sit with a group is
seen as ignoring them. I quickly showed my desire to be part of junior
groupings, noting that seniors require deferential conduct from juniors. I
found the set up extraordinary but sat in the junior groupings staying as quiet
as possible. This is deemed positive. I became known as a good listener!
I also discovered that the
traditionalistic, conservative values of the staff extend into their views on
education. This is confirmed by the views of the Remedial teacher who told me as
a ‘helpful gesture’ that the learning abilities of the children are fixed by
genetic factors and that education could do little to overcome inherent
disadvantage. I said nothing. Her view seems to be common among the staff
towards pupils in general. Each child had their natural level and could not be educated beyond it. I found myself
amazed. It was straight out of the Middle Ages!
In the following weeks I maintained my
‘enthusiasm’. Volunteering for various additional duties. This was heavily
taken advantage of causing me to lose many free periods when I should have been
resting, marking homework etc. As a result I was always very tired when I returned
to our depressing temporary accommodation. We were still waiting to move into
our new home. To overcome the frustration of delay and the sheer awfulness of
our evening surroundings we went home to Bath every weekend just to cheer
ourselves up.
At the end of the first month I made what
seemed to be my first serious mistake. Having been drawn into a discussion by
my Head of Department, a practicing priest, on the subject of education I
criticized his philosophy that school could at best only provide an
enthusiastic environment and teachers should not have a concern to help develop
a child’s attitude to learning. He regarded my view as over-intellectual, impractical
and above all showing a lack of experience. This is communicated as a clear put
down. I’m made to understand that I have overstepped my junior status. I tried
to compromise but wouldn’t give way on my view and noted that with this
disagreement his manner towards me became guarded from now on. Later, Louise
helped me appreciate my situation. The school was just a job. Don’t get
involved in any serious discussion!
After a month I attended my first
parents-teachers evening, first being instructed by the Deputy Head what I
should wear and what I should say. Above all I couldn’t be critical of pupils
in any way. I must not make any comment except praise.
Looking back at my first month at the
school it struck me that my status there was deleterious to my self-esteem.
This contrasted strongly with external reality. I’d just received a letter from
a prestigious academic journal in the USA telling me they’d publish a paper I’d
sent them.
Five weeks have gone by and still no sign
of us moving into our house. We still slept on the floor using our mattresses.
The delay seemed to run on and on. Louise feeling mighty fed up. At school I’m
kept continually busy marking homework. I made the decision not to take any
home but would use any free time I had there to do it. My lunch break was
crucial in this regard. I found a quiet spot in the library where I could work.
My frequent absence from the Staff Room was noted. Enquiries about my lack of
presence was made by senior staff through junior acolytes. For my personal
amusement I broke the taboo and sat in the senior staff area joining discussions
with random comments. This was met by stony silence. Experience not repeated!
A school holiday at the end of this period.
We returned to Bath then immediately went on to Cornwall for a superb camping
and touring vacation. Swimming, walking in wilderness areas, visiting
picturesque seaside towns, famous smugglers’ inns and villages in warm sunny
weather. The sheer awfulness of our temporary accommodation and the atmosphere
pervading the Staff Room was quickly forgotten. We all felt very relaxed. The
money received for my first month’s salary was more than welcome. We enjoyed a
final day, returning from Cornwall to our beautiful home in Bath then leaving
reluctantly late evening to go back to the unfurnished dump we lived at on the
council housing estate.
The following day school began with morning
assembly. Prayers led by the Deputy Head who begins with a reminder of the
Easter festival and message of Jesus. “One of love as opposed to the message of
hate by the Jews who killed him.” My ears pricked up. Had I heard right? I
looked round but saw no reaction on the faces of my fellow teachers.
The Deputy Head was now talking about the
followers of Jesus “who loved him,” contrasting these with, “the murderers who
hated our Lord.” His words etch deep in my mind. I felt stunned. I’ve never
heard this said before. Jews by implication hated and murdered Jesus. I felt
deeply offended. Was struck in particular by the tone of voice with which the remarks
were made. The context was highly disturbing, given they’d been said to young
impressionable children. The teaching staff around me were entirely
unresponsive. I was left feeling angry. His comments were a clear attack on
Jews. An attack on the whole Jewish people. My anger was mixed with a dulling
of my senses. I felt shocked.
The Deputy Head brought the service to a
close. The overall Christian message was one of love…
Hymns were now sung after which the
Headmaster himself took over. Recent achievements were mentioned. Sports
fixtures etc. The assembly ended. Pupils and teachers file out. I didn’t go to
Staff Room for tea but sat in my quiet place in library then walked to school
greenhouse area for a smoke. It helped calm my nerves but all the same I felt
sick to the pit of my stomach.
That evening I told Louise. Her manner was
fatalistic. “Well what else did you expect, it’s a Church school!”
I said nothing but felt a deep seated
unease. There might be trouble ahead.
Jews don’t normally hide who they are.
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