H.G. Wells vs. the Jews

Today,  H.G. Wells (1866-1946) is primarily known for his science fiction novels Invisible Man and War of the Worlds. For the majority of his career, however, Wells regarded himself as a political and social theorist, writing books like A Modern Utopia and a pre-WWII philosophical treatise, The Shape of Things to Come, which predicted a major conflict in Europe.

In the years before World War I, Wells, who was not Jewish, became interested in Territorialism. This was a proto-Zionist school of thought that called for a Jewish homeland--though not necessarily one in the historical Land of Israel. Wells was initially interested in the possibility of a Jewish state that was presented to him by a fellow writer, Israel Zangwill, and saw it as a version of his own utopian philosophy. However, Wells soon turned hostile toward Zionism, perceiving in it an implied ethnic superiority. "I can offer you neither help nor advice," he wrote to Zangwill, on the topic of a Jewish state. "Your people are rich enough, able enough, and potent enough to save themselves."

After World War II, when the truth about the Holocaust became known, Wells again changed his mind, rescinded his earlier statements, and became a vocal supporter of the State of Israel. In fact, he initiated a correspondence with Chaim Weizmann, who would become the first president of Israel, and gave him pointers about starting a new country--not that Wells had ever done it firsthand, but he'd certainly written a lot about it.

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The Unexpected Gift

I was a royal pain to most teachers. But one rabbi actually cared about what I thought.

High school is like war; it can haunt you for years after you’ve moved on – even if you’re one of the lucky ones who got out in one piece. This was especially true for my Jewish high school, where academic and material competition left everyone in perpetual mayday.

My survival tactic was simple – I spent as little time in class as I could, wandering the halls or reading in the library. When I did happen to show up, I interrupted the class with wisecracks. Few teachers cared enough to reach out to me; most of them threw me out with a detention slip.

This was especially true when it came to my Judaic subjects, the classes I hated most. What was the point of busting my head on a dusty, archaic language, learning about people who were long dead or deciphering the geography of places that now only existed in chards underground? No one ever discussed why we were learning these things – certainly there was no mention of the word “God” – the whole exercise seemed like a punishment my parents had inflicted on me to ensure that I would one day marry a nice, Jewish doctor (though why that was so important, I wasn't sure). I often held the tall, yellowing volumes of the Talmud vertical on my desk so I could sleep undisturbed behind them.

There was only one class I went to regularly: Navi, where we studied the kings and prophets of Israel. It wasn't the subject that kept me in my seat each day, but our teacher, Rabbi Kavon. He was one of those teachers you knew meant business; he didn't believe in second chances (or third, or fourth…). Although in his forties, he had the look of an older man, with stooped shoulders and pants pulled up to his chest in various shades of beige. His gray curls sprung out in a tight, unmoving sponge. He had a long beak nose and eyes that bore right into me, sharp and steady, making me feel like he could hear my thoughts.

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