I cannot remember ever not knowing that I was half-Jewish. I knew that only my dad was Jewish and that it was a key part of who he was. I grew up on tales of “How Mamma was shot at as she escaped across the border,” and of my great-aunt’s will in which her “bequest” to my dad was “…that he shall never visit the following countries: Russia, Germany, Lithuania, Poland etc.”

Although my mother wasn’t Jewish herself, she seemed to be drawn to Jews — her two best friends, both half-Jewish Germans, had survived the war in Germany on false papers but almost starved. Other children might have grown up on fairy tales; we were told about how Lise had wept with fear and rage when her precious jar of pickled eggs was stolen from its secret hiding place.

When my (Scottish) mother raised her glass of wine, she would utter a rousing, “L’chaim!” For years, I assumed this must be a traditional Gaelic greeting (maybe it was Loch something….?). My dad said “Cheers!”, so how would I know otherwise?

At my secondary school, they occasionally put on a Jewish assembly as an alternative to the main assembly. I was intrigued but didn’t go; I didn’t feel entitled. Surely other girls would point at me and denounce me as “not a proper Jew”?

When I first met my husband Ben, I knew that he was Jewish but I didn’t know if he knew that I was only a halfie, not the real deal. I feared it would be over-freighting our first date with presumptions if I tried to explain: it would be tantamount to saying — “So, we might get married and have children, and if so, you should know they won’t count as Jewish. No pressure or anything. Do you fancy a starter?”

Not long after we got together, at a fancy dinner in New York, I got talking to one of those great feisty old Jewish dames that New York seems to have in abundance. “You’re Jewish?” she said, eyeing my rebellious hair. “Yes – well, only half,” I admitted (always fearful that my nemesis might leap out from behind a screen to unmask me as “not a proper Jew”).

She leant in close and squeezed my arm: “They would still have shoved you in the ovens, girlie. If the Nazis would have counted you, you count.”

When Ben finally (finally!) asked me to marry him, we talked about whether I should convert. We’d heard of a Reform rabbi reputed to be “very sympathetic towards mixed marriages.” Ben didn’t see it as a mixed marriage, and nor did I, but we had to start somewhere.

During our chat, it became clear that her “very sympathetic” stance had slipped somewhat. Avoiding my eyes, she said “Well, it’s a bit of a shame… so many Jewish women out there, all desperate for a nice Jewish man…” I was so stunned, I couldn’t speak (a rare event). After we left, Ben turned to me and said, “I can’t believe she said that!”

We then went to see a Liberal Rabbi, who was genuinely encouraging. He explained that some people with patrilineal descent could simply affirm their Jewish status. He quizzed me on my background. Eventually, he said, “Hmm, you’re sort of borderline.” He suggested I take a term or two of their normal conversion course, and join their class for Beginners’ Hebrew. I’d be happy to. Could I write an essay about how I perceived my Jewish identity? Gulp. Of course.

In the meantime, I learned the blessings for Friday night, surprising (and delighting) Ben with them — uttered extremely haltingly — one evening over the candles, challah and wine.

I suspect that I will always have a foot in both camps — belonging and not belonging. There will always be elements of Judaism that I love — things I find inexplicably moving but can’t quite put my finger on why: my husband putting on his tallit as the service is about to begin, singing L’chah Dodi at shul on Friday night as some of the children invisibly open the doors to welcome in Shabbat.

Semi-shiksa encapsulates how I sometimes feel about myself: that I’m not a proper Jew, that I’m female trayf, even though I have a certificate signed and stamped by a Rabbinical Board. Some people at shul know that I’m half-Jewish, some probably don’t; most almost certainly wouldn’t mind either way.

I know that there will be some Jews to whom I will never count as a proper Jew; I can live with that. The more important struggle may be learning to accept myself, whoever I am. Whatever you think, I wish you a rousing: “Loch A’im!”

Zelda Leon is a pseudonym.