ranspired that it had also been commandeered by our gentile brethren. The frequent appearance of Wilhelmina, Christina, Heinrich et al, even to my untutored eye, hinted that not every Heiser was a member of my clan. Nonetheless, a pattern started to emerge from around 1850 as one Abraham Heiser, abetted by his wife Sarah, fathered child after child after child. Two things struck me about this chain of events. Firstly, I would be spectacularly unlucky if this couple were not Jewish and, secondly, how, in an era of deprivation and harsh living conditions, Mrs H bore and raised so many children to adulthood. Was she blessed with an especially robust constitution or just good fortune? She lost two but eleven survived, one of whom was my greatgrandmother, Julia Heiser.

I still have no firm evidence of the birthplace of Abraham Heiser, despite a few tantalising clues. Census returns hinted at his origins in Pr

I never used to make a point of reading the social and personal columns of The Jewish Chronicle. In fact, I didn’t read much of the paper at all but, entering the realm of the lower middle aged, my interest developed in surprising ways. I’m not sure whether I was prodded by a greater sense of my own mortality or whether I simply lost my bearings but I started to read the obituary reviews therein and started to better understand the sheer breadth of the Jewish experience. All kinds of people appeared, some distinguished and well known, others household names only in their own households, and this cast of characters encouraged me to peer inside what is euphemistically described as the hatch, match and dispatch department.

This perverse fascination with the deeds of unknown thousands ran strangely parallel with the deeds of an unknown few. These few were correspondingly difficult to identify as they reflected various antecedents whose origins were often deliberately shrouded in mystery. My genealogical quest has frequently been a tale of runaway vowels and gate crashing consonants, strangled words and stranded journeys. I have visited many worlds, some real and others virtual. My fingers and footsteps have tiptoed around the annexation of Central Europe, the pogroms, the exclusionism, the hope and despair. It is part of the Jewish experience, as is, of course, the gushing enthusiasm that accompanies the arrival of a new member of the community. It is no longer enough for the happy couple to be pleased to announce such an event. The language of the listings represents a sort of hyperbolical heaven these days. We have moved from pleased to delighted to thrilled to ecstatic to including every family member, even those too young or old to know what the fuss is all about. Sooner or later, somebody will internally combust with excitement and, simultaneously, appear in the dispatch column on the other side of the page. Under those unfortunate circumstances, mere sadness will surely be eclipsed by devastation and despond.

Amidst all this activity, my research efforts are becalmed. I have suffered neither agony nor ecstasy of late. I knew when I started that I was in for the long haul. That’s just as well. I’m now nine years into this labour of love and I have more unanswered questions than I care to remember. I was somewhat disadvantaged at the very outset by the realisation that, while one or two family members had more than a cursory interest in the subject, nobody actually knew anything. This may sound faintly unbelievable when you consider the endless Jewish diaspora but the truth is that, although one or two lovingly crumpled family trees emerged, the body of factual rather than anecdotal evidence was thin on the ground. I kept reading help guides online and offline that advised me to pin down my grandparents – as if grandparents are actually dashing around – so they could relive their memories and experiences on tape for posterity. I thought this was a great idea if you had any to ask. Alas, mine were all dead and my problem was further compounded by my father and his father being among the youngest of their respective generations. The easy source and flow of familial glue had long since dissipated.

When you start at the very bottom, the only way is up. At least, so we’re led to believe. I spent quite some time bumping sideways along the bottom, applying for a sheaf of certificates all united by the Heiser name. It took me ages to sift through them, weeding out the most improbable based on the little I knew. I had mistakenly thought that Heiser was a uniquely Jewish name, a bit like Cohen, Levy or Epstein, but it transpired that it had also been commandeered by our gentile brethren. The frequent appearance of Wilhelmina, Christina, Heinrich et al, even to my untutored eye, hinted that not every Heiser was a member of my clan. Nonetheless, a pattern started to emerge from around 1850 as one Abraham Heiser, abetted by his wife Sarah, fathered child after child after child. Two things struck me about this chain of events. Firstly, I would be spectacularly unlucky if this couple were not Jewish and, secondly, how, in an era of deprivation and harsh living conditions, Mrs H bore and raised so many children to adulthood. Was she blessed with an especially robust constitution or just good fortune? She lost two but eleven survived, one of whom was my greatgrandmother, Julia Heiser.

I still have no firm evidence of the birthplace of Abraham Heiser, despite a few tantalising clues. Census returns hinted at his origins in Pru

ed various antecedents whose origins were often deliberately shrouded in mystery. My genealogical quest has frequently been a tale of runaway vowels and gate crashing consonants, strangled words and stranded journeys. I have visited many worlds, some real and others virtual. My fingers and footsteps have tiptoed around the annexation of Central Europe, the pogroms, the exclusionism, the hope and despair. It is part of the Jewish experience, as is, of course, the gushing enthusiasm that accompanies the arrival of a new member of the community. It is no longer enough for the happy couple to be pleased to announce such an event. The language of the listings represents a sort of hyperbolical heaven these days. We have moved from pleased to delighted to thrilled to ecstatic to including every family member, even those too young or old to know what the fuss is all about. Sooner or later, somebody will internally combust with excitement and, simultaneously, appear in the dispatch column on the other side of the page. Under those unfortunate circumstances, mere sadness will surely be eclipsed by devastation and despond.

Amidst all this activity, my research efforts are becalmed. I have suffered neither agony nor ecstasy of late. I knew when I started that I was in for the long haul. That’s just as well. I’m now nine years into this labour of love and I have more unanswered questions than I care to remember. I was somewhat disadvantaged at the very outset by the realisation that, while one or two family members had more than a cursory interest in the subject, nobody actually knew anything. This may sound faintly unbelievable when you consider the endless Jewish diaspora but the truth is that, although one or two lovingly crumpled family trees emerged, the body of factual rather than anecdotal evidence was thin on the ground. I kept reading help guides online and offline that advised me to pin down my grandparents – as if grandparents are actually dashing around – so they could relive their memories and experiences on tape for posterity. I thought this was a great idea if you had any to ask. Alas, mine were all dead and my problem was further compounded by my father and his father being among the youngest of their respective generations. The easy source and flow of familial glue had long since dissipated.

When you start at the very bottom, the only way is up. At least, so we’re led to believe. I spent quite some time bumping sideways along the bottom, applying for a sheaf of certificates all united by the Heiser name. It took me ages to sift through them, weeding out the most improbable based on the little I knew. I had mistakenly thought that Heiser was a uniquely Jewish name, a bit like Cohen, Levy or Epstein, but it transpired that it had also been commandeered by our gentile brethren. The frequent appearance of Wilhelmina, Christina, Heinrich et al, even to my untutored eye, hinted that not every Heiser was a member of my clan. Nonetheless, a pattern started to emerge from around 1850 as one Abraham Heiser, abetted by his wife Sarah, fathered child after child after child. Two things struck me about this chain of events. Firstly, I would be spectacularly unlucky if this couple were not Jewish and, secondly, how, in an era of deprivation and harsh living conditions, Mrs H bore and raised so many children to adulthood. Was she blessed with an especially robust constitution or just good fortune? She lost two but eleven survived, one of whom was my greatgrandmother, Julia Heiser.

I still have no firm evidence of the birthplace of Abraham Heiser, despite a few tantalising clues. Census returns hinted at his origins in Pr

ust with excitement and, simultaneously, appear in the dispatch column on the other side of the page. Under those unfortunate circumstances, mere sadness will surely be eclipsed by devastation and despond.

Amidst all this activity, my research efforts are becalmed. I have suffered neither agony nor ecstasy of late. I knew when I started that I was in for the long haul. That’s just as well. I’m now nine years into this labour of love and I have more unanswered questions than I care to remember. I was somewhat disadvantaged at the very outset by the realisation that, while one or two family members had more than a cursory interest in the subject, nobody actually knew anything. This may sound faintly unbelievable when you consider the endless Jewish diaspora but the truth is that, although one or two lovingly crumpled family trees emerged, the body of factual rather than anecdotal evidence was thin on the ground. I kept reading help guides online and offline that advised me to pin down my grandparents – as if grandparents are actually dashing around – so they could relive their memories and experiences on tape for posterity. I thought this was a great idea if you had any to ask. Alas, mine were all dead and my problem was further compounded by my father and his father being among the youngest of their respective generations. The easy source and flow of familial glue had long since dissipated.

When you start at the very bottom, the only way is up. At least, so we’re led to believe. I spent quite some time bumping sideways along the bottom, applying for a sheaf of certificates all united by the Heiser name. It took me ages to sift through them, weeding out the most improbable based on the little I knew. I had mistakenly thought that Heiser was a uniquely Jewish name, a bit like Cohen, Levy or Epstein, but it transpired that it had also been commandeered by our gentile brethren. The frequent appearance of Wilhelmina, Christina, Heinrich et al, even to my untutored eye, hinted that not every Heiser was a member of my clan. Nonetheless, a pattern started to emerge from around 1850 as one Abraham Heiser, abetted by his wife Sarah, fathered child after child after child. Two things struck me about this chain of events. Firstly, I would be spectacularly unlucky if this couple were not Jewish and, secondly, how, in an era of deprivation and harsh living conditions, Mrs H bore and raised so many children to adulthood. Was she blessed with an especially robust constitution or just good fortune? She lost two but eleven survived, one of whom was my greatgrandmother, Julia Heiser.

I still have no firm evidence of the birthplace of Abraham Heiser, despite a few tantalising clues. Census returns hinted at his origins in Pr

ound. I kept reading help guides online and offline that advised me to pin down my grandparents – as if grandparents are actually dashing around – so they could relive their memories and experiences on tape for posterity. I thought this was a great idea if you had any to ask. Alas, mine were all dead and my problem was further compounded by my father and his father being among the youngest of their respective generations. The easy source and flow of familial glue had long since dissipated.

When you start at the very bottom, the only way is up. At least, so we’re led to believe. I spent quite some time bumping sideways along the bottom, applying for a sheaf of certificates all united by the Heiser name. It took me ages to sift through them, weeding out the most improbable based on the little I knew. I had mistakenly thought that Heiser was a uniquely Jewish name, a bit like Cohen, Levy or Epstein, but it transpired that it had also been commandeered by our gentile brethren. The frequent appearance of Wilhelmina, Christina, Heinrich et al, even to my untutored eye, hinted that not every Heiser was a member of my clan. Nonetheless, a pattern started to emerge from around 1850 as one Abraham Heiser, abetted by his wife Sarah, fathered child after child after child. Two things struck me about this chain of events. Firstly, I would be spectacularly unlucky if this couple were not Jewish and, secondly, how, in an era of deprivation and harsh living conditions, Mrs H bore and raised so many children to adulthood. Was she blessed with an especially robust constitution or just good fortune? She lost two but eleven survived, one of whom was my greatgrandmother, Julia Heiser.

I still have no firm evidence of the birthplace of Abraham Heiser, despite a few tantalising clues. Census returns hinted at his origins in Pr

ranspired that it had also been commandeered by our gentile brethren. The frequent appearance of Wilhelmina, Christina, Heinrich et al, even to my untutored eye, hinted that not every Heiser was a member of my clan. Nonetheless, a pattern started to emerge from around 1850 as one Abraham Heiser, abetted by his wife Sarah, fathered child after child after child. Two things struck me about this chain of events. Firstly, I would be spectacularly unlucky if this couple were not Jewish and, secondly, how, in an era of deprivation and harsh living conditions, Mrs H bore and raised so many children to adulthood. Was she blessed with an especially robust constitution or just good fortune? She lost two but eleven survived, one of whom was my greatgrandmother, Julia Heiser.

I still have no firm evidence of the birthplace of Abraham Heiser, despite a few tantalising clues. Census returns hinted at his origins in Prussia but here was a man who was content to reveal as little as necessary about his previous life yet to his dying day remained a foreign subject. He arrived in London around 1850 and was recorded in the 1851 census as a bead maker. This was relatively unusual employment for a young man in his position. Mid Victorian London was, of course, replete with an extraordinary array of specialist vendors you’d struggle to find today and the Jewish quarter was no exception. Amidst a plethora of eternal hawkers, pieceworkers and journeymen, some immigrants climbed with halting steps a little further up the social scale. An affordable home and an extended family certainly came in handy but hard graft blended with a little religious faith was the real driver. Abraham quickly assumed a wider patriarchal role and, by the time of the 1861 census, was a father of five, a bead manufacturer and installed at 17 Bell Lane in Spitalfields. This address was to be the family home until Sarah’s death in 1891 and my Heiser tribe certainly made their mark on the immediate area. Abraham graduated from the bead business to become a toy, china and Bohemian glass dealer, possibly from his own front door, and also secretary of the Princelet Street synagogue from 1871. His strong communal and charitable beliefs were imbued in his progeny. Two of his sons, namely Samuel and Solomon, gave conspicuous service as teachers at the Jewish Free School while a number of their siblings, in a quiet and modest way, also contributed to the lifeblood of their respective communities.

One such sibling gave an irresistible urgency to my researches. As his father before him, Michael Heiser prospered in an uncommon role. He was the third child of Abraham and Sarah, born in 1856, and married Charlotte Mendes whose father, of Sephardic extraction, ran a successful pickling operation. I have reason to believe from early trade directories that the Mendes family was engaged in salting and curing in the late 18th century. Michael’s involvement in the early 1880s witnessed a shift to accommodate the tastes of the burgeoning Ashkenazi population. Pickles and their cousins have been a fixture of the traditional Jewish spread for as long as I can remember and their consumption over this particular period simply exploded. Based in Lawn House Yard, Stepney, and a few other places along the way, Michael evolved a much bigger business and called it Brother Bung. This rather puzzling moniker is redolent of a fraternal backhander but actually depicted a monk holding a jar stopper. I’ve obviously got much to learn about Victorian marketing techniques.

However, the business became one of the three leading suppliers of pickles, piccalillis and sauces to the resident Jewish community and I imagined a wealth of material would emerge. I was completely and utterly wrong. There was no material, no ephemera and, for the most part, no interest. I gleaned a few insights on the pickling industry from sources at the Guildhall Library but I was desperately scratching around for something of substance. I then made a remarkable, yet wholly unexpected, breakthrough. I used my brain. It occurred to me, while burrowed in reams of paper, that people of a certain vintage might just have bought and remembered the product. Serendipitously, one of my father’s second cousins, a grandson of Michael and Charlotte, made renewed contact with a family member. This delightful lady, Rosalie Heiser, was the widow of another grandson, confusingly also Michael, who had actually run the business in the post war period. She had some interesting and rather forthright views on the family in general but precious little in