The Witch of Cologne

In the silence of the sleeping house, in the recess under the stairs—a space little more than a cupboard which Detlef jokingly refers to as Ruth’s laboratorium—the midwife is to be found beside the chest she has set up as a desk. The tassel of her nightcap is twisted around her long black plait as she kneels in her damask nightdress, the floorboards cold and hard beneath her reddened knees.

Squinting in the candlelight, she examines a drop of water through a ground lens set in an iron clamp mounted on a saddle of wood. A small dish of pond water waits beside her, while lying next to that is an open book of illustrations, meticulous etchings of the magnified anatomies of insects: the antenna of a beetle, the thorax of a wasp. Beneath the thick lens she watches the minutiae of life enact all manner of dramas. An amoeba propels itself forward in a series of jerky movements, bumping up against a smaller creature, a mass of swirling dots, while another organism divides above it. Fascinated, Ruth holds her breath, waiting while the two sacs pause next to one another until, with a violent contraction, the larger organism swallows the smaller and doubles in size.

‘“The omnipotent finger of God is here present in the anatomy of the louse, in which you shall find wonder heaped upon wonder and be amazed by the wisdom of God manifest in the most minute matter.”’ Detlef’s voice startles her.

Ruth smiles at him as he stops reading aloud from the illustrated book. ‘Swammerdam was right. Here under this lens all kinds of human follies and foibles are repeated in miniature. If the lens could fill a stage, the study of these tiny creatures would be the end of theatre.’

‘It is certainly the end of your sleep, wife.’

‘Are you displeased I have left your side?’

‘No. Just perplexed. I fear you have anxieties you hold from me.’

In lieu of a reply Ruth pushes the primitive microscope towards Detlef. He lowers his head to peer through the lens.

‘Behold Spinoza’s “substance”. The divine in nature, in the invisible. Sometimes I like to think this is the equivalent of Ein Sof, the essence and light of God, although of course that is a literal intrepretation.’

She loves the fact that she can indulge in such discourse, knowing he can contribute.

Detlef studies the pond water a moment then looks up.

‘Ruth, we differ in this: you draw your inspiration from scientia nova while I draw it from people, from the wondrous transformation faith brings about in them.’

‘Some do not, or cannot, transform, Detlef.’

‘I assume you mean my brother?’

She uncovers another dish of water. Brackish, its strong smell fills the alcove.

‘This is stagnant water. If I were to place this beneath the glass there would be no signs of life. Nor could I introduce life.’

‘Ruth, all through my childhood I sought ways of proving my worth and affection to both my father and my brother. I could not prove it through battle, I could not prove it through my service to the church. Let me prove it now through trust.’

Ruth closes the book and covers her instruments. She knows there is no purpose in arguing with Detlef, that there is a point beyond which she can no longer sway his judgement. She learnt long ago to surrender to this stubbornness of his.

‘Come to bed, woman. For tomorrow we are to Rijnsburg.’

Later, as she lies beside him, she finds herself gazing at the few objects she rescued from her cottage in Deutz. Aaron’s sword, glimmering in the moonlight, hangs on the wall. Below it, standing on a chest full of linen, is the menorah that once belonged to her father and at its base a bracelet of coral and pearl that was once her mother’s. While hidden in the wall lies the Navarros’ Zohar. Where is she now in relation to all of this, Ruth sleepily wonders.

Jacob, in the sleeping drawer built underneath the main bed, laughs softly in his dreaming. Ruth peeps through the darnick curtains at her son, his plump cheek sunk into the feathered cushion. Remembering the old suspicion that when a boy laughs in his sleep he is about to be visited by the demon Lilith, she taps him gently on the nose. The child rolls over.

This is what she lives for, her husband and her child, she reminds herself. But how is she to marry her past with her future, the three separate lives she has lived—Ruth, Felix, Frau Tennen—and with her eventual death, who will be left to carry on the history of her father? One day she must find time to write it down for Jacob, for him to have when he is of age. The comforting thought dispels old ghosts and slowly the chattering voices of insomnia begin to dissolve.

Ruth shifts in the bed to curl herself deeper into the sweet aroma of her husband’s body, burying her cheek into the fur of his chest where finally she is carried off by a falling and rising sea of half-images and dreams.

It is a small cottage attached to a mill powered by the stream running alongside it. Ruth can hear outside the constant grinding of the heavy stone wheels kept in motion by the turning cogs. It is early evening and the smell of peat fires and manure drifts in through the open window. There are five of them now: four men and herself, sitting silently around a table. Others are still arriving.

Ruth sits at one end of the long table. Roughly hewn, its age is apparent in the wooden top scarred by a thousand knives and a thousand layers of wax. Detlef sits beside her, holding her hand tightly under the table. He is in riding clothes, a short cape slung across his knee, a smudge of dust still visible on his cheek. They have ridden for four hours along the narrow lanes of the Dutch countryside, across bridges, around dykes edging marshy reclaimed fields overlooked by the white and black windmills that watch over the stolen land like lonely sentries, until they reached Rijnsburg, a hamlet on the bend of a river. Once there the couple were silently directed to the low isolated cottage in which they now sit.

Ruth leans over and wipes the smudge from Detlef’s face with the end of her sleeve. She cannot help herself, it is an instinctive gesture of intimacy and protectiveness. A wave of pride sweeps over her: he is remarkable, she thinks, this man who has given up everything and risked all both to love her and to live his life freely. Even more so to display the generosity of spirit to accept her for what she is. Detlef looks back at her, a flicker of excitement in his eyes.

She shyly glances away and her gaze falls on the tall man sitting opposite. Conrad van Beuningen. An impressive figure in his late forties, Ruth knows him by reputation only: once the bürgermeister of Amsterdam, now Jan de Witt’s greatest adviser on foreign policy. The fact that such a famous man is present means it is indeed a highly significant gathering. Dressed in a sombre-coloured tunic of the finest wool, Beuningen nods once at Detlef.

They are interrupted by five men entering in cloaks and hats, bending low to step into the cottage then shaking the rain off their clothes. Standing within the protective circle the four others form around him is a far shorter individual. The atmosphere of the room is immediately galvanised by his presence, as if all are unconsciously deferring to the intensity emanating from this otherwise insignificant creature. Of a pale and delicate comp

lexion, his black hair falls to his shoulders and his large dark eyes smoulder beneath a battered wide-brimmed hat.

Benedict Spinoza takes off his hat and Ruth, now on her feet, catches her breath. She had forgotten how beautiful he is with his large expressive face, high cheekbones and delicate Spanish features, his evident indifference to his own physical attributes only enhancing his allure.