The Witch of Cologne

‘I shall resist the temptation to convert you, Gerhard. I fear it would be a waste of a good sermon.’

‘Indeed!’

‘I am merely the servant of my congregation. But tell me, how is our good cousin Maximilian Heinrich?’ Detlef asks, smiling.

‘Rounded and perhaps a touch more maudlin. Little has changed in Cologne, although we now entertain a good Dutch garrison. As you know, our fair city will always whore herself for the right price. Speaking of which, there is one piece of news that might be of interest: the good lady Birgit Ter Lahn von Lennep is recently a widow, the prettiest and richest in the city. If I remember, you were confessor to the family for many years.’

Detlef glances at Ruth, who is twisting a string of seed pearls that hangs low on her dress.

‘Gerhard, you must understand that here in Amsterdam we are the Tennens, a plain German immigrant family. Our lives before exist in a world we no longer acknowledge or discuss.’

‘I am sad to hear that, Detlef. Cologne misses you. There were many who respected you, both aristocrat and burger. Many still do. But enough of Cologne, let me see my nephew.’

Detlef kneels and pushes Jacob, who has been hiding behind a chair, towards his uncle. The boy shyly stands before the count, clutching a toy rabbit.

‘Jacob, bow to your uncle.’

The four year old draws his heels together and bows formally, a gesture which surprises the count. So the Jewchild has some manners, even if they are the mimicked actions of an intelligent monkey, he observes, privately appalled at his brother’s obvious love for the illegitimate child. Adopting a fake expression of affection he glances at the boy.

‘He is delightful, but sister-in-law, you must allow me to take him to a good Dutch tailor and have him made up some satin breeches and a matching cape.’

‘Jacob is not lacking in clothes and has no need of charity.’

‘I should think not. It is just that I have a fancy to commission a portrait of the child and myself. A painter from Delft has been recommended, Pieter de Hooch. I hear he is fair and able to give a reasonable likeness—with your permission of course.’

Detlef looks at Jacob who smiles innocently back at him. The idea that his son might be accepted as part of the von Tennen family fills him with a furtive pleasure. Pensive, he looks across at Ruth but is interrupted by Jacob pulling at his sleeve.

‘Papa, I would like that.’

Relieved that the decision has been made for him, Detlef immediately claps his hands in celebration.

‘Excellent. And now we shall eat the good German food Esther and Ruth have prepared for us.’

‘Thank God, for after a single day I have already tired of herring!’

The tailor measures the child’s leg with a piece of string then holds it against a yardstick. Stiflingly hot with the damp air of Amsterdam, the atelier is a small cave filled with bolts of silk, wool, cotton from India and sumptuous pieces of embroidery stretched out on small wooden frames. In the centre of the room Jacob stands perfectly still, holding out his arms. Esther, the maid, idly fingers a tassel of silk ribbon.

‘He’s a good boy,’ the tailor, a Jew from Lisbon, says to the mother, secretly wondering about her black hair and dark eyes. The exotic-looking woman and the elderly aristocrat make a strange couple. The German, conspicuously moneyed, reclining in the elegant French chair the tailor always presents for his wealthy clients, is obviously a Christian gentleman. But the woman…? Who cares, the tailor reminds himself, as long as their money is good.

‘Naturally he is a good boy, he has noble blood,’ replies the count in an authoritative tone, sensing the tailor’s curiosity. Of course it takes one to sniff out another, the aristocrat thinks to himself. Still, he will not have to suffer the indignity much longer.

He points to a bolt of cloth with his walking cane. ‘The breeches should be in velvet, dark blue of the highest quality to match my own, with an embroidered jerkin ribboned at the waist in the French style,’ he orders curtly.

‘Uncle, am I to have new boots also?’

‘You are to have pumps that are buttoned at the side and you shall sit on my right, a hunting dog at your feet.’

‘A dog! Esther! Mama! I’m to have a dog!’

‘Only for the painting, Jacob.’

Ruth, watching Jacob’s excitement, is anxious that he might be corrupted by his uncle’s taste for luxury. She looks at the count, his elegant figure gazing down at the boy. Is it possible that approaching old age and the desire for family have tempered the man? He has been nothing but coolly courteous towards Ruth since his arrival. And what of his distress at his brother’s poverty? Is the offer of a stipend out of genuine concern or an attempt to control? Ruth cannot tell. He is either a master of strategy or truly hungry for family. Is Detlef right to refuse? She marvels at his resolve but, more realistically, knows they could use the money. She is growing weary of midwifery and secretly fears the work will make her old before her time. Detlef’s stern response floats back into her mind. ‘Allow him to spend his money on the child, but not on us. To do so would mean becoming indebted and I will not be beholden to an institution with which I have an ethical disagreement.’

The moral high ground is not always the most practical position, Ruth finds herself thinking, then, remembering the passions of her youth, wonders what she has become. She is pulled back into the room as the tailor drops his tape and reaches for a

bolt of cloth.

‘Will the dog eat Punti?’ Jacob asks, holding up his toy rabbit.