Still following Annetje, Hannah climbed to the fourth floor, a single room, hollowed out and turned into a holy place. The large windows let in the soft cloud-filtered light, but the church was made brighter by the countless smokeless candles flickering on the chandeliers. She glanced at the paintings: Christ upon the cross, Saint Veronica with the burial shroud, Saint John in the wilderness. Once they’d given her some comfort, made her feel as though she recognized herself, but increasingly they had begun to make her uneasy, as if saints were Annetje’s conspirators, winking and smirking as the two women passed.
The burgomasters had not ruled Catholic worship illegal in Amsterdam, but it was condoned only if conducted privately, and churches must be unrecognizable as such from the outside. Inside they could be as opulent as the Catholics liked, and the wealthy merchants of the Catholic community had been generous with their donations. The church served as a sanctuary as well; though Catholic worship enjoyed legal protection, papists were not well loved by the populace, the memory of Spanish oppression running deep as it did. Hannah had once seen Father Hans of this church hounded through the streets by a pack of dung-throwing children.
Hannah found a seat on the first level, for the church was not crowded today, and began to relax a little. She liked the familiar sounds of the organ, and she allowed herself the luxury of letting her mind wander. She thought about her child-a daughter, she decided. She’d had a dream the night before that the child was a beautiful girl. Most dreams were only silly illusions, but this one had the firm substance of prophecy. What a blessing a girl child would be. She wrapped herself in the thought until she could almost feel the baby in her arms, but when the priest began to intone his prayers, her fantasy shattered.
Perhaps it had been wrong to seek comfort in the old religion, but Annetje had sweetly convinced her to go once-and after that she had no more choice in the matter. Besides, all those men who had kept the truth from her or given her sad half versions of it had no right to pull her this way and that. How could she decide for herself if she wanted to be Jew or no? She could not choose her religion any more than she could choose her own face or disposition. As she sat there, only half listening to the prayers echoing through the chamber, Hannah felt her irritation with Daniel gathering force. Who was he to tell her that she had to worship in a new way and then not tell her anything about the new way? Ought she not to complain of this injustice? Other women spoke their minds to their husbands-she could hardly step out on the streets without seeing a Dutch wife scolding her man for drunkenness or sloth. It was wrong, she determined fiercely. She surprised herself by slapping a hand against her thigh.
After the service, the maid chatted amiably as they walked down the stairs, but Hannah was in no mood for idle talk. She wanted to get out, to go home, to go somewhere. She ought to enjoy Annetje’s easy mood, she told herself. The girl made herself most companionable when she had her own way, and she was so delighted with having taken Hannah to church that she would now be at her most agreeable. But why, Hannah asked herself, as she slipped a coffee berry into her mouth, should she require the agreeableness of her maid?
This was one injustice she ought not to tolerate. She could hardly rebel against her husband, but her maid was another matter. These threats to report her worship to Daniel were nonsense. Why would Daniel believe the girl? He thought no more of her than of a dog.
They emerged from the church and walked along the Oudezijds Voorburgwal with the other worshipers. Hannah allowed herself to enjoy the anonymity of the crowd for a few sweet moments before deciding that the time for playing at freedom had ended.
“My veil and scarf, please,” she said to the maid. She spoke faster than she had intended, so the words sounded like an order. She took several more steps before she realized that Annetje had stopped and stood behind her, grinning.
“Come quickly,” Hannah said. “Someone might see me.”
“A woman shouldn’t have to hide herself from the world,” Annetje told her, taking a step forward. “Not when she is as pretty as you. Come, we’ll take a stroll.”
“I don’t want to take a stroll.” Sharp words began to well up inside her, and she was in no mood to restrain them. The girl loved to tease, to take liberties, to push the limits of her power, but that was because Hannah always let her win. What would happen if Hannah refused to let her order everything as she liked? “Give them to me,” she demanded.
“Don’t be a prude. I think we should show the world your great beauties.”
“My beauties,” Hannah said, “are none of the world’s business. Give me my things.”
Annetje took a step back. She reddened, and for a moment Hannah feared she would grow angry. Instead, she burst into a shrill laugh. “Come and get them, then.” And she lifted her skirts just a bit and ran out of Stoofsteeg, the way they had come.
Hannah remained motionless, too stunned to move. Out of the alleyway, the girl turned right and disappeared. And here was Hannah, across town from the Vlooyenburg, alone and unescorted, with no covering for her head and face. What could she say to Danieclass="underline" that she had been attacked? That some ruffian had stolen her veil and scarf and sent her on her way?
Maybe the girl only made sport. She would be waiting just outside the alleyway on Koestraat, that impish grin on her face. Should she run and give Annetje the satisfaction of showing terror, or should she stroll slowly and preserve the illusion of dignity?
She walked, but she walked quickly. Outside the alley, crowds of handsome men and women strolled along, a group of children loudly played a game with a ball, and some ragtag jugglers performed for spare stuivers along the canal side. But no Annetje.
Then she heard the maid’s voice, her laughter: across the canal and moving away from her, toward the Zeedijk. She waved the scarf in the air as though it were a flag of victory; then she began to run again.
Hannah lifted her skirts and ran after her. She hardly ever had cause to exert herself in this way, and her lungs began to ache after only a few steps up the steep canal bridge. Men paused to stare at her, children to call her names she did not understand.
Annetje slowed her pace to let Hannah gain ground and then began to run south on the Zeedijk. What did she mean by running toward the Nieuwmarkt? In that part of the city they would be attacked for certain. But an attack could be Hannah’s salvation. She envisioned herself returning home bloodied and bruised, to be cared for rather than condemned. So she followed the maid, who ran and ran and ran. And then stopped. Hannah stopped too, and turned around to observe Annetje coming toward her, and then she turned to face the Weigh House. At the north end of the Nieuwmarkt, it marked the divide between the clean and the unclean, the foul and the fair. It was no place for the wife of a Jewish merchant.
Seeing that her mistress had stopped running, Annetje laughed loudly and ran back the way she had come. Hannah thought the clouds had begun to empty themselves of a hot rain but then realized they were tears, moistening her face, and cursed herself for being so weak. It took a moment for her to recognize that these weren’t tears of fear or sadness but of rage. Run, she thought, as she watched the little bitch scurry off. You had better run, because if I catch you, I’ll strangle you.