Mannahatta: A Love Story

Chapter 1 - April 1654

In fairy tales, marvels and evils befell girls who went into the forest. They fell prey to witches and wolves, or met enchanted stags and elegant fairies. For a long time, Anneke believed that talking animals and winged maidens were a common place in the forests of Holland, just as raccoons and squirrels were a commonplace here. After all, her mother always insisted that there were no raccoons or squirrels "at home." And she certainly had told Anneke that lies and stories were the work of the Devil.

It was only when she was on the edge of womanhood that Anna began to understand that European forests were not exactly as her mother's tales painted them -- that in fact in Holland there were hardly any forests at all, but only farms and fields, cultivated as far as the eye could see and broken only by endless straight lines of trees that ran to the horizon. That landscape was far harder for her to imagine than a wood filled with fairies and strange beasts. It was strange enough to picture a land where everything was cultivated when the dragging of stumps from newly cleared farms and the cutting back of the stubborn maple saplings that encroached on the fields beyond Wall Street had been annual activities for as long as she could remember. It was stranger still to picture a land as flat as a lake here. The Lenape name for Nieuw Amsterdam was Mannahatta - "the Island of Hills" - and Anna was not the only one to use it because it was so appropriate.

When she was twelve years old, Anna's father bought a painting at the auction of old Meneer de Peijster's estate. There was a panel on the frame that said "View of Leiden" and a picture full of cloudy skies and great gray stone spires, rising out of flat green fields. Anna's mother had caught her breath when she saw it and thanked her husband with a catch in her voice. "It's beautiful," she had said. "I almost forgot how beautiful."

After that Anna had realized that her mother's fairy tales took place in a land that looked quite different from modern Holland. But it was still easier for her to picture (and to believe) in the stories of thick forests haunted by wolves and bears and witches (little Anneke had pictured the witches as looking like the Lenape women, with straight black hair and copper skin and eyes) than to believe in the existence of brick and stone cities where tens of thousands of people lived in houses that rose four and five stories above orderly canals. The forests seemed a lot more plausible.

By the time she was sixteen, Anna was determined to visit what she (along with the rest of Nieuw Amsterdam) still called "home." She wanted to see the cities - as crowded as a ship's hold for many times the length of Nieuw Amsterdam people said, and the factories where fine china and glass beads came from, and the polders where men had tamed the sea, instead of merely perching on the cliffs above it.

It was precisely because of her interest in Holland that Anna had gained the freedom to roam the forest like Little Red Riding Hood. She had taken to pestering the sailors and new arrivals from the West India Company ships, anxious for stories of Europe. Her parents had judged her safer in the forest than down by the docks among the sailors. "Anneke, run and cut some wildflowers, child." "Anneke, the herb jar's low again." "Anneke, we need blackberries for jelly." The errands were real enough, and her mother's voice was always casual, but sometimes Anneke wondered how her father's inn had survived so long before she was old enough to gather wild berries for preserves and flowers to dry and store among the linens.

On the whole she did not mind spending time in the forest though, at least not in the spring, when the weather was relatively mild, and the air smelled so much fresher than the narrow stinking streets behind the stockade. The path north from Heere Straat that ran diagonally along the length of Mannahatta followed a high ridge, so it remained fairly dry after all but the wettest days. It might lack the interest and romance of the great old highways branching out of Amsterdam or Antwerpen, but birds sang in the trees, and water glinted green in pools on either side, and it was wide enough that the sun shone directly overhead. Anna headed south toward Nieuw Amsterdam, her basket filled with the goldenrod her mother always put in newcomers' rooms because they admired it so much, and her pocket jingling slightly with the sewant her father made her carry in case she ever ran into the Lenape. "Better to give them a few stuivers worth of shells than get hurt or kidnapped," he had counseled her. "They may be heathens, but they aren't fools. Give them the sewant and get away." The forests of Nieuw Amsterdam were more boring than the mythical fairy tale woods, but in adult terms, a lot more comforting. No one in fairy tales ever suggested that the Wicked Witch could be bought off. Anna headed home singing a song of far off adventure that seemed as unreal as a fairy tale: Oh there was a gallant ship, and she sailed upon the sea/and we feared she would be taken by the Spanish enemy...

******

The clock of Amsterdam's Zuiderkerk was just tolling six in the distance when Solomon knocked on the ornately carved doors of the new home of the de Pintos. No one answered the door for a moment, and the young man took the opportunity to catch his breath, and smooth his clothes. He had dodged through the crowds of people still cramming the market of the Vlooienberg and strolling along the lock, afraid of being late, although his appointment was not until a quarter past the hour. Heer Daniel de Pinto was a good man, but he disliked tardiness and disobedience in those he employed. Solomon would have taken care to be on time for a meeting with Heer Daniel, let alone a summons from Daniel's broher, Heer Isaac. Isaac de Pinto was rumored to be one of the richest men in Amsterdam. Although he was only in his mid-twenties, within a few years of Solomon's own age, he had already managed to purchase an imposing home in a gentile neighborhood. The white house on Sint AntonieBree Straat had a modest enough facade, but the sheer size of its looming three stories, and its location on the far side of the lock from the rest of the Jewish quarter of Vlooienberg were enough to impress Solomon.

He did not have time to admire the carved doorposts with their gilt mezzuzah for very long. Both halves of the door swung open at once, revealing a neatly dressed maid. "Can I help you, Meneer?" she asked.

Solomon felt wretchedly familiar embarrassment as he gave the girl his name and business. She could so easily have been his sister or even his mother. His cousin Deborah worked in a house like this, along with countless other girls that his mother called her landsmen (even though as far as Solomon could tell they weren't blood relations at all, but merely an endless flood of indigent refugees who spoke his mother's dialect well enough to impose on her good nature). And yet this maid curtsied to him and called him "Meneer" and he had to fight the urge to mimic a Portuguese accent for her so that she mistook him for a gentleman.

The de Pintos had adapted to Dutch ways enough that Solomon had to shed his shoes and put on house slippers before he was conducted up the stairs to the main floor, where Meneer de Pinto had his study. As he paused on the threshold, Solomon thought that the place looked like the setting for a painting.

It was a large room, well lit now by the row of windows on the southern wall, their casements open to catch the spring breeze and the afternoon sunshine. The floor was highly scrubbed tile, laid in alternating squares of black and white. One wall was completely covered by bookshelves, and a desk and chair sat in front of a disused fireplace opposite the books. A mirror hung above the fireplace, giving the impression that the room was more book lined than it really was.

In the center of the room was a rectangular table. Half a dozen men were seated around it, most on long benches on either side, and one in an armchair at the head. As Solomon entered the room, the man in the armchair nodded a greeting, and the others stood up. They looked, thought Solomon, trying to keep his courage up as he advanced into the room, as if they were sitting for a group portrait. The kind of thing that would hang in a gilt frame in the hall of some government or charitable body. Like the painting of the Regents of the city in the Stadhuis, or of the Night Watch that Solomon had once seen in Meneer Harmenzoon's studio. Like most of Amsterdam's burghers, they were not men to display wealth ostentatiously. But their sober black clothes were velvet and fur-lined, and the gloves stuck in their belts were softest leather. Spread across the table, Solomon saw as he advanced, was a map of the West Indies that showed both their lineage and their profession as clearly as a coat of arms. The possessions of the Dutch republic were outlined in blue ink. Red ink traced the lands of the Spanish Empire.

He caught no more than a glimpse of the map before the man nearest to him moved forward, holding out a hand. "Solomon, thank you for coming so promptly." Though Daniel de Pinto, like his brother Isaac, was only in his mid-twenties, his assured manners made him seem older. Although he was dressed in the style of any Dutch gentleman, with his beard trimmed in the Dutch style, he spoke in Spanish.

"Su seguro servidor, señor." Your servant, sir. Normally Solomon had a passable accent in Spanish, but now, under the stares of these men among whom he recognized several of the great ones of la nacão as they called themselves, he felt his Rs going flat and his vowels lengthening and flattening into a gutteral German parody of Spanish, marking him as a slum born brat in front of the gentlemen. Although he had felt a vast desire to speak Spanish to impress the maid at the door, Solomon now fought down a flash of rage at the arrogance of la nación. Looking down their noses at us, he thought, hearing the echo of his mother's bitter voice. So proud of being Portuguese! Portugal and Spain are death sentences for them as well as us, and they risk being spat on and burned alive if they go there, same as us, but they all talk about going home. A hundred and fifty years its been now since they could even call themselves Jews in Spain, and still they're "Spanish." So they think they're goyim, then? They want to be goyim, maybe!

Daniel de Pinto appeared not to notice Solomon's stumbling mispronunciation. He ushered Solomon toward the table, and presented him to the assembled group as "my colleague, who I was telling you about. You know my brother, Isaac, of course, and the Rabbi Mortera," one of the white-ruffed men smiled politely. "And this is Avram Peyreyra, Miguel Nunes da Costa, Antonio Lopes Mendes, and my father, Abraham de Pinto." The gray browed man in the armchair, who had been observing Solomon silently as the other men shook hands and murmured words of greeting bowed his head slightly, without speaking.

Solomon bowed to the silent man at the head of the table, more impressed than he was willing to admit. He had never met Isaac and Daniel's father. The old man had lived in Rotterdam until quite recently, and spent most of his time in study, withdrawn from the family business that he had entrusted to his sons. "An honor, Dom Abraham." He switched from Spanish to Portuguese to prove that he could. "I am ready to perform any service that may be of help to you, Senhores."

"A courteous offer." It was Isaac de Pinto who answered. He spoke with a twinkle of amusement that seemed out of context with his grave surroundings. "But you should perhaps know what we are asking before you promise your aid. Sit down." He gestured. "And tell me what you see."

Simon sat, feeling puzzled. He had expected that Daniel de Pinto had called him as an extra witness to a business contract, or perhaps to make out a fair copy of some document. His good handwriting, and facility with Hebrew as well as Latin letters had won him steady employment with Meneer de Pinto, and his master had called on him before to perform such tasks. He had not expected to be welcomed into a council like this one, much less asked his opinion. He inspected the map spread before him, determined to appear as intelligent as possible under the circumstances. "It's one of the new West India Company maps," he said. And then, since more seemed expected, he added. "At least, I think it's new. I don't recall so much detail on the coast of Brazil in the ones I've seen."

"You have seen such maps before?" It was Nunes da Costa who put the question.

"Yes, sir. Señor Daniel de Pinto has employed me to catalogue his library. And we have filled contracts to outfit ships of the Dutch West India Company." More and more Solomon felt that this was a test, and he was pleased to turn the conversation to matters where he was sure of his own expertise. "And we've bid on cargoes from the Brazilian trade."

Don Isaac nodded. "Then you have been following the situation in Brazil?"

Solomon spoke more cautiously. "The political situation, you mean?"

"Yes."

Solomon took a deep breath. "I only know rumors, of course. But I've heard what everyone has; that the Portuguese have sent a fleet to retake Recife, and that the colony there is under siege."

"And have you considered the implications if Recife falls?" It was Nunes da Costa who put the question again. Where Don Isaac had spoken quietly Nunes seemed to be repressing some strong emotion.

Solomon nodded. "At best, the Portuguese will expel all practicing Jews and put the inquisition into effect. Our contacts in the coffee and tobacco trade will lose their livelihoods, and we'll lose our contracts there. At worst...." He hesitated. He had seen the "at worst" as a child, and it still haunted his nightmares. He found himself feeling oddly protective of these men, so accustomed to the wealth and safety of Amsterdam. It seemed cruel to spell out what would happen to the kindred of la nación if the Portuguese retook their Brazilian colonies.

"At worst the Portuguese will sack the city, sparing neither Jew nor Gentile." It was Isaac de Pinto himself who finished Solomon's sentence. "And we must also face the probability that those of our people who survive will be given no chance to leave, but forced into baptism immediately, and then held in Brazil, subject to the inquisition."

"And may God have mercy on them," murmured Nunes. Peyreyra frowned at him, and he flushed, realizing that it was a Gentile phrase.

"That being the case," Isaac de Pinto continued as if he had not been interrupted. "We feel it is imperative to make some provision for the probable refugees."

"Recife might hold out," Solomon offered, knowing it was a cold comfort.

"It has held out, for six months now," Don Isaac informed him. "Our agents say that it is unlikely to last the year. And that is why we have sent for you."

Solomon's jaw dropped. "Because the Portuguese may retake Brazil? I'm sorry, Señor, but I don't see how I can help."

"If and when Recife falls, there must be a city willing to receive the refugees," Don Isaac explained. "We are of course investigating other Dutch possessions in the Caribbean, so that the refugees can remain close to their homes, and can continue practicing their trade in sugar. Curaçao is a distinct possibility. But we must face the fact that the Spanish and French control the majority of the Caribbean, and that the Dutch may lose their holdings there as well."

"You think they will have to resettle in Holland?" Solomon said, still uncertain how he fit into the de Pintos' plans.

Rabbi Mortera shook his head. "If they do so, we lose the benefit of foreign contacts for trade, and the community here suffers."

"Doubly so," Don Isaac once more took over the conversation. "Since we lose both potential business and also the influence that gives us with the gentlemen of the city council of Amsterdam. We live unmolested here because we bring wealth to the city. But -- if you will allow me to speak frankly -- if Amsterdam is faced with another flood of penniless Jewish refugees, while at the same time the income of the Sephardic community noticeably declines...the Christian authorities may not look on us so favorably. It could have serious consequences for us all."

Solomon felt his cheeks and neck flushing in a mixture of anger and shame at a good deal Don Isaac had not said. The men of the informal council before him were among the wealthiest and most influential of the Sephardim, the Jews of Spanish and Portuguese descent who had fled the Inquisition to the newly independent Holland after the Netherlands had declared their independence from Spain. The Sephardim shared a colonial history with their Dutch neighbors. Many had come generations earlier, and even the relatively new arrivals had come with money, education and family contacts in place. They were proud of their acceptance by the Dutch authorities, of the peaceful coexistence with Gentile neighbors that they claimed went back to the golden ages of medieval Spain, before the dark century of the Inquisition.

Solomon was different. Not a member of the Sephardic nación, but an Ashkenaz, one of the crowds of German-born, Yiddish speaking Jews born in the stark poverty of the Eastern ghettos, devastated by the generation of bitter warring among the German princes. He had arrived in Amsterdam with his family at the age of five. They had walked the three hundred miles from Frankfurt, starving and in rags, ahead of the soldiers who had looted their home. Solomon's younger brother had died on the journey. He still woke up sweating sometimes, trembling with the memory of his own relief that the crying baby was no longer making the journey an extra hell, and the hope that perhaps now his mother would carry him part of the way, and give him extra food. He did his best to not remember the journey when he was awake.

The contempt and annoyance of the haughty Sephardim who had met them in Amsterdam were still vivid in his memory though. He and his family had received food and clothing from the charitable members of la nación, but the first words of Spanish he had learned had been insults: vago, mendigo, pícaro....lazybones, beggar, rogue. The Sephardim made no secret of their opinion that the Ashkenazi refugees were a disgrace to the Jewish community.

And now it's our fault the council of Amsterdam will be angry at the Portuguese refugees from Recife! Solomon thought. At least in Frankfurt there's no Inquisition! But no, we're the ones who are supposed to be ashamed. Aloud he said, "And what exactly do you wish me to do, Don Isaac?"

"We are negotiating with the English government," Don Isaac said. "It is possible that Cromwell will allow Jews to return to England. But we are also considering other Dutch colonies. What do you know about Novo Belgica?"

Solomon considered. "It's the same as New Netherland, isn't it? There was a pamphlet that came out – two or three years ago, maybe? - The Truth about New Netherland, or something like that, I think."

The silent Don Abraham took a hand in the conversation for the first time. "You have read this pamphlet?"

"N-no," Solomon flushed, wondering whether admitting to knowledge of a book published in Dutch by a Gentile was a wise thing to do among the men of la nación. He would have staked his livelihood that Don Abraham himself was not able to read Dutch easily. "But I've heard of it. Because we do business with the West India Company, you know. And it made a big stir when it came out. The author made the place out to be a paradise. It's farther north, I think, not so hot as Curaçao or Recife, and a more healthful climate, but with fine hunting and farming, so I've heard."

"It is always strange to me that the Dutch think that the farther north a climate is the more salubrious it must be," Don Abraham shook his head slightly, and Solomon remembered that the old man had been born in Spain. "However, you are correct. More to the point, the book was published in an attempt to recruit colonists. The West India Company seeks settlers. We think they may be amenable to accepting Jews from Recife." Solomon nodded, following the old man's logic, but still uncertain what his role was supposed to be. "In brief, Señor Pietersen, we - that is the parnassim of the community here in Amsterdam - are looking for an agent to go to Novo Belgica, and negotiate with the colonial governor there. My son mentioned your name."

Solomon took a deep breath. "For how long?" he was proud of how steady his voice was.

"That depends a little on whether you can come to an understanding with the governor of the colony." Abraham de Pinto answered. "The man's name is Stuyvesant. Pieter Stuyvesant. He worked for the West India Company in Curaçao before his present posting. He has a somewhat particular reputation."

"He's a thick-headed, despotic son of a whore," muttered Nunes, not quite under his breath.

"Which is why we particularly seek a man of tact and diplomacy to deal with him," Abraham de Pinto spoke in a slightly emphatic voice and with a faint frown at his colleague, but otherwise gave no sign of having heard Nunes' outburst. Returning to Solomon's original question he continued. "If it turns out that Nieuw Amsterdam is as welcoming as Recife has been it might not be a bad place for an ambitious young man looking for opportunities to make his fortune. Many of the East India Company merchants go out to Batavia for five or even ten years. And they return rich men, respected by all."

"Five or ten years?" Solomon repeated, stunned.

"You are still a young man," Abraham de Pinto said. "I believe you have no wife, nor children?"

"No," Solomon flushed again, thinking of Daniel de Pinto's family and inwardly damning the old man for the gentle reminder that he had no immediate prospects of being able to afford to marry. But beggars could not be choosers, and though it further his exposed his family's precarious finances he forced himself to add. "But my parents...I'm an only son, and my father isn't as young as he was..."

Rabbi Mortera spoke up. "As you go for the entire community I think I can guarantee that the parnassim of the synagogue will see that your parents lack for nothing while you are away."

Solomon lifted his chin. "That's kind of you, Rabbi. But we're ashkenazim, so we're not members of your synagogue." And we're not beggars, even if the Portuguese do treat us that way, he added silently.

"Of course, as a general rule, it doesn't make sense for the ashkenazim to join the synagogue." Abraham de Pinto's words were an understatement. Ashkenazim were banned from permanent membership in the Portuguese synagogue because its wealthy members claimed the Germans were "rowdy" during services. Not a trace of this bitter dispute showed in the old Sephardi's bland tone as he continued. "Under the circumstances, though, perhaps you and your parents might consider becoming members. My sons speak highly of you, Señor Pietersen. And a reliable young man such as yourself, who has done the community much good, might think about joining the synagogue if only because it would increase the number of potential brides."

Solomon blinked. He was torn between a rosy vision of himself as a wealthy and established man, the head of a household with his own servants, like Daniel de Pinto, and a wary suspicion that the Sephardim would never allow him to reach such heights so easily. Or then again, perhaps they offer it because it won't be easy, he thought. Abraham de Pinto misread his hesitation and added, as if as an afterthought. "Naturally a stay in Nieuw Amsterdam might do much toward gaining a fortune. But marrying a young woman with a decent dowry would also be desirable. My niece Raquel, for example. Daniel," he turned to his son. "How old is Raquel now?"

"Just twenty-one," Daniel nodded at his father, as if approving the idea. "And she and her mother have been alone since her father died." He turned to Solomon. "She's a good woman, if she is my cousin. She would have been married before this, but her fiance died just a few months before the wedding - smallpox, it could have happened to anyone - and her father didn't see to a new betrothal before he died. She stayed with us when Mariam was born to take care of the children, and she has a wonderful knack with youngsters. She'll be a good mother."

"And my sister's husband's will left a significant sum for her dowry," Abraham concluded. He smiled at Solomon. "I don't know that it would be wise to draw up a formal ketubah before your journey, given the risks of travel to the New World, and since your stay there is of uncertain duration, but perhaps we might discuss the matter further, and make some informal arrangements before you sail. If you are interested in marriage, of course. And if you would consider undertaking the journey as our agent."

Solomon struggled with a mad desire to begin singing a verse of a popular song that seemed absurdly appropriate. "Oh, I shall give you silver, and badge of nobility / and my own youngest daughter your bonny bride shall be/ if you will swim along beside the Spanish enemy..." The men of la nación were offering him everything: not just money but a place in the synagogue, and alliance by marriage with one of the greatest of the "Portuguese" families. They were practically offering him a chance to become Sephardic. And all he had to do was brave a month long voyage through oceans plagued with Spanish and English pirates, to a settlement at the back of the beyond, to negotiate with a man of "particular" reputation. He took a deep breath. "Of course, I am happy to help the community in any way I can. What exactly would be the details of my commission to the governor of Nieuw Netherland?" He tried to suppress the knowledge that the end of the song echoing in his head was that the brave cabin boy died, betrayed by the captain who had promised him wealth and honor.