1647
The sun rose early, and so I got to task, getting the day’s work done as fast as I could. Bredevoort still hung on my mind most days, but I did my best to stay focused on my tasks. I pushed all the memories down inside me, out of my mind, and shut the cupboard firmly.
Heylwigis found me in the dining room shaking dust from the curtains. From the amount of dust that came out, I would swear that Mevrouw never did much work before she ascended to Rembrandt‘s Sow.
She gave me strict instructions on what to buy at the markets, with a small coin purse—enough for the essentials.
“And jam,” Heylwigis had said, “Mevrouw has requested jam.”
I grabbed the basket by the door and headed out. The streets of Amsterdam were always bustling. People moved about with a purpose, gliding from one place to the next to fill their baskets.
Stepping out onto the streets, the cold struck my cheeks with a harsh breeze. My hands were numb with cold before I could shove them into my skirt pockets. The sun was not yet overhead, but even if it was, it would do nothing to warm my chills. It glimmered like a Yuletide trinket, but it had no strength of the hearth.
I felt myself smile, my cheeks rosy in the crisp morning air. When I was sure no one was looking, I would glean a look at the lavishly dressed upper-class women. Their skirts would bellow out onto the sidewalks, moving about like an opulent duster. If they caught me looking, their gaze turned sour, and they would reproach me with disdain. It did bother me a little, but I would trudge onward, sweeping my skirt with nonchalant cheer to make them crinkle their noses further.
As I edged closer to the market, the sounds of footsteps and chatter drifted down the winding streets. Townspeople poured into the city squares to sell their wares from the countryside fresh from the wagon. Simple farmers who spoke in a tongue I barely understood and wives who would try to make unfair deals. Bakers had to be honest, but a dealer of carrots or peas, less so.
I weaved through the crowds to find the sellers with tables of cheese laid out in a sprawling splendor—Gouda, Edam, Maasdam, and Leyden, from all corners of the country. I walked up to one vendor with a grin and asked for the two best cheeses, Maasdam and Leyden of course, to which he cut off the slices and wrapped them in two squares of linen. Leyden was a good staple cheese—cumin and carraway with yellow flesh inside a burnt caramel rind. Maasadam was a cheese I had through my youth. I could remember my brothers sticking their fingers into the holes with a giggle. Childish, but fun. I picked up the jam and bread just before the church bells chimed.
Picking up my skirts, I hurried back through the streets. Heylwigis would have my head if lunch was served late.
© Claudia Merrill 2024-04-22