The New Land | Page 5

of the company's capital
comes from Jewish purses. We might have heard favorably from them
long ago had it not been for the stubborn hatred of Governor
Stuyvesant, whose letters have poisoned their minds against us."
"But we have never harmed Governor Stuyvesant," observed Samuel,
"so why should his hand be against us?"
Jacob Barsimon laughed grimly, lowering his voice as he answered, for
he was a cautious man and did not care to risk having his words carried
through the town by the little slave girl Minna, now clattering the
breakfast dishes as she moved about the kitchen. "Does Peter
Stuyvesant ever need a reason for his follies?" he asked dryly. "His
head is as hard as his wooden leg and never a new idea has pierced his
brain since the day he was born. He hates our people with as much
reason as our black Minna fears witches and the evil eye. It is said that
he has written to the directors at Amsterdam, begging that none of the
Jewish nation be permitted to infest New Netherlands. He has used
those very words in public places; infest the colony and be like a
plague of hungry locusts. Perhaps he really believes the evil things he
says of our brethren. Even eyes as shrewd as his may be blinded by
hate. And one can understand his bitterness, his hardness of heart
toward all mankind. His post here is not easy, harrassed by the savages

on our borders, the Swedes, even the English, who have already cast
covetous eyes upon this rich port. While his private life--" the man's
stern face grew rather tender--"has not been very happy. It is said that
he left a half-sister in Holland, the one creature he ever loved or who
knew his kindlier side. A few months ago her husband died and she
dared the voyage with her little daughter that they might make their
home with the governor. But the vessel was lost at sea and she was
drowned. Only a sailor or two and several passengers survived and one
of them brought the little girl to Peter Stuyvesant."
"I heard Minna tell of her," interrupted Samuel. "She says that once she
helped the governor's cook carry the Sunday dinner home from market
and she saw little Katrina playing on the great stairway of Peter
Stuyvesant's house. Minna says she has long golden curls and her eyes
are blue--blue as the little flowers that grow near the Wall every spring.
I wonder we never see her, father!"
Barsimon sat down on the low settle beside the window and lighted his
long pipe, puffing thoughtfully and gazing into the smoke as he spoke.
"I would not have you repeat this, son, for it may be but idle gossip.
But it is reported that since her mother's death the child has become the
idol of the governor's hard, old heart. He is filled with foolish fears that
he may lose her as cruelly as he lost her mother before her. He scarcely
ever permits her to stir abroad and then only when she is followed by
one of his faithful black slaves." He arose with his characteristic
abruptness, and walking to the chest of drawers across from the
fire-place, changed his black silken skull cap to the broad-brimmed hat
of his Dutch neighbors. "Forget what I have said," he told his son,
briefly. "We live here only on sufferance and must guard our tongues.
But you are a good lad and I know I need never regret having confided
in you. And now study your barmitzvah portion. Even if the folk from
the 'St. Catarina' are deported before your birthday and there is no
minyan here and we can have no real feast in your honor, I would have
you do your sainted grandfather credit and please your mother who has
waited so long for the day when you should be old enough to be
considered a man among our people." For a moment his hand lay
kindly upon the boy's shoulder; then, with a shrug as though to shake

off any foolish tenderness for the son he loved so dearly, he passed out
of the house.
Samuel watched him from the window until his stolid, heavy-set figure
disappeared down the winding road. Then, finding his portion in the
Hebrew book which his father treasured so highly in those days when
printed Hebrew books were still a rarity, he sank down on the settle and
tried to concentrate on the task which his father had left for him. But
more than once his dark eyes glanced from the heavy Hebrew
characters to the pleasant scene that lay beyond the window; a scene
one would never associate with crowded, bustling New York of our
own day; the low,