‘I’m not surprised,’ her father said. ‘As steeped in sin as you are.’
THE YELLOW DRESS
December 1812
A week before Christmas, on a bright, frosty morning, a knock on the front door resounded through the house. Surprised, Dortchen went down the hall to answer it. As she passed the door to the shop, it swung open and her father filled the doorway. ‘Don’t you speak to him,’ he warned her.
Her breath caught in her throat. Knees trembling, Dortchen opened the front door. Wilhelm stood there in a threadbare coat, his hat in his hand, snowflakes caught in his dark curls. ‘I have a gift for you,’ he said, and thrust out his other hand. A red leather book was clenched in his fingers. Dortchen took it and wonderingly opened it to the title page.
Children and Household Tales, she read silently. From the Brothers Grimm.
She raised her eyes to his. He smiled at her, his face glowing with joy and triumph. ‘It’s here,’ he said simply.
‘Dortchen, get inside,’ Herr Wild said.
‘Yes, Father,’ she replied, slipping the book into the pocket of her apron. Wilhelm lifted two fingers to his mouth, kissed them, then held them out to her. Dortchen could not help a little smile. As she shut the door, he crossed his fingers, wishing for good luck.
Her father’s face was livid with anger, and he had one fist raised.
‘I did not speak to him,’ Dortchen told him, passing quickly by, hunching her shoulders against the expected blow. He did not strike her, though his breath was harsh. As she reached the kitchen, she heard the shop door shut.
He had not seen Wilhelm give her the book. She hid it hurriedly and busied herself with salting and curing the bacon. Later that afternoon, when she was sure her father was busy, Dortchen sat down on a barrel in the pantry and looked through the little red leather book.
It was dedicated ‘to Frau Elisabeth von Arnim, for the little Johannes Freimund’. Dortchen was hurt. What had Bettina von Arnim done to help Wilhelm and Jakob? She had not told them any stories, or helped write out any manuscripts, or made them soup and healing teas.
With jealousy a hot ache in her heart, Dortchen turned over the pages. First was the story of the Frog-King, which she had told Wilhelm. ‘A tale from Hessen’, the notes read. There was ‘Cat and Mouse in Partnership’, and then ‘Mary’s Child’. Both stories that Gretchen had told him. There was a long note about other stories of forbidden doors, but not a single word about who had told the Grimms this one.
She turned the pages faster. There was ‘The Three Little Men in the Wood’, and the one she had named ‘Hänsel and Gretel’. There was ‘Frau Holle’ and, a few stories after it, ‘The Singing Bone’. In rapid succession were the stories about Clever Elsie, and the wishing-table and the ass that farted gold, and the elves and the shoemaker. Towards the end of the book was the story about the girl who saved her sisters from the bloody chamber – and Dortchen’s favourite, the story of the girl whose brothers were turned to swans.
‘From Hessen’, the notes read. But not a word about who had told the Grimms the tales.
Dortchen jumped up, clutching the book to her heart. Without changing her shoes or putting on her bonnet, she ran out into the garden and through the gateway, with nothing but her shawl to keep off the snow. She ran across the alleyway and up the three flights of stairs to the Grimms’ apartment, and she banged on their door with her fist.
Wilhelm answered the door. ‘Why, Dortchen,’ he cried in pleasure, opening up his arms to her.
‘Where are our names?’ she cried. ‘Why aren’t we named in the book? We told you the tales. Our names should be there too!’
He was taken aback. ‘Jakob thought it best,’ he stammered. ‘The tales belong to no one. They are a genuine expression of the spirit of the folk—’
‘Rubbish,’ Dortchen said.
He took a step away. ‘But, Dortchen—’
She pointed to her mouth. ‘I told you these tales. I told them. Does that mean nothing?’
‘The tales came from many places, many people … We thought it best—’
‘You! You thought nothing. You think nothing that Jakob does not think.’ Dortchen slammed the book shut, then flung it open again. ‘Look! All these pages of scholarly notes.’
She began to read out loud: ‘In Müllenhoff, No. 8, the manikin is called Rümpentrumper. In Kletke’s Märchensaal, No. 3, he is Hopfenhütel. In Zingerle, No. 36, and Kugerl, p. 278, Purzinigele.’ She looked at him scathingly. ‘You can list a whole lot of other names for Rumpelstiltskin, yet can’t find room to add one line that says “told by Dortchen Wild”. Four words – that’s all it would take. Yet in this book, in all these thousands of words, you couldn’t fit in another four.’
‘Dortchen, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it mattered.’
‘You’re a fool,’ she screamed. ‘A weak, spineless fool, in thrall to your brother.’ Vaguely, she was aware of Lotte and Jakob in the hallway, staring at her with shocked eyes. She did not care. She flung the book in Wilhelm’s face and turned and fled.
He did not follow after her.
There was no goose to kill for Christmas supper.
Dortchen went to the marketplace, hoping to buy a chicken or a duck. Most of the stalls were shut, and the ones that were open were selling useless things, like silver snuffboxes, gold watches on chains or silken petticoats. She was able to buy only a few old turnips, and a ham hock. Dreading her father’s anger, she trudged towards home.
A little girl ran past her, carrying the dangling body of a dead stork. ‘They’re falling from the sky,’ she cried. ‘Look, it’s frozen to death, the poor thing.’
‘Where?’ Dortchen shouted after her.
‘Down by the river,’ the little girl called back.
Dortchen hurried down the road, then went carefully down the icy steps under the bridge. The frozen river showed black under its dusting of snow. Leafless trees shivered in the wind. She heard mournful cries and the slow flapping of wings. Storks were flying overhead, on their long journey from Russia to the south. She gazed up at them, remembering how her father used to bring her here at Christmas-time as a child, to feed the storks with a bag of old crusts. Tears stung her eyes, and she rubbed them with her gloved hands.
An ungainly body came crashing down from the sky, landing with a twisted neck out on the ice. Heedless of the possibility of the ice breaking beneath her weight, Dortchen ran to claim it, racing other children who had been lurking along the riverbank. She reached it just before a small boy, who attempted to wrest it from her.
‘No, it’s mine!’ Dortchen cried, snatching it away. The boy kicked her in the shins but she hugged the stork close and limped away.
The bird was heavy in her arms, its head dangling down, and by the time she reached home her arms were aching. It felt wrong to pluck its long white feathers; the gaping pouch of its beak reproached her. But Dortchen turned her face away and persevered.
Church service that night was half-empty. Dortchen saw the Grimms, who all turned their faces from her. Dortchen did likewise. The Grimms lingered in the church afterwards, giving the Wild family time to walk home alone through the blowing snow. It was so cold that Dortchen’s skull ached and she found it hard to breathe.
‘What’s wrong, Dortchen?’ Mia whispered, slipping her mittened hand into her sister’s. ‘You look so sad.’
‘I’m wondering where Rudolf is tonight,’ Dortchen said. It was not entirely a lie.
‘I think he must be dead,’ Mia said miserably. ‘It’s been so long since we’ve had any word. Surely no one could survive a night like this?’
‘Knowing Rudolf, he’s probably singing by a fire somewhere, with a good bottle of wine and a fat roast goose,’ Dortchen said, trying to sound cheerful.
‘It doesn’t feel like Christmas,’ Mia said. ‘We haven’t a tree or anything.’
Dortchen hugged her close. ‘It’s still Christmas.’
It did feel strange to walk into th
e shadowy house without the mysterious smell of the pine forest rolling across them, and without the faint tinkle of the Christ child’s bells. The parlour seemed cold and dark without any lights or decorations. A handful of small presents wrapped in brown paper and twine were set near the cold hearth.
Louise sat on the couch, bouncing Marianne on her knee. ‘You Germans are very odd,’ she said. ‘Rudolf told me you were merry at Christmas-time. Is this what you call merry? Why can we not light a fire, at least?’
‘Is it you who must pay for the firewood?’ Herr Wild responded, lowering himself into his tall-backed chair.
‘Mia, my sweet, will you hand out the presents?’ Frau Wild clutched her shawl closer about her. ‘I’m afraid the Christ child could not bring much this year …’
‘You must make your confession first,’ Herr Wild said, as Mia ran to the parcels. ‘Kneel down.’
The sight of Mia kneeling at her father’s feet made Dortchen feel cold and shaky. She had to turn her face away. Slowly and reluctantly, Mia admitted to having stolen sugar from the pantry, and to vanity and covetousness.
‘You must try harder next year,’ Herr Wild told her.
‘Yes, Father.’
He turned to Dortchen. ‘Your turn. Kneel and make your confession.’
In great confusion and anxiety, Dortchen slowly got down to her knees, keeping as far away from her father as she could. She could not speak, so Herr Wild listed her sins for her. Lust and fornication. Lying and deceit. Disobedience and dishonour. Dortchen kept her head bowed, hot waves of shame rolling through her.
At last it was over and she could get up and move to the window. She opened the curtain to look through the crack at the white square outside, the lamps hanging above the doors of the shops blurring orange through the falling snow.
Louise protested at her father-in-law’s insistence that she, too, should confess. ‘I am French, and we have left such foolish superstitions behind us,’ she said airily.
‘You are German now,’ he told her. ‘Get down on your knees.’
So Louise gave Marianne to Frau Wild and knelt down. ‘Well, then,’ she began. ‘I confess to amazement at how poor and cold Cassel is, after all Rudolf told me. And to disappointment that he would leave me here all alone and go off to fight in this stupid war, and to some anger, too. But mon ami will soon be back with a mink coat for me, and we’ll move back to Paris, where they know how to celebrate Christmas properly.’ With a flounce of her skirts, she got up and took back her baby, shaking back her dark curls.
Herr Wild said nothing, though his eyes glinted with anger.
Dortchen took her package mechanically, expecting it to contain a lump of coal. It was soft, however, and rustled intriguingly. Drawing her brows together, Dortchen carefully untied the twine and unfolded the paper. Inside the package was a yellow silk dress, with tiny puffed sleeves and a low-cut bodice trimmed with golden beads. With trembling fingers she lifted it up. The beads rattled.
‘Ooh, look,’ Mia cried. ‘So pretty!’
‘Well, now I must confess to jealousy,’ Louise said. ‘Surely that must come from Paris? Why have you given it to Dortchen and not to me? I am your eldest son’s wife.’ She looked with dissatisfaction at her own parcel, which contained some knitting needles and unevenly dyed grey wool.
‘Oh, I want a dress too!’ Mia cried, throwing down her present of new leather gloves, which were plain but serviceable.
‘Where would she wear such a thing?’ said Frau Wild, a strange note in her voice. ‘Is she to go to a ball at the palace?’
Herr Wild stood up. ‘I don’t understand what all the fuss is about. A customer could not pay his bill and offered me some used clothes instead. I saw the dress was about Dortchen’s size and so accepted it. I want to hear no more about it. Are we not going to eat tonight? I’m hungry. Bring me my dinner.’
Dortchen folded the dress away in its brown paper and went to the kitchen. With a steady hand, she carved the stork and smothered it with gravy. She brought the meal to the dining room, put it down on the table and sat in her place, bowing her head as her father said grace. She did not look up as her father served the meal, nor did she respond when he said, in a disgusted voice, ‘This is the toughest goose I have ever eaten!’
Later, she took the dress and thrust it to the bottom of her clothes chest. The very feel of the silk repulsed her.
NO USE WEEPING
January 1813
Three days after New Year’s Eve, an emaciated figure staggered out of a snowstorm into the town of Cassel.
He was dressed in the ragged remains of a French soldier’s uniform, with a woman’s mink coat over the top. His feet were wrapped in bloody rags, and a red hand-knitted muffler was wound about his head. It was Rudolf.
He was the only man of the 8th Westphalian Infantry Corps to return from the Russian campaign. All the other Hessian soldiers were dead.
Two soldiers brought him to the apothecary’s shop on a litter, their faces pale and sick.
Dortchen could not recognise her handsome brother in this gaunt stranger with the straggling ginger beard. They lowered him to the floor.
‘Mia, we’ll need hot water, a lot of it,’ Herr Wild cried. ‘Stoke up the fire, get the kettle on. Louise, stop screaming. Get the boiler on. You, bring my son into the kitchen. We will need to get him clean. Mia, get the hipbath from the scullery.’
Obediently, the two soldiers carried Rudolf into the kitchen and laid him down before the fire. Dortchen hurriedly dragged the rag rugs out of the way. Her brother was so filthy that she did not want him touching anything that could not be easily cleaned. Louise sobbed and would not go anywhere near him. Mia struggled to bring the hipbath out of the scullery, and the two soldiers went to help her. They set it on the paving stones near the fire, then Herr Wild tipped them and showed them out.
‘Hot water,’ he called from the stillroom. ‘Hurry!’
The kettle was already on the fire, flames licking around its blackened base. Dortchen filled the biggest soup cauldron and hung it beside the kettle, and then rushed into the scullery to fill the boiler. Her hands were shaking so much that she had trouble lighting the fire beneath it.
Herr Wild was noisily clanking bottles together. He came from the stillroom into the kitchen with a great armload, which he piled onto the table. ‘Dortchen, get him stripped. I need to see if he has any wounds.’
Dortchen knelt beside her brother and gently unwound the grimy red scarf and threw it in the bucket. There were dead white patches of skin on his face, and purplish bruises. Next, she unwound the rags that bound his hands. To her horror, a finger came away with the rags and fell to the floor. Dortchen gasped and leapt to her feet, backing away, her hand to her mouth.
Louise screamed and kept on screaming.
‘Frostbite,’ Herr Wild said. He opened a drawer and rummaged through until he found some tongs, then used them to pick up the severed finger. It was black at the tip, as if it had been burnt, shading to purple and orange and then a strange, waxy yellow. He dropped the finger into a bucket and pushed it away with his foot. ‘You must be careful taking off his feet wrappings.’
Dortchen felt sick. She could not move.
Herr Wild glared at her. ‘Do not just stand there. Do you want your brother to die? We must get him warm and clean, and see what other damage there is.’
She took a slow step towards her brother, and then another. Mia was crouched by the hearth, sobbing, while Louise was still screaming. Herr Wild took a quick step towards his daughter-in-law and slapped her hard across the face. She jerked and gulped and stopped screaming. ‘Get out,’ he said. ‘You are only in our way. Mia, take Louise upstairs and tell your mother the news. Tell her to prepare herself. The loss of a finger may not be his worst injury.’
Still crying, Mia took Louise’s hand and led her out of the kitchen. Herr Wild shut the door behind them. ‘Dortchen, I need you to be strong. You’re a sensible girl. I know you won’t faint. You
must help me, or else we’ll be burying him tomorrow. Understand?’
‘Yes, Father,’ she answered, and she forced herself back to her brother’s side. The stink of him was almost overwhelming.
‘We must get him warm, but slowly,’ Herr Wild said, kneeling beside his son’s limp figure. ‘Fill the bath but make sure the water is only lukewarm. Put some thyme or rosemary in it.’
Dortchen hurried to obey.
‘He’s shivering – he has a fever, by the looks of him.’ Herr Wild gave Rudolf some willowbark and feverfew tincture, most of which ran out either side of his mouth. Gently, Herr Wild turned his head and lifted the matted ginger locks to examine the dead patches on his face. Most were on his forehead and cheekbones, above the edge of the muffler. There was also a nasty cut by his ear; its lips were suppurating with pus.
Dortchen’s stomach lurched. She turned away, grabbing a bunch of dried rosemary to throw into the bathwater. The sharp scent steadied her and she concentrated on filling the bath.
Herr Wild gave Rudolf some laudanum to drink, lifting his head. Rudolf was only barely conscious, his bloodshot eyes glinting through mere slits of eyelids.
‘Help me undress him,’ Herr Wild said. ‘Carefully, now.’
Rudolf was bundled in a long mink coat that was heavy with mud and filth. Carefully, Dortchen eased him out of it. Its lining was of rose-pink silk.
‘He said he had found a fur coat for Louise,’ she whispered. ‘This must be it.’
‘Probably saved his life,’ Herr Wild said, busily cutting away the rags of Rudolf’s uniform. ‘We’ll have to burn it all. Looks like he’s infested with lice.’
As the tatters of his clothes were eased away, Dortchen saw that her brother’s pale torso was covered in innumerable red spots, like angry fleabites. He shivered violently, then moved his hands weakly as if to try to warm himself.