The Wild Girl (31 page)

The gate opened into a narrow courtyard that smelt unpleasantly damp. An arched door led Dortchen and Old Marie into a corridor, with steps leading upwards. Through an open door at the end of the corridor, they glimpsed thin, bowed figures in grey uniforms breaking rocks in the yard outside. The shaggy-haired boy led them down the corridor, past bare, cold rooms in which people lay on narrow pallets, or sat at long tables unravelling old rope or sewing cloth together. The smell was horrible. It was all Dortchen could do not to cover her mouth and nose with her gloved hands. Old Marie reached into her basket and took out a posy of dried lavender flowers, and Dortchen gratefully buried her nose in it.

At last they reached the office, a large, comfortable room with a fire burning in the hearth and a tray with the remains of a large meal on the table. Dortchen was greeted by a portly man in a grubby waistcoat and his even portlier wife in an even grubbier dress.

‘Oh, what an honour, to have Herr Schmerfeld’s sister-in-law visit us,’ the warden’s wife simpered. ‘You’re simply too good.’

Dortchen explained their mission, and the warden’s wife shook her head doubtfully. ‘Frau Creuzer is wandering in her wits, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure you’ll get much out of her. Mumbles away all day, she does, but it never makes much sense. And she’s frightened of strangers.’

‘She won’t be frightened of us,’ Old Marie said comfortably. ‘An old biddy like me and a sweet young girl like Fraülein Wild? We’ve brought her some soup – I’m sure she’d like that. We’ll sit with her a while and have a chat.’

‘It’d cause bad feeling among the others, bringing her food,’ the warden’s wife said. ‘Best give me the basket, and I’ll share it among them all.’

Unwillingly, Dortchen did as she was asked. She saw the warden’s wife’s eyes light up as she rummaged through the basket; Dortchen was sure she would eat all the food herself.

‘She won’t say a word to you,’ the warden’s wife repeated, settling herself comfortably by the fire. ‘Afraid of adults, she is.’

Dortchen had a sudden idea. ‘Perhaps she would tell her tales to some children? Could some of the children from the workhouse come with us?’

Both the warden and his wife frowned. ‘They’ve got work to do,’ the warden’s wife said.

‘I’ll pay for their time,’ Dortchen said, drawing out her thin purse. Her mother had given her a few coins to spend in Marburg, but she had not yet had a chance to visit the shops.

‘Very well, then,’ the warden’s wife said, heaving herself to her feet. ‘Though I think it very odd.’

She rang a bell and a thin, stooped girl came to the door. ‘Call some of the brats, and be smart about it,’ the warden’s wife told her. Soon a small group of grubby, anxious children were brought to meet Dortchen and Old Marie. Many had bruises on their thin arms and legs.

The warden’s wife took them all upstairs to a long, gloomy room. Old ladies were lying on their pallets in rows, some still and silent, others rocking themselves and humming, or mumbling through toothless mouths. All were dressed in sack-like grey gowns and had bare feet. The warden’s wife led them to a bed near a window, where an old woman sat hunched, knitting with grey wool.

‘Frau Creuzer,’ she said. ‘Visitors for you. Be polite, now, and do as you’re told. I’ll be back soon.’

The old woman shrank away from the sound of her words, looking up with sunken eyes that were filmed over. Her thin grey hair hung in a plait down her neck, and she had barely a tooth left in her mouth. ‘Who’s there?’ she asked in a trembling voice.

‘Just another poor old woman like you,’ Old Marie said soothingly. She brought a chair from the wall for Dortchen, then sat down on the
bed, taking Frau Creuzer’s thin, blue-veined hands in her own warm, comforting grip. ‘My name’s Marie Müller, and I’ve come as companion to Fraülein Wild, who is sitting just here.’

‘We’ve heard that you tell the most wonderful stories,’ Dortchen said gently. ‘Would you tell us one?’

‘Tell you a story?’ the old woman said in disbelief. ‘What for?’

‘We have some children here from the workhouse,’ Dortchen said. ‘I know they’d love a story.’

‘Poor mites, they’re worn out from overwork. Won’t you tell them a lovely old tale to make them feel better?’ Old Marie said.

‘Please,’ one of the children said, settling down cross-legged on the floor.

‘I haven’t heard a story since my ma died,’ another piped up.

‘It’s been ever so long since I’ve heard one,’ another said.

The old woman hesitated, looking towards the sound of their voices.

‘We love old stories,’ Dortchen said gently. ‘If you tell me a story, I’ll write it down and then we’ll put it in a book, to be preserved forever.’

‘A story of mine, put into a book?’

‘Yes, I promise.’ Dortchen hoped she would not be wrong. Surely Jakob and Wilhelm would find a publisher for their book, even in these troubled times?

Old Marie reached into her pocket and drew out a small bag of sugarplums, which she pressed into the old woman’s hands. ‘A gift for you,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t tell anyone.’

The woman squeezed the bag in her hand and heard the tinsel paper crackle. Her face lit up; she took out a sugarplum and popped it in her mouth, chewing quickly. Her whole face changed. ‘I have not eaten a sugarplum since I was a child,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you.’

All the children were leaning forward, their eyes fixed imploringly on the bag of sugarplums. Old Marie smiled and pulled out another, which seemed to vanish among the dirty little hands in seconds.

‘Well, then, maybe for the little ones,’ Frau Creuzer said. Dortchen quietly opened up the small writing desk she had borrowed from Herr Schmerfeld and unscrewed the inkpot. As she dipped in one of the quills, the old woman began to speak.

GIRL IN ASHES

October 1810

‘There’s a story I always loved that my grandmother used to tell me,’ Frau Creuzer said in a wavering voice. ‘It was about a girl who was dressed in rags and had to work in the ashes, while her two stepsisters had everything that had once been hers.’

‘It sounds wonderful.’ Dortchen wrote swiftly, copying down what the old woman said. Frau Creuzer spoke so slowly, and stopped so many times, trying to remember what happened, that Dortchen was able to keep up quite well. On one or two occasions she had to look to Old Marie for help, unable to understand what the old woman had said, for her speech was greatly marred by her lack of teeth. Old Marie quickly translated for her, in a low voice.

‘The poor child had to do the most difficult work,’ the old woman said. ‘She had to get up before sunrise, carry water, make the fire, cook and wash. To add to her misery, her stepsisters ridiculed her and then scattered peas and lentils into the ashes, and she had to spend the whole day sorting them out again. At night, when she was tired, there was no bed for her to sleep in, and she had to lie down next to the hearth. Because she was always dirty with ashes and dust, they gave her the name Aschenputtel.’

Dortchen wondered how to spell ‘Aschenputtel’. It meant to wallow in ashes, she realised, and felt sorry for the girl in the story.

Aschenputtel’s stepsisters were invited to go to a ball, but Aschenputtel had to stay home and do the chores. ‘I know just how she felt,’ Dortchen whispered to Old Marie, who smiled in sympathy but put her finger to her lips. The children were all listening intently, their eyes fixed on the old woman’s wrinkled face.

Pigeons came and helped Aschenputtel sort the bad lentils from the good in a basin, but the stepsisters tore down their pigeon-roost when they realised Aschenputtel had watched the ball from its roof.

‘They’re so mean,’ one girl cried.

‘They were,’ Frau Creuzer said, ‘and they only got meaner.’

The next time the stepsisters went to the ball, they ordered Aschenputtel to sort out the bad seeds from the good in a sackful of seeds. Once again the pigeons came to help.

‘The bad ones go into your crop, the good ones go into the pot,’ the old woman chanted. ‘Peck, peck, peck, peck, it went as fast as if twelve hands were at work. When they were finished, the pigeons said, “Aschenputtel, would you like to go dancing at the ball?”

‘“Oh, my goodness,” she said, “how could I go in these dirty clothes?”

‘“Just go to the little tree on your mother’s grave, shake it, and wish yourself some beautiful clothes. But come back before midnight.”

‘So Aschenputtel went and shook the little tree, and said, “Shake yourself, shake yourself, little tree. Throw some nice clothing down to me.”

‘She had scarcely spoken these words when a splendid silver dress fell down before her. With it were pearls, silk stockings with silver decorations, silver slippers and everything else she needed. Aschenputtel carried it all home. After she had washed herself and put on the clothing, she was as beautiful as a rose washed in dew.’

Dortchen could see the glittering silver dress and slippers in her mind’s eye, and she imagined dancing in the arms of the prince under a thousand shining lanterns, till the clock struck the twelve notes of midnight. Her hand slowed as she imagined a prince with dark, curly hair and a thin, hungry face. Frau Creuzer was still talking, however, and she had to write quickly to catch up.

The same thing happened the next night, the old woman said, though this
time the little tree on Aschenputtel’s mother’s grave shook down a golden dress and golden slippers. Again she danced all night in the prince’s arms. But she did not know that he had commanded his servants to cover the steps with pitch to stop her from running away at midnight again. When she tried to escape, one of her golden slippers caught fast in the pitch and was lost.

The prince decided to find his lost love by searching for the girl whose foot fitted the tiny slipper. When he came to Aschenputtel’s house, her stepmother gave her daughters a knife and told them to cut off parts of their feet so that they could wear the slipper and win the prince’s hand. The eldest sister cut off her heel, but the pigeons called out and warned the prince.

‘
Rook di goo, rook di goo!
There’s blood in the shoe. The shoe is too tight, this bride is not right!’ the old woman said, holding her hands up near her mouth to mimic a bird’s beak.

The children all laughed.

The second stepsister cut off her toes to fit the slipper, but once again the pigeons revealed her trick to the prince.

‘The prince looked down and saw that her white stockings were stained with blood,’ the old woman continued. ‘The prince took her back to her mother and said, “She is not the right bride either. Is there not another daughter here in this house?”

‘“No,” said the mother. “There is only a dirty cinder girl here. She is sitting down there in the ashes. The slipper would never fit her.” But the prince insisted and so they called Aschenputtel, and when she heard that the prince was there, she quickly washed her hands and face. She stepped into the best room and bowed.

‘The prince handed her the golden slipper, saying, “Try it on. If it fits you, you shall be my wife.” She pulled the heavy shoe from her left foot, then put her foot into the slipper, pushing ever so slightly. It fitted as if it had been poured over her foot. As she straightened herself up, she looked into the prince’s face and he recognised her as the beautiful princess. He cried out, “This is the right bride!”

‘The stepmother and the two proud sisters turned pale with horror. The prince escorted Aschenputtel away. He helped her into his carriage, and as
they rode through the gate, the pigeons called out, “
Rook di goo, rook di goo!
No blood’s in the shoe, the shoe’s not too tight, this bride is right!”’

The old woman dropped her hands and turned her blind eyes towards them, smiling toothlessly. The children clapped, as did the old ladies lying in beds nearby.

‘Oh, what a lovely story,’ Dortchen cried, scribbling down the last few lines. ‘Wilhelm will love it.’

‘Do you know any more?’ Old Marie asked.

The old woman peered anxiously towards the door.

‘No one’s there,’ Dortchen reassured her. ‘No one’s listening except us.’

The old woman allowed herself to be persuaded to tell another story, about a golden bird and three brothers. Both Old Marie and Dortchen were familiar with this tale, though the toothless old woman told it a little differently. Dortchen wrote down her version faithfully; by now her fingers were covered in ink and her hands ached.

The warden’s wife came bustling in before the end of the story, and would have interrupted if Old Marie had not held her finger to her mouth warningly. The old woman must have heard her, though, for she began to gabble the story. Soon her words were incomprehensible.

‘I told you she was useless,’ the warden’s wife said.

‘She was not at all useless,’ Dortchen cried. ‘She told us a most beautiful story. Two beautiful stories. Herr Grimm will be so pleased.’

‘Well, then,’ the warden’s wife said, not looking pleased. ‘If you’ve finished … Frau Creuzer has work to do, and so do these worthless brats.’

Packing up her writing tools, Dortchen thanked the old woman as sweetly as she knew how. The old woman grinned at her and secretly popped another sugarplum into her mouth. The sound of her chewing followed Dortchen as the warden’s wife led her to the door.