The Wild Girl (41 page)

From ‘All-Kinds-of-Fur’, told by Dortchen Wild to Wilhelm Grimm on 9th October 1812

THE MARCH AGAINST RUSSIA

August 1812

Half a million soldiers, marching against the inexhaustible resources of the Tsar.

Thirty thousand men taken from the war in the Peninsula.

Twenty thousand men from Prussia.

Thirty thousand men from Austria.

Twelve thousand from Switzerland.

Twelve thousand from Württemberg.

Eight thousand from Baden.

Eight thousand from Hesse.

‘I don’t think there are eight thousand young men left in the whole country,’ Dortchen said, so sick with fear that she had to hunch over the cold hollow in the pit of her stomach. ‘Oh, Marie, how are we to raise so many?’

‘Don’t you fret, sweetling,’ Old Marie said, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows as she churned the butter. ‘The Emperor Napoléon says the war will be over in twenty days – and if anyone knows warfare, it’s him.’

‘Sweetling, sweetling,’ Mozart chirped as he hopped about on the floor.

Dortchen’s fear for Wilhelm was acute, but she could not confess it. No one must realise. With eyes downcast, she asked for permission to go to the forest in search of fallen acorns and beechmast, and reluctantly her
father allowed it. Dortchen plucked oak moss with trembling fingers and hid it deep in her basket, which was filled to the brim with every leaf and flower and lichen and mushroom that Dortchen could find. That night, she cast another spell for Wilhelm’s protection, determined to do all she could to save him.

Napoléon ruled most of Europe already. Would he never be satisfied? Would he not stop till all the young men were dead?

There was no one left to stand against him.

The English king was mad, and their prime minister had been shot dead. Their parliament was in turmoil. Their troops struggled on in Spain, with hundreds dying to defend a donkey track, and thousands dying to take back a ruined village. It was madness. And the English were now at war with the United States as well. It was impossible for them to hold out against Napoléon.

Elsewhere in Europe, everyone lay quiescent under Napoléon’s yoke, too afraid to try to throw it off. Only Russia remained unconquered, and Napoléon seemed determined to bring the Tsar to his knees, just as he had conquered all the other great rulers of Europe, from the Pope to the Austrian emperor.

Over the next few days, Dortchen felt such weariness in her spirit that she could scarcely find the strength to go about her chores. The day they held the conscription lottery, she found it hard to get out of bed. Her whole body ached, as if she were a hundred years old. Yet she got up and washed her face and neck and dressed and went downstairs, as she had done a thousand times before.

Everyone turned out to the Königsplatz, even Frau Wild, leaning heavily on her husband’s arm. As one name after another was read out, people gasped and sobbed and cried out. Young men turned pale. Their mothers wept and clutched them close. Sweethearts and young wives screamed and swooned. Babies wailed. Through it all, Dortchen stood cold and still as a statue, all her senses attuned to one name, one brief collection of syllables: Wilhelm Grimm.

Let them not say his name
…
Let them not say his name
…
Let them not say his name.

So Dortchen did not notice when another brief sequence of syllables was read out. ‘Rudolf Wild,’ the corporal called.

Dortchen’s mother staggered against her, clutching at her arm. ‘No, not my boy, not Rudolf,’ she moaned. It took a moment for Dortchen to understand. Her sister-in-law, Louise, was sobbing, the baby in her arms screaming. Rudolf stood silently, his lips white, his fists clenched. Herr Wild swayed, reaching blindly to the lamp post for support. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘The medical examiner promised me …’

Dortchen felt cold. All the way back to the shop, supporting her mother’s tottering steps, she thought numbly how she had taken oak moss from the forest and made a spell to keep her lover safe. Not one thought had she spared for her own brother.

‘I could mix powdered holly berries into some ale for you,’ she said to Rudolf that night, as they began the weary business of preparing him for the long march to Russia. ‘It’ll make you vilely ill. Surely they won’t make you march if you have dysentery?’

Rudolf smiled grimly. ‘I’m not so sure about that. Father’s doctor friend said there would be no exemptions; the Emperor must have his army, and anyone seeking to escape the conscription lottery would be thrown into gaol. I’d rather take my chances marching to Russia than rot in prison. Perhaps I’ll make my fortune. They say that Napoléon’s troops returned from Egypt absolutely laden down with loot.’

‘Mind you bring me back some furs,’ Louise said, bringing a pile of freshly laundered shirts and collars into the room. ‘I’d like a mink stole and muff, and some sables.’

‘Your wish is my command,’ Rudolf said gallantly, clicking his heels together and bowing. ‘I’ll bring some back for you too, Dortchen.’

‘Just bring yourself back safely,’ she said, then she hurried out of the room so he would not see how close she was to tears.

The next few days were a whirl of washing, sewing, shopping and packing. It was awful to see Rudolf dressed in the white breeches, black gaiters and blue cutaway coat of a French soldier, a shako perched rakishly on his golden curls, though Louise clapped her hands in delight. ‘You look so handsome.’

‘I have to say, the uniform is darned uncomfortable,’ Rudolf replied. ‘These gaiters press so hard on the back of my knee that I can hardly walk, and the buttons dig in. And have you ever seen such ugly shoes?’

‘You wouldn’t want boots with heels and a pointed toe when you have to walk thousands of kilometres in them,’ Dortchen said.

‘They’ve been drilling us,’ he said. ‘We’re meant to walk seventy-six steps a minute, unless the Emperor is in a hurry, in which case we have to walk a hundred steps a minute. And if he’s in a real hurry, we have to do so for up to fifty kilometres a day.’

‘I have a dreadful feeling the Emperor’s in a hurry,’ Dortchen said. ‘I’ll pack a spare pair of shoes for you. Surely you’ll be wearing the leather thin with so much walking.’

‘I wish I could be in the cavalry and have a horse to ride,’ he grumbled.

‘Father can’t afford to buy you a commission,’ Dortchen said. ‘He says you’re costing him a fortune as it is.’

Apart from the uniform, Rudolf had to purchase a heavy bayonet, which was taller than he was, a gun-cleaning kit and packets of cartridges. He was also given a sturdy pack made from cowhide to carry on his back. Dortchen filled it with spare clothes and shoes, a sewing kit, boot wax, a little saucepan, a flint-box, some warm underwear and a thick red muffler that she had knitted for him.

‘But it’s so hot,’ Rudolf said irritably.

‘It’ll be cold in Russia,’ Dortchen said.

‘I’ll be home before the weather turns,’ he said, trying to smile.

She pressed it upon him earnestly. ‘Please, Rudolf. Just in case.’

Dortchen went to market with a basket of cabbages and a jar of acorn coffee to barter for a bag of flour so she could cook some hard tack for him, a rather tasteless biscuit that would keep for months. When she came home, she saw the rag-and-bone man in the alley. He was buying sheaves of paper from Wilhelm, who smiled wearily at her.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, her voice high and shrill as she recognised the scrawled and ink-blotted pages as Wilhelm and Jakob’s manuscripts.

‘He’s offering good money for old paper,’ Wilhelm said. ‘We’ve transcribed all the stories neatly now. We don’t need the original manuscripts – they’re just piling up around our sitting room.’

‘The army needs the paper to make cartridges,’ the rag-and-bone man said, grinning toothlessly at Dortchen. He was a ragged old man, with black fingernails, and grime so deeply engrained in the pores of his skin that he looked like a Nubian. ‘Paying good money for paper, they are.’ He waved the manuscripts at her. ‘Going to Russia, these papers are, to kill Cossacks.’

It made Dortchen feel ill, to think of those marvellous old stories being used to wrap gunpowder and iron shot to kill people. She gazed pleadingly at Wilhelm, but his mouth was set firm.

‘We need to eat, Dortchen,’ he said.

She nodded, though her heart was sore. The rag-and-bone man heaved the manuscripts into his handcart, tipped his battered hat at Wilhelm and went trundling away.

Wilhelm put his hand on Dortchen’s arm. ‘I’m sorry about Rudolf.’

Tears filled her eyes. ‘I can’t believe it. Father’s begged for an exemption but the conscription board is adamant. The Emperor must have men to feed his filthy war machine.’

Wilhelm cast a quick glance around. They were hidden in the shadows of the alleyway. He bent his head and kissed her. ‘He’ll come back, Dortchen. They say the war will be over in a matter of weeks. You know the Emperor. He’ll march in, trounce them and set up a new kingdom. I wonder who will be the new Tsar of Russia? Napoléon’s running out of relatives.’

Dortchen did not smile. ‘Maybe it will be over that quickly, Wilhelm, but at what cost? Rudolf is going to have to shoot people dead, or be court-martialled and executed himself. He could be wounded or killed. Oh, Wilhelm, I’m so afraid. I never thought he’d be chosen. I thought Father would make sure of that.’

‘I’m sure he tried,’ Wilhelm answered, but it was no comfort to her.

‘I need to go in … There’s much to do,’ she said, stepping away. He kissed her again, quickly, surreptitiously, but for once she did not melt into
his embrace and kiss him back. She hurried away, blinded by tears.

That night, at dinner, everyone sat around the table and tried to eat their soup, which seemed thinner and more tasteless than ever. Rudolf pretended to be excited. ‘I’ve always wanted to travel the world,’ he said.

‘Fool,’ his father replied.

Louise wept into her handkerchief. She was the kind of girl who looked pretty even when she cried. Rudolf put his arm about her and kissed her, and she turned her face into his shoulder and cried harder. Dortchen thought how awful it must be for her, to be foisted upon a stern and unwelcoming father-in-law and a sick mother-in-law, with a baby that screamed incessantly, and now her husband was marching off to war. She rose and went to the sideboard, where the lavender water was kept, and dribbled some onto her handkerchief. She pressed it into Louise’s hand and was rewarded with a faint smile.

The next day, when the Hessian battalions marched out, the roads were lined with weeping women and stoic fathers. Dortchen and her family waved and called till Rudolf was out of sight, but they could not bear to leave till nothing was left of the Hessian battalions but a faint plume of dust on the horizon.

Twenty days passed without a letter from Rudolf. The newspapers were filled with the black squares of the censors’ rule, and Dortchen could only wonder what bad news lay beneath. It was strange to pray with all one’s might for the French forces to win, after so long wishing for their defeat.

In August the newspapers reported the French had won a great battle at Smolensk. Outside the church that Sunday, everyone rejoiced at the news, but Jakob said curtly, ‘It’s interesting that they report the victory at Smolensk but not the defeat at Polotsk.’

‘What? What’s that? A defeat?’ Herr Wild caught Jakob’s elbow.

Jakob removed himself from Herr Wild’s grasp. ‘Yes, a battle was fought and lost the same day. I’ve read the dispatches from the front.’

Herr Wild’s shoulders drooped and he turned away. He gestured curtly to the women of his family and they all obediently hurried to his side. ‘No time for gossiping,’ he said sharply. ‘Work to be done.’

A letter came a few days later, in Rudolf’s untidy scrawl. ‘All we do is march and march,’ he wrote. ‘You would not believe how poor and miserable the land is. The Russians are burning everything as they retreat, so that we march through blackened fields and burnt-out villages. It means we cannot scavenge for food, so we’re all hungry. I never thought I’d be glad of all that hard tack Dortchen baked me. Love to all, and give baby Marianne a kiss from me.’

‘What about a kiss for me?’ Louise cried, tucking the letter away in her bosom. ‘German men are so ungallant.’

By the end of August, the newspapers reported that one hundred and fifty thousand Grand Army soldiers had been lost – to sickness, hunger, exhaustion and desertion – without more than the occasional quick skirmish being fought. Some had shot themselves, it was said in the market, rather than keep on marching.

‘I saw the Emperor,’ Rudolf wrote. ‘I was surprised how fat he was. Obviously some food must be getting through, not that I or any of my comrades have seen any.’

On 8th September, news came that a great battle had been fought at the small village of Borodino. Fighting had begun at dawn and had continued without respite all day. It was, people said, the bloodiest battle ever fought. More than seventy thousand men had died.

It was impossible to take in. So many deaths. More people than lived in all of Cassel.