CASSEL
The Kingdom of Westphalia, June 1812–January 1813
The wise princess said her father the king must first get her three dresses: one as golden as the sun; one as silver as the moon; and one as sparkling as the stars. Then she asked her father for a coat made from all kinds of fur, from every kind of animal in the kingdom. A thousand animals were caught and flayed to make the coat, and the three dresses were made, golden as the sun, silver as the moon, and as sparkling as the stars. The king said they would be married the next day.
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 hig
h 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.
‘What of my boy?’ Frau Wild wept. ‘Oh, merciful God, please let him have survived.’
The newspaper was half-black, as if stained by smoke and blood, rather than the censors’ ink. Dortchen’s father folded it, laid it neatly by his breakfast plate and went to open a fresh bottle of quince brandy. For the first time Dortchen could remember, he did not open the shop. He sat in his gloomy study, the shutters drawn, and drank his way through the bottle. Dortchen had to do her best with any customers who came; she was unwilling to rouse her father from his stupor but did not want to turn away anyone who was in need of help.
Every day the family waited anxiously for the post to arrive, but there was never anything but bills. Louise and Dortchen went to the army barracks to beg for news, but got only a shrug from the man behind the desk. ‘We do not have names yet,’ he said. ‘It’ll be some time before all the dead are identified. With some, it’s impossible.’ He made an expressive gesture with his hands, like a bomb blowing up. ‘We will never know.’
Frau Wild stayed in her bed, the shutters drawn, her eyes staring blankly before her. She ate very little, only the spoonfuls of soup that Dortchen brought to her mouth, and the occasional sip of tea. She rarely spoke.
Louise was far more voluble. She wept noisily, bewailed her fate, begged for news, then screamed with despair at the lack of it. She paced the floor, she complained, she demanded, and she gave contradictory orders. At times she squeezed her little girl so close to her breast that the baby screamed. At other times she thrust her into Dortchen’s arms, sobbing, ‘Ah, my little one. I cannot bear to see her! It hurts too much. Take her away, take her out of my sight. Let me have some peace.’
Dortchen, Mia and Old Marie did their best to keep everyone fed and the machinery of the big house grinding along, but all carried the weight of fear and uncertainty on their shoulders.
Herr Wild, meanwhile, drank alone in his study.
At last, a letter came from Rudolf. ‘I have seen hell,’ he wrote. ‘The smoke from the cannon fire was so thick it looked like a volcano erupting. The ground was piled high with the dead and dying, as high as my waist. I did my best to help. We had to chop off many men’s arms and legs. We didn’t even have any brandy to give them, let alone laudanum. I was drenched in blood and gore by the end
of it, and we had a great pile of severed limbs behind us, still wearing boots and gloves as we had no time to remove them. We had no food or water to give the injured, nor any medicines, and we had to rip up the shirts of the dead to make bandages. Surely the war must be won now. Surely we can come home.’
‘At least he’s alive,’ Dortchen said, trying to comfort her weeping mother and sister-in-law. ‘He’s not hurt. And he’s doing his best for the wounded. That has to mean something.’
Frau Wild wiped her eyes. ‘When will this war end? Are we never to have peace?’
‘France has been at war for as long as I’ve been alive,’ Louise said. ‘Why do people keep attacking us?’
‘You keep attacking us!’ Mia cried.
‘Not at all,’ Louise answered coolly. ‘We are only defending our hard-won freedoms. Austria and Prussia and England all attacked us first, and Spain and Russia joined in. If they had left us alone, the Emperor would never have sought to subdue them.’
‘Yes, he would have!’ Mia’s face was crimson with rage. ‘He’s a tyrant and a bully and a despot. He wants to be king of the world!’
‘Not just a mere king,’ Louise answered. ‘Emperor of the world. And if Russia surrenders, he will be.’
‘The newspaper says the Tsar has lost half his army at Borodino,’ Dortchen said. ‘Surely he must sue for peace now?’
But the Tsar did not surrender. The Russians continued to retreat, burning their land every step of the way, all the way back to Moscow. The French marched after them.
On 14th September, Napoléon and his army entered Moscow. Surely now the Tsar must surrender, Dortchen thought. Please, let the Tsar surrender! But the Tsar did not surrender.
‘Moscow burns!’ the headline read the next day.
Dortchen read the newspaper over her father’s shoulder as she served breakfast. The retreating Russians had set their ancient city on fire, the article said. They had burnt shops, grain stores, factories, warehouses and arsenals – anything that might have been of use to the French. Russian soldiers had opened wide the doors of all their prisons and insane asylums, spilling criminals and madmen into the streets. The exhausted soldiers of the Grand Army had found themselves fighting desperate, violent men whose only chance of escape was to kill all who stood in their way.