Lotte, standing with Dortchen in the long queue for meat, said that she dreamt every night of food, and woke in the morning to find nothing to eat but a stale heel of bread that had to be divided between them all.
‘And it’s so cold. Last night, Ludwig chopped up the chairs and threw them on the fire just so we wouldn’t freeze. But now we have nothing to sit on.’
‘We have some old stools in the attic. Come and borrow them,’ Dortchen said, huddling her icy hands into her sleeves.
‘Ludwig will probably burn them too. He hates the cold. It means his fingers are so stiff that he cannot draw.’
And Wilhelm will not be able to write, Dortchen thought, her heart pierced with pity. She did not say the words out loud, though, and Lotte was always careful not to mention his name.
The passing of time had not made Dortchen’s heartache any easier to bear. She and Wilhelm took care never to be alone, though they were polite enough to each other when they met. They never spoke of the past, or their promises to each other. It was hard enough to keep body and soul together through these cold, lean years without weakening themselves with impossible dreams.
Rudolf suspected how Dortchen felt about Wilhelm; he had even once offered to scrape together a dowry for her. Dortchen knew that he needed a horse and buggy, however, so that he could make house visits. Horses were very expensive in the aftermath of the war. She had shaken her head and told him to keep his thalers for more important things.
‘I’m sure the girls would help,’ he had told her. ‘I know times are hard, but Gretchen’s husband seems to have come out of the war richer than ever, and you know Lisette wants to see you happy.’
‘Too much has happened between me and Wilhelm,’ she said. ‘It’s all dead between us.’
Rudolf had looked troubled but did not press her. Afterwards, Dortchen wept by herself in the scullery, afraid that she had spoken the truth.
In 1817 Mia had married a stout Englishman who cared nothing for her lack of dowry. She moved with him to Ziegenhain, leaving Dortchen to keep house for her brother. Dortchen was kept busy in the garden and stillroom, and Rudolf was quietly grateful for her help. It was not just Rudolf who needed her. Dortchen’s sisters were always having babies, so Aunty Dortchen was in great demand, to support the new mother and look after the older children. Sometimes she joked that she had no sooner unpacked her bag from one trip away when a letter would arrive from another sister, begging her to come at once.
In 1818 the von Haxthausens had visited Cassel, returning a few months later with their nieces, Jenny and Annette von Droste-Hülshoff. Everyone thought this meant that the family approved of a match between Wilhelm and Jenny. Although she was rich and he was poor, the family were generally good-hearted, and by all accounts Jenny pined with love for him.
Dortchen went to the Grimms’ apartment with her sister Gretchen to meet the family one hot summer’s afternoon. She could think of no excuse to stay away but sat at the back of the room, her head bent over Friedrich’s curly mop. Jenny was a sweet-faced young woman, and clearly in love with Wilhelm.
It was like a stab in the heart, seeing how her face lit up at the sight of him, and Dortchen had to turn away, her vision obscured by a mist of tears. She went blindly out to the garden and pinched off dead flower heads with her fingers, Friedrich hanging on to her hand. Lotte came out to join her, looking anxious, but Dortchen had recovered her composure and teased her about how she would soon have a sister-in-law, and a pretty, fashionable one too.
Lotte caught her hand. ‘He does not love her, Dortchen.’
‘Well, if he doesn’t, he’s a fool,’ she returned. ‘Anyone can see she is smitten with him, and you must admit it’d be an excellent match.’
‘Do you really not care?’ Lotte asked, searching her face with troubled eyes.
Dortchen turned away, saying lightly over her shoulder, ‘Oh, you’re thinking of that silly crush I had on Wilhelm all those years ago? I grew out of that long ago, my dear.’
Lotte stepped back. ‘I’m sorry, I thought …’
Dortchen smiled. ‘Do you think he’ll make an offer?’
‘Maybe he should,’ Lotte replied, and went back inside.
Dortchen blotted away tears with the edge of her glove.
As the weeks passed, she had tried to steel herself for an announcement of a betrothal. None came. At the end of the summer, the von Haxthausens took their nieces home and did not come visiting again. Dortchen could not help being glad.
She had not seen so much of Wilhelm and Lotte after that. Dortchen told herself it was for the best. As another year wheeled past, she had kept herself busy helping her brother and sisters, and told herself she was happy being of use.
‘I have such dreadful heartburn,’ Gretchen said, pressing her hand to the top of her distended belly. ‘And my feet hurt.’
Dortchen ordered some ginger tea for her, then eased off her slippers so she could rub her sister’s feet. Gretchen remained fretful, though, and did not want Dortchen to go. ‘It’s unkind of you,’ she told Dortchen, who was packing up her basket. ‘I’m all alone here and have nothing to do. Why can’t Rudolf make his own supper? Stay and play cards with me.’
‘I’m sorry, but I need to go,’ Dortchen said. ‘Poor Rudolf has had a long day in the shop, and I have to cook him supper. Besides, I want to be home before dark. The streets are dangerous right now.’
‘Why?’ Gretchen demanded.
‘People are harassing the Jews, throwing stones at their houses and at the synagogue, and beating them up in the street. They say there have been full-blown riots against the Jews in Frankfurt and Leipzig, and it’s only going to get worse.’
‘Well, what do they expect, when they charge such exorbitant interest rates?’ Gretchen replied.
‘People knew what the rates were when they borrowed the money.’
‘Yes, but it was a famine. People had to borrow money to feed their families. Now they face bankruptcy just trying to pay the interest.’
Dortchen thought it was not quite as simple as that, but she did not want to argue with her sister when she was so close to term. ‘I’ll come back and visit you tomorrow,’ she said, then kissed Gretchen’s powdered cheek. She put on her bonnet and gloves, and walked quickly through the streets, which were crowded with angry men and women. They were milling about Jewish homes and businesses, shouting, ‘Hep! Hep!’
Somewhere glass smashed. The crowd surged forward. ‘Hep! Hep!’ they shouted. ‘Down with the Jews!’
Dortchen kept her head low and quickened her pace, a drab figure in black among the gathering shadows.
A SHEATH OF ICE
August 1819
Later that evening, a servant brought a message for Dortchen, begging her to come to see Gretchen at once. Although it was already dark, Dortchen put on her bonnet and gloves and hurried through the streets to the French quarter, wondering what could be wrong. She carried some ginger tea in her basket, in case it was indigestion again.
Frau Claweson, the housekeeper, opened the door to her, her round face worried and upset. ‘Oh, Fraülein, thank heavens you’re here. Frau Schmerfeld has been taken mighty poorly. We’ve called for the doctor but he’s out at a house call and hasn’t come yet.’
‘Is it the baby? It’s not coming already, is it?’
‘I don’t rightly know. Maybe.’ Frau Claweson stood back to let Dortchen in.
To her surprise, Wilhelm was sitting in the front hall, his hat in his hands. He rose at the sight of her, colour coming to his pale cheeks.
She greeted him in some confusion. ‘What are you doing here, Wilhelm?’
‘I’ve come to ask Herr Schmerfeld for some advice,’ he answered. ‘About money, you know. He said I should come by tonight but he’s not home yet.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be back any moment,’ Frau Claweson said over her shoulder as she bustled back to the kitchen. ‘We’ve sent for him.’
‘Gretchen’s feeling unwell,?
?? Dortchen said. ‘I hope it’s not the baby coming early – she’s not due for another few weeks.’
‘Perhaps I had better go,’ Wilhelm said.
‘I’m sure there’s no need,’ she answered. ‘The heat is making her fretful.’
‘Surely she does not call on you at all hours of the day?’ Wilhelm glanced at the clock.
‘I don’t mind,’ she answered, walking towards the stairs.
‘You didn’t walk here, did you?’ he asked. ‘The town’s all in uproar. It’s not safe in the streets.’
‘The Jews simply want the Kurfürst to allow them the same freedoms they had under King Jérôme,’ Dortchen said. ‘You can’t blame them.’
‘No. God bless the Kurfürst, but he is rather old-fashioned,’ Wilhelm said. ‘The Jews are not the only ones who want a new constitution along the lines of Napoléon’s code. Even Jakob thinks the Kurfürst should make some changes, and you know he hated the code for throwing out all our legal traditions.’
‘I do know,’ she answered, smiling. ‘But I must go up. Gretchen wants me.’
‘You’re too good,’ he told her.
She shook her head and began to mount the stairs.
‘Will you wait for me, Dortchen? I’ll walk you home.’
‘You only live around the corner. There’s no need to walk me all the way back to the Marktgasse.’
‘I’d like to. Please.’
Dortchen shook her head and went on up the stairs, not looking back.
To her dismay, Gretchen was clearly in distress. Her face was drenched in perspiration, her ringlets hanging limply. She walked up and down, clutching her belly. ‘It hurts,’ she panted. ‘Oh, Dortchen, I think the baby’s coming early. Why isn’t the doctor here?’
Dortchen soothed her as best she could. Suddenly Gretchen gasped. Her blue silk dress was stained dark from pelvis to hem. ‘My waters have broken. Oh, God!’
‘No!’ Dortchen did not know what to do. She had never assisted at a birth. She rang the bell. ‘We need to get you to bed.’
‘The doctor still hasn’t arrived,’ Gretchen said irritably. ‘How can I give birth without the doctor?’
But give birth Gretchen did. It was quick, and bloody, and terrifying.
For Dortchen, time folded together like a black silk fan. She saw a door opening, and the loom of her father’s shadow. On your knees, for you have sinned. His thick fingers thrust inside her. The joints of her jaw cracked apart. Darkness swallowed light. Panic swallowed breath.
Gretchen was screaming but Dortchen could not help her. She had to get away. She ran to the door and threw it open. The housekeeper was outside, the doctor beside her. Dortchen pushed past them and ran down the stairs. She was scarcely aware of where she was. She needed air. She looked from side to side, sobbing for breath.
‘Dortchen!’
She hardly heard the voice. She ran down the corridor, looking for the door to the garden. Out she ran, into the warm, scented darkness. The step tripped her and she fell heavily, bruising her knees on the gravel.
‘Dortchen!’ The voice came from behind her. She looked up. Then Wilhelm’s arms were around her. He lifted her up and helped her to a stone seat nearby. ‘What is it? What’s wrong? Is it Gretchen?’
‘My father …’
‘What?’
‘My father!’ Sobs shook her and she clutched at his coat. Memories passed over her like the shadows of thunderclouds. She was shuddering so hard that her teeth chattered.
Wilhelm held her close, his hand smoothing her hair. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
Dortchen couldn’t control her tongue any more than she could control her skin and her nerves. ‘He … oh … he …’
‘Who? Your father?’
‘Yes. He … he …’ She could not breathe.
Wilhelm soothed her as if she were a child. ‘There, there. It’s all right. Put your head down. Just breathe.’ He pressed the back of her head, trying to make her put her face down between her knees.
But Dortchen could not bear it, and she shrieked and struck out at him blindly. She struggled away, and ran, and fell. Wilhelm tried to help her up but she cowered away, scarcely able to gulp enough air to sob.
‘What is it? What’s wrong? I don’t understand.’
‘He … he …’ Dortchen crouched in the darkness, her arms over her head, her chest heaving.
‘Your father?’ Wilhelm crouched down beside her.
She leant away from him with all her strength. ‘Yes, he … he made me—’
‘He made you do what?’ Wilhem’s voice was sharp.
She could not say the words. She could only struggle to catch her breath.
‘Dortchen, Dortchen, darling Dortchen.’ His voice was ragged. ‘Are you trying to say … Do you mean …’ He could not say the words either.
She remembered how she had tried to tell him once before, and how he had written down her words. ‘The king looked at his daughter,’ she said. ‘Her hair was as golden. He … he wanted …’ She could not go on.
‘Oh, God,’ Wilhelm said. ‘No.’
Dortchen could not breathe. Her lungs were on fire. ‘He wanted her,’ she said. ‘He took her.’
‘Oh, my lovely girl,’ Wilhelm said. ‘Oh, God.’
‘Don’t say that!’ Her words were as quick and cruel as a striking snake.
Wilhelm’s breath was uneven as her own.
‘I can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘Please tell me it’s not true.’
Dortchen was silent. Slowly, her head drooped. Sobs struggled in her chest. Wilhelm tried to draw her close but she pushed him away. He eased himself away, leaving space between them.
They sat there in the darkness, in silence, for a very long time. Gradually, her sobs quietened. She forgot how she had shrieked at him, and hit out at him, and felt only hurt that he did not seek to comfort her.
‘Is it true?’ he asked.
She nodded, then, realising he could not see her in the darkness, whispered, ‘Yes.’
‘That’s why … that’s why you turned so cold … and so strange?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve done something. I could’ve helped.’
She did not answer.
He got to his feet. ‘I don’t know what to say. It’s so hard to believe.’ He walked away, the gravel crunching under his boots. Then he walked back, paused, and walked away again. She sat still, exhausted. Eventually, he came back and put down his hand for her. She let him draw her up from the ground, let him sit her down on the seat, let him sit beside her, playing nervously with her fingers. She was numb.
‘How long?’ he asked.
She shrugged.
They sat in silence. There was no moon. The stars were bright, innumerable. The air smelt of roses.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ he confessed to her. ‘I feel I should seize a sword, strike your father dead …’
‘He’s already dead.’
‘Yes. But, Dortchen, you’re alive … you’re still alive.’
‘I feel dead in my heart.’
‘No. Don’t say that. Please.’
She did not answer.
‘So much makes sense now. A horrible kind of sense.’
‘I shouldn’t have told you. It doesn’t matter. It was all so long ago.’
‘Dortchen …’
She stood up. ‘I need to go. Gretchen needs me.’ She walked away as quickly as she could. Her limbs felt all wrong. Too long. Too heavy. Her head was light. Drunk.
She went back inside the house. The lamplight hurt her eyes. She could hear distant sounds. A high-pitched wailing. She followed the noise.
Gretchen was limp, lying in her bed. The sheets were stained with red. The doctor was trying to stop the flow of blood from between her legs. The housekeeper was holding a tiny bundle, jiggling it up and down. The bundle was screaming.
As Dortchen came in on unsteady feet, Frau Claweson thrust the bundle at her. It was a ti
ny, blue scrap of a thing, all screaming mouth and scrunched up eyes. Dortchen sank onto a chair by the bed, holding the baby up against her shoulder. It nuzzled into her, quietening.
Gretchen turned a waxen face towards her. ‘Why, Dortchen,’ she said. ‘Have you come? We need to go home to Father and Mother.’
Dortchen did not know what to say. She took her sister’s hand. Gretchen closed her eyes. Her hand was limp, and she did not respond when Dortchen squeezed it.
‘She’s lost too much blood,’ the doctor said. ‘I’m very sorry.’
Dortchen did not understand.
In her arms, the little blue thing wailed again. Dortchen gave it a knuckle to suck. The little blue thing concentrated all its energy on devouring it. The feel of its mouth on her knuckle cracked the sheath of ice encasing Dortchen’s heart. She felt it splinter with a sharp, physical pain.
Dortchen began to weep, and could not stop. She rocked the little girl in her arms, her tears dampening the soft tuft of flaxen hair upon the baby’s tiny skull. The doctor shook his head and drew the sheet up to cover Gretchen’s face.
‘I’ll look after her for you,’ Dortchen told her dead sister. ‘I’ll make up for it all, I promise.’
GOLDEN LEAF
August 1819
Dortchen tried to forget her confession in the dark.
Surely Wilhelm would not believe her.
If he did, how repulsed he must be.
How horrified.
How disgusted.
Whenever she thought about it, shame wracked her. She tried to pretend it had never happened.
Dortchen was well practised at such self-deceptions.
And Berthe took up all her time. Berthe – it meant ‘bright’. Such a big name for such a tiny scrap of a thing. Yet, like a lighthouse’s searching ray, Berthe lit up the darkness.
Dortchen did not go back to the shop after Berthe’s birth. There was too much to do. The baby screamed for milk that no one could provide. Dortchen sent a servant running to find a goat, and set another to make some pap from boiled water and a little rice flour so at least the baby had something to suck on. She had to wash and dress her dead sister, hang a cloth over her mirror, and take turns in sitting vigil beside her. Gretchen’s children were all distraught with grief and shock, and Herr Schmerfeld was struggling with his own sorrow.