The Wild Girl

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘The whole city was soon on fire,’ the newspaper said. ‘The heavens were lit red from horizon to horizon. The Emperor was forced to flee Moscow in the middle of the night. Behind him, unfortunate soldiers and citizens screamed as they were caught in the flames. The ancient city of the Tsars has been reduced to ashes, and with it much of the Emperor’s army.’

  Herr Wild lurched out of the room, knocking over his chair.

  ‘What is it?’ Frau Wild cried, her hand at her throat. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Dortchen could not answer her. It seemed to her that the end of the world truly had come. The omen of the comet had come true.

  ALMIGHTY FATHER

  October 1812

  ‘Dortchen! Where is that dratted girl? Dortchen!’ Herr Wild’s bellow sounded down the hall.

  Dortchen was in the kitchen, trying to put a meal together out of lentils, broad beans, and cabbage. She sighed, wiped her hands and took off her apron, then went reluctantly down the hall towards the study. There had been no letter from Rudolf, and the news in the morning paper was so bad that her father had once again spent the day in his study, drinking. She dreaded responding to his call, but knew that if she took too long he would suspect her of sneaking out.

  ‘I’m here, Father. What is it?’

  ‘I can’t take off my dratted boots.’

  Her father was sitting in his chair, an empty bottle and glass before him, the newspapers flung all over the floor. His frockcoat was unbuttoned and his cravat was askew, and he was doing his best to tug off his boots but failing in his drunken haze.

  ‘Pull them off for me,’ he demanded.

  Dortchen bent and tugged at his boot. It was stiff over his swollen foot, and she had to exert all her strength. At last it pulled free, but her father tipped over backward and came crashing to the ground. ‘Damn fool,’ he cried. He picked up the boot and flung it at Dortchen, hitting her hard on the side of the head. She cried out in pain.

  ‘Stupid girl,’ he grumbled, sitting up. ‘Pull off the other one.’

  Dortchen wanted to throw the boot at his head and tell him to take his own boots off, but she did not dare. She bent, pulled off the other boot, dropped it on the floor beside him and walked out of the study.

  ‘No need to be insolent,’ her father called after her.

  The day passed. Dortchen carried endless trays of soup and tea up and down the stairs to weeping women who would not eat. The chamber pots all needed to be emptied, the fireplaces cleaned and the ashes dragged out to the hopper. The horse, the cow, the pig and the chickens all had to be fed, and their stalls cleaned out. Dortchen was so exhausted that she could scarcely move.

  That evening, as the family sat down to a silent meal, her father threw his soup bowl at her, telling her it was pigswill and not fit for a working man’s dinner. The hot soup splashed her face, and the bowl clattered on the ground, spreading its contents all over the rug.

  Frau Wild protested faintly, and Mia looked at Dortchen apologetically. Dortchen cleaned up the mess and said nothing.

  The next morning, Herr Wild beat Mia for dropping the jug of breakfast ale. The jug was made of pewter and was not even dented, but he had punished his youngest daughter as if it had been the most precious crystal.

  Mia was red-eyed and sniffling on the way to church, wincing with every step. Dortchen walked beside her like an automaton. Herr Wild walked ahead, with Frau Wild, Louise, Dortchen and Mia following along behind anxiously. Marianne’s angry wail was muffled against her mother’s shoulder.

  The square outside the church was empty; they were late. As Herr Wild pushed open the heavy arched door, it scraped on the flagstones. Everyone in the church looked around.

  Dortchen saw Wilhelm gazing at her anxiously. ‘Is all well?’ he mouthed.

  She shook her head. Conscious of her father’s suspicious glare, she looked down at the ground. She had never wanted more to shelter in the warmth and strength of her lover’s arms, but she dared not even look at him again.

  She heard nothing of the pastor’s sermon. His voice was an endless drone. The scrape of boots on stone signalled to her when to stand and when to sit. She sang without knowing which was the hymn of the day, and turned the pages of her prayer book without glancing at the words.

  Her father did not drink that day, it being Sunday, but that only made his temper worse. Instead of skulking in his study, he stormed about the house, kicking over a basket of darning Mia had left in the hallway, and yelling at Frau Wild till she wept and ran to her bedroom.

  ‘Batten down the hatches, bad weather ahead,’ Mia said forlornly, but Dortchen did not have the heart to smile.

  She had to get away from the house. Gathering all her courage together the following morning, she went to the study and knocked tentatively on the floor.

  ‘What do you want?’ her father’s slurred voice asked.

  ‘Father, it’s me, Dortchen. I need to go to the garden. The fruit has to be harvested. It’ll drop and rot if I don’t go and pick it.’

  There was a long silence, then the door slowly opened. Her father peered at her through the gap with red, suspicious eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The fruit.’

  Dortchen’s breath gusted out in relief. ‘Can I take the pony trap?’

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I may need it.’

  ‘But, Father, I cannot harvest much if I have to carry it home in a basket,’ she protested.

  ‘You’ll manage somehow.’

  Dortchen was not prepared to argue with him. ‘Very well, Father,’ she said, backing away. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  It was a long walk out to the market garden, and Dortchen was tired. It was a relief, nonetheless, to be away from the house. The streets were virtually empty, without the usual crowds of noisy soldiers bargaining for beer and sausages in the marketplace. Many of the barrows were closed down, and those that were open were tended by women. There was little to be bought. A few limp carrots or dirty potatoes, a few small fish, a freshly plucked chicken dangling by its feet.

  The narrow, crooked streets of the Old Town gave way to the elegant squares of the New Town. Dortchen passed the grand residence of the Hassenpflugs just as the large blue door opened and two young men in shabby black coats and tall hats came out. The Grimm brothers.

  Tears sprang to Dortchen’s eyes and she hurried on, keeping her face averted. Her old jealousy of the pretty, clever Marie Hassenpflug stabbed her afresh. Wilhelm had time to visit the Hassenpflugs, did he, but no time to visit her? It was no consolation that Dortchen had warned Wilhelm many, many times not to come calling at her house. It was no consolation at all.

  As she reached the market gardens, she saw that many of the trees were already turning red. It was going to be a hard winter. She unlocked the high gate and went into the garden. It was quiet and peaceful; the only sound was the twitter of birds. Dortchen looked about, wondering what the most urgent task was. She could not carry much back to the house. She decided to harvest the plums, which were beginning to fall.

  ‘Dortchen.’

  She looked up, her sudden colour betraying her. Wilhelm stood in the gateway, his hat in his hand.

  ‘I saw you go past the Hassenpflugs with your basket and guessed you’d be here. Dortchen, you look so pale and sad. Is there bad news?’

  Dortchen got unsteadily to her feet. She held out her hands and Wilhelm came to meet her, drawing her close, clasping his arms about her waist. ‘Dortchen,’ he whispered. ‘What’s wrong?’

  She tried to tell him. ‘Oh, Wilhelm, I’m so afraid …’

  ‘For Rudolf? You’ve had no news, have you? If he was dead or injured, you would surely have heard.’

  She shook her head. She was unable to find words for what she feared. Once again, she tried. ‘My father …’ But it was impossible to speak, and she fell silent.

  Wilhelm tried to look into her face. She kept her gaze obstinately downwards. He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. ‘I do not like to see you so pale
and wan. Smile, Dortchen.’

  But she could not.

  ‘What can I do?’ he asked in distress.

  ‘Kiss me,’ she whispered.

  So he did.

  Dortchen and Wilhelm stood clasped together in the garden, the yellowing and reddening leaves all about them, the bruised scent of ripe plums filling the air.

  ‘I knew it!’

  An angry shout broke them apart. They turned, disoriented, their hands still woven together.

  Herr Wild stood in the gateway, a heavy cudgel in his hand. His face was red, and his eyes bulged with rage.

  ‘Sir,’ Wilhelm said, ‘you must know I wish to marry Dortchen.’

  ‘I’ll see you burn in hell first,’ Herr Wild responded, stumping towards them. His cudgel was raised threateningly.

  ‘Father, no!’

  It was no use. Herr Wild caught Wilhelm a heavy blow across the shoulders. ‘Seducer!’ he roared. ‘Libertine!’

  ‘No, sir.’ Wilhelm staggered but rallied himself. ‘I assure you, sir—’ Another blow caught him. ‘Herr Wild, there is no need … sir!’

  ‘Father,’ Dortchen sobbed, ‘leave him be.’

  He struck her across the face with his spare hand and she fell to the ground. When Wilhelm rushed to help her up, Herr Wild caught him a vicious blow across the temple. Wilhelm almost fell, only just managing to save himself. He pulled Dortchen up and tried to shield her behind him.

  Herr Wild was beside himself with rage, trying to beat Wilhelm with one hand and drag Dortchen away from him with the other. Foul words poured forth from his lips. ‘Whore! Slut! Fornicator!’

  ‘No, no,’ Wilhelm said in great distress. ‘Please, sir … If I could just explain … I love her.’

  This last comment enraged Herr Wild more than ever. He hit Wilhelm so viciously that he was beaten down onto one knee.

  ‘Go, go,’ Dortchen cried. ‘Wilhelm, please go. He’ll hurt you. He’s … he’s not himself. Please, Wilhelm, go.’

  ‘How can I go?’ he cried. ‘Dortchen, he’ll hurt you.’

  ‘No, no,’ she lied. ‘If you’ll just go, I’ll be fine. I’ll … I’ll talk to him. Please, Wilhelm, go.’

  He lifted both arms, trying to protect his head from Herr Wild’s flailing stick.

  ‘Wilhelm, you’re making it worse,’ Dortchen cried. ‘Please, please, go!’

  Wilhelm got to his feet and seized the cudgel from Herr Wild, then flung it away into the garden. ‘You’ll not hurt her,’ he cried.

  ‘She’s mine to do with as I wish,’ Herr Wild shouted back. ‘You have no right to tell me what I can and cannot do to her. Now, get out, else I’ll have you charged!’

  ‘Please, Wilhelm, just go,’ Dortchen said.

  He stood, fists clenched, his breath coming in wheezy gasps.

  She gazed at him imploringly. ‘Please.’

  Wilhelm bent, picked up his hat, dusted it off and put it on his head. ‘If you insist,’ he said to Dortchen. Stiffly, he bowed to Herr Wild. ‘I assure you my intentions are honourable, sir.’

  Herr Wild gave a contemptuous snort. Wilhelm went out the gate. As he shut it behind him, he said, ‘I shall call on you tomorrow, sir, so I can explain—’

  ‘Come anywhere near my house or my daughter, and I’ll sue you for an unprincipled seducer,’ Herr Wild snapped.

  Wilhelm’s face was white, the bruises on his temple and cheek a livid red. He bowed to Herr Wild and then to Dortchen, and left.

  ‘I knew you lied,’ Herr Wild said. ‘I knew you had an assignation with your lover.’

  ‘No,’ Dortchen said. ‘He saw me pass by … He came to see if all was well.’

  Her father struck her over the face again, as if lifting a hand to swat a fly. Dortchen fell at his feet, too sore and sick at heart to get up. All she could see was his boots, planted wide in the earth – and her sharp secateurs, glinting silver in the light. I could pick them up and stab him in his black, evil heart, she thought, and we would all be free of him.

  But her hand did not reach for them. She knelt, waiting for her father’s punishment.

  ‘Get up,’ he said. ‘Get in the pony trap.’

  She obeyed, picking up the secateurs. Something wet trickled down her cheek. She put up her hand and touched it – she was bleeding.

  They drove home in silence. Her father tried to master his breathing, but it came harsh and quick from his chest. Together, they unbridled Trudi and put her in her stall, then pushed the pony trap into the shed. Dortchen followed three paces behind her father as they walked through the autumn garden and into the kitchen.

  Old Marie was kneading bread. She looked up as they came in the kitchen. ‘Bless me, my sweetling, what has happened to you?’ she cried, seeing Dortchen’s bruised and cut face. ‘Are you hurt?’ Hurriedly, she wiped her hands on her apron and came clucking forward, her fat arms held out to embrace Dortchen.

  ‘Leave her be,’ Herr Wild said. ‘She’s only got what she deserved. Dortchen, come.’

  Numbly, she followed him down the hallway. She could hear Marianne screaming somewhere upstairs. Mia came clattering down the stairs at the sound of their footsteps. ‘Dortchen, thank heavens you’re home,’ she called. ‘The baby has the croup and I don’t know—’ Upon seeing her father, she fell silent and slowly backed away.

  Herr Wild led Dortchen into his study and pointed at the floor. She fell to her knees.

  ‘Pray to your Father, God Almighty,’ he said.

  She began to pray, a jumbled litany of half-remembered phrases and words. He sat in his chair, poured himself a large glass of quince brandy and watched her.

  Then he got up and began to walk around her, so close that his long boots brushed against her breast. She recoiled. He chose a switch from the wall and flexed it in his hands, then whipped it through the air so it sang. Then he sat down again and hitched his chair forward so that his knees were set on either side of Dortchen’s face.

  ‘You disappoint me, Dortchen,’ he said. ‘Fornicating with your lover while your brother is missing and quite possibly dead.’

  Dortchen looked up. ‘No, Father, I swear it wasn’t like that.’

  He hit her hard across the face with the back of his hand. She ducked down, hiding her face in her hands, trying to protect her head. He put one heavy hand on the back of her neck, forcing her face even further down. ‘Pray for deliverance from your sins,’ he commanded.

  Dortchen tried to lift her face, but he kept her head forced down. ‘Oh, Father, deliver us from evil,’ she gabbled. He struck her buttocks with the switch, cruelly hard, and she jerked forward involuntarily. Now her face was jammed into his groin.

  ‘More,’ he said. ‘Don’t stop.’

  She kept praying, and he continued to strike at her buttocks, forcing her face lower and lower, till she could feel the hard pole of his erection next to her cheek, pressing against her through the woollen fabric of his trousers. His legs closed hard about her neck, holding her fast. He threw down the switch and seized her folded hands, pressing them against his erection. He began to move her hands up and down, crying, ‘Pray, pray!’

  Her mouth was pressed hard against the taut wool, his knees holding her head in a vice. She squirmed to get away but he was too strong, too insistent. ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered.

  ‘Oh, God!’ he cried. He convulsed. She felt everything beneath her hands change, his pelvis bucking and twisting, the cloth of his trousers dampening against her mouth.

  He pushed her away so violently that she fell to the floor. ‘You disgust me,’ he said, standing and turning away from her. He poured himself a large glass of brandy and threw it down.

  ‘You will never marry,’ he told her. ‘No one will want a little whore like you.’

  She lay there, bewildered and frightened and ashamed.

  ‘Go on, get up – get out of here,’ he said. ‘Don’t you have work to do?’

  She got up, wiping her hand across her mouth.

  ‘Don’t try to see
him again,’ he said. ‘I’ll know if you do.’

  Dortchen went out of the study and down the hall. Mia was waiting for her. ‘Dortchen, you’re finished at last. The baby is sick, and Louise beside herself. Won’t you come and help?’ Mia’s voice was cross and accusatory.

  ‘Yes,’ Dortchen said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Your face looks sore,’ Mia said. ‘Did he hit you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dortchen said, and spoke no more.

  PRAYING

  October 1812

  It was late when Dortchen was at last able to drag herself to her bed. She was so tired that her eiderdown enfolded her like magic. She slept at once, despite the pain in her bruised buttocks and face.

  A creak on the stairs roused her. All was dark. The house was deathly still. Somebody fumbled at her door. Slowly, it swung open and candlelight pierced the darkness. Her heart pounding in sudden dreadful fear, Dortchen squeezed her eyes shut.

  She heard her father’s heavy footsteps, and could smell the reek of brandy and tobacco. He came and stood over her, breathing heavily. Then he sat on the edge of her bed. Putting the candle down on her clothes chest, he fumbled under the eiderdown. She felt his hand on the bare skin of her calf. Unable to help herself, she flinched away and cried out, then scrambled up and ran across the room.

  ‘Marie, Marie!’ she screamed.

  Old Marie’s door opened and the housekeeper looked out, her grey hair hanging in a long, skinny braid. ‘Sweetling, what is it? What’s wrong?’

  Then she saw the dark shadow of Herr Wild by the bed, the flickering candle behind him making him seem faceless. He was dressed only in nightgown, nightcap and slippers. ‘Sir,’ she faltered. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ he answered, slurring the words. ‘Dortchen … She was … having a nightmare. Go back to bed.’