Half Life

by Jillian Cantor

  “Widow’s pension?” I laugh bitterly. “I am much too young for that.”

  Jacques nods, agreeing.

  “And do they think I won’t work any longer?” To be thirty-eight years old and to be a widow, to think that I should live the whole rest of my life and not be able to work. Pierre and I have left so much still undone in the lab, work with our radium unfinished. Who will finish, if not me? “I don’t want a pension,” I say. “I’ll support myself. But I need the lab. They cannot take away the lab space from me.” To lose Pierre and my work? It is too much; it is just too much.

  Jacques pats my shoulder lightly, understanding. He is one of the kindest men I have ever known, aside from Pierre, and Papa, and his father. He will try and help me with anything I ask of him. “What do you want me to tell them, Marie? What will make you happy?” he asks gently.

  Happy is a funny word. And as soon as Jacques says it, he must judge that it’s the wrong one because he puts his hand to his mouth. There will be no happy going forward. There will be important work to do. There will be science. And now I will do it alone.

  “I want his job,” I tell Jacques. “I want them to give me his teaching position. His laboratory. I don’t need the pension. Just the salary he was making so I can support my family. And I will earn it by doing the work he was doing, myself.”

  Jacques considers it for a moment. “You know they have never hired a woman to teach there before.”

  I nod. Of course I know. “But no woman ever won the Nobel Prize before I did either,” I remind him.

  BY THE MIDDLE OF THE MONTH IT IS SETTLED; JACQUES HAS convinced them. I will take Pierre’s position at the Sorbonne, his lab space, and ten thousand francs a year of salary.

  Jacques leaves to go home to his family in Montpellier, and Bronia takes the train back to Poland, her family. And then it is just me and Dr. Curie and the girls. Our house on boulevard Kellerman, where Pierre and I lived together for so many years, feels too big, too empty, too quiet.

  “Shall I go too?” Dr. Curie says softly one night as we sit together in the parlor, after he has gotten the girls to go to sleep.

  “Go?” I am shocked by his question. I have not considered it before.

  “Jacques said there is room for me in Montpellier.”

  Of course. Dr. Curie was only here because of his son, and now his son is gone. And what am I to him but a Polish woman, unrelated by blood? He has another son, with a French wife, and two more grandchildren in Montpellier. “You want to go to Montpellier?” I ask him.

  He frowns, puts his head in hands. Then rubs his eyes. He is tired, and he is sad, and it has never been so clear to me that he is an old man as it is in this very moment. “I want to do whatever you want me to do, Marie,” he finally says.

  I cannot imagine continuing on without him. Who will look after the children while I work? I can hire someone, of course, but it wouldn’t be the same as their grand-père. “I want you to stay with us,” I say. “The children need you. I need you.”

  Dr. Curie lifts his head, smiles now.

  “But I want to move,” I tell him. “I cannot live in this house any longer without him.”

  Marya

  Paris, 1906

  Hela’s baby girl was born in the middle of the night on the third of May, two weeks after I arrived in Paris. The baby came out pink and screaming, aided in delivery by Hela’s father-in-law, Dr. Curie, who still practiced medicine though he was getting up in years. He himself had tears in his eyes when he handed Hela her baby for the first time, and as Hela was already forty years old, and his Pierre was still unmarried, perhaps Dr. Curie had long believed that he might never have any grandchildren, up until that very moment when he held her in his hands.

  I patted at Hela’s forehead with a damp washcloth, staring down at my new niece in her arms. The baby had a tuft of pale blond hair, pink cheeks, and stunning blue eyes, like Jacques’s and Pierre’s. “She’s beautiful,” I said, and for a moment, I was transported back to Klara’s birth, those overwhelming feelings of warmth and love and gratefulness rising through the haze of pain as I’d held her for the first time. Would I ever feel anything as wonderful as that again in my life?

  Hela’s labor had been long and painful, going on for nearly twenty hours. I was exhausted now just from being by her side, being awake all these many hours. And maybe that was what I was feeling now. Exhaustion, not nostalgia. Besides, I hadn’t seen Klara for nearly two days. She was downstairs with her uncle Jacques and Pierre, who were both waiting somewhat impatiently for the baby’s arrival. They had taken turns knocking on the bedroom door every two hours, asking if it was time yet. Not yet! I finally told Jacques around midnight last night. I will come and get you as soon as it is, I promise.

  Oh, Jacques! I remembered again now, and I stood.

  “Where are you going?” Hela moved her arm to reach for me, sounding desperate as the baby let out another cry, reminding me of the Nowaks’ sheep. We would sometimes go to their farm on the outskirts of Loksow, where we could buy our milk and eggs cheaper than in the city. And Pani Nowak was so kind to Klara, always letting her pet the sheep. “Marya.” Hela tugged on my sleeve. “Don’t leave me.”

  “I promised to tell Jacques as soon as the baby is here,” I reminded her. “He was checking in for hours, desperate for news. Let me go get him so he can meet his daughter.”

  She hesitated for a moment, then relaxed her grip and nodded. “But you will come back?” she said.

  “I will,” I told her.

  “I don’t know what to do with her.” Hela’s voice broke, sounding tired, worried. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to take care of her.”

  Hela lived in an expansive house, in a beautiful and free city. She had money, a very kind French husband. And she had fulfilling work in a scientific laboratory that had even won her prizes. But when it came to having a baby, we were all the same. Hela’s eyes welled with tears, of exhaustion or pain or fear.

  “Hela, darling, none of us know what to do. You’ll figure it out,” I promised, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “I’ll help you.”

  I SENT JACQUES UPSTAIRS TO MEET HIS DAUGHTER, AND I WAS so exhausted, I stretched out on the couch in Hela’s parlor, allowing my eyes to close for just a moment.

  “Mama!” Klara’s small voice erupted in my ear, and I jolted awake, unsure how much time had passed since I’d lain down, minutes or hours.

  “Good morning, mój mały kurczak,” I said, though I was not sure whether it was still morning or not. She giggled, the way she always did when I referred to her as my little chicken, a nickname that had stuck since birth. And I grabbed her in a hug, pulled her onto my lap on the couch and buried my face in her hair to cover her with kisses. She smelled like honey and dirt, and I imagined her uncle and Pierre had let her play in the garden and also plied her with treats.

  “Oh, there you are, ma petite.” Pierre’s voice floated into the parlor, followed by his footsteps. His suit was wrinkled, his hair disheveled, and I was reminded that he had been awake for hours, too. But here he was, so very pleasantly greeting my daughter.

  “Thank you for watching her,” I said.

  “The pleasure was all mine. We had fun, didn’t we, Klara?” Klara nodded, burrowing into my chest, shyly. “And we have just met the baby upstairs, Marya. She is very tiny. Much too tiny.” Klara lifted her head to nod in agreement. Klara saw her older cousins in Zakopane at least once or twice a year, but this was the first cousin younger than she, her very first experience with a baby. I felt a little sad that I had slept through it.

  “Her toes are too small, Mama,” Klara said.

  I laughed. “No, my love. She is a perfectly normal-size baby. She will grow, and before you know it she will be your size.” I kissed Klara again on the forehead.

  “Did Hela tell you they decided on a name?” Pierre asked. I shook my head. As of two days ago, before the labor hit, she and Jacques had not been able to agree. “Ah well, I wil
l let Hela tell you then. Come, Klara, let’s check on the sparrow’s nest in the garden. There are eggs,” he said to me. “We are counting on them to hatch before you return to Poland.” He held out his hand for Klara, and she stood and took it willingly.

  I watched the two of them go, yawned, and stretched before I stood. I walked back upstairs. Jacques sat in a chair by the bed, the baby asleep in his arms, and Hela sat up in bed, looking more like herself. Perhaps she had gotten some rest too, or at least she had combed her hair back into a neat bun, and her color was more regular.

  She smiled at me, seeming more at ease than when I’d left her. “There you are,” she said.

  “Sorry, I was so tired. I sat down for a moment and fell asleep downstairs.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” she said. “It was a long, exhausting day and night, and you stayed with me through all of it. Thank you.”

  “Of course I did. You’re my sister,” I said. She smiled at me. “Pierre told me you decided on a name?”

  “Yes.” She clapped her hands together gently, so as not to wake the baby. “Marie Sophie Curie. We named her after you, Marya, with her middle name after Jacques’s maman.”

  “Me?” I felt stunned. Why would Hela and Jacques do such a thing? Surely Bronia was more deserving, if they were to choose a family name, as Bronislawa had also been our mother’s name. And Bronia’s daughter, who we all called Lou as a nickname, was given the name Helena at birth: Hela’s name. “You are making a mistake,” I insisted.

  “Marya. Sweet, dear Marya.” Hela reached for my hand. “So strong and so beautiful. Look at you, in our native country, raising your wonderful daughter while educating so many young women.”

  I blinked back tears at Hela’s words, wondering if they were true. If that was really the way my sisters saw me. It wasn’t the way I saw myself, saw my life, as it compared with the two of them, both of whom had doctoral degrees. Hela was making real contributions to science, and Bronia was healing sick people in Zakopane. And I was still poor, without an advanced degree, and living in a small apartment in Loksow. “I really don’t think . . .” I stammered.

  “You, my sister, are a revolutionary,” Hela said. “And that is exactly who we want Marie Sophie to grow up to be.”

  A FEW WEEKS WENT BY, AND KLARA GOT OVER THE SIZE OF little Marie’s toes. Or maybe her toes were already growing too fast, her life as a newborn slipping away quickly, as it had with Klara, too. I could barely remember those early days now, though they hadn’t been all that long ago.

  Hela had trouble nursing. Marie was losing weight, and Dr. Curie suggested a wet nurse, an idea which first made Hela sob uncontrollably, and then, once she was hired and Marie began growing, made Hela sigh with relief. In the beginning of June, Hela returned to the lab with Jacques, and I stayed with Klara during the day.

  Only until we find an acceptable nanny, Hela insisted.

  But I quite enjoyed her baby smells, and her baby toes, and her baby cuddles, and I did not feel in any rush for Hela to find someone else. Besides, Dr. Curie showed up many weekdays to spend time with his granddaughter and insisted I go out, enjoy the summer in France, the gardens and the sites with Klara.

  When Kaz wrote me to ask when I might be coming home—I had already delayed my train ticket twice—I wrote back that Hela needed my help still. I consoled myself with the fact that it was only partially a lie. Kaz wrote that he missed me and Klara desperately, and I told him we missed him too. Klara missed him and asked about him often. But I was busy in Paris, surrounded by my family and by the beauty and culture of the city. And except for when his letters came, or when Klara asked, I didn’t remember to miss Kaz very much at all.

  ON SATURDAYS IN JUNE, I TOOK BICYCLE RIDES WITH PIERRE. He brought Jacques’s old fixed-up bicycle to my sister’s house on boulevard Kellerman, with the intent that I could use it to sightsee with him, to ride and learn the city firsthand from a native Parisian.

  “Goodness,” Hela exclaimed, eyeing the rusty old frame. “I can give you some francs to hire a carriage instead.”

  “Your sister enjoys this,” Pierre insisted to Hela, who stared at me, eyebrows raised.

  “I do,” I acknowledged. “I don’t even own a bicycle in Poland, and besides, the streets are too narrow to ride with all the carriages in Loksow, I’d be killed.”

  She shrugged, not at all understanding the appeal. She preferred riding a carriage, even over walking, because she claimed walking required too much of her attention to stay alive on the way to her destination. She preferred to think problems through in her head while someone else got her from place to place. But I quite enjoyed moving myself, pushing hard against the pedals until my legs ached and I felt the wind tangling my hair.

  One Saturday near the end of June, Pierre offered to show me the Bois de Vincennes, a spectacular park in the middle of Paris. He pointed in the right direction, and I pedaled out ahead of him, my hair coming loose from my bun, blowing back behind my shoulders as the wind whipped around my face.

  “Slow down,” Pierre called from behind me. But he was laughing.

  I was breathless and sweating, but I pedaled and I pedaled like fire. Past the gates of the park and the blossoming cherry trees. Until we neared the water, and I slowed down.

  I hopped off, lay the bicycle on its side, and sat down by the edge of the lake, resting my sweaty face against the cool edge of my sleeve. Pierre was a moment behind me, and when he stopped, he pulled a bouquet of white daisies from his bicycle basket, then held them out to me, like a prize for reaching the lake first. I took the flowers and our fingertips touched, sending a current of warmth up my hand, my entire arm.

  “Tell me more about your experiments,” I said, lying back against the edge of the lake, half closing my eyes, holding the flowers to my chest.

  Pierre had already regaled me last Saturday with a tale from his small corner of Jacques’s and Hela’s laboratory. He had become obsessed with Becquerel’s rays this past year, and theorized that there was an undiscovered element inside the pitchblende Hela and Jacques were studying. He’d even gotten astonishing results after placing it in an ionization chamber he’d fashioned himself out of used grocery crates. But Jacques thought the readings must be wrong, that Pierre was a touch crazy, and Pierre did not have the funding to further the experimentation on his own.

  “You should’ve seen the readings, Marya,” he said now, his voice far away. “The radioactivity was higher than anything I’ve ever seen before.” I nodded. “What would you do next if you were me?”

  I liked feeling that he truly believed that I could wrap my mind around everything he was sharing with me, and that he was asking for my advice, that somehow we were equals, though I was only self-taught in physics and chemistry and had read up on the latest research only when Hela sent the papers to me. “Well,” I said. “Is there a way for you to isolate this new element? People cannot deny what they can see and touch themselves, can they?”

  “Not even Jacques,” he said softly. Then he added, “I don’t know. It would be a laborious undertaking. I only have a small space in the laboratory, and I’m not as young as I used to be, you know?”

  I smiled. “None of us are, are we? But you have to try, Pierre. If you really believe you have happened upon a new discovery, this new . . . element. You have to try. For the sake of scientific advancement.”

  He stroked his beard with his fingers, lay back against his elbows, and stared out across the lake. Neither one of us spoke for a little while, and then suddenly out of nowhere, Pierre said, “Perhaps you could always stay in Paris?”

  I laughed a little, held the flowers to my nose, inhaling their intoxicating scent.

  PERHAPS I COULD ALWAYS STAY IN PARIS.

  I imagined it in my head at night, lying in bed, in the moments before drifting off to sleep.

  What would I do here? At thirty-eight, and having Klara, I was too old, too busy mothering, to get my degree at the Sorbonne now. Perhaps I could help Pierre i
n the lab, or, assist Hela and Jacques. When they spoke of their work at dinner, I could only truly understand the half of what they were doing, even though I nodded along as if I understood it all. They would have no need for me, untrained and unskilled for their experiments.

  I could learn, though. I still loved to learn.

  And how would Kaz fit in to my imagined life? He could work on publishing Hipolit’s research here as easily as he could in Poland, but he did not speak French, and I did not think he could get a teaching job here without that. And we would not have money to live on, without him having a job.

  But we did not need money, in this imagined life. My fantasy life was a life of flowers and sunshine and bicycle rides. A life with all the kindness of the Curies and no worry about food or money, or the revolution in the streets outside my Polish apartment.

  IN THE BEGINNING OF JULY, A LETTER CAME IN THE POST FOR me from Agata.

  The revolution was ongoing in Poland, yet things had changed in the past week. The school strike was finally over, and women were now legally allowed a higher education. After all this time, all these years. I could hardly believe it! The news made me so excited, I felt it deep inside of me, a lightness.

  Hurry back, Agata wrote. We can build our women’s university out in the open now. There is so much to be done, Marya!

  And as quick as my Parisian fantasy had come to me, it disappeared. Hela had named her daughter after me, a revolutionary, whom she admired for educating women in Poland. I could not be that woman if I stayed here, if I daydreamed my life away in Hela’s guestroom.

  I hugged and kissed Hela and Jacques and baby Marie goodbye. Pierre and Dr. Curie were back in Sceaux, where Dr. Curie had come down with a summer cold and Pierre was looking after him. I thought about stopping there, on the way to the train, but it wasn’t on the way at all. It was, in fact, quite out of the way, and besides I did not want Klara to catch a cold before our trip. “Tell Pierre and Dr. Curie we said goodbye,” I told Hela instead, and she promised she would.