The Other Einstein

by Marie Benedict

  “Maybe if you speak to Weber on my behalf again? See if he would send along more flattering letters?” he asked, reaching for my hand. Weber and I were in weekly contact with the work on my dissertation.

  “Johnnie, you know I would do anything for you. But I don’t think we should risk it.” Albert knew well that I couldn’t cajole Weber on his behalf anymore for positive recommendations that he didn’t want to give. Weber was in control of my professional destiny too, so I had to keep relations civil. Reminding him of any continued ties to Albert was sure to undercut my hard-won good standing and my ability to pass the finals this summer, particularly since Weber was the head of the panel that judged the rather subjective oral exams. And if Albert couldn’t secure a post, I was determined to become employed. I needed to remove at least one of his parents’ many objections to our union.

  Sighing heavily, Albert dropped my hand and returned to puffing on his pipe. I knew better than to try to tease him out of this state. When he first began to receive rejections, he treated it like a joke, even a source of bohemian pride. But when the pile increased and he’d been turned down for physics professor assistantships at the University of Göttingen, the Istituto Tecnico Superiore di Milano, the Leipzig University, the University of Bologna, the University of Pisa, and the Technical College in Stuttgart, among many others, it was no longer funny.

  “The German schools are rife with anti-Semitism. That may well be another factor.” He offered another explanation, one he’d only hinted at before. He liked to think of himself as nonreligious, regardless of his heritage, even though he knew others didn’t share this notion.

  I nodded, for again, this was accurate. Anti-Semitism was rampant throughout Germanic educational institutions. Still, it didn’t explain his string of Italian rejections, but I wouldn’t dare point out this inconsistency.

  The usual amused crinkle disappeared from around his eyes. An uncomfortable silence settled on the table. Uncomfortable for me at least. I never knew what to do when Albert’s mood grew this black.

  I glanced around the room, trying to distract myself with its extravagant decor, its curlicued chairs and marble-topped tables. The hour was odd, somewhere in between lunch and dinner, and the café was largely empty. The white-coated waiters stood in an orderly but relaxed line against the back wall, looking relieved that the café wasn’t bustling.

  “Maybe if I was free to go where I like,” Albert muttered, almost to himself. Almost.

  I stared back at him, stunned. Too stunned to speak, in fact. Was he talking about me? Was he actually suggesting that I’d put some geographical limitation on his search that gave rise to his rejections? Or that I’d made some other sort of demand that was compromising him? How dare he? I had offered him unbridled support and the freedom to seek a job wherever he liked; I told him I would follow. I had even turned down an unsolicited job offer from a former instructor to teach at a high school in Zagreb, because Albert didn’t want to live in eastern Europe. He deemed it too far away from the heart of scientific developments. I agreed because I knew he found the notion of following me for a job humiliating, especially when he couldn’t find one himself. And throughout it all, I’d suffered the brunt of his frustration in silence.

  I’d never yelled at Albert before, and now, when the words finally came, they emerged as a whisper. Not as the roar I felt inside. “I have never stood in the way of your career—”

  “Albert? Miss Marić?” A voice interrupted me. I turned away from an astonished Albert to see Mr. Grossman. Because he’d been the very first of our class to secure a job as a teaching assistant, he was possibly the last person Albert wanted to see. “I say, what are you two doing here? This is far from your usual stomping grounds at the Café Metropole.”

  Albert wasn’t one for displaying his weaknesses to anyone but me, so he assumed a pleasing expression, stood up, and grasped Mr. Grossman’s hand as if there was no one else in the world that he’d rather see. “Good to see you, Marcel. Miss Marić and I happened here after a stroll, but what brings you to this unlikely spot?”

  Mr. Grossman smiled but said nothing about finding us here, alone, so far from the school grounds; I suspected that he’d long known about our relationship. He then explained that he had a bit of free time before a social call in the neighborhood and stopped in for an ale. We invited him to join us. Inevitably, as social convention required, the talk turned to his new role as the teaching assistant to Polytechnic professor Wilhelm Fiedler, a geometer. Even though Albert’s inquiries seemed enthusiastic, I could see how forced they were and the toll they took upon him.

  The conversation slackened, and out of politeness, Mr. Grossman asked, “Miss Marić, I know that you decided to sit for the exams next July and are undoubtedly busy studying, but what of you, Albert?”

  “My dissertation, of course,” Albert said hastily.

  “Of course,” Mr. Grossman answered just as hastily, sensing Albert’s discomfort with the question. Something made him risk the topic again. Perhaps he knew of Albert’s situation and how desperate it had become. “I only ask because my father just mentioned to me that his friend Friedrich Haller, who’s the director of the Swiss Patent Office in Bern, might be looking for an examiner.”

  “Hmm,” Albert said, feigning calm. Even disinterest.

  “I don’t know whether you’ve secured a permanent position yet—”

  Albert interjected, “I have several posts for which I’m still being considered.”

  I wanted to scream at Albert. What was he doing, not leaping at this chance? He couldn’t afford to play games. My future was at stake too. Damn his pride.

  “I assumed as much,” Mr. Grossman said, then gingerly continued, “The patent office job isn’t a position in which you’d use theoretical physics, of course, but you would certainly have cause to utilize physics in a very practical way as you considered the inventions that sought patents. It would be an unconventional—even unorthodox—use of your degree.”

  With a single word—unorthodox—Mr. Grossman had offered Albert a way to preserve his honor. Brightening, Albert said, “You’re right, Marcel. The position would certainly be unconventional. But then, I’ve sought out unconventionality. Perhaps it’s just the thing.”

  “Wonderful,” Mr. Grossman said. “It would be a great relief to my father’s friend Mr. Haller to have a solid choice. I’m not certain exactly when this examiner position will become available, but I’m sure my father—whom you’ve met—would be willing to recommend you for the position.”

  Albert caught my eye and smiled. And in that moment of fresh hope and possibility, I forgave him.

  Chapter 15

  May 3, 1901

  Zürich, Switzerland

  The patent office position didn’t come quickly enough. As the Swiss government proceeded through their methodical, clocklike machinations of considering Albert, necessity required he find a job. Any job really, as his parents had cut off the support they promised only for his university years. He submitted his name for tutoring positions, but nothing surfaced until a distant Polytechnic friend, Jakob Rebstein, wrote, asking if Albert would substitute for him as a mathematics teacher at a high school in Winterthur while he went on military duty. We were giddy.

  Even though the job was only temporary, we celebrated and ordered a bottle of wine at Café Schwarzenbach, a rarity for us. Heady with the job and the wine, we giggled about the future, truly lighthearted for the first time since early fall. I allowed myself to forget about the months of mercurial behavior and harsh words, where I never knew whether I’d see my loving Johnnie or the brooding Albert. After all, with the tension of the job search behind him—for a few months at least—I felt certain my Johnnie would return permanently.

  There, in the warmth of the night air and the haze of the alcohol, the idea of a Lake Como getaway was born.

  “Imagine it, Dollie. The famed
waters of Lake Como lapping at our feet, and the snowcapped Alps wrapped around us.” He wriggled a little closer to me but not close enough to raise the eyebrows of the proper Café Schwarzenbach patrons. “Just the two of us.”

  “Alone.” I breathed in the idea, scandalized and magnetized all at once. I couldn’t recall ever being alone with Albert, except in a public place or in the pension parlor. In neither venue were we ever truly alone.

  “No Mrs. Engelbrecht.”

  I giggled. “I can’t fathom kissing you without the worry of her unexpected appearances in the parlor. That woman creeps as silently as a cat.”

  The crinkles around Albert’s eyes deepened; I loved this Albert. This was the man with whom I first fell in love, the one who had been missing most of this past school year. “Maybe she’s so quiet because she’s not quite human. A ghost or some sort of spirit perhaps. After all, Engelbrecht means bright angel.”

  I giggled again and ran my fingers through the long coil of hair that fell over my shoulder. In honor of the occasion, I tried a new, relaxed coiffure, one I’d seen other young women sport. Instead of my usual tight chignon, I wove my hair into a loose twist on the nape of my neck and very intentionally coaxed a single, thick curl out of the updo and arranged it over my shoulder.

  “What do you think, Dollie?” Albert asked, lightly touching that same curl.

  I stalled. “You mean whether Mrs. Engelbrecht is a cat or a ghost?”

  “You know what I mean, Dollie,” he said, sliding his hand around my waist under the starched whiteness of the tablecloth. “What do you think of Lake Como?”

  I didn’t know what to say. Part of me longed for a romantic escape with Albert, where we could flee from the restrictions of Zürich. But part of me was scared. I knew what the trip would entail. We had waited so long to take such a step. Perhaps it was best if we didn’t dare to take it just yet.

  By my silence, Albert sensed my conflict. “Just think about it, Dollie. It might ease our separation, however temporary. It might be the bridge to our new life together.”

  But Lake Como never came up again. Not in the harried days of packing before Albert left for Winterthur, when he’d left toothbrush, robe, and comb behind. Not in the abbreviated farewell in the train station, where an unexpected encounter with a family friend from Berlin dampened our ardor. He didn’t mention the trip, and I let it drop, a little relieved.

  Yet within days of his arrival in Winterthur, he wrote me about Lake Como. Begging me to meet him there, he professed his love, calling me by all my nicknames—Dollie, sweet little sorceress, and the like. Alone at the Engelbrecht Pension—Helene had moved to Reutlingen with her new husband, Mr. Savić, and Milana and Ružica had finished their studies and returned home—I was susceptible to his pleas. I knew that if Albert were standing before me and uttering those words in person, the choice would be so much simpler. One glance into his fox-brown eyes and I would have no choice but to say yes to the trip, no matter how mercurial he’d been in the months that he hadn’t been able to find work.

  If Albert were here, I wouldn’t hesitate to ignore the damning note I received from Papa the day before, the one questioning my honor, and accusing me of casting sramota, or shame, upon my family that would last for generations if I went to Lake Como. Why had I even told him? Papa, worried that I would “give Albert my shirt”—my innocence—in Como, had informed me that he would no longer support my studies if I went away with Albert. How could my parents think I cared so little for my honor and for theirs? Yet how could I ignore Papa’s threats?

  But Albert was not here to embolden me to go to Como. With him went the external source of confidence he provided. The choice was mine alone.

  What decision should I make?

  I had penned two distinct letters—two very different responses—and I spread them before me. Each path was fraught with its own pleasures and perils. Which letter should I send?

  I smoothed out the letters’ wrinkled surfaces; they’d grown worn from my constant perusal over the past few hours. Did I really think that, by reading and rereading the letters, I could glean some sort of divine signal about which to send? Hours later, no sign from the heavens had arrived, of course, and I was still no closer to a decision about what to do.

  I read the two letters for the hundredth time. In the first, I prettily refused Albert’s invitation to Como, hinting at objections from home. Should I send this letter and deny myself the pleasure to which I’d been looking forward? What would happen to our relationship if I did not go? He had referred to the trip as a bridge to our new life, after all. Would Albert interpret my refusal as a rejection of him? Our relationship had been in such a transitional state lately, I was worried.

  I read the other. Dutifully, I laid out my travel details and sketched out a rough itinerary. I couldn’t help but smile at the professions of love that spilled out from its pages. These words revealed my true self, not the person bound by fear and convention.

  I tossed the letters down on my desk. How could it be that I wrote both of these letters? It seemed incredible that I could feel both of these emotions so strongly and simultaneously. Longing and surrender. Duty and forsaking. But I did.

  I rubbed my temples and paced my pension bedroom. What was I going to do? Did I dare to pick up Papa’s letter again to help me decide? I didn’t think I needed to see the actual letter to remember his hateful words: sramota. Shame.

  What would Helene advise? I wished she were still here to talk it over with me. She would sit down across from me on my bed and, with kindness and strength, help me make a wise choice. A modern decision, not one dictated by Papa’s old-fashioned Serbian thinking, but still very protective. I could almost hear her advice on my lamentations that an impending separation from Albert would kill me or her guidance on my impatience about whether he and I would ever reach the point when we could profess our love before the whole world. She would pat my hands and urge me to “bear it with courage.”

  I thought about our parting nearly six months ago, in early November, when Helene finally left Zürich to marry Mr. Savić. I had awoken before dawn to say farewell before she took her train to Reutlingen, where she and Mr. Savić would be living. Her bags packed and stacked at the bottom of the steps, Helene looked small as she waited in the parlor for her carriage. When Mrs. Engelbrecht stomped off to find out why the carriage was delayed, I padded down the stairs in my nightgown and robe.

  We embraced. “I will miss you terribly, Helene. I’ve never had a friend like you, and I never will again.”

  “I feel the same, Mitza.” She broke from my arms to look into my eyes. “I’ve never stopped regretting that I broke our pact. Even in my happiness with Mr. Savić, it looms darkly.”

  “Helene, please don’t let that old pact ruin even a second of your bliss. We have both broken from it now, haven’t we?”

  “Yes,” Helene said wistfully, “but I was first. And I wonder what might have happened to both of us if I’d stayed the course. If I’d decided to pursue my career instead of marry.”

  “Helene, I’m pleased with both of our choices.” I took her by the shoulders and, in mock seriousness, said, “Now, I’m going to give you the advice you’ve given me time and again. Remember to live in the moment. This is your moment with Mr. Savić. Please embrace it. And I will do the same with Mr. Einstein.”

  We embraced one last time, promising to always stay in close touch by letters and visits, and then she walked out the door.

  Would she urge me to live in the moment and head to Como? Or would she suggest that I bear our separation with courage for a little while longer? At least until we were married. I could not guess, and I didn’t have the luxury of time to inquire.

  I felt utterly alone. My family was furious with me. My friends had moved on. Even Albert’s future was unsure once his teaching position ended in a few months’ time, and I knew what path his
mother wanted him to take. One without me. I shivered at the thought of the solitude I’d long assumed would be my fate.

  Perhaps, having been part of a complete unit, I suffered the halving more deeply. I could almost hear Albert whisper words of love in my ear, that he felt half a person when we were apart. His words had lodged into my soul, spoiling forever the poetic vision of myself as the solitary intellect that I’d carried around for years. Because I felt the same.

  I knew what path I would choose.

  I grabbed one of the letters from my desk and quickly sealed it into an envelope. Without allowing myself another second to reconsider, I marched down the stairs of the pension. Ignoring the call from a parlor maid that breakfast was being served, I pushed open the front door and advanced toward the post and my future.

  Chapter 16

  May 5 through 8, 1901

  Lake Como, Italy

  A rose-infused dawn crept over the mountainous Alpine backdrop as my train neared Como. In luminous stages, the landscape began to reveal itself. The deep blue waters of the legendary Lake Como were enveloped by emerald-green hillsides and villas and villages so picturesque they seemed to be painted by Renaissance master Titian himself.

  The overnight journey from Zürich had taken hours, and I should have felt tired. But I didn’t. To the contrary, I felt excited, as though I was stepping over the crumbling remains of my past life and crossing the threshold into my real existence.

  The train slowed as we pulled into the station, and I peeked out the window. Would Albert actually be there? My letter noted the time of my arrival, but given his propensity for lateness, I didn’t dare hope he would be waiting. I had already prepared myself for lingering over a cup of coffee in the station café until he arrived.

  Chugging car by car into the vaulted, airy station, my suspicions proved true. An empty platform with an equally empty café greeted me. No one else seemed to be present at this early hour other than a lone ticket-taker in the barred ticket window.