The Other Einstein(13)

Mama didn’t answer, a long silence that signaled her return to submission. Papa spoke for them both, more calmly. “We will get her the education that her fine mind deserves. And I will teach her an iron will and the discipline of mind. It will be her armor.”

Iron will? Discipline of mind? Armor? This was to be my future? No husband. No home of my own. No children. What about the hopeful ending of “The Little Singing Frog,” where the prince sees the beauty within the frog daughter’s ugly exterior and makes her his princess, clothing her in golden gowns the color of the sun? Was this not to be my fate? Didn’t I deserve a prince of my own, no matter how horrible I was?

I ran out of the house, not bothering to mask the thuds of my ungainly hobble. Why should I? Mama and Papa had made clear that it was my limp that defined me.

? ? ?

I had grown quiet, thinking about the past. Helene released my hand and took me by the shoulders. “You do see, don’t you, Mileva? That your limp does not make you unmarriageable? Or limit you in any other way? That you need not be tied to such old-fashioned beliefs?”

Looking into Helene’s clear blue-gray eyes and hearing the conviction in her steady voice, I agreed with her. For the first time in my life, I believed that—maybe, just maybe—my limp was irrelevant. To who I was, to who I could become.

“Yes,” I answered with a voice as steady as Helene’s own.

Helene let go of my shoulders, picked up the brush, and resumed the painful work of untangling my hair. “Good. Anyway, why should we even worry about marriage? Even if you wanted to get married, why would you? Look at our group—me, you, Ru?ica, and Milana. We will be four professional women with busy lives of our own, here in Switzerland with its tolerance of women, intelligence, and ethnic peoples. We will have one another and our work; we need not follow the traditional path.”

I considered this for a moment. Her statement seemed almost revolutionary—a bit like Mr. Einstein’s description of a bohemian—even though it was a future we had all been marching toward. “You’re right. Why should we? What’s the point of marriage these days? Maybe it’s something we don’t need anymore.”

“That’s the spirit, Mileva. What fun we’ll have! By day, we will work as historians or physicists or teachers, and by night and weekends, we will play our concerts and go for hikes.”

I imagined the idyllic life Helene described. Was it possible? Could I really have a happy future full of meaningful work and friendships?

Helene continued, “Shall we make a pact? To a future together?”

“To a future together.”

As we shook hands on our pact, I said, “Helene, please call me Mitza. It’s the name used by my family and everyone who knows me well. And you know me better than almost anyone.”

Helene smiled and said, “I’d be honored, Mitza.”

Laughing over the day, we finished with each other’s hair and readied for dinner. Unruly hair addressed and arms linked, Helene and I strode down the stairs. Deep in an animated debate about which of the rotating courses of entrees would be served that evening—I craved the creamy white wine and veal dish Zürcher Geschnetzeltes, and Helene was longing for something simpler—we were late in noticing Mrs. Engelbrecht standing at the bottom of the staircase, waiting for us. Or, rather, me.

“Miss Mari?,” she called up, her displeasure evident, “it seems you have a caller.”

The sound of a throat clearing came from behind Mrs. Engelbrecht, and a figure stepped out from her silhouette. “Pardon me, ma’am, but I am a classmate, not a caller.”

It was Mr. Einstein. Violin case in hand.

He had not waited to be asked.





Chapter 5


May 4, 1897

Zürich, Switzerland

“Gentlemen, gentlemen. Is there not a single one among you who knows the answer to my query?” Professor Weber strutted across the front of the classroom, delighting in our ignorance. Why a teacher derived such glee from his students’ failures was incomprehensible and disturbing to me. Being called a gentleman did not trouble me nearly as much. Months ago, I had become inured to Weber’s regular slights, whether they be remarks about eastern Europeans or his insistence on referring to me as a man. I only wished Weber’s lectures were like those of other professors, like oysters cracked open to reveal the most lustrous of pearls.

I knew the answer to Weber’s question, but, as usual, I hesitated to raise my hand. I glanced around, hoping someone else would answer, but every one of my classmates—including Mr. Einstein—had his arm glued to his desk. Why wasn’t anyone raising his hand? Perhaps the unseasonable heat was making them languorous. Unexpectedly hot for spring, even the opening of the classroom windows did not stir a breeze, and I saw Mr. Ehrat and Mr. Kollros pushing the limpid air around with makeshift fans. Perspiration beaded on my forehead, and I noticed that my classmates’ suit jackets were stained with sweat.

Why was it so hard to raise my hand? I’d done it several times before, although not easily. I shook my head slightly as a recollection took hold of me. I was seventeen, and I had just left my first physics class at the all-male Royal Classical High School in Zagreb, where Papa managed to get me admitted after my time in Novi Sad, despite a law prohibiting Austro-Hungarian girls from attending high school, by applying successfully to the authorities for an exemption. Relieved and thrilled with my first day—where I ventured to answer the instructor’s question and got it correct—I floated out of my classroom. I had waited until the room nearly cleared so the hallway was empty. A man came behind me suddenly and pushed me down another more dimly lit hallway. Was he in such a rush that he didn’t see me?