The Other Einstein(18)

“Yes, Mileva,” Milana concurred, “the piece sounded hollow. Rather thin.”

Helene said nothing. Her silence was worse than any overt condemnation. It was like the flash of lightning before the thunderclap.

“Where were you?” Milana asked me.

Before I could respond, Helene shot me an indignant glance. The resentment and ill will that began the first night Mr. Einstein played with us was obviously festering. On the evening of his first visit, Helene greeted him with a disgruntled, “Who simply appears on a classmate’s doorstep uninvited?” When Milana and Ru?ica included him in our Bach concerto, despite Helene’s obvious displeasure, Helene stopped our playing several times to criticize his technique, an unusual act for usually kind Helene. This behavior had continued on the three other times he had joined us—without notice or explicit invitation—for our nightly music.

Helene finally unleashed her thunder. “Let me hazard a guess. You were discussing science at Café Metropole. With Mr. Einstein and his friends.”

I did not answer. Helene was right, and the girls knew it. I had no justifiable excuse. What could I say? How could I explain to the girls how exhilarated I felt at the Café Metropole? What would it mean about how I felt with them? Especially when I’d repeatedly chosen Mr. Einstein and his café friends over our musical interludes.

Tears welled in the corners of my eyes; I was angry at myself. Nothing was worth the disappointment of these girls. They had rekindled my dreams of a fulfilling future, and together, we had fashioned a refuge from the world, where we could be our true intellectual yet sometimes silly selves. Mr. Einstein, for all his insinuation into my life over the past two months, for all the excitement I felt around him, was not deserving.

I gingerly sat down on the one empty chair, wiping a tear away. “I can offer nothing but my apology.”

Ru?ica and Milana reached across the table to clasp my hand. “Of course, Mileva,” Milana offered, and Ru?ica nodded.

Helene did not move. “I sincerely hope this will not become a pattern, Mitza. We count on you.”

Her words were about more than the failed concerts or her feelings about my actions. They were a sort of ultimatum. Helene was offering me another chance, but only if I committed to making our group paramount. To keeping our pact.

I reached across the table to take her hand. “I promise you that forgetting about our plans and staying too long at Café Metropole will not become a pattern.”

She smiled that same warm, inviting grin from our first encounter. An audible sigh of relief passed over the gaming room.

“Anyway, what could be the possible lure of Mr. Einstein other than a boring old physics discussion?” Milana offered a bit of levity. “Certainly not his wild hair.”

We burst into laughter. Mr. Einstein’s unruly curls were fast becoming legendary among us. In the carefully coiffed world of Zürich, Mr. Einstein’s hairdo had no equal. It was as if he did not even own a comb.

“Certainly, she is not lured by his fastidious dress,” Ru?ica chimed in. “Did you see his rumpled suit jacket when he was last here? For the Bach? It looked as if he stored his clothes on the floor.”

Our laughter deepened, and suddenly everyone wanted a shot at Mr. Einstein. Even Helene.

“And then there’s his pipe! Does he think that it adds years to those pudgy childish cheeks? Or makes him look professorial?” She did a wicked imitation of Mr. Einstein loading tobacco into his yard-long pipe and puffing on it thoughtfully.

Just as we squealed at the impersonation, the dinner bell rang. Composing ourselves, we rose for the meal.

? ? ?

Later that evening, back in my room, I wrapped around my shoulders the rose-embroidered shawl Mama had given me. The June night was pleasantly cool, and though I could have warmed my room by keeping the window closed, I needed the fresh air on my face. I had mountains of homework, physics chapters to read, and mathematical calculations to make. I longed for a bracing Milchkaffee, but none was to be found at the pension.

I heard a knock on my door and jumped. No one ever came to my room at this hour. I cracked my door open a sliver so I could see who it was.

Helene stood in the hallway.

“Please come in.” I hurried to welcome her.

Gesturing for her to settle at the foot of my bed, the only place to sit other than my single desk chair, I felt anxious. Was she here to discuss Café Metropole? I thought the issue had been resolved. The lighthearted mood from the gaming room had carried on throughout dinner.

“Do you remember the first time you realized that you were different from other girls? Smarter perhaps?” Helene asked.

I nodded, although her question surprised me. I remembered well the day in Miss Stanojevi?’s class when I realized I wasn’t like everyone else. I was seven years old, and I was terribly bored. The other students—all girls—looked flummoxed by the teacher’s explanation of the basic principles of multiplication, an easy concept I had taught myself by the age of four. I had the vague sense that I could make the girls understand. If only I could take Miss Stanojevi?’s place at the chalkboard, I believed I could show the girls the ease of the numbers, the effortless way one could see through and around them, combining them in endless groups and making elegant connections. But I didn’t dare. A student at the chalkboard would be unprecedented in the Volksschule. Order and strata reigned in all regions of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, no matter how remote. Instead of getting up and taking charge of the chalkboard as I wanted, I had stared down at the ugly black boots Mama made me wear each day—in the hopes that they’d lessen my limp—and compared them unfavorably to the delicate, ivory lace-up shoes that my classmate, the sweet, blond-ringleted Maria, always wore.