The Other Einstein(23)

Gazing out the window, I studied the fertile, sunflower-dotted plains of Ka?. This part of the Vojvodina region, which stretched north from the Danube, had historically been the site of violent struggle between the Austro-Hungarian Empire to the west and the Ottoman Empire to the east and now faced tensions within its artificially created Austro-Hungarian borders from strife between the ethnically Germanic rulers and native Slav population. I had hoped that the familiar landscape, comfortable smells and phrases, and the warmth of my family would help me forget that moment in the Sihlwald with Mr. Einstein. Instead, I felt as torn as the countryside I inhabited, divided by my emotions and my promises.

The clomp of heavy steps reverberated through the thin bell tower walls. No one but barrel-chested, solid Papa had such a leaden footfall.

I pretended not to hear him. Not because I didn’t want to see Papa, but because I wanted him to think I still had the capacity to become engrossed in a book, something I’d been unable to do in four weeks. Lying down on the threadbare chaise that Mama had relegated to this little-seen section of the Spire and curling around the book, I feigned total engagement.

His footsteps grew louder and closer, but I still didn’t look up. I’d been famous for my ability to block out any disturbances in years past, but ignoring Papa’s tickling fingers was a different matter. Within seconds, Papa tickled me in all my vulnerable spots, and I screeched with laughter.

“Papa,” I screamed in mock-horror, pushing his hands away. “I’m almost twenty-one! Too old for tickles! Anyway, I’m reading.”

He picked up my book, carefully marking my page. “Hmm, Lenard. It seems to me that you were reading the very same page of this very same book when I saw you last night.”

My cheeks flushed. He sat down next to me.

“Mitza, you are not yourself. You are quiet, even with me. You don’t spend any time downstairs with Mama or Zorka and little Milo?. I know that your brother and sister are younger than you, but you used to take them out for picnics at least.”

Papa’s words made me feel guilty. Several times every summer, I would pack up a picnic lunch for me, Zorka, and Milo?, and we would traipse into the fields. There, amid the sunflowers and under the warm summer skies, I would read my favorite childhood tales to them, even “The Little Singing Frog.” I hadn’t arranged even one of these outings this summer. I considered telling Papa that I’d stopped because, at fourteen and twelve, Zorka and Milo? were getting too old for such escapades, but I thought better of it. Papa would sniff out the lie in an instant.

He glanced down at my book again and then studied my eyes. “You’re not even really reading or studying. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, Papa,” I said, trying to stop my eyes from welling with tears.

“I don’t know, Mitza. You didn’t even seem excited about your grades when they arrived last week. You scored an average of four point five on your courses. Out of six, by God. That’s cause for celebration, but you hardly raised a glass with us.”

The secret about Mr. Einstein had been burning inside me since I returned home. On many occasions, I had wanted to confess it to Papa. He had been my confidant for as long as I could remember. But something held me back. My fear of disappointing him, perhaps, after the great lengths to which he’d gone to secure my education. My worries about eradicating his image of me as the brilliant, solitary scientist, maybe. How could I tell him about Mr. Einstein?

“I’m fine, Papa.” Even as the words left my mouth, I knew they sounded false.

He pulled me to sitting, held onto my shoulders, and gently turned me to face him. He knew I could not lie to him or even omit a single aspect of the truth when looking at him straight in the eyes. “What is going on, Mitza?”

The tears I’d dammed up for four weeks broke through the barrier. Crying so hard that my chest heaved, Papa simply waited until I told him everything.

When my breathing finally slowed and the tears stopped, Papa still didn’t speak. I glanced up, terrified that he was angry with me. That I’d failed this test, one far more important than my exams.

Tears were streaming down his face. “My poor Mitza. Why must your road be so hard?”

How could my invincible Papa be crying? How could this conundrum perplex him to tears? He was the one we turned to—indeed, governmental officials of all stations turned to—when we faced an insurmountable problem. Reaching into my pocket for the lace handkerchief that I always kept there, I wiped his eyes and cheeks. “You’re not mad, Papa?” I was thankful, at least, that he wasn’t angry at me.

“Of course not, my sweet girl. I wish more than anything in the world that your path was an easy one, that you could have everything your heart desires. But brilliance brings burdens, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose,” I said, disappointed that this might be Papa’s advice. For my entire life, I’d heard his admonitions that I had a responsibility to nurture my intellect. Even though I knew it was unreasonable—impossible even—I’d hoped he could fix this problem of Mr. Einstein like he had so many others.

“Do you want to continue on your course of studies? Would you still like to be a professor of physics?”

But what of Mr. Einstein? I thought to myself. Instead, I willed myself to say what was expected. “Yes, Papa. That’s what I’ve always wanted. What we’ve always discussed.”