The Other Einstein(35)

“Really? I know you and Mama think of me as ‘deformed.’ Unworthy of love. That’s why you’ve always encouraged my studies. You assumed I’d live my life alone.”

By emphasizing that hateful word—“deformed”—I wanted him to know that I’d overheard him and Mama all those years ago. I wanted him to comprehend that, no matter how hard I’d tried to bury their beliefs and embrace the modern views prevailing in Zürich, their label had never truly left me.

Tears trickled down his cheeks, and I knew he understood. “Oh, Mitza, I’m so sorry. I love you, my little Mitza, more than anyone in the world. My pride in you and your accomplishments fuels my days. I know you are capable of anything and that your limp would never stand in your way—in work or love. I was wrong to try to shield you from the world, to think that your limp somehow made you weaker or more vulnerable. Or less lovable.”

I almost cried. Seeing tears in my stoic Papa’s eyes and hearing the kindness in his words, I nearly buckled with the exhaustion of always acting so strong and of always needing to prove myself worthy. I wanted to fold into his arms and be little Mitza again instead of the strong and independent person I’d had to become.

Instead, I stiffened my spine and clenched his hand in a gesture of confidence. After all these professions of strength, it was hardly the time to show weakness. “It’s all right, Papa. I understand now.”

He wrapped me in a hug. From deep within his arms, I heard him ask, “Is it wrong to want the best for you, Mitza? To want a husband for you who will appreciate and protect and love you as I do?”

I peeked up. “No, Papa, of course not. But please understand that Mr. Einstein will be that husband.”

With his finger, Papa tilted up my chin so he could see my eyes. “Are you sure?”

I met his gaze square on. “Yes.” And then I smiled. “Papa, he too encourages me to be a mudra glava.”





Chapter 14


February 4, 1901

Zürich, Switzerland

The fanciful dusting of snow over the spires of Zürich did nothing to lighten Albert’s mood. Even when I speculated that we might just have enough snowfall by the next morning for a sled ride on the Uetliberg, Albert only grunted. Nothing I could offer, not even the gifts of nature itself, could rouse him from his dark humor.

“I know Weber is to blame for this,” he grumbled again, puffing on his pipe and sipping from the weak coffee they served at the Café Sprüngli, known primarily for its bakery. I longed for the rich Milchkaffee from Café Metropole, but Albert found it too perilous to visit our usual haunt, because we might run into one of our old classmates and we’d have to talk jobs. Which Albert didn’t yet have. “He must have sent scathing reports about me to the universities with positions. I should have never asked him for recommendations. He agreed only to blackball me.”

“I know you believe so,” I said again. What else could I say? Albert would tolerate no soothing or encouraging words. I had already tried.

“Why else would I have a pile of rejection letters sitting here before me? When every other one of our classmates has been working in their new positions for months?” Albert asked. I’d heard one variation or another on this diatribe for weeks if not the months to which he’d just referred.

Like a deck of cards, he spread the rejection letters out across the café table. But this was no game—this was our future splayed out before us. With my degree in the balance until I sat for the exams in July, we were entirely dependent on Albert’s ability to secure work so we could make plans to marry.

“I can think of no other explanation other than Weber,” I said, even though I only half believed this sentiment. Professor Weber’s dislike of Albert was real enough, but I didn’t think that his refusal to pen glowing recommendations for Albert was the sole reason for his rejections. Most of our classmates—indeed, most Polytechnic graduates, not only those with physics degrees—secured their positions through the advocacy of professors and alumni, and none of the other professors seemed inclined to extend themselves for Albert either. His flagrant flouting of classroom attendance rules and his brashness with the professors when he actually chose to make an appearance made him unpopular among our instructors.

“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 G?ttingen, 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.