The Other Einstein(37)

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. Savi?, and Milana and Ru?ica 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.