The Other Einstein(42)

“And don’t think for a second that by quoting my theoretical work on the motion of heat in metal cylinders you can flatter me into an easy pass,” he said, his voice even more thunderous.

“Of course not, sir.” My relationship with Weber had degenerated once his suspicions of my relationship with Albert were confirmed when Albert and I, strolling hand in hand, unexpectedly encountered Weber in Universit?tsspital park two months ago. Since my professional future depended almost entirely on him, I was trying anything at my disposal to please him. Obviously, my use of Weber’s own data was a failure. It didn’t help that I kept drifting off into daydreams about the trip to Como, and Weber had to call me to attention.

“Your dissertation research is otherwise sound, but if you cannot perform the calculations accurately, all will be for naught.”

“Yes, Professor Weber,” I answered meekly, almost welling up with tears. Why was I getting so emotional in his presence? I thought I’d been hardened to Weber after years in his company. For some reason, I was feeling more delicate than usual.

Was it attributable to Albert’s inability to visit last Sunday? Required to tutor some struggling students in the hours he had free from actual classroom teaching, he had to stay in Winterthur unexpectedly. Perhaps without his bolstering company for a week, I felt more fragile when faced with Weber’s tongue-lashing.

Still, my vulnerability surprised me. Could the cause possibly be something else? Perhaps the separation from Albert—and the instability in our shared future—was hitting me harder than I’d anticipated.

Albert had been able to visit the past several Sundays, although I’d been all nerves before he arrived for the first Sunday after our tryst in Como. Even though his letters had brimmed with affection—“I love you, my Dollie, and I cannot wait to see you again on Sunday… The thought of you and our time together in Lake Como is the single thing that animates my days”—I worried that we’d be awkward with each other after our intimacy. Yet even with the constrictions on our behavior at the Engelbrecht Pension and the Swiss cafés and parks, we managed to fall back into our easy, familiar affections. And the following Sundays had been much the same.

But now I was back to dissertations and final exams. If preparing for my final exam was squeezing the natural joy out of physics for me, researching my dissertation with Weber was killing any hope of pleasure. Where had my natural exuberance for physics gone? I had once gravitated toward its patterns as the key to unlocking God’s plan for his people and world, a sort of religiosity all my own. At the moment, it felt like godless drudgery. I saw no grand divine design.

“Now, let’s turn our attention to page sixteen, where I noticed some sloppy calculations. Based on this work, I surmise that you are months away from completion, Miss Mari?,” Weber barked at me.

I suddenly felt violently ill. Without even excusing myself, I raced from the room to the sole ladies’ lavatory in the building, two floors up. Unsure whether I’d make it in time, I swung open the door. I kneeled before the toilet bowl and began heaving. I had never been so sick in my life.

When the retching finally ended, I sat back on my haunches. Had I been served something spoiled at breakfast? I’d eaten only toast with jam and some tea with milk. I hadn’t even touched the boiled eggs. What could be making me so ill? Surely not Weber’s criticism alone.

Then something occurred to me, something I was unsure would ever be possible. I did some quick calculations, and I gasped.

It was very early days, but I was certain. After all, I was a mathematician and a physicist, even if Weber maligned my skills. I was pregnant.





Chapter 18


June 2, 1901

Zürich, Switzerland

I paced the front parlor. The threadbare russet-and-navy Turkish rug no longer had a defined pattern, and I couldn’t help but think that my nervous treading in the past week contributed greatly to its demise. Why must so many of my life events be played out in the Engelbrechts’ parlor?

Unlike the last Sunday when Albert and I saw each other, the anxiety I was experiencing wasn’t one of pleasant anticipation. It was the precursor to terror. What would Albert do when I told him my news?

When I finally heard his distinctive rap and saw his twinkling brown eyes in the doorway, my anxiety melted away for a moment. I wanted to leap into his arms. From the way his arms instinctively outstretched, I saw that he wanted the same. Only the judgmental sniffing of Mrs. Engelbrecht slowed us.

Instead, we exchanged a polite bow and curtsy, with Mrs. Engelbrecht lingering in the parlor, ensuring the propriety of our reunion. Under the shadow of Albert’s mustache, I saw a mischievous grin at this contrivance, and I had to restrain a giggle.

Mrs. Engelbrecht normally hovered without a word, but I must have looked pitifully peaked, because she asked, “Are you quite all right, Miss Mari?? Shall I have the parlor maid bring in some tea to restore the color to your face?”

“That would be most welcome, Mrs. Engelbrecht. Thank you for your kindness.”

She left the room, and I heard Albert exhale. Not many people scared him, but something about Mrs. Engelbrecht’s Teutonic firmness made him anxious.

He reached for my hand; he wouldn’t dare embrace me until the parlor maid had delivered the tea and Mrs. Engelbrecht was safely gone. “Oh, Dollie. Two weeks is too long.”