The Other Einstein(59)

Before their engagement in Zürich, Milana, Ru?ica, and I had speculated about their match, wondering whether the brusque Milivoje could satisfy our gentle, intellectual Helene in the long term. But we’d kept our concerns to ourselves and decided not to mention it to her. Perhaps we’d been wrong to keep quiet.

“Oh no, Helene. What will you do?”

“What can I do?” She gazed at me with tears in her eyes and shrugged.

I didn’t answer. What could I say? I knew, as did Helene, that she and the girls were dependent on Milivoje and that she would never do anything to jeopardize her children’s welfare. Not only would it be hard for Helene to support herself and the girls on her own, but the stigma attached to divorced women was immense. Surely, some other sort of escape must be possible.

My mind raced with all sorts of arrangements, and I started to suggest that she and the girls come to Bern and live with us for a while when Papa approached our table. Helene and I had been so engrossed in our conversation that I hadn’t noticed him crossing the square. He wasn’t alone. He had Mrs. Desana Tapavica Bala in tow, the wife of the Novi Sad mayor.

Pushing back our black metal chairs with a swift scrape, Helene and I exchanged curtsies and greetings with Mrs. Bala. She looked me up and down, sizing me up as dispassionately as Mama would assess a side of beef at the market, and said, “Your father is proud of you, Mrs. Einstein. A physics degree, a successful husband, and a nice life in Switzerland. What father wouldn’t be proud?”

I smiled over at Papa, whose chest had swelled at Mrs. Bala’s compliment. Obviously, he was overstating my Swiss education, but I was relieved that after all the shame my parents suffered over Lieserl and my scholastic failures, they still felt a modicum of pride in me. Their strangely intelligent, “deformed” daughter had exceeded everyone’s expectations, including their own. This was due in no small part to the fact that our secret from the Spire—the existence of Lieserl—had been kept.

“Do you ever get a chance to use your fancy education now that you have a son and husband to care for?” Mrs. Bala’s tone and choice of words was strangely confrontational. Was she suggesting that my unusual education was useless in the face of the actual women’s work I now did daily?

Mindful of Papa’s eyes upon me, I squared my shoulders and said, “Actually, I do, Mrs. Bala. I work with my husband on all sorts of articles and studies. In fact, just before we left for Novi Sad, we finished some important work that will make my husband world famous.”

Did I sound too boastful? Defensive? Mrs. Bala’s scrutiny and her odd, challenging questions had made me prickly, but really, I wanted Papa to still see me as a mudra glava. Our busy visit home had left little opportunity for me to share my ongoing work with him.

“My, my. No wonder I overheard your husband saying, ‘My wife is indispensable for many things, including my work. She is the mathematician in our family.’”

“He said that?” I blurted out and then immediately chastised myself. This wasn’t the image I wanted to convey to Mrs. Bala or Papa.

“Oh yes.” She gloated at my reaction. “In fact, he said that he bases his assessment of Serbia as a brilliant nation on what he knows about his wife.”

I didn’t make the mistake of showing surprise at Albert’s comment again, but I couldn’t stop myself from blushing. Thank God I’d returned our relationship back to the language of science. Albert and I had forged our early relationship upon its embers, and it continued to stoke our fires.





Chapter 29


September 26, 1905

Bern, Switzerland

On our return to Bern, my world grew small again. Housework, child care, science. Me, Hans Albert, Albert. As if in a fixed gravitational loop, we circled each other in a constant cycle.

I missed Helene terribly. The camaraderie, the keen understanding we shared, the empathy and total acceptance was found nowhere else in my life. Not with the other hausfraus. Not with my own family. Not even with Albert. I longed for the return to my purest, truest self—the self of my youth—when I was with her.

Instead, I spent the days in an anxious impersonation of my life. Even while I was cleaning the apartment, caring for Hans Albert, cooking meals, and mending Albert’s clothes, I was thinking about the fall publication of the relativity article in the Annalen der Physik and waiting to see my name in print. My mind could settle on little else but my tribute to Lieserl.

I returned to stalking the postman, a practice I’d abandoned with Lieserl’s death. Day after day, I trudged up the four flights of stairs empty-handed but for the hefty Hans Albert. I had nearly given up when the bell rang. Wondering who would be calling—visitors almost never appeared until Albert’s Olympia Academy friends arrived after dinner, as I’d never made friends with the Bern hausfraus—I hoisted the stocky Hans Albert onto my chest and hobbled down the stairs. Swinging the front door open, I stared into the wide eyes of the postman.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Einstein. I’m guessing this is the package you have been waiting for?” He handed over a brown-paper-wrapped parcel, about the correct size and weight and bearing a German return address.

“It is,” I cried out excitedly, hugging him. “I cannot thank you enough.”

Bobbing respectfully, the postman scurried away. Used to Swiss stoicism, my unusual show of affection had unsettled him. It had astonished me too; I didn’t even know the postman’s formal name.