The Other Einstein(61)

Wrenching my arms out of his hands, I said, “Albert, we may be Ein Stein, but it has become clear that we are of two hearts.”





Chapter 30


August 4, 1907, and March 20, 1908

Lenk, Switzerland, and Bern, Switzerland

“With this machine, we would be able to measure very small amounts of energy,” Albert announced to the brothers Messrs. Paul and Conrad Habicht over a strong pot of coffee at the inn restaurant. The brothers had traveled from Bern to the inn near Lenk where Albert, Hans Albert, and I were holidaying for ten days in August. Albert and I had an idea for an invention, and he hoped to refashion the Olympia Academy without Maurice, who had moved to Paris, to help us create it.

“Why would we want to do that?” Paul asked. The brother of an original Olympia Academy member, Paul, as a talented machinist, was more practical than his theoretical sibling Conrad. His practicality made for lively discussions during the Olympia Academy meetings that he had occasionally attended over the years.

“To record tiny electrical charges, of course,” Albert answered dismissively.

Paul still looked confused, so I tried to clarify. “The Maschinchen would permit us to amplify minuscule amounts of energy and measure them, which would help scientists everywhere assess various molecular theories.” Conrad was used to my comments during our frequent Olympia Academy meetings—including my translations for the often terse Albert—but I wasn’t certain that Paul would be as receptive. I never knew how a particular man would react to a woman speaking the language of science.

“Ah,” Paul said, finally comprehending the link between the machine and one of the great debates among physicists: what was the precise “stuff” of our world. He seemed comfortable with my involvement; perhaps his brother had prepared him, or maybe my brief remarks at Olympia Academy meetings had readied him.

Conrad chimed in, understanding the lucrative nature of the undertaking. “Every lab would want one.”

“Exactly,” I said with a smile.

I passed Hans Albert to Albert and unrolled the rough sketches I had made of the Maschinchen, primarily electrical formulas and circuitry diagrams. I reviewed the plans with the brothers and proposed a schedule for the work. Albert had somehow secured a spare room in a local Bern gymnasium where we could cobble the machine together.

“You will work on this with us?” I offered a silent prayer to the Virgin Mary as the brothers glanced at one another. I didn’t invoke Mary often—without Mama around, I’d become unaccustomed to the ritual—but when I really wanted something, she came to mind. Albert and I were all theory and little practicality; we needed the Habicht brothers to make the Maschinchen a reality.

“We will share the profits?” Paul asked.

“Of course. Twenty-five percent each,” I said. “If you agree, I will consult a lawyer to draw up an agreement. Once we finalize the device, Albert will take charge of getting the patent filed. He has some expertise in that field, of course,” I said with a smile at Albert.

Albert grinned back, visibly pleased at my finesse with the brothers. While he had apologized for the painful omission of my name in our four 1905 papers in the Annalen der Physik—the relativity article in particular—my forgiveness didn’t come from his mere proffered words. An invitation to work was the key to unlocking my absolution, Albert finally learned after months of silence from me. This Maschinchen project, conceived by us both over the past year, with wide berth given for my leadership, was the only form of amends I would accept. In this way, Albert’s words of remorse were finally accepted. And, in theory, I forgave him.

Months after our meeting in Lenk, I stood before Albert and the Habicht brothers, waiting to see the fruits of that conversation. Albert rubbed the stubble that had grown on his chin over the long March weekend which he’d spent holed up with Conrad and Paul working on the machine. His face had thinned recently, hollowing out his pudgy cheeks. He suddenly looked older, not at all the student I’d once known.

The back room we’d seconded from the local Bern gymnasium was littered with wires, batteries, sheet metal, and a host of unidentifiable parts, not to mention the detritus of used coffee cups and tobacco that had accumulated over the months since the summer. Setting Hans Albert down in a seemingly safe corner, I examined the machine.

The cylinder finally resembled my sketches. After seven months of evening labor, once their day jobs came to an end, Albert, Paul, and Conrad had finally tinkered the Maschinchen into being. The men had summoned me for the momentous occasion of testing the device.

“Shall we try it?” I asked them.

Albert nodded, and Paul and Conrad began hooking up wires and setting switches. Then Albert started the machine. Sputtering at first, with a steady stream of smoke emanating from one of the electrical leads, the machine began to work.

“The two conducting plates made the charge, and the strips actually measured them. It works!” I cried out.

The men clapped each other on the back and bowed in my direction. Just as Conrad reached for a dusty bottle of wine hidden behind a pile of wires, the Maschinchen made a horrible screeching sound. And suddenly stopped.

The men hastened to the device and played with wires for what seemed like an hour. As I bounced Hans Albert on my lap to keep him entertained for just a little longer—it was well past the little fellow’s bedtime—I said, “I suppose we were premature on the congratulations.”