by Kate Norris
“You have a theory about what he’s working on?”
Scott nodded. “I’ll tell you my suspicions after the party—although you’ll probably think I’m crazy,” he said with a smile. “I don’t want to bias your observations now, though.”
“Scott!” a student called, waving at them from across the room. “Come settle a debate for us!”
Scott waved back. “In a minute.”
“You go ahead and talk to them,” Winnie said. “It’ll give me a chance to eavesdrop.”
“You’ll be okay on your own?”
“I’ll be fine,” she said firmly. “It’s what I’m here for, right?”
He took her hand and pressed it.
“Not just that.”
The intensity in his gaze made Winnie’s heart quicken, but before she could respond, he kissed her hand lightly, then dropped it and walked off to join his friends. Winnie was absolutely dizzy with glee—and more determined than ever to prove herself worthy of the faith he’d put in her.
What did the risk of Father’s anger matter, when this feeling was the reward?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Winnie scanned the room. Although some professors were barely older than their graduate students, it was easy for Winnie to tell them apart. The students’ clothes were generally shabbier, and they had a sort of glazed look. The combination of limitless refills of decent champagne and their first encounter with obscene wealth, Winnie supposed.
Columbia had no female students or professors, so all the women in attendance were either professors’ wives or students’ dates. There were small clusters of serious debate around the room; that was where Winnie wanted to be. But women didn’t seem to be part of those conversations. Did they mind? Surely, some of them must, just like Winnie would. Smiling and nodding and sipping a drink while the men talked was fine for a night. But for a lifetime?
It wouldn’t be like that at Barnard, which made her excited once more for the prospect, but she wished attending Columbia were an option for her. Barnard offered an amazing education, no doubt—one parallel to what the boys had at Columbia—but it was still separate. There would be no Fermi there, no Nobel Prize–winning guest lecturers like Schrödinger.
Well, for tonight at least, she was part of the Ivy League—as bystander, if not participant. Winnie began to drift through the room with feigned casualness, pausing here or there to grab a canape or gaze intently at a piece of art, all while listening to the conversations that swirled around her. For once, she was glad to blend into the background.
Winnie overheard plenty of the sort of sycophancy that Father complained about. There were students bending over backward to compliment their professors’ latest articles, and associate professors congratulating the tenured ones for the grants they’d just secured (while not so subtly hinting that they would be great assets to the work). But there were also vibrant discussions about recent and controversial scientific developments, which Winnie had to remind herself not to get sucked into, since they had nothing to do with Hawthorn’s secret project or whatever might have happened to James.
Then she heard a birdcall—or rather, a poor imitation of one. It might be nothing, but Hawthorn’s project was code-named Nightingale . . . bird calls could be related. She looked around for the source of the sound and saw two students stationed near an hors d’oeuvres table, chatting and eating. Winnie got a bit closer, then bent over and began to fiddle with the ankle strap on one of her shoes to give her an excuse to linger.
“You do a good songbird,” one of the students said, “but I think you meant to say cuckoo, cuckoo!”
The other laughed. “I know, I know—but if it’s that crazy, why is the government footing the bill?”
This cemented Winnie’s suspicion that the two students were discussing Project Nightingale. She hoped they didn’t notice her there, pretending to fasten her shoe for much longer than necessary.
The first student gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s a bribe they threw him, so he wouldn’t get too fussy about Fermi getting the Manhattan Project—and push for them to move off campus.”
“Well, you have to admit Hawthorn has had some pretty amazing successes.” The student glanced around the room meaningfully, as if each Tiffany lamp were as impressive as a Nobel Prize.
“This stuff? Family money,” the other said. “And a few lucky patents,” he admitted grudgingly.
Although Winnie was no fan of Hawthorn’s, she found herself irritated by this student. Father had often told her that any good scientist must be a natural skeptic, which this young man certainly was, but Father had also taught her that great discoveries required a leap of faith. It was easier to be a critic than an innovator.
“Excuse me, do you need some help with your shoe?” the student who seemed to be a fan of Professor Hawthorn’s asked.
Damn, she’d lingered too long!
“Oh, no, thank you—I think I’ve got it now,” Winnie said, rebuckling her strap and standing up so quickly it made her dizzy for a moment.
The student who’d spoken to her didn’t look at all suspicious—but of course, why would he be? Who could possibly imagine that she was there as a spy of sorts, or that she’d waste any time listening to students’ chitchat even if she were? Winnie decided he would be the perfect person to probe for a bit of information. Scott probably would have heard any gossip they might share, but she might have a fresh perspective on it. That was Scott’s hope, right?
“I was wondering,” Winnie asked, “if you’ve seen my friend James anywhere? A friend of a friend’s, really—of Scott Hamilton’s. I met James at a party a few months ago, and with Scott off somewhere, well, James is the only other person I know here . . .” Winnie trailed off with a frown.
“I’m sorry, but no.” The boy furrowed his brow. “Actually, I don’t think I’ve seen him around lately.”
“Oh, James?” the other student said, making some sort of limp gesture with his wrist that Winnie couldn’t exactly parse, but which was clearly derogatory. “Didn’t he drop out?”
“Did he?” Winnie asked, feigning surprise. “What a shame! Any idea why?”
The snide student opened his mouth to speak, but his friend silenced him with a sharp look and said, “I hadn’t heard that James left, but it is a rigorous program. Sometimes it gets to be too much for people.”
“I suppose Professor Hawthorn will be looking for a new research assistant, then,” Winnie said.
“More like a new subject,” the mocking student said, then ducked his eyes like he immediately realized he’d said too much.
“Look, there’s Professor Rutledge,” the other said nervously. “We should probably go chat him up a bit, eh?”
They walked off quickly, leaving Winnie once more alone in the crowd, head spinning.
Had that student really been serious in suggesting that Hawthorn was experimenting on James? That kind of ethical violation could potentially cost Hawthorn his reputation, his funding—even his job.
Although, experimenting on a student was perhaps more ethical than experimenting on a daughter. And Winnie knew firsthand that was a risk at least one scientist was willing to take . . .
Physics was the study of matter and energy, which were both inanimate. By definition, living subjects were almost never involved in any type of physics research. Some experiments dealt with the impact of a human observer—what it meant that all discoveries were viewed through a human lens—but Winnie couldn’t think of a single line of inquiry in the field of physics that used human subjects.
Except her father’s work, of course.
But whatever Hawthorn’s work turned out to be, if the rumors were true and Hawthorn had been experimenting on a student who was now missing, then Hawthorn’s work was a danger that belonged in a category all its own.
* * *
• • •
Winnie noticed that the conversation of one of the clusters of men standing near her was becoming heated and drifted closer to hear what they were discussing out of sheer curiosity—she wanted to know what contentious project or recent article in Scientific American was causing such a stir.
But it turned out the men weren’t discussing science at all.
“The law’s quite clear,” said one man—a professor, Winnie assumed, based on his age. “Those bleeding-heart attorneys lost their case.”
A student laughed. “Can you believe that man thought he could get a doctor to slice up his face and pass for Spanish! How stupid does he think people are?”
Winnie’s heart jumped in her throat. She was instantly furious. They were talking about—laughing about—the Japanese internment.
Earlier that year, President Roosevelt had signed an executive order decreeing that anyone with Japanese ancestry had to relocate to secure camps for the duration of the war. They were potential traitors, all of them. Even the ones who were naturalized citizens, just like Winnie. Even the ones who had been born in America! One of those American citizens had refused the order, been arrested, and sued.
He’d lost.
“It isn’t settled yet,” another professor said gravely. “The ACLU is appealing the case.”
Winnie loved that he didn’t even deign to look at the student who’d made the cruel joke about the plastic surgery the man had endured in his attempt to avoid arrest.
“Where they’ll lose again,” the first professor concluded bluntly. “Look, it’s not like the Japanese are being sent to prison. They like to keep to themselves anyway, and this way we’re all safe. You don’t want another attack, do you?”
Winnie couldn’t believe that a professor in the physics department at Columbia—a scientist—could have such a small-minded way of looking at the world. She knew she should bite her tongue, but just couldn’t, especially since she had the bravery of anonymity.
“We’d better lock up Professor Fermi too, then, don’t you think?”
Much to Winnie’s gratification, the man couldn’t have looked more shocked if she’d walked up to him and thrown her drink in her face.
“Excuse me?” he sputtered.
“Well, he’s Italian, even if he did leave. They’re no allies of ours, right? And what about me? I was born in Germany.”
The man just glared at her.
“Or me?” said a man who Winnie hadn’t noticed earlier. He had a muted accent—German, most likely, or maybe Austrian.
“Of course not,” the professor said, in a much more respectful tone than he would have used were he responding to just her. “The Japanese are a completely different matter, obviously.”
Winnie knew this was the common consensus, but it wasn’t just because Japan had been the only member of the Axis to stage an attack on American soil.
It was because they looked different.
Winnie wasn’t different in a way that showed, but she was different nonetheless. She knew she was lucky she had the option to hide. Her heritage didn’t give itself away at a glance, and her ability—which was stranger and potentially more threatening to the government than any nationality—was invisible. So she couldn’t help but sympathize with anyone who was treated cruelly for something outside their control.
Although Winnie could see from the looks on their faces that she’d done nothing to actually change any minds, she was pleased to have at least deflated the conversation. Perhaps, if she was really lucky, she had soured the night for the bigots in the group.
The small group of men broke apart then and rejoined the general flow of the party.
Well, all the men except one. The professor with the accent stayed behind. Winnie was glad—she wanted to thank him. She knew that his support had gotten her a more civil treatment than she might have received otherwise. But he spoke before she could.
“I wouldn’t expect to see a beauty like you unattended at a party.”
The man smiled at her wolfishly, and it took Winnie a moment to comprehend that this stranger who was old enough to be her father—older even!—was making a pass at her. She couldn’t believe his nerve! So much for her new ally.
But the more Winnie looked at him, the more familiar he became. He was perhaps fifty and had a compact build, just a few scant inches taller than Winnie herself. His dark hair was pushed back from his forehead in one thick wave, and he had a straight mouth framed by parentheses that had likely been dimples when he was younger, but were now rather stately grooves. The overall effect was a handsome one, and he looked like someone who could play a scientist on film, not just in real life. Was that where she knew him from? Could the old letch be an actor? It would be odd for an actor to be at a physics department party, but Winnie had no doubt that Hawthorn mixed with a tony set.
It was the distinctive, perfectly round spectacles perched on the man’s hawkish nose that finally made his identity click for Winnie—that, and his accent. Yes, she had seen him before—in photo spreads in Scientific American, Popular Science, and even Time magazine. He was one of the most well-known scientists in the world—one of the Nobel Prize–winning scientists she had been surprised to hear Hawthorn reference earlier.
This was the famous Erwin Schrödinger.
But that didn’t change Winnie’s initial impression that he also seemed like a creep.
CHAPTER NINE
“Who are you,” Erwin Schrödinger asked, “and what sort of idiot did you come here with, that would leave you alone?”
Winnie took a step back but tried to keep the revulsion from showing on her face. He could be useful to her investigation. The way that Hawthorn had smugly called Schrödinger “Erwin,” like the world-renowned physicist was an antique pocket watch he could pull out, polish, and show off, made Winnie think it likely that he would have told Schrödinger all about Project Nightingale in an attempt to impress him. She would need to be careful how she went about things, but Schrödinger seemed like he might be a promising person to ask about Nightingale.
“Nice to meet you, Herr Schrödinger,” Winnie said, offering him her hand. Formality seemed the best tack to take with such a man. She didn’t want to encourage him too much. “My name is Winifred Schulde.”
His hand went limp in her own, and his smarmy grin was replaced by an expression of shock. After an awkward moment, he said, “I’m sorry—Winifred Schulde?”
Winnie nodded, and tried to think of what she’d done to make him so instantly and intensely uncomfortable.
“And your mother—her name is Astrid Keller?”
Winnie frowned. “How do you know my mother?”
Schrödinger’s eyes scanned her face intently, but although his focus on her was intense, the sexual charge was now gone.
“Oh, ah, from the University of Zurich,” he said. “I was her professor there, for a time.”
“Then you must know my father too. He’s a professor at Columbia, although he isn’t here tonight,” Winnie said, hoping this detail would ensure that he wouldn’t make a pass at her again. Surely the man wouldn’t try to seduce a colleague’s daughter.
“Heinrich Schulde?” she prompted.
Schrödinger was quiet for a long time, and Winnie assumed he was having trouble remembering her father—although he’d remembered her mother easily enough, based on Father’s last name.
“Well, yes, of course,” he finally said.
Schrödinger continued studying her face. He must have picked up on ho
w uncomfortable this made her, because he suddenly said, “I’m sorry—it’s just that you don’t look much like her.”
Winnie doubted that he meant any offense, but it hit on an old hurt. She’d spent years unsuccessfully trying to find a trace of her mother’s beautiful face in her own.
“But I must,” Winnie said, “because I look nothing like my father.”
Schrödinger smiled faintly. “No, you do. I see the resemblance.”
Winnie felt a growing unease with this discussion of her mother, which surprised her. The day before, she’d been poring over her mother’s old school notes, famished for any bit of information. Now, she was face-to-face with someone who’d actually known her mother—aside from Father, the only person in the entire country who had! And unlike Father, he seemed willing to discuss her. But more than anything, Winnie wanted to change the subject. Luckily, she had a more useful line of conversation in mind: Project Nightingale.
Winnie was no expert at charming men, but she’d been watching Dora do it for years. That had to be worth something.
Winnie tried to channel Dora as she put on what she hoped was her winningest smile. “Say, could you help me solve a mystery?” she asked.
Schrödinger blinked quickly and adjusted his glasses. “Perhaps.”
To her surprise, he seemed to be on guard. Winnie was constantly underestimated. It would be just her luck if the one time she actually wanted someone to think she was nothing but a silly girl, they took her seriously! She tried to mimic the look Dora used when she wanted something from a boy, tilting her chin and trying to keep her expression harmlessly eager.
“Hawthorn mentioned this government project he’s working on, but wouldn’t say what they’re doing. My”—Winnie considered referring to Scott as her boyfriend, but that felt like overstepping, even in service of this investigation—“friend is hoping to work for him. Do you have any idea what this Project Nightingale is all about? It will be easier for him to impress Hawthorn if he knows which topics to mention.”