The Other Einstein

by Marie Benedict

  On one brisk September afternoon in my birthplace of remote Titel, nearly seven years ago, she didn’t bother to mask her opposition to my decidedly unfeminine path, even though Papa himself propelled it forward, and she rarely challenged him. We were on our pilgrimage to the cemetery where my older brother and sister were buried, the siblings who had died of infant illnesses years before my birth. The wind was fierce, whipping the kerchief around my head. I grabbed the black fabric and held it down tightly, imagining the cluck of Mama’s disapproval should the kerchief fly off, leaving my head exposed while treading on sacred ground. The folds covered my ears, muffling the low, mournful moans of the wind. I was grateful for the quiet, although I knew the wind’s keening befitted our destination.

  I smelled tamjan, a sweet and pungent incense, wafting from our church as we passed, and fallen leaves crunched underfoot as I struggled to keep up with Mama’s stride. The hill was rocky and hard for me to climb, which Mama knew well. But she wouldn’t slow down. It was almost as if the arduousness of the walk to the cemetery was part of my penance. For surviving when my brother and sister did not. For living when childhood sicknesses claimed the others. And for inspiring Papa to accept the new governmental post in Zagreb, a larger city with better schooling for me, but a move that would take Mama farther away from the graves of her firstborn children.

  “Are you coming, Mitza?” Mama called to me without turning around. I reminded myself that her sternness didn’t stem solely from her displeasure over the move to Zagreb. Strict discipline and high expectations were her daily prescription for righteous children; she often said, “The Proverbs say that ‘The rod and reproof give wisdom, but a child left to himself brings shame to his mother.’”

  “Yes, Mama,” I called back.

  Dressed in her usual mourning black and dark kerchief, worn in honor of my dead brother and sister, Mama walked ahead, looking like an ebony shadow against the gray autumnal sky. I was short of breath by the time I reached the summit, but I muffled my labored breathing. This was my duty.

  Risking a cluck, I turned around; I loved the view from this vantage point. Titel spread out before us, and above the church spire, the vista of the town looked as though it clung to the banks of the Tisa. The dusty town was small, with only a town square, market, and a few governmental buildings at its center, but it was still beautiful.

  But then I heard Mama lowering herself to the ground, and my guilt set in. This was no pleasure stroll; I should not be enjoying myself. This would be one of our last visits to the cemetery for a long time to come. Even Papa couldn’t make me feel better about our move today.

  I took my place at Mama’s side before the gravestones. The pebbles dug into my knees, but I wanted to feel pain today. It seemed a reasonable sacrifice for the pain I was inflicting on Mama by sparking our move to Zagreb. Since I’d reach the limits of my local education, Papa wanted me to attend the Royal Classical High School in Zagreb. We wouldn’t be returning to Titel with any frequency. I glanced over at her. Her brown eyes were shut, and without their flinty animation, she looked older than her thirty-odd years. The burden of loss and the weight of daily minutiae had aged her.

  I made the sign of the cross, closed my eyes, and offered a silent prayer to the souls of my long-departed brother and sister. They had always served as my invisible companions, a replacement for the friends I never had. How different my life might have been had they lived. Maybe with an older brother and sister by my side, I would not have been so lonely, secretly longing to play with the girls in the schoolyard, even the ones who hurt me.

  A shaft of sunlight passed over me, and I opened my eyes. The arched marble gravestones of my older brother and sister stared back at me. Their names—Milica Marić and Vukašin Marić—glistened in the sun as if they had just been chiseled, and I held back an impulse to run my finger along each of the letters.

  Mama usually liked to keep our visits silent and reflective, but not that day. She reached for my hand and called out to the Virgin in our native, rarely used Serbian:

  Bogorodice Djevo, radujsja

  Blagodatnaja Marije…

  Mama was so loud that she drowned out the wind and the rustling leaves. And she was swaying. I felt embarrassed by the strength of Mama’s voice and her dramatic movements, especially when two mourners in the distance peered over at us.

  Still, I chanted along. The words of the Hail Mary usually soothed me, but today, they felt unfamiliar. Almost thick on my tongue. Like a lie. Mama’s utterances sounded different too, not like reverential worship but like a condemnation. Of me, certainly not of the Virgin.

  I tried to focus on the wind, the crackling of the branches and leaves, the gallop of hooves as horses passed by, anything but the words coming from Mama’s mouth. I did not need further reminders that so much rested on my success at the school in Zagreb. I had to succeed. Not just for myself and Mama and Papa but for my departed brother and sister too. Souls left behind.

  • • •

  I heard the scratch of fountain pens from other students working nearby in the library, but only one man captivated my attention. Philipp Lenard. I reached for the article by the noted German physicist and began reading. I should have been reading the texts of Hermann von Helmholtz and Ludwig Boltzmann, assigned by the professor, but I was drawn to Lenard’s recent research on cathode rays and their properties. Using evacuated glass tubes, he bombarded the tubes’ metallic electrodes with high-voltage electricity and then examined the rays. Lenard observed that, if the end of the tube opposite the negative charge was painted with a fluorescent material, a minuscule object within the tube began to glow and zigzag around the tube. This led him to believe that cathode rays were streams of negatively charged energetic particles; he dubbed them quanta of electricity. Putting down the article, I wondered how Lenard’s research might impact the much-debated question about the nature and existence of atoms. Of what substance had God made the world? Could the answer to this question tell us more about mankind’s purpose on God’s earth? Sometimes, in the pages of my texts and in the glimmers of my musings, I sensed God’s patterns unfolding in the physical laws of the universe that I was learning. These were the places I felt God, not in the pews of Mama’s churches or in their cemeteries.

  The clock in the university tower struck five. Could it really be so late? I hadn’t even touched the day’s assigned reading.

  I craned my neck to glimpse out a well-positioned window. There was no shortage of spired clock towers in Zürich, and the clock hands I saw confirmed that it was five. Mrs. Engelbrecht was Teutonically firm with her pension dinner schedule, so I could not linger. Especially since the girls would be waiting, instruments in hand, for some predinner music. It was one of our little rituals, the one I loved best.

  I organized my papers and began to slide them into my bag. Lenard’s article sat on top of the pile, and a phrase caught my attention. I began reading again and became so engrossed that I jumped when I heard my name.

  “Miss Marić, may I intrude on your thoughts?”

  It was Mr. Einstein. His hair was wilder than ever, as if he had been running his fingers through his dark curls and willing them to stand on end. His shirt and jacket looked no better; they were rumpled almost beyond recognition. His disheveled appearance was at odds with the careful mien of the other students at the library. But unlike them, he was smiling.

  “Yes, Mr. Einstein.”

  “I’m hoping that you can help me with a problem.” He thrust a stack of papers into my hand.

  “Me?” I asked without thinking and then chastised myself for my obvious surprise. Act confident, I told myself. You are every bit as bright as the other students in Section Six. Why shouldn’t a fellow classmate ask you for help?

  But it was too late. My self-doubt had already been revealed.

  “Yes, you, Miss Marić. I think you’re quite the smartest in our class—by far
the best at maths—and those Dummkopfs over there”—he gestured to two of our classmates, Mr. Ehrat and Mr. Kollros, who stood between two book stacks, whispering and gesticulating wildly to one another—“have tried to help me and failed.”

  “Certainly,” I answered. I was flattered by his assurances but still wary. If Helene were here, she would urge caution but also push me to forge a collegial alliance. Next term, I would need a lab partner, and he might be my only option. In the six months since I had entered the physics program and sat in class with the same five students every day, the others had shown only the basest civilities and an otherwise practiced indifference toward me. By his daily kindnesses in greeting me and occasionally inquiring into my thoughts on Professor Weber’s lectures, Mr. Einstein had proven to be my sole hope.

  “Let me see.” I looked down at his papers.

  He had passed me a nearly incomprehensible mess. Was this the kind of unorganized work that my fellow students were doing? If so, I did not have to worry about my own efforts. I glanced over his messy computations and quickly spotted the error. It was laziness, really, on his part. “Here, Mr. Einstein. If you switch these two numbers, I believe you will arrive at the proper solution.”

  “Ah, I see. Thank you for your assistance, Miss Marić.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” I nodded and turned back to the business of packing up my belongings.

  I felt him peering over my shoulder. “Are you reading Lenard?” he asked, surprise evident in his voice.

  “Yes,” I answered, continuing to pack my bag.

  “He isn’t part of our curriculum.”

  “No, he isn’t.”

  “I’m quite amazed, Miss Marić.”

  “Why is that, Mr. Einstein?” I turned to face him square on, daring him to challenge me. Did he think I couldn’t handle Lenard, a text far more complicated than our basic physics curriculum? Because he was quite a bit taller than me, I was forced to look up. My short stature was a disadvantage that I had come to loathe as much as my limp.

  “You seem the consummate student, Miss Marić. Always in attendance at class, following the rules, scrupulous in your note-taking, toiling for hours in the library instead of whiling them away in the cafés. And yet, you are a bohemian like me. I wouldn’t have guessed.”

  “A bohemian? I don’t catch your meaning.” My words and tone were sharp. By calling me bohemian, a word I associated with the Austro-Hungarian region of Bohemia, was he insulting my heritage? From cracks made by Weber in class, Mr. Einstein knew I was Serbian, and the prejudice of the Germanic and western European people such as himself against easterners was well known. I had wondered about Mr. Einstein’s own heritage, even though I knew he hailed from Berlin. With his dark hair and eyes and distinctive last name, he didn’t look the traditional Germanic blond. Perhaps his family settled in Berlin from somewhere else?

  He must have sensed my latent anger, because he rushed to clarify himself. “I use the word bohemian in the French manner, after the word bohémien. It means independent in your thinking. Progressive. Not so bourgeois as some of our classmates.”

  I did not know how to read this exchange. He didn’t seem to be mocking me; in fact, I thought he was trying to compliment me with his strange bohemian label. I felt more uncomfortable by the minute.

  Busying myself with the remaining sheaf of papers on the carrel’s desk, I said, “I must go, Mr. Einstein. Mrs. Engelbrecht keeps to a strict schedule at her pension, and I mustn’t be late for dinner. Good evening.” I sealed my bag shut and curtsied in farewell.

  “Good evening, Miss Marić,” he answered with a bow, “and my gratitude for your help.”

  I passed through the arched oak door of the library and across its small stone courtyard out onto Rämistrasse, the busy street bordering the Polytechnic. This boulevard overflowed with boardinghouses, where Zürich’s plentiful students slept at night, and cafés, where those same students debated great questions in the daylight hours not spent in class. From my furtive glances, it seemed that coffee and pipes were the primary fuel for these heated café conversations. But this was only a guess. I didn’t dare join in at one of these tables, even though I once spied Mr. Einstein with a few friends at an outdoor table at Café Metropole, and he waved me over. I pretended not to see him; sightings of women alongside men for these free-spirited café exchanges were rare, and it was a line I couldn’t yet bring myself to cross.

  Night was falling over Rämistrasse, yet the street was bright with electric illumination. A fine mist began to form in the air, and I pulled up my hood to prevent the dampness from settling on my hair and clothes. The rain increased—unexpectedly, as the day had started bright and clear—and I found it harder to weave my way through the warren of Rämistrasse. I was by far the shortest person in the crowd. I was drenched, and the cobblestones were getting slippery. Dare I break my own rule and duck into one of the cafés until the weather broke?

  Without warning, rain stopped pouring down on me. I glanced up, expecting to see a shaft of blue sky, but instead saw only black and rivers of water gushing down all around my sides.

  Mr. Einstein was holding an umbrella over my head.

  “You are dripping wet, Miss Marić,” he said, his eyes full of their usual humor.

  What was he doing here? He did not look ready to leave the library just moments ago. Was he following me?

  “An unexpected deluge, Mr. Einstein. Many thanks for the umbrella, but I’m fine.” It was imperative that I insist on self-sufficiency; I didn’t want any of my classmates to see me as a helpless female, Mr. Einstein in particular. He wouldn’t want me as a lab partner if he perceived me as weak, would he?

  “After you saved me from the certain wrath of Professor Weber with your correction of my calculations, the least I can do is to escort you home in this rain.” He smiled. “Since you seem to have forgotten your umbrella.”

  I wanted to object, but in truth, I needed the assistance. Slick cobblestones were hazardous with my limp. Mr. Einstein placed his hand on my arm and held the umbrella high above my head. The gesture was perfectly gentlemanly if a bit bold. Feeling the pressure of his hand on my arm, I realized that, apart from Papa and a few of my uncles, I had never been so close to a grown man before. Even though multitudes of people packed the boulevard and we all wore burdensome layers of cloaks and scarves, I felt oddly exposed.

  As we walked, Mr. Einstein launched into a spirited monologue about Maxwell’s electromagnetic wave theory of light, tossing out some rather unusual thoughts about the relationship of light and radiation to matter. I piped in with a few comments that Mr. Einstein responded to with encouragement but otherwise stayed quiet, listening to his irrepressible chatter and evaluating his intellect and spirit.

  We reached the Engelbrecht Pension, and he delivered me directly up the stairs to the covered front door. Relief flooded through me.

  “Again, my thanks, Mr. Einstein. Your courtesy was unnecessary but much appreciated.”

  “My pleasure, Miss Marić. I’ll see you in class tomorrow,” he said and turned to leave.

  A disjointed Vivaldi piece floated out of the slightly open parlor window and onto the street. Mr. Einstein started back up the front steps and peered through the window where the girls had gathered for a casual concert.

  “By God, that’s a lively group,” he exclaimed. “I wish I’d brought my violin. Vivaldi is always better with strings. Do you play, Miss Marić?”

  Brought his violin? How presumptuous of him. These were my friends and my sanctuary, and I did not invite him to join us. “Yes, I play the tamburitza and piano, and I sing. But it’s no matter; the Engelbrechts are very strict about gentlemen callers.”

  “I could come as a classmate and fellow musician, not as a caller,” he offered. “Would that appease them?”

  I blushed. How stupid of me to imply he wanted to come as a caller. “Per
haps, Mr. Einstein. I would have to make inquiries.” I hoped he understood that my demur was a gentle rejection.

  He shook his head in appreciation. “You have astonished me today, Miss Marić. You are much more than just a brilliant mathematician and physicist. It seems you are a musician and bohemian too.”

  His smile was infectious. I could not help but return it.

  He stared in amazement. “I do believe that’s the first time I’ve seen you smile. It’s quite fetching. I’d like to steal more of those smiles from your serious little mouth.”

  Flustered by his comment and uncertain how to reply, I turned and entered the pension.

  Chapter 4

  April 24, 1897

  The Sihl Valley, Switzerland

  For the first time since we disembarked the train from Zürich and set out on the path through the Sihl Valley, our group was quiet. A hush settled over us, almost like we had entered a cathedral. In a way, that was what these primeval woods, the Sihlwald, felt like.

  Ancient, giant trees flanked us, and we stepped over the corpses of their fallen brethren. The carpet of moss muffled the sound of our footsteps, making the croak of the frogs, the knocking of woodpeckers, and the song of the birds seem louder. I felt as though I had stepped into the primordial wilderness from one of the fairy tales that I loved growing up, and from their silence, I sensed that Milana, Ružica, and Helene felt the same awe.

  “Fagus sylvatica,” Helene whispered, interrupting my thoughts. I did not understand the meaning of her vaguely Latin-sounding phrase, strange since I spoke or read German, French, Serbian, and Latin, two languages more than Helene. I wondered if she was speaking to me or to herself.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Sorry, it’s the genus and species of this particular beech tree. My father and I used to go on long walks in the forest near our home in Vienna, and he had an affinity for the trees’ Latin names.” She twirled a fallen beech leaf between her fingers.