The Other Einstein

by Marie Benedict

  But then, at the farthest end of the station, I saw a figure. Squinting through the haze of the steam-filled station, I recognized Albert’s distinctive silhouette. Grabbing my bags, I hobbled down the long aisle toward the door nearest him. When the train finally halted, I stepped down into his waiting arms. He picked me up and swung me around.

  Lowering me to the ground, he whispered into my ear, “My heart is pounding. I have waited so long for this.”

  Steadying my dizziness by staring into his eyes, I said, “I have as well.”

  Lifting the bags off my shoulders and hoisting them upon his own, he said, “Come, my little sorceress. I have much to show you.”

  We meandered through the wakening streets of Como. My hand nestled in the crook of his arm, he led me down the cobblestone streets and into the fifteenth-century duomo that loomed over the town. Treading down the black-and-white-tiled central nave, Albert guided me to two fading but intricate Flemish tapestries and to three beautiful paintings by Bernardino Luini and Gaudenzio Ferrari.

  “These paintings of the Madonna and Child are exquisite.” Eyebrows raised at his expert direction, I asked, “But how did you know they were here?”

  “I arrived yesterday afternoon so I could map out our day. I wanted to ensure a perfect holiday for us.” Eyes crinkling at the corners, he smiled at the success of his uncharacteristic planning. “I’ve also scouted out the best coffee in Como, which I’m sure you could use after your overnight train, Dollie.”

  I squeezed his arm. “You’ve thought of everything, Johnnie.”

  As we dunked our soft bread into steaming cups of coffee, Albert described our plans. We would wander the Como streets until noon, when we’d board the boat bound for Colico, a three-hour trip to the north end of the lake. But we would hop off midway through the journey at the small fisherman’s port of Cadenabbia, where we’d visit the Villa Carlotta, famous for its fourteen acres of gardens.

  He made no mention of where we would be spending the night, and I did not ask. I was both excited and scared about what the evening might bring. Its promise hovered between us like an anticipated but unfamiliar dessert.

  After a morning spent staring at the luxurious goods displayed in the Como shop windows—the affluent people of Milan had begun flooding Lake Como’s shores—we boarded the boat. The waves lapping its side seemed impossibly azure in the sparkling sunlight, and soon, it became so warm I removed my coat. With Albert’s arm around me and the sun’s rays on my face as we watched the ancient shoreline castles of Lake Como pass by, I almost felt like purring. Never before had we been so carefree or so able to display our feelings.

  The gardens of Villa Carlotta did not disappoint. After crossing what seemed like endless marble staircases and walkways, we arrived at a kaleidoscopic landscape of verdant green, riotous red and pink, and shocks of yellow. Over five hundred species of shrubs and one hundred and fifty varieties of azaleas and rhododendrons alone competed for our attention. Even the plentiful sculptures by Antonio Canova could not compare with nature’s full bloom.

  I leaned close to one of the fuchsia flowers, wanting to breathe deeply of its scent, when a guard rushed to my side. “Non toccare!” he warned me. No touching.

  Stepping back, I said to Albert, “They are all the more beautiful because we cannot pluck a single flower.”

  With a wry smile, he said, “That’s how I’ve felt about you all these years. My unplucked flower.”

  I laughed. One of us had finally broached the unspoken topic.

  “I hope you still feel that way after this holiday,” I teased and then strolled off to examine a particularly bright red azalea.

  I’d been somewhat saucy with Albert for years, but still, I surprised myself with the remark. Where had I learned to be so coquettish?

  The patter of his footsteps increased behind me, and I felt his arms wrap around my waist. “I can hardly wait until tonight,” he breathed into my ear.

  My cheeks flushed, and a warmth spread over me. “Me too,” I whispered back and leaned into his arms.

  Colico was not our final destination. We escaped the dreary, seaside town at the end of the boat route by hopping on a train for a short ride to Chiavenna. Although the sky was darkening and I couldn’t observe the village in detail, Albert described it to me as a quaint, ancient place, tucked into a beautiful valley at the foot of the Alps. He had visited once before, years ago, he said, and wanted to return with his love in hand.

  His love.

  Hungry and weary, we ambled out of the train station and into a small inn two blocks away that had a sturdy if a bit plain edifice. Albert pushed open the heavy oak door and introduced himself to the innkeeper, a haggard, older woman seated at a desk in the foyer. “My wife and I would like a room for tonight if one is available?” Albert asked.

  I almost giggled at the sound of “my wife,” but when I thought of the duties that came along with the role, I quieted. Nerves set in.

  The innkeeper glared at him. Not the welcome I’d anticipated. “Where are you from?”

  “Switzerland.”

  “You don’t look Swiss. And you don’t sound it,” she croaked to him.

  Albert gave me a quizzical glance; why was this woman so interested in our citizenship? This region was rife with tourists from all over Europe. “My apologies. You asked where we are from. We arrived from Switzerland. But I am originally from Berlin.” Albert didn’t offer his citizenship papers to her, because he was between countries. Despising the militaristic culture prevailing in his hometown of Berlin, Albert had renounced his citizenship and was awaiting Swiss papers in its place.

  “You don’t look German either. You look Jewish.”

  Albert’s eyes narrowed in an angry expression I’d seen only once before, in an argument with Professor Weber. “I am Jewish. Is that a problem?”

  “Yes. We have no rooms here for Jews.”

  Grabbing our bags and slamming the door behind us, we walked out. “Albert, I’m so sorry—” I tried to soften the blow as we walked toward another establishment.

  “Why are you apologizing, my sweet Dollie? Anti-Semitism is an ugly part of my world. I’m just sorry that you had to experience it firsthand.”

  “Johnnie, if it’s part of your world, then it’s part of mine. We will face it together.”

  Smiling at me, he said, “How lucky I am in you.”

  We arrived at another inn. White-washed with dark timber beams for support and ornamentation, it looked like a traditional inn for the region. Tentatively, Albert pulled open the front door. Warmth and a well-scrubbed reception prevailed on the inside. A few empty tables sat before a crackling fire, and before we could ask for assistance, a barmaid approached.

  “Würden Sie ein Bier?” she asked.

  An ale had never sounded more enticing. We accepted and settled into chairs. Without noticing, I downed several steins of ale before our dinner of Wurst und Spätzle arrived. We laughed over the day’s adventures, and somehow, I found Albert’s jokes funnier and his scientific musings more insightful than ever before. As he excused himself for a minute, I realized I was tipsy. And not at all nervous about what the night might hold. I took another swig of ale.

  When he returned, he had an archaic-looking key in hand, and our bags were gone. “Are you finished, Dollie?” he asked and extended his hand.

  Without a word, I placed my hand in his and stood up. Together, we walked up the creaky set of stairs to the guest rooms. When we reached a door inscribed with a number four, Albert inserted the key and jangled it in the lock. The door wouldn’t budge. Looking down, I saw that his hands were trembling.

  “Here, Johnnie, let me try,” I said. Easily, I slid the key into the lock and opened the door to an immaculate bedroom, replete with a roaring fire, a small terrace, and a four-poster bed. A bed. All the ale had made me forget for a moment.


  I froze. Sensing my nervousness, Albert turned me to face him. “We don’t have to do this, Dollie. I can get another room for you.”

  In the pause, my father’s accusations passed through my mind along with those of Albert’s mother, and I almost asked for a separate room. Almost.

  “No, Johnnie. I want to do this. We have waited too long.”

  A carafe of crimson wine sparkled on the small table before the fire. Albert hastened over to it and poured us each a glass. Even Albert, who rarely drank alcohol, except tonight, it seemed, quickly downed a glass of the sweet wine. A second glass in hand, he lifted it to mine. “My dearest Dollie, this night is the first of our unions. Soon, we will celebrate our marriage with the rest of the world. But tonight is our private, bohemian ceremony. For us alone.”

  I had made the right choice.

  He kissed me. A full, deep kiss without worry of interruption. I relaxed into it, allowing it to envelop me. I felt his tongue on mine and his hand in my hair. He pulled the pin out of my chignon, and my heavy curls fell to my shoulders. Slowly, too slowly, he unbuttoned the tiny pearl buttons that ran the length of my navy dress. As it slipped to the floor, he gasped.

  Standing in my undergarments, I felt horribly exposed. Was he recoiling at my uneven hips? My deformed body? “Am I so ugly?” I whispered as I rushed to cover my chest with my long, heavy hair.

  “No! Dollie, you are beautiful.”

  He ran his finger along the curves of my body, pushing aside my skein of hair and slowly unlacing my corset. I shivered at the deliciousness of his touch. “Your ivory shoulders, your tiny waist, your full bosom. I-I never expected—”

  He wasn’t disappointed. He was in awe. I reached for him, kissing him hard on the mouth. I fumbled over the buttons on his shirt and pants; I wanted to feel his chest and body against mine. For a long moment, we melded our bodies to one another, just breathing. And then he led me to the bed.

  • • •

  On our final day, Albert arranged a surprise. Holding his hands over my eyes, he walked me through the streets of Chiavenna. I’d grown accustomed to the scents of our little haven—the bitter roasting coffee beans at our local café, the spicy incense wafting out of a church mass, the rich floral perfumes of the one luxury store in the tiny town—and I had a fair idea of our path. But soon, we walked into a space whose smell I didn’t recognize immediately. I sniffed again; it was the distinct aroma of horse.

  Albert removed his hands from my eyes. We were in a barn. This was my surprise?

  “We are off to the Splügen,” he announced.

  I clasped his hand in excitement. We’d often discussed the mad journey over the mountain pass that spanned Italy and Switzerland. But funds had never been available for this splurge.

  “I have a job now, don’t forget,” he said proudly, answering the question I hadn’t asked.

  I embraced him tightly, then, with the coachman’s hand at my elbow, settled into the snug sleigh. Albert squeezed in after me, and the coachman laid a thick layer of furs, blankets, and shawls upon us. It would grow cold as we ascended.

  “It’s delightfully close,” I whispered.

  “Perfectly close for us lovers,” he whispered back, running his hands along my legs under the secrecy of the blankets. I shivered, and not from the chill.

  The coachman assumed his position on a plank in the rear and cracked the whip. The horses were off, galloping gaily along the snow-laden paths leading to the Splügen. The coachman prattled on about the history of the pass and the natural wonders we encountered, but Albert and I paid attention only to each other. For hours, we wrapped ourselves together as we traveled through long, climbing galleries of open road, seeing nothing but snow and more snow.

  “It’s like a white eternity,” I said. Eternity. Would I ever discover a scientific or mathematical truth that would have such an enduring impact as the theory of eternity?

  “It is warm enough under these covers.” Albert tightened his hold around me. “Last night was wondrous, Dollie. When you let me embrace you in that special way…”

  I blushed at the thought of our intimacy and buried myself deep in his arms. Each night, we’d grown more comfortable—and more wanton—with each other. Chiavenna had indeed become the place of our bohemian honeymoon.

  “I think I’ll give this new Professor Weber our paper,” Albert said distractedly. I was well used to his rapid shifts in conversation from our love to our work. Ironically, his new superior at the Winterthur school was also called Professor Weber.

  “Which one?” I asked from deep within the curve of Albert’s neck. There had been so many papers and theories over the past few years, and work wasn’t exactly at the top of my mind.

  “The one on molecular attraction between atoms,” he answered. The faraway sound of his voice and the slackening of his arms told me his mind was elsewhere.

  “‘Conclusions Drawn from the Phenomena of Capillarity’?” I sat up. We had researched and written a paper theorizing that each atom related to a molecular attraction field that is separate from the temperature and the way in which the atom is chemically bound to other atoms; we left open the question of whether and how the fields are related to gravitational forces.

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  We had finalized this paper last month with the intent of submitting it to an esteemed physics journal. Publication would increase both of our chances of securing positions. “Won’t he ask who this other author is? This Miss Marić?”

  Albert was quiet. “Would you mind if I listed only my name as the author? I’m hoping that if Professor Weber reads it and becomes as impressed as I think he will, he will offer me a permanent job.”

  I didn’t answer. The thought of being expunged from the paper’s authorship bothered me; we had worked on it as equals. But if he was only showing it to the new Professor Weber to impress him and if we’d later submit it to journals with both our names, I could agree. Anything to speed along Albert’s ability to secure a permanent job.

  “I suppose if you give it to him just to read…” I said, trailing off. I didn’t think I needed to insist that the publication authorship remain the same. Albert always had my best interests in mind.

  “Of course, Dollie,” he said. “Just imagine how quickly we could be wed if I had this professorship in hand.”

  I leaned forward to kiss him when the coachman interrupted us. “Signor! We have reached the crest of the Splügen pass. Do you and the signora want to get out and cross the border on foot? Many of my passengers do.”

  “Yes,” Albert called back. “My signora and I would love to cross the Splügen on foot.”

  The Splügen? I didn’t care about the Splügen at that moment or how we’d cross it. I was Albert’s signora.

  Chapter 17

  May 31, 1901

  Zürich, Switzerland

  “Miss Marić, please attend to these numbers more diligently. I had expected far better attention to detail from you.” Professor Weber’s nostrils flared in annoyance. We were reviewing the research underlying my proposed dissertation on heat conductivity, and I had never sat so near to him before. I could see the precision with which he combed his dark beard and the quick flush of his cheeks when he was irritated or disappointed. He was even more intimidating in close proximity.

  “Yes, Professor Weber.” As I uttered what seemed like my thousandth “Yes, Professor Weber” of the afternoon, I couldn’t help but think that my return to Zürich from Como felt like the descent of the angels to earth. Even though Albert would laugh at such superstitious nonsense, a biblical passage from Jude, one Mama often quoted, replayed in my head: “The angels who did not keep to their own dominion but deserted their proper dwelling, God has kept in gloom…” Like them, I had fallen from the heights of pure bliss to the dark grind of my final days as a student in Zürich, with only Weber for company. Ho
w could I be satisfied with the drudgery of earthly things—and Weber’s nastiness—once I’d had a taste of heaven?

  “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 Universitätsspital 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.