The Other Einstein

by Marie Benedict

  The women gasped when they entered the foyer. “Oh, Mrs. Einstein, your face!” Mrs. Hurwitz exclaimed, her hand covering her mouth in horror.

  Instinctively, I shielded it from view. “Not pretty, I know. Toothaches can be grueling. You understand why I couldn’t come to your gathering last night.”

  The women were quiet and staring at me. They knew perfectly well that my face didn’t look like this because of a toothache. No toothache in the world would batter its owner in this manner. Papa would strangle Albert if he saw me right now.

  “Can I get you ladies some tea and cake? I just pulled a strudel from the oven,” I stammered into the silence.

  Mrs. Hurwitz recovered herself and said, “No thank you, Mrs. Einstein. We wouldn’t want to trouble you. Particularly in your state. We simply wanted to make certain you were all right.”

  “Well”—I gestured to my face—“I am as well as can be expected. I appreciate the visit,” I said with a curtsy. The women returned the gesture, and we said our farewells.

  The pot roast simmered in the oven, sending a warm, comforting smell throughout the apartment. The boys were playing on the floor of the living room, building a fortress together, Hans Albert in the lead and Tete as his assistant. Books I’d just read aloud to them were piled up on the floor next to the sofa. The scene in our apartment conveyed contentment to the observer, yet anything but serenity brewed beneath the surface.

  Albert arrived home with a slam of the door. He greeted the boys first, tickling them and asking about their day. I heard him whisper, “How’s Mama today?” but I didn’t want to eavesdrop, so I turned my attention to setting the dining room table.

  Once I finished, I reentered the kitchen and nearly bumped into a waiting Albert. Dark circles under his eyes cast shadows on his face, and he held a bouquet of alpenrose and bird’s-eye primrose—alpine flowers carted in from the valleys—in his hands. He’d never given me flowers before, except on our wedding day.

  “I’m sorry, Dollie.” He gestured to my face and handed me the bouquet.

  Without a word, I took them from him and began searching for a vase. My action wasn’t an acceptance of his apology but a nod to the beautiful fragility of the flowers themselves.

  He followed me. “I feel terrible about your face. And about Elsa.”

  Silently, I busied myself with cutting the bottoms off the flowers’ stems and arranging them in the blue-and-white porcelain vase. The vase had been a gift from a scientific admirer, Albert once told me. Now I wondered who really had given it to him. How many other lies had he told me? How many other women were there? Was there any scrap of my life that remained true?

  “I broke it off with Elsa only a few weeks after it began last Easter, Mileva. I swear to you. Even Elsa’s letter refers to our separation.”

  I nodded but didn’t answer as I continued preparing our evening meal. Slicing bread, spooning out the pot roast onto plates, quartering beets to accompany the meal. Wasn’t this the last remaining service Albert wanted from me? I might as well be any housekeeper for hire. There wasn’t anything else left of value in me, he’d have me believe. He had hollowed me out.

  “Mileva, please say something.”

  What did he expect me to say? That I forgave him? I didn’t. Not for hitting me, intentional or not. Not for Elsa. Not for Marcel. Not for Lieserl, most of all. And certainly not for promising me a marriage full of scientific partnership and breaking that promise right in front of my now-battered face.

  “Mileva, I want to make things right between us. I’ve been invited to lecture on photochemistry and thermodynamics at the French Physics Society, and Marie Curie has invited us to stay in her home in Paris while we are there. I know you’ve wanted to meet her, and we’ve never been to Paris. Will you come with me?”

  I stared at Albert’s face, but I wasn’t looking at him. Images of Paris and photographs of Marie Curie floated in my mind. I had long admired the famous scientist, the winner of the 1903 and 1911 Nobel Prizes, in physics and chemistry, respectively.

  I didn’t know what to do, but I would agree to this trip. Only for my own purposes, however. Not for those of Albert.

  Chapter 37

  April 1, 1913

  Paris, France

  I’d always believed Zürich to be the epicenter of all things academic and sophisticated. Certainly compared to Novi Sad, Kać, Prague, and even Bern, it was. Yet as I strolled through the glittering streets of Paris on Albert’s arm and at Madame Curie’s side on our way to dinner, along with her daughters and several male family members serving as chaperones, I understood that Zürich was provincial in comparison to the exquisite French capital.

  After a languorous walk through the Bois de Vincennes, an enormous, fastidiously maintained park bordering the Seine, Albert asked why the park was largely empty. Madame Curie explained, “I’m told that the only fashionable time to promenade through the park is between three and five o’clock. It is past that hour. My apologies if you were hoping for a glimpse of the latest Paris fashions.”

  “We have never cared about being fashionable, have we, Mileva? How about you, Madame Curie?”

  A chortle escaped unexpectedly from the somber Madame Curie’s mouth. “Fashionable? Oh my, Albert, no one has ever accused me of being fashionable. Quite the opposite. And how many times have I asked you to call me Marie?”

  While her laughter surprised me, her response did not. Fashion was, quite obviously, the last thing on her mind. The frizzy, almost unkempt, grayness of Madame Curie’s hair and the textured black of her simple dress made her appear dour, a darkness that made me feel oddly comfortable. She looked familiarly Slavic, particularly in comparison to the Parisian trends.

  We stepped onto one of the wide, elegant boulevards for which Paris was justifiably famous. As we strolled down a sidewalk bordered by tall, manicured trees, I felt the ground rumble under my feet. I looked over at Albert in alarm, but before I could ask the source of the vibrations, Madame Curie said, “That is the movement of our underground electric railway, called the Metropolitan Underground Railway or ‘Metro.’ It takes travelers from one end of the city to the other—and back again if they choose—in an eight-mile loop.”

  With the mention of electricity, Albert and Madame Curie launched into a discussion about the elusive power, and Albert shared his own family’s struggles to set up an electrical business. She laughed at Albert’s garrulous account of his family’s failings, and I saw that she enjoyed Albert not just for his intellect but his casual manner. I imagined that his relaxed, charming demeanor must be a welcome respite from the usual serious formality with which the Nobel Prize winner was treated. Watching him like this—exuding a charismatic disposition he could turn on and off at will—reminded me of the Albert of my youth. Now lost to me when we were alone.

  Madame Curie’s face lit up when she and Albert engaged in this spirited scientific exchange. In that moment, I could see the youthful Marya Sklodowska she had once been, the young Polish student eager to excel at the disciplines reserved for boys. The sort of young girl I’d once been.

  At they chatted, I assumed that, as had become typical, Albert wouldn’t invite my participation in their conversation about electricity. I stayed respectfully quiet and allowed myself to marvel at the omnibuses and tramcars whizzing past us on the boulevard. How antiquated and slow the horses and buggies that still roamed the Zürich streets seemed in comparison to all this motion. I felt the same way about the many cafés we passed en route to the restaurant; Zürich’s establishments appeared stuffy and few compared to these plentiful bistros, brimming with patrons engaged in animated chatter.

  Madame Curie turned to me and asked, “What are your thoughts on the interior makeup of atoms that Mr. Ernest Rutherford raised during the Solvay Conference, Mrs. Einstein?”

  Was Madame Curie actually asking for my opinion? I panicked; I hadn’t been
closely following their conversation. “Pardon me?”

  “Mr. Rutherford’s hypothesis is that, based on his experiments with a sort of radioactivity called alpha rays, atoms are almost entirely empty with only tiny nuclei orbited by electrons at their centers. Do you have any thoughts on this?”

  Once, Albert and I would have hashed out Rutherford’s idea and arrived at conclusions of our own. Not now. Now, I was utterly unprepared for her question. I stammered, “I didn’t have the honor of hearing his presentation firsthand at the conference.”

  “I understand. I am sure, however, that your husband spoke of Mr. Rutherford’s theories to you. In addition, Mr. Rutherford has fleshed out this theory in papers since the conference, which I’m guessing you’ve read. Many have dismissed him, but I’m withholding judgment. Do you have an opinion on them?”

  I racked my brain for the nuggets of information about Rutherford’s ideas that I gleaned from Albert and the cursory reading I’d done on his work and said, “I have wondered whether the idea that light is composed of quanta, as Albert has advanced, might be applied equally to the structure of matter as light and could bolster Mr. Rutherford’s notions about the construction of atoms.”

  Madame Curie was quiet at first, and Albert looked over at me in horror. Had I said something idiotic? Should I not have responded? I didn’t care what he thought, but I cared very much what Madame Curie thought.

  Finally, she spoke. “Well said, Mrs. Einstein. That’s a perspective I hadn’t considered. It’s revolutionary, but I quite agree. Do you, Albert? It would certainly be an interesting link to and expansion on your own theories.”

  Albert’s expression morphed from embarrassment into pride. But it was too late for me to care about his feelings toward my intellect. I had conversed with Madame Curie and held my own. That was my treasure.

  The next morning, Madame Curie and I sat under the leafy green branches of a horse chestnut tree in the garden outside her family apartment on rue de la Glacière, cups of tea balanced on our laps. Albert had left for his lecture, and she and I were alone for the first time. Even though I’d made a solid contribution to the conversation the night before, my palms were so sweaty at the thought of a private discourse with a scientific legend that I could barely keep a grip on my cup. What topic should I initiate with this amazing woman? I’d read her most recent article on polonium, but my science was so outdated, I feared raising it. And chemistry, for which she was more recently noted, had never been my field. Aside from the favorable exchange we’d had about Mr. Rutherford’s views on the way to our dinner at Tour d’Argent, the oldest restaurant in Paris and one of the finest, she and I hadn’t spoken much.

  I glanced at Madame Curie, who had asked me to call her Marie last evening, but I struggled to think of her as anything but Madame. In the silence, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I studied physics at university as well.”

  She nodded but didn’t respond. Had I said something utterly stupid?

  “Not that I’m comparing us, of course.” I hastened to explain myself. I never wanted to appear presumptuous.

  After staring down into the depths of her teacup, she said, “Mrs. Einstein, I’m familiar with your extensive education and your intellect. And I know you completed your coursework in mathematics and physics at the Zürich Polytechnic. But I wonder why you never returned to work. Your mind must be so active, so full of science. How can you squander it on the home?”

  I was speechless. Was I receiving compliments from Madame Curie? What excuse could I offer for my failure to return to science? Did I dare hint at my involvement in the authorship of the now-famous 1905 papers? I couldn’t. Albert would kill me.

  I offered the only explanation I could cobble together without inciting Albert. “The children have made it challenging. And please call me Mileva.”

  Madame Curie sipped her tea and thoughtfully responded. “Mileva, I’m frequently questioned, especially by women, on how I reconcile family life with a scientific career. Well, it hasn’t been easy. But nothing is easy for people like you and me. We are eastern Europeans living in countries that look down upon people from our lands. We are women, who are expected to stay in the home, not run labs or teach at universities. Our expertise is in physics and math, exclusively male fields until now. And on top of it, you and I are shy in a scientific realm that requires us to speak publicly. In some ways, managing a family has been the easiest part.”

  How could I respond? Thank God, she didn’t make me.

  “You and I are not so different except in the choices we’ve made.” She chortled. “And the husbands we chose, of course.”

  Nearly spitting out a mouthful of tea, I guffawed at the unexpected, almost inappropriate, remark. Madame Curie’s late husband Pierre was well known for his unstinting support of her career. Was she insinuating that Albert was not Pierre in this regard? I’d often considered the scientific marriage of the Curies and coveted their union. Once, I had thought that would be the path that Albert and I would travel.

  “I didn’t have the honor of knowing Monsieur, but his encouragement of you and your work is well known. He must have been an extraordinary man.” I said the only diplomatic thing that came to mind, the only statement that wouldn’t directly compare Albert to Monsieur Curie. A comparison in which Albert would suffer greatly.

  “I have no idea how the division of labor works between you and Albert, but my husband fostered my career from the start. When the Nobel Prize committee was being petitioned to remove me from consideration in 1903, Pierre publicly lobbied for me. He insisted to influential people on the committee that I had originated our research, conceived the experiments, and generated the theories about the nature of radioactivity, which was, indeed, the fact. But many a lesser man wouldn’t have made that effort.” She didn’t ask, but implicit in her statement was the question of whether Albert would have gone to those lengths.

  I tried to answer her question as vaguely as possible while still being respectful. “From the beginning of our marriage, our situation didn’t allow for my work outside the home. Though I certainly longed for it.”

  Madame Curie was quiet for a full minute. “Science certainly needs practical men, but science also needs dreamers. It seems to me that your husband is one of those dreamers. And dreamers often need caretakers, don’t they?”

  I laughed. Was I really having this frank and insightful conversation about the state of my marriage and career with Marie Curie? “They do indeed.”

  “Whether Albert has championed your scientific efforts or not, he certainly supported mine. Did you know that he came to my defense last year when all that unpleasant business with my Nobel Prize arose?” Madame Curie paused, aware that further elaboration on her “unpleasant business” was unnecessary. Scientists worldwide had called her unfit for the Nobel Prize when her affair with married fellow scientist Paul Langevin became public.

  I shook my head. Albert hadn’t told me. Interesting that Albert was more willing to champion a known adulterer—brilliant and worthy though she was—than his own hardworking and deserving wife. What did this say about his moralistic worldview and allegiances these days?

  She continued. “Perhaps, when your circumstances allow, Albert will encourage your scientific efforts again.”

  “Perhaps,” I answered quietly, knowing full well of Albert’s lack of interest in my work.

  “Remember my words, Mileva, when you withdraw into the deadening cycle of home. You and I are not so different except in the choices we’ve made. And remind yourself that a new choice is always possible.”

  Chapter 38

  July 14 through September 23, 1913

  Zürich, Switzerland, Kać, Serbia, and Vienna, Austria

  Just as I’d begun to develop a tenuous confidence on the strength of Madame Curie’s words, Berlin came calling for Albert.

  The directorship of the
soon-to-be formed Kaiser Wilhelm Institute for Physics. A professorship at the University of Berlin with no teaching duties. Membership in the Prussian Academy of Sciences, the greatest scientific honor aside from the Nobel Prize. The package, the prestige, and the money—all with no requirement that he do anything but think—were so overwhelming that they made Albert forget how much he’d hated the Berlin of his youth. His loathing of the city and its people had been so strident that he renounced his German citizenship to become Swiss in his early twenties.

  Or perhaps it was something else entirely that washed away all those awful memories.

  Berlin, for me, held only fear. Berlin was Albert’s family, who despised me. Berlin was notoriously hostile toward Slavic eastern Europeans, and I plainly was anything but Aryan. More than anything, however, Berlin was Elsa, who I suspected engineered this position somehow. With Elsa in the wings—no matter Albert’s assurances that he had broken off their affair—I feared that Berlin would be the death knell of my marriage.

  But it wasn’t a choice, according to Albert. In the past, we’d always deliberated new opportunities and new locations together, but not this time. After Max Planck and Walther Nernst made a trip to Zürich to persuade Albert to take the package—a job, they dramatically informed him, that was critical for the future of science—Albert announced that we were moving to Berlin. At first, I begged him not to, but after his emphatic insistence, I said little else in the passing weeks, even when he baited me about it. It was as if he was hoping I’d refuse to go so he could leave me behind.

  Onward to his fame. And to Elsa, I didn’t doubt.

  Still, I clung. Why, sometimes I didn’t know. Was it because I’d sacrificed so much for him that the idea of losing him felt like losing everything? Was I so fearful for the boys’ future with divorced parents? Had I started to believe the awful things Albert said to me? The more passive I acted about the move, the more hateful he became, as if he wanted a fight so he could internally justify abandonment. One night, in front of the boys, he yelled, “You suck the joy out of every occasion.” Another time, in front of the Hurwitzes, he called me “the darkest of sulkers.” But when I looked into my sweet boys’ doleful eyes, I wondered how they’d survive the nasty stain of divorce, and I stayed.