The Einstein Girl

by Philip Sington

  They turned right onto the main road, heading east. Either side of them the apartment buildings stood tall and black against the lowering city sky. For the conditions, Bucher drove fast.

  ‘Did you receive the cheque?’ Fischer asked.

  ‘Yes I did, thank you.’

  ‘The sum is adequate, I hope, to make a start on the matter we discussed.’

  ‘More than adequate. I’ve started drawing up a list of institutions and practitioners to approach.’

  It was all he could think of to say, having, in fact, done nothing.

  ‘But I thought I sent you that.’

  ‘Your list was useful as a starting point. But I thought I should enquire as widely as possible.’

  Fischer reached into his pocket and took out his cigarette case. ‘I’ve a pretty good idea who’s likely to cooperate with your research and who isn’t.’ He offered Kirsch a cigarette. ‘Stick to my list. You’ll find it saves you a lot of time.’

  Kirsch declined the cigarette, wondering how it was that Fischer was so well acquainted with the rank and file of Germany’s psychiatrists, and by what criteria his list had been drawn up.

  Fischer lit up, one hand cupped around the flame. ‘Not that I’m trying to rush you. Far from it. You must take all the time you need.’

  They caught up with a tram on the north side of Luisenplatz, bars of yellow light rolling past, the dark outline of heads and faces staring through the misty glass. To Kirsch it felt as if he was being rushed. But perhaps that was simply Fischer’s way of doing things.

  Fischer pushed back in the seat, plucking a strand of tobacco from his tongue. ‘So how’s your special patient? Have you made any progress?’

  ‘A little,’ Kirsch said.

  Fischer turned towards him, exhaling forcefully. ‘And?’

  Bucher was watching him too, in the driver’s mirror. By the light of oncoming headlamps Kirsch could see his eyes.

  He shrugged. ‘She’s a student, visiting from Zürich.’

  ‘She told you this?’

  ‘No. Her landlord came forward. He saw her picture in the papers. Her name’s Draganović. Mariya Draganović. I decided it was best not to make any announcements.’

  ‘Very wise.’ The leather squeaked as Fischer gently braced himself against the seat of the cab. ‘But she still remembers nothing? Her amnesia is not improved?’

  ‘No.’

  Fischer turned back to the window, hardly seeming to notice the ambulance that came screaming past them on its way to the hospital. He dragged on his cigarette and smiled. ‘So is my theory entirely exploded in your view?’

  ‘I see no reason to believe this is a scam, if that’s what you mean. I can’t see how anyone stands to gain.’

  Fischer laughed. ‘Someone always stands to gain, Herr Doctor. Perhaps you might stand to gain, if the whole matter were dealt with in the right way. If the press don’t turn it into a circus.’

  They were on a wider, busier thoroughfare now, one that followed the course of a defunct city boundary. Bucher accelerated again, pulling clear of the tram, riding over a set of points with a jolt.

  ‘It is an interesting case,’ Kirsch said, not sure if that was what Fischer meant.

  ‘Most interesting. It could be the making of you.’

  He saw Mariya sitting in the window, frowning as she worked at her sketch-book. If he closed his eyes, he could recall the scent of her pillow.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘that depends on whether she remains my patient. I’m afraid as things stand that looks unlikely.’

  ‘Unlikely? Why?’

  Kirsch decided to tell the truth. He couldn’t hide it much longer in any case. ‘Because Dr Bonhoeffer is expecting my letter of resignation.’

  He told Fischer about his dispute with Dr Mehring, about the insulin coma therapy and the injury to Nurse Ritter. He said little about Sergeant Stoehr, how his suffering had affected him, reawakening memories of the war. He was afraid Fischer would think him sentimental.

  Fischer listened in silence. He was too old to have served in the war. He would have been safely ensconced at some university, able to regret the suffering at the front, perhaps even to imagine it; but free from the numbing shock and the visions that never faded.

  ‘So you see,’ Kirsch concluded, as they waited at a junction, ‘my days at the Charité are numbered. And if I leave the Charité, I must give up the case.’

  On the corner a group of policemen were descending from the back of a truck. Two of them were carrying rifles. Fischer’s fingers caressed the line of his jaw.

  ‘Dr Mehring’s a Jew, isn’t he?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Heinrich Mehring? I think you’ll find he is. Your profession is full of Jews. Ever since Dr Freud.’

  ‘Dr Mehring is no Freudian, that I can say.’

  ‘Not that I have any objection, you understand. Many Israelites have excellent analytical brains, though there’s an unhealthy preference for the abstract.’ As they moved off again one of the policemen slipped on the ice. The others laughed. ‘On the other hand, there are many that have a less internationalist outlook. And I fear it may be unwise to provoke them.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow,’ Kirsch said.

  Fischer pulled down his window and flipped out his cigarette butt. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He leaned across and patted Kirsch on the forearm. ‘A man with your gifts cannot be discarded in such a manner. I will use my influence, which is not inconsiderable.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be gone by Christmas. It was all agreed.’

  Fischer tut-tutted. ‘Don’t be too hasty. Let me see what I can do. It may all blow over yet.’

  They passed beneath the massive stone spire of the Zionskirche. Lights burned behind the stained glass, but the great doors were shut. A few minutes later they were turning into the Schönhauser Allee.

  Kirsch climbed out of the car without waiting for Bucher to open the door for him. Fischer looked up at Frau Schirmann’s doubtfully, tapping another cigarette against the case. Kirsch thanked him for the lift.

  ‘My pleasure,’ Fischer said. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing your work. Very much. Trust me, it’s more important than you think.’

  He lit the cigarette and extinguished the match with three emphatic flicks of the wrist.

  Twenty-one

  On a Sunday, a few years earlier, when he had been leaving the house at Reinsdorf, Kirsch had taken his overcoat down from its peg in the hall, only to find, when it was too late, that it was not his coat at all. Max had owned an almost identical one – dark grey and double-breasted with black felt around the collar – except, as Kirsch discovered as he wrestled with it on the railway station platform, his brother’s was several sizes smaller. Since then it had been hanging in his apartment in Berlin, untouched and unworn. Kirsch had no use for it himself, but neither had he ever taken it back to Reinsdorf. He had made a mental note to do so many times, but in the event he had always forgotten, or the occasion had not felt right. In truth, it was not how he wanted any visit to begin, with a reminder of Max. Nor did he relish the idea of explaining how he came to be in possession of the coat, or why he had not brought it back sooner. For that would raise, at least implicitly, another question: why so many of Max’s things were still in the house, things that no one would ever use again. That was a subject nobody wanted to acknowledge, let alone discuss, as if the fact of Max’s death was not simply an impersonal mischance of war, but some dark and shameful secret, a crime in which they were all implicated.

  The coat gave off a musty camphor smell, tinged with an aroma that reminded Kirsch of the travelling sweets their father used to given them when they were children. As far as he could tell, it had not been cleaned since the last time Max wore it. But even that was not something Kirsch felt able to remedy. What if the coat were damaged at the laundry? What if the black dye on the collar ran, or a button went missing? He did not want to be responsible for that. And in all that
detergent and water, wouldn’t something of Max be washed away too?

  So the coat had hung on a hanger behind the door, doing no one any good, keeping out no wind or rain; serving only to remind Kirsch of his thoughtlessness in having taken it from its rightful place and his absolute inability to make amends.

  Now at last, on a Friday at the beginning of December, Kirsch took down Max’s overcoat, brushed it off carefully and draped it over his arm for the journey to work.

  He found Mariya in her room. ‘Here,’ he said, holding the coat by the shoulders. ‘It’s cold outside.’

  Mariya was sketching one of the other patients. They sat for her willingly now, although not always for long before wandering off. That morning it was Frau Becker’s turn. A widow in her fifties, she had been a beauty in her heyday, though the scarlet lipstick she preferred was no longer flattering. She sat on a stool, her hands between her knees, patiently watching the artist at work, betraying no sign of the disordered mind that had caused her to walk naked into the street one morning, claiming that she was late for church.

  Mariya looked up from her sketch-book. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Out.’ Kirsch continued to hold open the coat. A smell of old mothballs mingled with the prevailing disinfectant fug.

  ‘I have to stay here,’ she said, ‘until I’m finished.’

  ‘I just want you to try on the coat. We can go later.’

  ‘I have to stay here.’ She jabbed her pencil towards the floor. ‘If I move, it changes. And I have to start again.’

  It was the drawing she was talking about. Or was she displeased with him for some reason?

  ‘It’ll only take a second.’

  She stared at her subject and went on drawing. Perhaps she was afraid of losing her perspective, the fall of the light, the angle, or her sense of them. Perhaps her amnesia made such transient things more precious, the need to hang on to them greater.

  He watched her for a moment then rested the coat down on her bed, pausing to smooth out the creases. ‘I’ll come for you at three,’ he said.

  * * *

  When he returned, he found her sitting on her bed, wearing the coat. She got up when she saw him, standing in the middle of the room, her hands by her sides. Kirsch shuddered. It was as if Max were looking at him through the girl’s eyes, a faint trace of him suddenly catching the light, like an image locked inside a prism. But the fit was not as good as he had imagined. Even as a youth, Max had been taller and broader at the shoulders than Mariya. The coat looked borrowed, like her heavy ankle-length boots and her shapeless woollen dress.

  Outside, they hailed a taxi and headed across the river towards the centre of the city. Sunlight pierced the clouds, reflecting off wet roofs and cobbles, so that Kirsch had to shelter his eyes. They crossed Unter den Linden and nudged their way down Wilhelmstrasse, passing beneath the stately masses of banks and government buildings. Mariya sat in silence, staring at the pedestrians. Sometimes, when she spotted someone of particular interest, she would kneel on the seat so that she could continue to watch them out of the back window. Then, as soon as they had disappeared, she would spin round again and fix on someone new, as if every face were a painting in a gallery, unique and interesting. As they stopped to let a tram go by on Leipziger Strasse, a beggar rapped on the window, rattling his tin cup. His face was covered with burn scars, and where his left eye had been there was nothing but a sunken red slit. She looked at him without flinching, her hands pressed against the glass.

  They got out at the Anhalt station. It was there that travellers from Zürich arrived in Berlin. It was the middle of the afternoon, but already the pavements were busy with office workers and civil servants making their way home. While Kirsch paid the driver, Mariya looked up at the building, its lofty portico and vast brick arches. Kirsch saw her swallow. He should have made greater efforts to dress her. For one thing she needed a scarf. The way her bare throat emerged from the heavy fabric of the overcoat looked simply wrong.

  ‘Is this where you’re going to leave me?’ she said.

  ‘Now why would you think that?’

  She dug her hands into her pockets. ‘You aren’t sending me away?’

  He turned up her lapels, covering the V of pale flesh beneath her throat. ‘How can I send you anywhere when I don’t know where you’re from?’

  Her hair had grown just enough that he had to lift it free of the collar. As it brushed against the back of his hand he caught a familiar trace of her scent, masked but not obliterated by the chemical cocktail of camphor and bleach, like a flower blossoming in a field of rubble.

  Two women were watching from the steps above. One of them held a dachshund under her arm. The dachshund yapped at him, baring yellow fangs. No doubt they suspected some impropriety. Mariya was certainly not dressed as a lady, and if she was not a lady what was she?

  Kirsch turned back to the taxi. ‘I’ve changed my mind. Take us to Karstadt’s.’

  The Karstadt department store was the biggest building in Berlin, a vast fortress of cement and stone, with squat square towers at the southern corners rising twenty-five floors into the air. With its rigid adherence to perpendicular forms (there was not a curve or a diagonal anywhere), it reminded Kirsch of a power station, but Alma swore that for everyday clothes and household items generally, it could not be bettered. ‘One wouldn’t go there for evening wear,’ she said, ‘but one can waste so much time in little shops just looking for a pair of gloves.’ Twice the previous summer she had dragged him up to the roof garden, where a string orchestra serenaded the clientele as they stuffed themselves with coffee and cake. On the first occasion she had bought him a tie which, at her suggestion, he wore to visit her family in Oranienburg. On the second occasion she had bought him a set of nail scissors in a leather case.

  Mariya seemed unfamiliar with escalators. On the first ride her legs wobbled and she held on to the handrail with both hands, stealing glances at the glimmering spaces overhead. Kirsch found it hard not to laugh at the alarm on her face as the steps above her vanished one by one beneath the steel teeth of the comb-plate. Finally she let go of the handrail altogether, extended her arms like a tightrope walker and leaped across the threshold, clearing it by a good four feet.

  ‘We can take the stairs if you like,’ Kirsch said.

  ‘No.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘I want to try again. How do you go down?’

  But there was no need to go down, because the ladieswear department was still a floor above them. On the second escalator, Mariya managed to hold on with only one hand, though now and again, as the staircase shuddered, she would reach for Kirsch’s arm to steady herself. Thus occupied, she did not notice the looks people gave her, the backward glances and frowns. Kirsch was not sure what so disconcerted them – the absence of headgear or coiffure, her labourer’s boots, the lack of make-up on her face, or simply the fact that she was more beautiful than she had a right to be. As they rose floor by floor through the great emporium, Kirsch found he enjoyed their discomfiture.

  He picked out a suit in brown worsted. Alma wore a lot of suits these days, even, on one occasion, a suit with trousers, like Marlene Dietrich. But Mariya was not impressed. She picked out a blue patterned house dress with puffed sleeves and a pin-tucked skirt. She held it up against herself, turning this way and that as she looked at her reflection in the mirror.

  ‘Try it on,’ Kirsch said.

  It was like the dresses in her wardrobe at Herr Mettler’s, only brighter, newer.

  ‘Why? I can’t buy without money.’

  ‘Try it anyway. Doctor’s orders.’

  He took her to the changing area and waited outside, listening to the rustle of fabric and the gentle pop of fasteners that came from behind the curtains. He heard voices, a scandalised chuckle: two women were in the next cubicle together. More women walked past him, various items of clothing draped over their arms. It came to him that he was probably the only man on the floor.

  She came out from be
hind the curtain barefoot. After her usual inmate-garb, the dress looked pretty and feminine. She spun round for him so that the skirt flared outward, revealing faint blue bruises on the backs of her calves. She had lost weight since they danced, he could see that now. Her waist was as slender as a girl of thirteen’s.

  ‘You need stockings,’ he said, and he called over one of the assistants.

  Two pairs of silk stockings, a suspender belt, the dress, a pair of black Oxford pumps, they spent almost an hour acquiring the outfit. Then they went up a floor and tried on some hats: a cream-coloured fedora with a brown ribbon, a black cone hat folded over at the top in what the assistants called ‘the Swiss style’, a moulded felt hat that reminded Kirsch of the helmet worn by Mercury the winged messenger, thanks to the shiny black feathers fixed to the sides. One after the other he placed them on Mariya’s head as she stood before the mirror, wrinkling her nose. Choosing was difficult. Each hat seemed to cast her in a different light: the fedora as worldly and rakish, the cone as playful, the moulded hat as poised and delicate, like a dancer. Her innocence lent intensity to every look, lustre to every nuance.

  ‘You choose,’ he said.

  ‘Is this a test? Is this part of my treatment?’

  He still had not told her where they were going and she had apparently decided against asking.

  ‘It’s not a test. But you have to wear something. You don’t want to look like a convict.’

  She pulled off the fedora and handed it to him. ‘I can’t chose. They all look so pretty.’

  ‘They’re the latest lines.’

  She turned back to the mirror and without any show of embarrassment, hitched up her skirt, straightening the hem of her stocking. Kirsch caught the reflection of two shop assistants whispering to each other behind the counter.

  ‘These stockings are special too,’ she said.

  ‘They’re silk.’

  ‘I’ve never worn silk before.’

  ‘Perhaps you couldn’t afford it.’