‘In Switzerland?’
‘In Zürich. Private pupils only, mostly young women. A witches’ coven, Albert calls it.’ Von Laue smiled for a moment. ‘There’s a great shortage of female teachers, in physics especially. Many universities still won’t admit women to study science, regrettably.’
‘Can you tell me her name? If it’s not …’
Von Laue shrugged. ‘Mileva. Mileva Marić.’
It took Kirsch a few seconds to place the name.
‘It’s Serbian,’ von Laue said. ‘That’s where Mileva comes from, you see. Some small town miles from anywhere.’
Kirsch hurried back to the clinic. Supper was under way and most of the building was quiet. He went to his office and closed the door, fishing in his pocket for the key to the filing cabinet. He pushed the Adler aside, took out Mariya’s file and emptied the contents onto the desk. The letter was there, between a sample of Mariya’s sketches and the photograph in Die Berliner Woche that Alma had given him: Fr. Mileva Einstein-Marić, Tillierstrasse 18, Berne, Switzerland.
The first time he’d seen the name, he’d wondered if it wasn’t a joke. ‘Dr Einstein-Kirsch’ was just how Robert Eisner might have addressed him in one of his more sarcastic moods. But there was no doubt now: the letter was addressed to Albert Einstein’s first wife.
He read it again. April 1903. The Einsteins were thinking about moving to Serbia. Mileva was concerned about a young child there, called Lieserl. Her friend Helene reassured her that the child was well, and warned against undoing arrangements previously entered into for the good of all.
The child had been Mileva’s. It was the only plausible explanation. Lieserl had been put up for adoption – privately and secretly, to judge from the tone. There was no clue as to why, or to how Mariya came to be in possession of the letter twenty-nine years on – still less, why she had brought it with her to Berlin.
An ugly thought occurred to him. If the letter was evidence of impropriety, it could have been used for blackmail. Perhaps that had been the intention: to threaten the Einsteins with a scandal.
Eugen Fischer had suspected a scam, and he was not alone. Even the police were reluctant to treat Mariya as a victim. Seen from the outside, there was something strange and calculated about the way she had come to the public’s notice, as if she were doing her utmost to gain attention and, in the process, leverage.
Kirsch looked at the sketches lying on his desk. The young man and the old man, they were there again, looming up through the delicate shading. Had the young man been her accomplice? If so, what had become of him? Kirsch looked at the broad forehead and the beautiful, delicate mouth. Perhaps he hadn’t been as lucky as Mariya: perhaps he had not been found. Kirsch pictured them out on the lake, in a rowing boat; an argument, a struggle. Maybe she’d killed him and dumped his body over the side. Maybe it lay still undiscovered, the pockets weighed down with stones.
Kirsch thought of her exercising in the grounds, her pale white arms, the way she had looked down as she tucked her hair behind her ear. She was no murderess. She wasn’t capable of blackmail or deceit.
But, of course, she had deceived him. At the Tanguero. When he had asked for her name, she had told him it was Elisabeth.
He picked up the letter again. I know that Lieserl is on your mind when you ask such things.
Lieserl. Not a proper name, not a name for a birth certificate or a passport. It was an old-fashioned German diminutive, an affectionate moniker given to a small child.
He got to his feet, tipping over an empty coffee cup. It rolled off the desk and smashed on the floor. He stared at the shards, thinking only of Mariya, their fleeting exchange at the Tanguero, the way she had hesitated before answering him, the hint of a smile on her lips.
A baby called Lieserl grew up to be woman called Lisa or Elsbeth – or Elisabeth.
He’d thought she was playing with him, making up a name on the spot to put him off the scent. But he’d been wrong. She hadn’t been out to deceive him at all. She had been trusting him with a secret. She was the child in the letter. She was Lieserl.
The young man and the old man. He closed the file and locked it away in the cabinet. He’d always wondered who the old man was. Now he knew.
First thing the next morning he telephoned the university, but it took several attempts before anyone would take a message. At noon, von Laue finally returned his call.
‘I need to get in contact with Professor Einstein,’ Kirsch said. ‘It concerns this case of mine, the student.’
‘Albert Einstein? Are you serious?’
‘I know it’s a lot to ask.’
Kirsch heard footsteps, the thud of a door closing. After a bad night – a kaleidoscope of memories, dreams and speculations – he felt tired and edgy. ‘Professor von Laue?’
‘You want to show him the notebook. Is that what you had in mind?’
Von Laue’s tone was wary. The mention of Einstein, of seeing him, meeting him, had changed everything.
‘No. The issue isn’t strictly scientific.’
‘Then what makes you think it would be of interest? Professor Einstein is a scientist. He has no expertise in psychiatry.’
‘This particular case, the case of Mariya Draganović: I believe it would be of interest to the professor, if he were fully acquainted with the facts. But I wanted to consult you before presuming to approach him directly.’
It was tempting to tell von Laue about the Savić letter, about what it meant – tempting, but dangerous. What if the letter had been stolen? It had clearly been private correspondence. Besides, regarded objectively, it was hardly proof of anything.
‘Draganović, you said?’
‘It’s a Serbian name. I believe she comes from Serbia. Like the professor’s first wife.’
There was a pause. For a moment he thought von Laue was going to hang up.
‘Go on.’
Kirsch sat down. ‘I believe there’s a strong possibility this patient was once known to Professor Einstein. There may be a connection between them, one that accounts for her presence in Berlin.’
‘I’m sorry, but I fail to see –’
‘The professor may be the one person who can help her.’
Von Laue sighed, as if he had heard all this before. ‘Dr Kirsch, we’re talking about the most famous man alive. Have you forgotten that?’
‘I realise –’
‘Albert Einstein is recognised in every corner of the civilised world. The newsreels follow him night and day, and there can’t be a newspaper in existence that hasn’t carried his photograph. As a psychiatrist, you must know that to many people, sane and insane, such exposure constitutes a connection, even a relationship. I assure you, hardly a week goes by without some deluded soul making one kind of claim or another.’
‘Nevertheless, in this instance, I believe the professor would want to learn what I’ve learned. The matter would remain strictly confidential, of course.’
Von Laue took a long time to reply. ‘I would like to help you, Dr Kirsch, but I’m afraid it’s impossible. Professor Einstein and his wife are leaving for Bremerhaven this afternoon.’
‘Bremerhaven? Will they be gone for long?’
‘I hope you understand that their travel plans shouldn’t be broadcast, even now, for reasons of safety. Albert is not only the world’s most famous scientist. He is also the world’s most famous Jew. Not to mention a vociferous opponent of National Socialism.’
‘I understand.’
‘Very well. They sail for America in a few days. They aren’t due back until March; although, the situation being what it is, I shouldn’t count on them returning at all.’
It occurred to Kirsch that this might be a lie, a way of denying his request without giving offence. But then, von Laue had proved he wasn’t the type for lies.
‘I’m sorry I can’t do more for you, Dr Kirsch, or for your patient. But I wouldn’t have Professor Einstein delay his departure on any account. His enemies here grow bo
lder and more dangerous every day. Whatever this connection, it cannot be allowed to divert him from his work, let alone compromise his safety.’
‘The thing is –’
‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I shall have to leave matters there.’
‘I think this may be his daughter. Einstein’s daughter, Elisabeth. Wouldn’t that change everything?’
There was another pause on the line.
‘Goodbye, Dr Kirsch.’
Twenty-six
Mariya had not seen Dr Kirsch for several days. When he came walking towards her across the grounds, she could tell that something was wrong. His hands were dug deep into the pockets of his coat so the knuckles pushed through the fabric; and there was a stiffness in the way he carried himself that she had not seen before.
‘Don’t tell me you’re drawing the clinic?’ he said.
Mariya was seated on her usual bench. She faced the building with the pad on her lap, though she had yet to make a start. Afternoon sunlight was breaking through the clouds. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’
Kirsch squinted up at the barred windows and stark brickwork, obscured only by the skeletal remains of dead creepers. ‘There must be prettier views.’
She moved along the seat of the bench so as to make room for him, but he sat down on the arm. Mariya looked down at her paper, drew a curved line, waiting for Kirsch to speak. The line became a cheekbone. Beneath the cheekbone she drew a jaw.
‘Is it bad news?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, it’s progress. Definite progress. With luck, you’ll be out of here very soon. You’ll be able to go on with your life.’
She drew the arch of an eyebrow. A man’s or a woman’s? She didn’t know. Her stomach squirmed.
‘Where are you going to send me?’
‘Only to where you belong.’ He was looking at her for the first time, but she kept her eyes on the page. ‘This place, it’s just a temporary refuge. Soon you won’t need it any more.’
She drew the eyes dark and piercing. ‘What about you?’
Up on the top floor of the clinic, a figure in white drifted past
one of the windows. How many others were watching? Mariya wondered. Awkward for Dr Kirsch, having an audience. Or was that what he had wanted: to have others enforce a distance between them?
‘Mariya, what happened at Herr Mettler’s …’ Her pencil came to rest. ‘It was wrong of me. Entirely wrong.’
‘Was it? Why?’
‘I’m a doctor. My role … my place is to restore you to health. Anything else can only complicate your recovery.’
She felt tears in her eyes. She clenched her teeth. She was afraid if she opened her mouth to speak, they would run down her cheeks. How stupid, she thought. How abnormal. She forced herself to concentrate on her drawing, filled in the pupils and the eyelids with hard jabs of her pencil.
‘You must understand,’ Kirsch said. ‘You’re bound to feel isolated at the moment. Any feelings you may have, that’s the cause of them. But once you’re better, all that will change. Your horizons will broaden. You’ll be able to forget this place.’
‘And everyone in it. Is that what you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Forgetting is something I’m good at.’
She heard him sigh. Her cheeks burned, knowing now how much of a burden she had become.
‘Apart from anything else …’ He placed a hand against his chest. ‘I’m engaged to be married. So you see …’
She shivered. She wanted to run away, but where would she go? Beyond the grounds of the clinic, the world was a fog of half-remembered pictures, daunting and lonely.
She got to her feet. ‘I understand, Doctor. Thank you.’
She took a few steps towards the clinic, but Kirsch put a hand on her arm. She did not dare to turn and look at him.
‘I’ve received some information.’ His voice was softer, though there was nobody around to overhear them. ‘If it’s true, it changes everything. You see, all this time I’ve been fixed on the idea of rebuilding your past. I thought that was the only way to address your amnesia. But I think in your case it’s your future that’s really important. It’s your future we should be trying to reclaim. Perhaps a brilliant future.’
She reached for his hand and gently removed it. ‘How?’
‘Just give me a little time.’ His voice was normal again now, a doctor’s voice: level, reassuring, distant. ‘I shall have to go away for a while. I’ve taken a leave of absence, with the director’s approval. There’s more I need to learn, you see, and I won’t learn it in Berlin. In the meantime …’ He was holding something out to her, a book. ‘I want you to read this.’
She glanced at the title on the spine: On the Special and General Theory of Relativity, Generally Comprehensible. What a strange gift, she thought: a gift to pass between strangers. Anything but a gift of love.
‘Think of it as a new beginning,’ Kirsch said.
She took the book, not wishing to seem churlish. ‘Of course, Doctor. Whatever you think best.’
the writer
Twenty-seven
So it was that I began to study not for the praise or good opinion of others, but for the independence I thought it could give me. My studies were soon my life. They gave me refuge as well as occupation, for when I was sunk in my books I felt myself not alone, but in company: a company of enlightened souls whose passion was the enlightenment of others. I felt privileged to eavesdrop on the discourse of these great minds, and sometimes resented the intrusions of daily life. I can admit this to you because I know you will understand the temptations of a scholarly existence. Sometimes I think if I had not taken that road, a tumult of emotions might have overwhelmed me. Anger, sorrow and loneliness lay in wait on every side. I had only to stray a step or two from the path and I would be lost to them, and to despair. For what use are the tears of a few gentle souls against the cruelty of so many?
Yet I was not happy. I took pride in my accomplishments, all the more so as they were rare for a young person of my sex, but I did not see the worth of prizes. I wanted my learning to make me happier, and others whom I cared for, and I wanted that happiness to endure. Until then, my successes had served only to isolate me. The girls at school thought me boyish and strange, with my pursuit of mathematics and science; the boys regarded me as an upstart. I believe I was therefore receptive to the notion that learning might at least bring me closer to God.
Not that I received this suggestion in church. I had the impression that, if anything, ministers of religion regarded too much learning with suspicion, especially those kinds that touched upon the natural world. God and his Great Plan were mysteries beyond the reach of human reason, they said. There was a presumption in mortal men propounding on the subject of natural law. Faith was the quality that mattered – blind or otherwise, it made no difference. All the learning in the world, they reminded me repeatedly, did not bring a soul one step closer to the Kingdom of Heaven, unless it was a learning of the scriptures.
Fortunately, there were teachers at the gymnasium who had a different opinion of science. My last teacher of physics, Dr Stanić, suggested that God and the laws of nature were one and the same, since the character of the universe was an expression of natural law, and all things subject to it. So in understanding better natural laws, how could we fail to understand God better? In this way he placed a new prize before me. I saw that the pathway of learning and investigation led not only to understanding, but to the source of all goodness and love.
These words were a great comfort to me, and a spur. My father never had cause to rebuke me for wasting the money he spent on my education, although this did not deter him from reminding me of the sacrifices he was making. This he did so often I feared he would remove me from the school, even though I had by this time obtained a scholarship, so that the greater part of my fees was waived. Had I known then how he boasted of his prowess around the district, claiming that he had tutored me himself, and that there h
ad been many such prodigies in his family in generations past, I would have worried less.
I suppose he had little else to brag of at this time, for the end of the war had brought an end to his position in the customs service. The border had disappeared by order of the great powers, and the customs posts with it. More welcome to me was the news that the new Kingdom of Yugoslavia would open all its universities, including the schools of medicine and science, to female students. Dr Stanić said neither the university at Zagreb nor its sister in Belgrade were of the first rank when it came to science, and that if it were at all possible I should study abroad. But I knew my father would never pay for that, for since he had lost his position there were more arguments than ever between him and my mother on the subject of money.
Usually I absented myself from the table when these began, as I felt sure my presence would not incline any outcome in my favour. I was still afraid that my father would change his mind about my education (which, as far as I could see, had yet to bring in so much as a penny) and decide that I should come home to work. He had taken to spending his days either fishing by the river or drinking in the company of other idle men. Instead of looking for work – the little there was available being beneath him – he talked more and more about how we could make a profit with this-or-that grand scheme. One of these was to cultivate silk worms in the attic and the outbuildings. He came home from Novi Sad one day with several baskets full of shiny brown cocoons, none of which ever hatched. Another plan was to turn over our land to growing vines, to which end he ploughed up a good meadow and turned it into a bad one full of weeds. But if he did not persist with these schemes (which thankfully he did not), there was always a need for more help around the house, especially with my mother’s health being poor. So usually I got busy clearing the plates when the subject of money came up, and disappeared into the scullery, especially when Father started in with his complaining – that our mother was extravagant, which was not true, and that her family had not given him the dowry they had promised, and numerous other slights and grievances.
The Einstein Girl Page 20