The Einstein Girl

by Philip Sington

  ‘Oh yes, quite alone.’

  I felt free.

  Kirsch reached for his handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. The walk up the hill had drained him. The possibility that he had been mistaken, that Mileva had nothing of value to tell him, drained him more.

  ‘Are you all right, Dr Kirsch?’

  ‘Yes, yes, thank you. When did you last see Mariya?’

  ‘A few months ago. September or October.’

  ‘Where did she stay?’

  Mileva sucked her teeth. ‘She lodged in town. I forget the address. It was somewhere near Baschigplatz.’

  Kirsch reached inside his jacket and took out an envelope containing the photograph of Mariya from Die Berliner Woche. It was still the only picture he had.

  ‘This is her?’

  Mileva studied the picture. ‘She looks thin.’

  The paper trembled slightly in her hand.

  ‘It’s important I make contact with her family. Could you help me with that? In the strictest confidence, of course.’

  Mileva continued to look at the photograph. ‘I’ve told you all I know.’

  ‘You can’t remember anything else?’

  She handed the picture back. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Kirsch put the cutting back in the envelope. Years spent studying the human mind, and yet he couldn’t tell if he was being lied to or not. ‘Frau Professor Einstein, did Mariya say anything …? Was there ever any mention of a child?’

  ‘A child? What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s just a possibility.’

  ‘Mariya was unmarried. Why would you say that?’

  The indignation seemed genuine. Kirsch was pleased to have elicited some reaction, some small indication of hurt. But how to exploit it?

  ‘It wasn’t clear to us if she’d been married,’ he said. ‘She’s quite old enough to have been widowed or divorced. And therefore to have had children.’

  ‘Well,’ Mileva visibly relaxed, ‘I can help you with that. She told me quite distinctly that she had never been married.’

  ‘I’m still not clear how she came to be your student.’

  ‘Most of my students are young women from that part of the world, from the Balkans.’

  ‘So you were recommended.’

  ‘I’ve never needed to advertise my services. I suppose I’m known in certain academic circles.’

  Kirsch tucked the envelope away in his jacket. Mileva didn’t trust him. Why should she? She had no way of divining his motives, of judging his integrity. Perhaps she would trust him in time. But then, time was the one thing he did not have.

  ‘Did Mariya talk to you about Berlin?’

  ‘Not that I recall.’

  ‘Why did she go there?’

  ‘So many questions, Dr Kirsch.’

  ‘She must have said something.’

  ‘Not to me.’

  ‘Is it possible she went to see Professor Einstein? Might that have been the plan?’

  Mileva picked up her coffee again and stirred it deliberately. ‘It’s a long way to go for a public lecture, Dr Kirsch, even assuming you can get a ticket.’

  ‘Perhaps she hoped to meet him face to face.’

  The stirring stopped. ‘That would have been most presumptuous of her. Professor Einstein’s time is precious. More precious than you can imagine.’

  ‘Perhaps she felt they had something in common.’

  Mileva was very still, perched on the edge of her seat as if afraid a single movement might see her fall. Kirsch wished she would fall.

  ‘Presumptuous again,’ she said. ‘For your information, Mariya never struck me as the presumptuous type.’

  ‘How did she strike you?’

  ‘She was a good student. Gifted. Such people are often … different. What the Lord gives with one hand, he takes away with the other.’

  Kirsch edged forward. ‘How was she different?’

  Mileva sighed and looked out of the window. The snow had stopped falling, but the wind was gathering strength. It nudged against the frames, rattling the glass.

  ‘Mariya is suggestible, Dr Kirsch. A dreamer. One might say a fantasist. Plant the seed of an idea in her mind and …’ She raised a fist and flipped open the fingers as if releasing a small bird. ‘In her studies she understands the importance of rigorous proofs; not so in other matters.’

  Kirsch shifted in his seat.

  ‘What did she fantasise about exactly?’

  ‘Oh, finding happiness in various unlikely ways, beginning a new life. Love, I dare say. She was lonely. Yes, lonely. People like that grow up to rely on their imaginations for company, more than is good for them. Their lives may be quiet, but their dreams run wild. You must have observed such things in your work.’ Mileva glanced at the clock ticking on the mantelpiece. ‘I’m afraid I have a pupil. Is there anything else you’d like to know?’

  He could have shown her the letter. There was nothing fantastic about that. It was there in his jacket pocket. He could have asked her what it meant and how she accounted for it being among Mariya’s possessions. He could have asked her about Lieserl. But what was the use? By now she would have had her answers and evasions ready.

  ‘There is one other thing. Your son, Eduard, did he become acquainted with Mariya as well?’

  Mileva’s eyes fixed on him again. ‘Is that what she told you?’

  It was hard to hold her gaze. ‘She remembers him quite clearly. Clearly enough to draw pictures of him.’

  Mileva shook her head impatiently. ‘My son is unwell. You must understand that. He’s not capable of normal relationships with the opposite sex. It was just such an entanglement that led to his first relapse.’

  ‘And Mariya …?’

  ‘I told her to keep away from him, but she didn’t listen. She saw him behind my back.’

  ‘At the Burghölzli?’

  ‘He was staying here at the time. We’d hoped he was on the mend. There had been no trouble for some time. But then, he became worse than ever.’ She brought a hand to her throat. ‘It’s quite possible Mariya was to blame. I don’t know. I’d stopped teaching her by that time.’

  ‘Are you saying they had an affair?’

  The question came out more bluntly than he had intended.

  ‘No, Dr Kirsch, I am not saying that. I only know that Eduard took a shine to her in his way. And she …’

  ‘She …?’

  ‘She did nothing to discourage him. Even after I’d explained about his state of mind.’ Mileva shook her head regretfully. ‘She meant no harm, I’m sure. Perhaps she’d grown fond of him. But it did him no good, coming on top of everything else. No good at all.’

  ‘Everything else?’

  Mileva made no attempt to elucidate. ‘So you see why I was – why I remain anxious to see that their acquaintance is not renewed. My son’s health is paramount.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I hope you do, Dr Kirsch. I hope you would not seek to treat one patient at the expense of another.’

  In the hallway, the clock struck four. Mileva put down her cup and rose to her feet. Her pupil would be arriving any moment. She escorted him to the door.

  ‘Will you be returning to Berlin at once? Or have you other business here?’

  He would probably go first thing in the morning, he said. It was clearly what she wanted to hear.

  ‘I do hope your treatment is successful,’ she said as they shook hands. ‘And that Miss Draganović will be able to return home.’

  ‘Shall I send her your best wishes, at the appropriate time?’

  Mileva hesitated. ‘All things considered, Dr Kirsch, it would be best if she did not dwell any further on her time here. I think that would be best all round.’

  * * *

  There was no sign of a pupil, not on the stairs, not in the entrance hall, not in the street outside. Mileva had heard all she wanted to hear and said all she wanted to say. Kirsch felt sure there was more she could have told him. But she
had come to regard Mariya’s presence in Zürich as an intrusion, perhaps a threat, and already she saw him in the same way. Was it really her son’s peace of mind that she was so anxious to protect? Or her own family honour? Or neither of those things? Was it Albert Einstein who had to be protected, his reputation, his unimpeachable name?

  Kirsch could have called on Mileva again, of course, try to catch her in a more cooperative mood. But he felt sure that when he returned, whatever the day, whatever the hour, he would find she was regrettably unavailable.

  Crossing the road, he looked back at the apartment. It took him a moment to realise that she was standing at one of the windows, a small dark figure, partially obscured by the reflected sky. He gave her a nod, but she simply stood there, framed like a painting, watching him walk away.

  He ate supper at the Hotel St Gotthard and killed the evening at a crumbling picture palace a block away from the railway station. He sat in the smoky darkness, thinking about Mariya as the images danced on the patched and yellowed screen, and about Mileva.

  How had she and Einstein ever made a couple? She was conventional where he was free-thinking, suspicious where he was open, remote where he was warm and sociable. Above all, she was secretive, whereas he had given his life to unravelling secrets. Max von Laue said Mileva understood Einstein’s work, had shared in it once. Mariya’s notebook suggested she was following it still, as best she could.

  After the short feature came the newsreels. Kirsch sat up as General Schleicher’s image flashed up on the screen. He was seen hurrying into the back of a motor car with a hard frown on his face. The commentary said he had failed to secure a majority in the Reichstag and had resigned from the government. Adolf Hitler had been appointed Chancellor in his place. Kirsch recognised the Kaiserhof Hotel, small figures in long coats making their way through a thronging crowd, arms outstretched on every side. The picture cut to a victory parade of Brown-shirts and army veterans, thousands marching out of the Tiergarten and along the Charlottenburger Chausee towards the Brandenburg Gate. Kirsch hardly recognised the place. It was as if, in his absence, his city had been taken over by an alien horde. Bands formed up playing Prussian marches. Outside the French embassy they stopped and sang the old war song, ‘Siegreich wollen wir Frankreich schlagen’, their voices swelling like a drunken ocean. Then they marched on with their flaming torches – bank clerks and bus boys, eager as ever for the thrill of battle and the restitution of German honour. In the meantime, the Brown-shirts would have the freedom of the streets, to deal with their enemies as they saw fit, and no one would stand in their way.

  And it occurred to Kirsch that if Mariya really was an Einstein, he would have to keep that knowledge to himself. Nobody could be allowed to know the truth, perhaps not even Mariya herself. There could be no publications in the medical press, no reports in the newspapers, however advantageous. It would have to be a secret, perhaps for ever.

  He still wanted it to be true, though, in spite of the dangers. He wanted it to be true more than ever.

  Twenty-nine

  The Burghölzli Psychiatric Clinic lay in the southern suburbs of the city, with the Zürichsee on one side and the Zürichberg on the other. It was a grander building than the Charité, with a lofty stone-clad exterior reminiscent of an English stately home. The grounds were larger than anything on offer in Berlin, and the views from the upper floors were impressive, marred only by the busy railway which ran along the shore of the lake.

  There were other differences. The Burghölzli boasted a special first-class section, like a passenger liner where, for an additional fee, patients could be accommodated in a suite, with fully furnished sitting and dining rooms. First-class patients were also excused work in the grounds or the workshops, which other patients were given as part of their general rehabilitation. The arrangements were discreet. Most of the second- and third-class patients were said to be completely unaware that they existed. Presumably, Kirsch reflected as he stepped out of the taxi, knowledge of their inferior status was thought likely to interfere with their treatment.

  Albert Einstein’s younger son was one of those who resided in the first-class section. Kirsch presented his card to a nurse at the front desk and was escorted down a series of corridors towards the south side of the building. The air seemed to improve as he went, the stench of boiled food and disinfectant being slowly replaced by subtler, more agreeable aromas: drapery, wood polish, flowers. This was more like the exclusively private clinics and sanatoriums that he had heard about. Found all over the Swiss Alps, they had once catered to wealthy consumptives, promising clean air, rest and gentle exercise in a conducive setting. Many had since moved into psychiatric care, offering water treatments and the latest cures, along with copious amounts of peace and quiet – for a price. In Switzerland, madness, like the wars of its neighbours, had become a considerable source of profit.

  They went through a locked door. On the far side a second nurse took the place of the first. She was tall and red-haired, with pale, lightly freckled skin. They climbed a flight of stairs and then she too disappeared, leaving him to wait on a landing. There he spent several minutes looking out of the window at the snow-covered grounds. He had no idea if Eduard Einstein would see him, but in his experience people confined to institutions rarely passed up an opportunity to escape the monotonous routine of their daily lives. The alternative was to go through his doctors, but they were sure to consult Mileva, an eventuality he wanted to avoid at all costs. Eduard was his last chance, the one person remaining who had known Mariya in Zürich and who might know the truth about her origins.

  In a nearby room, a piano struck up: a rapid scale, ascending, descending. Then chords, heavy and dramatic. Kirsch strained to listen, but then the music abruptly stopped. He heard three or four bars of a waltz, then it too stopped on a single note, a note that repeated and repeated, as if the pianist was unhappy with the tuning.

  The tall red-haired nurse returned. ‘If you’ll follow me,’ she said.

  Eduard Einstein sat at the piano with his back to the door. He was dressed in a white shirt and a pair of baggy checked trousers, secured by braces and a sturdy belt. His hair was dark and slicked back. The piano was an upright, the tuning dubious in the upper registers, but he played well, everything delicately phrased and note perfect.

  The room was decently furnished, but untidy. A waste-paper basket was crammed full to overflowing. Piles of newspapers, a number from Berlin, were scattered across a kneehole desk, along with magazines and journals. An ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts. A silk dressing gown had been slung over the back of an armchair. Kirsch found it uncomfortably warm, a large iron radiator trickling away beneath the double-glazed window, across which a pair of iron bars had been fitted. The pervading smell was one of stale tobacco, mixed with an expensive variety of cologne.

  When the piece was over, Eduard got to his feet. He took a deep breath, his shoulders slowly rising and falling, before finally turning towards his visitor. His mother was right: he had put on weight since the photograph in the garden. His cheeks and jowls were fuller. A prominence in his upper lip suggested a moustache where there was none. But he was still handsome: tall, dark like his mother, with the same strong mouth and lustrous eyes.

  ‘Bravo,’ Kirsch said.

  The young man smiled but didn’t look him in the eye. ‘The Partita in D minor.’ His voice was soft, hesitant. ‘Not everyone likes Bach. They find him dry.’

  ‘He can be a little mechanical in the wrong hands.’

  Eduard lowered his gaze towards the patterned rug on the floor. ‘My father likes Bach. He plays the violin. Not all that well. Not as well as he thinks he does, though nobody tells him that. They want to be able to say “I played with the great Professor Einstein”. They don’t care how rough it is. All they can think about is how they’ll tell their friends.’

  He encircled the fingers of his right had with his left, squeezing so that the knuckles cracked. Then abruptly he sat dow
n on the edge of a nearby sofa.

  Kirsch removed his coat and sat down opposite. People connected to Albert Einstein always seemed to mention him at the earliest opportunity. Even with Max von Laue it had only been a matter of minutes. But there was more to it than name-dropping – name-dropping was hardly necessary in Eduard’s case, or in von Laue’s. It was as if the man was constantly in their thoughts, a lens through which all things were seen.

  ‘He’ll play Mozart too, on occasion,’ Eduard said. ‘We always play Mozart together. But anything later he won’t touch. It upsets him. Beethoven or Brahms – especially Brahms.’

  ‘It’s too difficult?’

  ‘No. It has too much emotion. Too much feeling. He doesn’t care for that.’

  Kirsch watched the young man closely: he was evidently talented, but also conscious of his psychiatric condition, of his difference from other people. The two elements mingled to produce a shyness mixed with bursts of loquacity that was quite distinctive. He had seen it before among the most gifted patients; and he had often wondered if the gift owed something to the abnormality, or if the abnormality owed something to the gift.

  ‘He won’t go to the pictures for the same reason,’ Eduard said. ‘The sad scenes upset him. He’s like a child in that way.’

  ‘A child?’

  Eduard nodded. The way he kept looking at the floor reminded Kirsch of a blind man.

  ‘It makes no difference to him that the story isn’t real. That’s what I mean. He feels it no less than he would if it were real. No less and no more. That’s why he stays away. He prefers tranquillity. He thinks he needs it to see.’ Eduard placed his hands between his knees. ‘Are you here for a second opinion, Dr Kirsch?’

  ‘In a way.’

  Eduard didn’t wait for further explanation. ‘I’ve been diagnosed with a schizo-affective disorder. But that’s just because the psychiatrists here cannot agree about me. At first Dr Zimmermann diagnosed me with schizophrenia because my thoughts were disordered. My mental associations had loosened, making me incoherent.’ He glanced up at Kirsch for a moment, as if appealing against this judgement. ‘Also, he was of the opinion that I demonstrated conflicting emotion and attitudes towards other people. He had in mind my mother, I expect.’