The Einstein Girl

by Philip Sington

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘I attacked her. Didn’t they tell you? I only meant to frighten her. I was angry. My father’s the same. He has no control over his anger. Like a child, as I say. Mother thought I was going to throw her off the balcony. She’s kept the French windows locked ever since.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘A loosening of associations and emotional ambivalence are two of the criteria for diagnosing schizophrenia, according to Dr Bleuler.’

  A twitchy smile formed on Eduard’s lips. For the first time, Kirsch noticed that his teeth were slightly crooked and stained with nicotine.

  ‘Dr Zimmermann is a follower of Dr Bleuler,’ Eduard said. ‘But Dr Schuler isn’t. In his opinion, I lack the clear evidence of hallucinations, which he regards as necessary for a diagnosis of schizophrenia. He says I suffer from a mood disorder, a depressive mania possibly with an hereditary component. There may be something in that. My mother’s frequently depressed. She’s been that way since I was a boy.’ He sniffed loudly. ‘Have you met my mother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Some people say she was different once. Before my father went to Berlin. She was actually happy.’

  He sat staring for a moment, then looked up suddenly, frowning. ‘Yes, yes, they could not agree. But then they heard about this new disorder from America: the schizo-affective disorder. And that seemed like a good compromise, being schizophrenia with manic interludes.’

  ‘They explained all this to you?’

  Eduard talked so quickly Kirsch found it a struggle to follow him.

  ‘Oh no. The other way around. I explained it to them.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t –’

  ‘It was me who suggested the diagnosis.’ Eduard’s hands slid out from between his knees and settled on top. ‘I have more time for the psychiatric journals than they do.’ He nodded towards his overcrowded desk. ‘I have nothing to do but read. I read all day.’

  Eduard showed every sign of being starved of conversation. It came as no surprise. Psychiatric nurses, while often compassionate, were not inclined to sit around and chat, certainly not on the more erudite topics that Eduard was drawn to. If it was true that he had inherited his father’s genius, it was a genius without the same clear goals, a restless undirected force that put him at a distance from the world around him, but brought no benefits to compensate. If there was a goal, it was only that he should gain his illustrious father’s attention and hold it for as long as possible.

  ‘I’m not here to make another diagnosis, Herr Einstein.’

  ‘Your card says psychiatrist.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Then you can give a second opinion – or a third.’

  ‘But who would I give it to?’

  Eduard looked puzzled. ‘To me. One can’t have too many opinions. The more you have, the better your chance of finding one to your liking.’

  ‘I’m not sure my opinion would be of any value. Besides –’

  Eduard put his head on one side. ‘What is the general view of Dr Jung in Berlin? Dr Jung says what we call mental illness is usually a creation of the unconscious – a crisis that forces us to recognise obstacles to our development as individuals. He says we should embrace it.’

  ‘So I’ve read.’

  ‘What people call mental illness is just a new way of seeing things. A way they don’t like. It’s a comforting idea, don’t you think, that there’s some point to being mad? A reason for unreason.’

  Eduard smiled again, tentatively. It seemed to Kirsch that everything he did was tentative, except for his piano playing. He spoke rapidly, hurrying on from one idea to the next, as if anxious that none should be examined too closely. Kirsch realised he was sweating. The heating in the room was up way too high.

  He took out a handkerchief. ‘I’m not aware of a consensus in Berlin,’ he said, ‘regarding Dr Jung’s ideas.’

  Eduard smiled. ‘I expect Freud is in the ascendant, being established there. I find his writings most persuasive, especially his analysis of the family. Have you read Totem and Taboo?’ He ground the heels of his hands together, as if squeezing the words out from under his skin. ‘Freud says every son instinctively wants to kill his father, to supplant him, while feeling guilty about it, of course. The father’s role is to tame the son’s instinct, to guide him so that he is capable of looking outward, beyond the family – beyond the clutches of the mother, in particular. To have the confidence to strike out into the world. But then, if there is no father …’

  Kirsch dabbed at his forehead. It wasn’t just the temperature in the room: he was running a fever. He could feel it in the tightness of his scalp, and the dull aching of his joints. And the way Eduard talked, the ideas and opinions coming one after the other, that was feverish too.

  ‘Herr Einstein,’ he said, ‘the reason I’m here … I came to ask you about Mariya Draganović.’

  Suddenly Eduard was very still. Either he was feigning surprise or he was surprised. Then he smiled. ‘Mariya? I haven’t heard from her in months.’

  ‘Can you be more precise?’

  ‘She sent me a postcard from Berlin. It was October. Just a postcard, then nothing.’ Eduard frowned. ‘How do you know her, may I ask?’

  ‘She’s a patient.’

  ‘A patient?’ The joints in his fingers clicked.

  ‘She’s suffered a kind of breakdown. I’m trying to uncover the circumstances surrounding it.’

  Eduard stood up and went to the window. Two small cactus plants, like the ones in Frau Einstein’s sitting room, were resting on the window sill. They were dome-shaped, the flesh beneath the needles a ghostly shade of green. Was that why the heating was up so high: because that was how the cactuses liked it?

  ‘What are the symptoms?’ he asked.

  ‘Memory loss, primarily. At first she had no idea of her own identity. She’s made some improvement, but the causes of her condition remain unresolved. It’s possible she was attacked, but the police aren’t sure.’

  Eduard squatted down beside the big iron radiator. ‘Attacked where?’

  ‘In woods, outside Berlin.’

  ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘Somewhere near Potsdam. Why?’

  Instead of answering, Eduard slowly turned the valve. ‘But she remembers me?’

  ‘From what I can gather, you were close.’

  Eduard smiled again. ‘She’s very bright, you know. Like my mother when she was young. Mama didn’t want to teach her at first. She was quite angry with Aunt Helene for sending her, but when she saw her work she couldn’t resist. A brain like that can’t go to waste, she said. We have a responsibility.’

  ‘A responsibility? Were those her exact words?’

  Eduard nodded. ‘I heard her talking on the telephone.’

  Kirsch remembered the letter. I urge you to be cautious in this matter and observe the agreements that have been entered into.

  ‘This Aunt Helene wouldn’t be Helene Savić, by any chance?’

  ‘She’s not really my aunt. Just an old friend from my mother’s student days. She’s Austrian, but she married a Serb – the opposite to Mama: a Serb who married a German. A kind woman and clever. All Mama’s friends are clever. She lives in Belgrade. Have you ever been to Belgrade, Doctor?’

  Kirsch shook his head.

  ‘Its name means “white city”. That’s rather beautiful, don’t you think?’

  ‘Your mother says she gave Mariya lessons for a couple of months, but then the lessons stopped. Why was that?’

  Eduard brushed some dirt from his palms. ‘Because Mama had nothing left to teach her. If you knew the kind of work she was doing …’

  But Kirsch did know. Professor von Laue had told him.

  ‘I believe she was working on the unified field theory,’ he said. ‘Specifically a five-dimensional geometry recently proposed by your father.’

  Eduard blushed. ‘My mother’s idea.’ He stood up abruptly and went over to the piano.
‘She still follows everything my father does. Uncritically, of course. Have you ever delved into quantum physics, Dr Kirsch?’

  Kirsch was anxious to avoid another of Eduard’s academic digressions, but then he recalled that it was quantum physics that had filled Mariya’s notebook, calculations of a type and complexity that even Max von Laue had been intrigued.

  ‘I’ve read the odd thing,’ he said.

  ‘My father brought it into the world. He gave it life, but now he wants to disown it. He wishes it had never been born. He says if quantum mechanics is real then the world is mad.’ Eduard looked up at a faint brown stain on the ceiling. ‘And nothing horrifies him more than madness.’

  ‘He’s not alone in that,’ Kirsch said.

  ‘Do you know why my father finds quantum theory so threatening?’ Eduard said. ‘The real reason?’

  ‘The issues are beyond me, I’m sure.’

  ‘Oh, they’re as much visceral as intellectual, I assure you. Bohr and the others, they’ve created a world he can’t stand to be in.’ Eduard extended a finger and played a single note high up on the keyboard. ‘Quantum theory says all observation is interaction. The physicist can’t step outside reality and observe it objectively, any more than he can step outside the universe with a stop-watch and a measuring stick. In the quantum world, to see things is to shape them, and until they are seen, their nature remains in flux: potential but not actual. Bohr says physics is not about defining reality; it’s about ordering the human experience of reality, which is quite a different thing – some would say, a lesser thing.’ He played the first few notes of a melody, then stopped. ‘So you see, quantum physics strips the scientist of his detachment. There’s no escape from his own humanity. He’s part of what he dissects, whether he likes it or not.’

  ‘It sounds like you want your father to fail,’ Kirsch said.

  Eduard still had his back to him. ‘Of course. But then I have a vested interest.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘If the world is mad, then I’m at no particular disadvantage. It’s the rest of you who don’t fit in.’

  For a moment there was silence. Eduard seemed to be waiting for something. Either that or he had forgotten that he was not alone. At times, Kirsch felt the young man’s intelligence like a pressure, bearing down. Perhaps it was the same for Eduard himself: not an advantage, a means to success or happiness, but the cause of his loneliness, a burden he could never set down.

  ‘So is that why Mariya went to Berlin?’ Kirsch said, finally. ‘To continue her studies?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Or was she hoping to find her father?’

  Eduard remained very still. ‘I thought her father was dead.’

  ‘That would depend on who her father is, or was.’

  Eduard sighed. ‘You know, you can’t help her like this. You’re wasting your time.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because Mariya isn’t mad.’

  ‘I never said she was. In any case, mad isn’t a recognised psychiatric term, as I’m sure you know.’

  ‘Ill then. Defective. Mariya is changing. It’s a process, you see, a preparation. Aunt Helene understood. She understands everything.’

  ‘A preparation for what?’

  Eduard answered with a shrug, as if he could say more, but saw no reason why he should.

  ‘Why did Mariya go to Berlin?’ Kirsch asked again.

  ‘The first I knew of it was when I got the postcard.’

  ‘She didn’t confide in you?’

  Eduard played a single note, quite loud, then let his fingers run along the keys, revealing another fragment of melody. ‘It isn’t sensible to confide in mental patients. They can’t be relied on to keep the secret.’

  ‘What secret is that?’

  ‘Any secret. I was stating an issue of principle and prudence.’ The melody became a waltz, the same waltz Kirsch had heard while waiting on the landing. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Doctor. I have to practise for my father. Though it’s more than he does. I’m expecting him any day now.’

  Kirsch stood up. According to Professor von Laue, Einstein was in America and was not due back for more than a month.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Herr Einstein,’ he said, but Eduard went on playing, nodding in farewell – or was it simply in time to the music?

  Outside in the corridor, the red-haired nurse sat waiting. As they descended the stairs together, the waltz abruptly stopped.

  Thirty

  I had forgotten about Aunt Helene’s friend by the time I was old enough to attend the university at Zagreb. All I knew was that the money had been found for my fees and for a small living allowance, and that in some way Aunt Helene had played a part in obtaining it. Nor did I ask to be enlightened on the matter, for fear that my fortune would be snatched away from me. For though my father continued to take credit for my success and to boast of it whenever an opportunity arose, I did not feel in the least able to count on his support. For one thing, he had begun to drink a great deal, not just at night, but on and off throughout the day. His intervals of sobriety became increasingly fleeting and his mood subject to sudden and violent change. Even when he praised me to my face, which he did now and then, especially when in the early stages of intoxication, I did not feel reassured. He would invite me to join him in a glass of wine, making a big show of treating me behind my mother’s back. Then he would tell me I was becoming quite a pretty little thing and that I should have to watch myself or some young devil would lead me astray. I was uncomfortable with such talk and would escape his presence on whatever pretext I could think of.

  Late at night, when he was no longer sober enough for such pleasantries, I would hear him coming up the stairs. When his step was heavy I would stay in my bed. But sometimes I could hear him trying to make as little sound as possible so as not to be heard. And then I would leap out of bed and lock myself in the water closet or hide up in the attic. For I knew that when he was quiet, he had it in mind to say goodnight to me in my room, the idea of which made me uneasy. I lived in those years much like a cat, or so it must have appeared to him. For, like a cat, I would disappear rather than be alone in his company without some visible means of escape. All this I did while trying never to displease him. For I felt sure that should he remove me from my studies, I would be condemned to a life of imprisonment beneath his roof. For you must remember that I was entirely without means of my own.

  I suppose most girls in my position would have looked for a new life in marriage. But the truth is, it would have been a far from simple matter for me to find myself a husband in Orlovat. Our father did not entertain a great deal, considering himself too good for most of our neighbours and we, in turn, were not often entertained, except occasionally by relatives. Nor had I many friends from my schooling, except for a handful of girls who lived in Bećkerek. Besides, the idea of marriage did not much appeal to me. The men roundabouts were mostly of the rude country kind, with no learning and even less regard for it – like the boys who once threw pebbles at me, only grown larger and more sure of themselves. For them, any young woman who went to the city alone was a kurva, or would become one before very long, and the very last thing I wanted was for such a notion to reach my father’s ears. For I knew that there could be no greater disgrace to a family than to have a kurva in it, as I was taught from a very young age, even before I knew what a kurva was. (When I asked my grandmother, she would say only that it was a Jezebel, which shed no great light on the matter, Jezebel being, to my mind, a princess in the Bible who worshipped Baal and was thrown out of a window.)

  But go to Zagreb I did, to be enrolled in the Faculty of Science. I was one of just three women in my year, and the only one taking mathematics.

  I could have rejoiced more at my departure, had it not been for my sister. I felt regret at leaving her, and some guilt as well. Senka now lived like a servant in our house, making herself scarce whenever there was company and having, besides m
e, no society at all but that of the animals, and sometimes the women who came to work in the orchards. I was afraid she would be lonely without me. I had less fear that our father would mistreat her as he had done in the past. Her presence no longer seemed to anger him. He provided for her better than he had during the war. She ate at the table as often as not, and had sometimes new dresses and boots and stockings in the winter. I imagined my mother had reminded him of his obligations and he had gone along with her wishes so as to appease her. Only Senka took these meagre things as evidence of paternal love, which I could all too plainly see in the hundred little things she did to try to please him, from saving him the very largest, freshest eggs, to cleaning his pipe and fluffing up the cushions on his chair. I should perhaps have guessed that there were other reasons for the change in his behaviour, but Senka said nothing to me. We had begun to spend less time together, what with all the studying I had to do. I suppose I didn’t want to see what was under my nose. Had I seen it, or imagined it, then I would have been forced to speak out – and in the process all my hopes would certainly have been dashed.

  I had been at Zagreb about a year and a half when I had word from my mother that Senka had gone down with a fever. She did not ask me to fever. She did not ask me to return home, but I could tell from her letter that she was fearful, for she said she had moved into the same room as my sister so as to watch her all night, and be there to calm her when she was in her delirium. So I set off the next day with a small suitcase and a trunk full of books – for there were mathematics examinations six weeks away and I had no idea how long I should be away. To be truthful, I was very much afraid of performing badly, for all manner of reasons. Not the least of these was the certainty that if I did, people would say it was proof that I had taken my female intellect as far as it could go in such a rigorous sphere – for, to be sure, they were saying it already, without any cause whatsoever.

  When I arrived home, things were not as I had expected. Senka was all but recovered, but now it was my mother who was sick. The doctor, whom our father had only now sent for, said she was suffering from pneumonia. Our father wanted her removed to a hospital, but the doctor, who came every day all the way from Novi Sad, said that the journey would only make her worse (for it was very cold, being February). In any case, the hospital could do no more for her than was being done already. And he said it had been most unwise of my mother to stay in such proximity with Senka, for the best thing to do with infections was to keep a distance as much as possible. At the same time, several of our animals died for no clear reason, and the doctor remarked, somewhat severely I thought, that this was very likely where the trouble had begun. I wondered at his being so free with his speculation and wished he had kept his opinions to himself. It was not wise or fair, it seemed to me, to dish out blame in such circumstances, especially when there was no way of knowing how or where it might rebound.