‘Those relationships didn’t last, did they?’ Kirsch went on. ‘So I suppose when Mariya came along, you must have worried the same thing would happen.’ He stepped closer, speaking as gently as he could. ‘Is that why you gave her the letter, Eduard? I mean, the letter you took from your mother’s room, the one about Lieserl.’
He watched for some reaction, some sign of confusion or denial, but there was none.
‘I was wondering how Mariya came to have it. I can’t believe she took it herself. When would she have had the chance? I’m quite sure now that your mother didn’t give it to her. So that only leaves you.’
Hermann eased himself further up the ladder, placing one foot on the roof as he pushed his broom through the snow. The man on the ground yawned.
‘If she was your sister,’ Kirsch said, ‘then things would be different. Is that what you thought? She’d stay with you. She’d be a part of your life for ever, no matter what. And you wouldn’t have to worry about romancing her. You could sidestep all that.’
Eduard did not respond. He worked on, winding a strip of rag round and round, a frown of intense concentration on his face. It was tempting to ask him if had really believed Mariya was his sister – if he still believed it. But it had come to Kirsch on his drive up the hill that even Eduard’s opinion shed little useful light on the matter. Only his mother could know the truth for certain, and she was clearly not going to share it. Still, it might be something to know what Mariya herself had believed.
Kirsch had been lying awake in his hotel room when it came to him: it was Eduard who had been pulling the strings. That Mariya was an Einstein like him was an idea he could have planted in her mind. Superficially she was a strong candidate for Lieserl, the long-lost daughter: she was roughly the right age; she had been brought up in the right part of the world; she had a natural aptitude for mathematics. And with both her parents dead, there was conveniently nobody around to refute the idea once it had taken hold.
It would have been a perfectly credible story. The child known as Lieserl had been conceived and born out of wedlock. At the time, Albert Einstein had been struggling to find work. His application for Swiss citizenship had not yet been approved. Both he and his future wife had been foreigners, liable to have their visas revoked on the whim of the authorities. A scandal might have proved disastrous. Albert was still technically liable for military service in Germany. So Mileva had gone home to Serbia to have the child in secret. There, her friend Helene Savić had arranged for a discreet adoption. It might have been intended as a temporary arrangement. The Einsteins might have planned to bring their daughter back to Switzerland once they were married and established there. Or perhaps that was what only one of them wanted. The issue was the kind that might easily contribute to the breakdown of a marriage. Whatever the truth, family honour had been protected. Lieserl had remained in Serbia with her adopted family, as Helene Savić had put it, for the good of all.
Standing by her father’s grave, Mariya said she had felt liberated. She was psychologically predisposed to believe she had been adopted. And hadn’t Eduard’s mother made it plain that Mariya was a fantasist? What the Lord gives with one hand, he takes away with the other.
‘Did she believe you, Eduard?’ Kirsch asked.
‘Believe what?’ Eduard was searching for more buds to tie up, but they were all done.
‘That she was Lieserl, your sister.’
Eduard shook his head. ‘I don’t have a sister.’
‘Then why did you give Mariya the letter? What was it for?’
Eduard looked down at his hands and at the penknife. He began folding and unfolding the blade. Now that there was more light, Kirsch could see that his eyes were bloodshot and there were circles under them. He wondered what kind of treatment they were giving him for his schizo-affective disorder. He had been so focused on Mariya, he hadn’t thought to ask.
‘Eduard –’
‘My father did send you, didn’t he?’
‘It’s just as I told you, Eduard: Mariya is my patient. I want your help.’
Eduard turned, the knife open in his hand. ‘What does it matter what I say? What does it matter what I think?’
‘You and Mariya were close.’
‘She’s gone. She’s … no one. You’re too late.’
He took a step closer and for a moment Kirsch thought he was going to stab him with the knife. But instead, Eduard lifted his head and placed the point of the blade against his own throat, against his carotid artery, pressing hard so that the flesh went white. Dr Zimmermann’s words sounded in Kirsch’s head: I worry this may end in self-destruction. And with a knife Kirsch had given him.
There came a bestial shriek from above. Instinctively, both men looked up. Hermann must have been watching them. He was lying flat against the roof, his face pressed against the glass, hammering with the flat of his hands so that the whole conservatory shook. Kirsch sprang forward, reaching for Eduard’s wrist, but Eduard was too quick for him: he smartly stepped aside, pivoting on one foot like a matador. Kirsch lurched past, tripping over a stack of flower pots and crashing to the ground.
Eduard looked down at the knife that was still in his hand. He blinked, as if unsure what it was doing there. Then he carefully folded away the blade and handed it back.
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ he said. ‘I have to go and practise the piano now. My father gets upset if I don’t practise. Good day.’
Thirty-six
It was a compound of sodium and sulphur: ten grams of yellowish powder at the bottom of a small unlabelled bottle. The porter at the main hospital assured him it was the real thing. All Eisner had to do was make a two and a half per cent solution with sterilised water and inject it into a vein. The pentobarbital powder was stable and could be stored indefinitely, but in solution it had to be used within forty-eight hours. After that it started to corrode the glass.
‘Two hundred and fifty milligrams,’ the porter said. ‘That’s your maximum dose. Of course it depends on the body weight.’
‘Of course.’
‘Careful you don’t go over. Too much too quick and they go into shock.’
‘How long does it last?’
‘Depends. About fifteen minutes.’
Eisner was disappointed. Fifteen minutes wasn’t very long for the interrogation he had planned. He wondered how many doses of pentobarbital it was safe to give, and at what intervals, but he didn’t want the porter getting too curious. He handed over the money and went back to the clinic. He would proceed by trial and error. He had already helped himself to needles and syringes from the store room. He had also acquired a second-hand set of apothecary’s scales and a measuring cylinder. But where was he going to get sterilised water?
That afternoon he went to the kitchens and boiled a kettle, pouring the water into a clean coffee pot. The fact that there was no coffee inside went unnoticed. He carried the pot up to his office and locked the door. Sitting at his desk, he made up enough solution for three hypodermics, which he filled there and then. He was impatient to make a start, but it was safer to wait until after supper. He did not want to be interrupted, or to attract unnecessary attention.
The prospect of making his own minor medical breakthrough excited him. Kirsch was not going to like him doing experiments in his absence, but what could he do about it? A man with so many secrets had to be careful how he threw his weight around. How would he like explaining to his fiancée why he was paying the rent at Herr Mettler’s, for example?
Eisner held up a syringe to the light. The fluid was clear and colourless, as seemingly harmless as water. It was some time since he had administered an injection. The trick was to find a vein, taking care not to go in one side and out the other. When you had leakage into the surrounding tissue there could be all kinds of complications. It was probably a good idea to strap the subject down. He didn’t want her jogging his hand.
Eisner squeezed the syringe until a single tear of fluid welled up at the tip of th
e needle. It was important to avoid injecting air. A bubble could cause blood vessels to rupture. If it travelled up into the brain, it could cause a stroke. The whole procedure would have been safer if Martin had agreed to participate. It would be his fault if something went wrong.
The problem with Kirsch, Eisner decided, apart from his tendency to become sanctimonious where his patients were concerned, was his refusal to share. He grabbed the interesting cases and then treated them like his own private projects. He rarely discussed his thinking. He would not allow colleagues any input, the Einstein girl being a case in point. It was selfish, not to mention ungrateful. Robert had introduced him to Alma. Robert had ushered him into the Siegel fold. On those grounds alone, he deserved a little more respect.
The barbiturate might turn out to be useless. It might not unlock the subconscious, or override the ability to dissemble as people were saying. But no truly dispassionate observer could blame him for putting it to the test. It was only through such experiments, successful or unsuccessful, that human knowledge could be advanced.
Kirsch had been dead against the experiment. Over his dead body, he had said. But that was not going to be a problem, because neither he nor his body, dead or alive, was anywhere to be seen.
Mariya was asleep on the bed when the orderly came into her room.
‘Dr Eisner wants to see you downstairs.’
Male staff were not normally seen in the women’s wing after dark. Mariya thought this must be a rule for all but the doctors. The way the orderly stood in the doorway, eyeing the pictures pinned up around the walls, told her she was right.
She turned her back to him, though her eyes remained open. ‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘I want to sleep now.’
The orderly’s name was Jochmann. He was a stocky, bull-necked man with a surly manner. She had noticed how the male patients avoided him.
‘It’s important,’ he said. ‘Come along now.’
She lay still, refusing to move or answer. Eisner was not her doctor. She did not trust anything the orderly said.
She heard the door close. She thought he had gone. But then she heard his heavy footsteps crossing the room. It came to her that she should call for help, but as soon as she opened her mouth she felt a hand on the back of her neck, thrusting her face into the pillow. Jochmann twisted her arm behind her back and held her down. She struggled for a few seconds, but his strength and weight were too much for her. She managed to twist her head to one side, just enough to breathe.
She forced herself to relax. He could not rape her without letting go with at least one hand. As soon as he went to unbutton himself, that would be her chance. But he did not let go. He held her tightly until all resistance had ceased; then he hauled her to her feet.
‘There’s no sense being difficult,’ he said. ‘It’s for your own good.’
He marched her out into the corridor. She had the sense that all this was familiar to him, routine. Was this why the orderlies all looked so strong?
‘My doctor is Dr Kirsch,’ she said as he marched her out into the corridor. ‘He’s my doctor.’
‘Well, now you’ve got two,’ Jochmann said. ‘Aren’t you lucky. Twice as many doctors; you’ll be cured in half the time.’
He led her down some back stairs that she had never used before. After a few flights he let go of her arm. They went down and down until they came to a warm, dimly lit basement where pipes ran along the walls and there was a strong smell of fuel oil. Cement dust and soot clung to the soles of her feet. She could run, but how far would she get? She could scream, but would anyone hear?
‘Nearly there,’ Jochmann said.
He pushed open a heavy swing door, holding it open for her. On the other side was a bare half-tiled room with sinks along one wall. In the middle of the room was an iron bed with straps attached to the frame. Dr Eisner was sitting near the end of the bed, his hands between his knees and his legs dangling, like a schoolboy killing time. He jumped to his feet when he saw Mariya come in.
‘Where’s Dr Kirsch?’ she said.
Eisner looked slightly hurt. ‘Right at this moment, I couldn’t say. He’s taking some kind of sabbatical.’
‘When will he be back?’
‘You’ve every right to feel a little neglected. But that’s all going to change now.’ Eisner stepped away from the bed. ‘Now I want you to come and lie down.’
fugue
Thirty-seven
I never finished my studies at Zagreb. It was not through idleness or disappointment that I left, or even that I grew lonely for my home, although I was very often alone. It was because of what happened in Orlovat in the spring of my final year, which, even now, is hard for me to think about, and harder still to relate, though I must if you are to understand why I am here and what it is that I must know from you.
It was a very wet season that year. Returning on the train for Easter I saw mile upon mile of flooded land. In places it was hard to see where the fields ended and the sky began – which was a pretty sight, even if, as I knew, it meant hunger and hardship for those whose crops were rotting in the ground. I had sent word ahead of my arrival, but there was nobody there to meet me at the station, though it was raining again and starting to get dark. So I walked through the village alone, jumping over the puddles from one sliver of muddy ground to the next until I stood outside the courtyard of the Draganović house.
The front door was not locked. A lamp was burning in the kitchen, but I could find no one at home. I put down my suitcase and wandered through to the back, thinking that at least Senka would be about, tending the animals. I found the horse gone. The geese and chickens were scattered about the yard and the orchard, some beyond the fence, others huddled around the trees at the edge of the field. That was when I became afraid. Senka would never have left her flock to wander about. She would have gathered them into their huts for warmth and safety. But the huts were all empty, except for one solitary bird, which looked scrawny and thin. I tried to gather up her precious geese, but they hissed at me or ran away, and on no account would take any direction from me no matter how I cajoled and pleaded with them.
Then I remembered the housekeeper, Maja Lukić, and set off for her house. I had not gone twenty yards when she appeared, hurrying along the road, her clothes as wet and muddy as my own. We went back inside and she told me how Senka had gone missing the day before. Maja and some of the villagers had been searching roundabout for some sign of her, but as yet they had found not a trace. I could tell that there was more to this story, and that Senka would not run away without cause. I asked where my father was, and if he had played any part in the matter.
At this time I did not know Maja Lukić well. When Senka and I were children, she would bake biscuits for us, and hide them wrapped in muslin among the branches of the trees. This I remembered. But she had stopped working for us when I went to school and I had seen little of her since. Now her position as housekeeper brought her money that she needed and had, no doubt, grown accustomed to. So it is no wonder that she feared to speak badly of her employer, for fear that he would replace her. Nevertheless, I found her evasions intolerable and asked her bluntly if my father had sought to punish poor Senka for some alleged offence and, if so, with what results.
Maja Lukić reassured me that nothing of the kind had occurred, as far as she was aware. On the other hand, she admitted that when he was alone and had been drinking, my father would sometimes rail about Senka on account of our mother’s death. In that inebriated state he took this to be her fault – all because of what the doctor had said about the disease being first among the animals and then carried into the house by Senka. Maja Lukić was circumspect in her description of these outbursts, but I could all too easily imagine their violence. Where his own worth and station were concerned, Senka’s very existence was to Zoltán Draganović like an open wound: for she was his flesh and blood, and there was nothing he could do about it. For some reason which I did not yet perceive, the credit I brought him
through my scholarly efforts never fully made up for Senka’s deficiencies, and never would. Now, of course, I know why.
As to Senka’s disappearance, I Was Still Not Satisfied with Maja Lukić’s explanation, and told her so. After some hesitation, she led me into the drawing room where she said she had been cleaning the previous morning. It had not been much in use since our mother died, though a fire was always lit in the grate to keep out the smell of damp. Maja took our family photograph album from its place on the writing desk and showed it to me. She had found it open on the floor, she said, and feared Senka had come across it. I did not understand what she could mean, but then I opened the album and saw what our father had done. He had removed every picture of Senka, even the ones of her wearing her Christening robes. Where she had appeared in the photographs, such as the family groups we had taken at the studio in Novi Sad, he had carefully cut out her image with a blade. In some pictures, all that remained of her was a shoe or an arm or a few locks of hair falling over an inch or two of shoulder. In one picture, our mother held Senka upon her knee, with her arm around her waist. Clearly, it had not been possible to remove Senka without taking our mother’s arm with her. The solution to this problem had been to cut off Senka’s head instead. Now our mother appeared to have nothing but a headless dummy on her lap, and to be smiling at the fact, as if it were a joke.
When I saw this new cruelty, I was filled with a hatred such as I had never felt before. It is not in my nature to be violent – no more, at least, than any human being. Still, at that moment, only blood could have answered the rage I felt on my sister’s behalf. It was, I know, a selfish impulse: vengeance offered to assuage the guilt of my own absence and neglect. Fortunately, my father was nowhere to be found. He had left the village that morning on some pretext, which even Maja Lukić could not disguise as anything more profitable than his usual quest for intoxication.
There was no hope of finding Senka in the darkness, but as soon as it was light we went looking for her again. It was a Sunday, and while many in the village went piously to church to pray for the health of their crops and their pocket books, no more than six or seven of them came out to help us, though the rain had stopped. No doubt the rest thought poor Senka was prone to wandering off, not being right in the head, and was just as likely to wander back again. But I knew better, and with much trepidation set off towards the river with two companions. It was there I felt that the greatest danger lay, for the water was flowing fast. The old stone bridge resembled a weir, with the water foaming as it coursed beneath the arches. I was afraid of what might happen to Senka were she to have fallen in, for neither of us had learned properly to swim as children, there being little occasion for swimming in that part of the world.
The Einstein Girl Page 28