The Einstein Girl

by Philip Sington

  Forty

  The storm troopers now called themselves ‘auxiliary police’. Three of them stood outside the entrance to Triage, pacing up and down with their thumbs in their gun belts. When an ambulance pulled up, they gathered round, as if on the look-out for contraband. The crew climbed out of the back, carrying a man on a stretcher. One of the storm troopers pulled the blanket off him; another poked at him with a rifle. They wanted to know if he had any bruises or broken bones. Kirsch heard someone say ‘appendicitis’ and the stretcher was allowed to pass.

  Inside, the hospital was quieter than usual. The staff appeared preoccupied and determinedly silent. They went about their business briskly, speaking, when they had to speak, in low voices. As a doctor of psychiatry, Kirsch enjoyed no special privileges when it came to visiting hours. But nobody challenged him, even when he asked for directions.

  According to Nurse Auerbach, Mariya had been taken ill three days earlier. She had run a high fever and become delirious. When she started bleeding from the nose, a doctor was sent for. Fearing she had succumbed to an infectious disease, he had recommended that she be moved out of the clinic and into the main hospital. There the diagnosis changed. Mariya was said to have suffered an allergic reaction, although to what the nurse did not know.

  Kirsch found Mariya in one of the women’s recuperation wards. Eight identical beds with white iron frames stood either side of the aisle, with identical white tables in between. All but two of the beds were occupied. Mariya lay asleep on her side. She wore a nightshirt, the sleeves rolled up, one arm resting outside the covers.

  He stood watching her. He wanted to sit down beside her and to take her hand, but there were no chairs. One of the patients at the far end of the room had a dry, insistent cough. The sound echoed off the bare walls and the shiny wooden floor.

  Months had gone by since he had first found her at the hospital, and yet here they were again, the interval between the two events compressed into a sliver. Mariya’s hair was longer now and there were no bruises on her face, but in every other way she was the same. Everything was the same. All his enquiries and strategies had made no difference. Certain material facts had come to light, but in themselves they explained very little and promised even less. Mariya’s mind, like her predicament, remained obscure. He had enough information for theories and conjectures, but not enough to understand, let alone to heal. All the while, time had been running out – for her and for him. Because the longer she was without her memories, the harder it would be to recover them. Memories, like dreams, disintegrated when unrehearsed.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed. Mariya’s sketch-book lay on the table. He picked it up and flicked through the pages. His portrait was on every one, his and nobody else’s. Even the old man and the matinée idol had been forgotten. Was this progress: a sign that the delusion Eduard Einstein had encouraged was finally losing its grip? Or was it evidence of further decline?

  She had captured him in a variety of attitudes and moods: sitting, standing, smiling, frowning, animated, pensive. But as Kirsch turned the pages, the images became gradually rougher, less precise, less identifiably him. By the time he reached the last sketch, the image was just a few lines suspended in space. His collar and spectacles were drawn in more detail than his face. After that, the pages were blank.

  Mariya stirred. Her skin was pale and waxy, her hair wild. But seeing her again – seeing life in the dark eyes, the brow, the soft contours of her mouth – quickened his heart.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. She squinted at him, but her face expressed nothing. ‘I’m back.’ He became aware of the other women watching him over the tops of their blankets. ‘I was away too long. I’m sorry.’

  She brought a hand to her mouth, tracing her lips with the tips of her fingers. ‘Was it long?’

  ‘A few weeks. Longer than I’d planned. If I’d known …’

  She held her hands out in front of her, flexing the fingers, digging the nails into her palms. ‘Am I awake?’ she said.

  He pulled the screen across and sat down again. ‘Of course you’re awake. Mariya?’

  She did not answer. She kept on clenching and unclenching her fists, as if her fingers were something new to her.

  ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she said. ‘I told them: there’s somewhere I have to be. Someone’s waiting.’

  ‘Who’s waiting? Eduard?’

  She slung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘I must go back.’

  He had never seen her this confused. It had to be the effect of some analgesic. He supposed they had given her something to take away the pain.

  ‘Mariya? You know who I am, don’t you?’

  He held up the sketch-book, showed her his picture on the first page. ‘It’s me, Dr Kirsch. Martin Kirsch.’

  She peered at the sketch, then at him. ‘Martin,’ she said. He thought he saw the flicker of a smile. ‘The writer.’

  There were footsteps on the other side of the screen.

  ‘Who put this here?’

  With a clatter, the screen was folded back against the wall.

  ‘Dr Kirsch.’ It was Dr Brenner with the ward sister. ‘What are you doing here? Visiting hours are two till four.’

  Kirsch stepped back as the ward sister bustled over.

  ‘Come along now,’ she said, lifting the covers.

  Obediently Mariya lay down again and closed her eyes. She had confused Kirsch with Eduard. That had never happened before.

  ‘Will she be all right, Doctor?’ Kirsch asked.

  ‘I’m hopeful of a full recovery, though it was touch and go for a while. She’s improving daily.’

  ‘What was wrong with her?’ Kirsch asked.

  Brenner regarded him steadily. ‘As a matter of fact, I was hoping you could shed some light on that.’

  ‘They told me an allergic reaction.’

  Brenner glanced over his shoulder. It was obvious he didn’t appreciate having an audience. ‘That was one idea. The swelling, the rash. Of course, without all the pertinent facts, it’s largely guesswork.’

  He had never known Brenner’s tone to be less than brisk, but now it was almost accusatory.

  ‘What pertinent facts?’

  ‘A history of her medication, for one thing,’ Brenner said. ‘That might have been useful. I sent a request to your office, but no one bothered to respond.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been away. In any case, she’s not been given any medication. None at all.’

  Brenner pushed stubby fingers through his lank grey hair. ‘Thank you, Sister,’ he said.

  The ward sister stopped tucking Mariya in and marched away.

  Brenner stepped closer. ‘The treatment of your patients is your affair, Dr Kirsch. I wouldn’t dream of interfering in your experiments. But please do not insult my intelligence.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Brenner took hold of Mariya’s wrist, turning it over to reveal the underside of her arm. The flesh around the elbow was swollen and there were clear signs of haemorrhaging beneath the skin. Then Kirsch understood: two blobs of dried blood revealed where the cephalic vein had been punctured.

  ‘Well, it’s the first I’ve heard of it. Is he absolutely sure?’

  They were outside the back of the clinic. Eisner, in his shirtsleeves, was busy trying to repair his bicycle. The vehicle stood upside down between them, the rear wheel jammed between the railings.

  ‘I’ve seen it for myself,’ Kirsch said. ‘Two injections at least.’

  ‘Recent injections?’

  ‘Very recent. How did they get there?’

  Eisner was struggling with the chain, trying to force it over the sprocket. ‘Have you any idea how short-staffed we are, Martin? I’ve been fully occupied just keeping the lid on things. What have you been doing?’

  ‘So you’ve no idea what happened?’

  ‘I’ve ideas. Just no information.’

  ‘What ideas?’

  ‘Maybe someone wanted to put
her to sleep. So they could take advantage of her.’ Eisner looked up through the spokes of his front wheel. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time, Martin. Or maybe they sold her something. You know how it is. Stuff goes missing from the stores: sedatives, opiates. The orderlies had a proper racket going the last place I worked.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Mariya couldn’t pay. She’s got no money.’

  ‘Maybe it wasn’t money they were after.’

  Eisner let go of the chain and looked at his hands. They were covered in soot and grease. He sniffed in disgust. It was only recently that he had started cycling to work. Before that, he had enjoyed the use of a stylish but decrepit automobile, a pre-war Adler. But the engine had finally died on him and the cost of resuscitation was beyond his means.

  ‘You said something once about barbituric acid,’ Kirsch said. ‘This truth serum. You wanted to conduct an experiment.’

  ‘That’s right. And you were dead against it. Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind.’ Eisner frowned at the bicycle. ‘I’m going to have to take this whole damned thing apart again. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘I haven’t changed my mind. I’m thinking you went ahead anyway. Did you?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m surprised you have to ask.’ Eisner wiped his hands on a rag. ‘Look, maybe it was Mehring.’

  ‘Mehring? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Come on, Martin. He’s always had it in for you, hasn’t he? And Patient E, well …’ He picked up a screwdriver and examined the business end. ‘Everyone knew her case was important to you. The eminent Dr Kirsch? Maybe he thought he’d throw a spanner in the works, as a parting gift.’

  Kirsch planted a hand on the railings. He didn’t want to think about Heinrich Mehring. ‘I don’t believe it. I don’t believe a word you’re saying.’

  Eisner looked up at him. His pale eyes were very still. ‘Suit yourself.’

  He went back to struggling with the bicycle chain, using the screwdriver to lever it over the sprocket.

  Kirsch took a step closer. A bead of sweat broke from his temple and darted down his cheek. ‘If I find out you’re responsible, your time here will be over.’

  Eisner sighed and stood up. He was about to say something, but Kirsch couldn’t bear to hear it. He put a hand against his chest and pushed. Eisner was caught off balance. He took a step backwards, knocking over his bicycle and falling awkwardly on top of it. Kirsch left him sprawling.

  ‘Congratulations on the promotion, by the way,’ Eisner called after him. ‘Best man for the job by far.’

  Forty-one

  Robert Eisner picked himself up and carried on working on his bicycle, confident that even if Kirsch looked back, he would not see the flushed cheeks or the shaking hands. He even tried to whistle, but his lips were too dry and all that came out was a hiss. Only when Kirsch was well and truly out of sight did he get up, march back to his office, and pick up the telephone.

  He had been undecided about what to do with the file; likewise the mysterious letter from Zürich. Handing them to the press might lead to a scandal, but it was naïve to assume that Kirsch’s downfall would necessarily work to his colleagues’ advantage. Events unravelled under scrutiny. What if Eisner’s own role in the story came to light? It might mean the end of his career, or worse. Besides, Kirsch was his friend, or so he’d always thought. Friends in the ascendant were more useful than friends on their way down, even if they did rather less for one’s self-esteem.

  But Kirsch was not his friend any more, apparently. Prudence demanded that he strike, while he was still in a position to do so. Look what had happened to Heinrich Mehring. He had fled the country after threats to his life. But no one was in any doubt who had arranged them.

  The operator connected him. At the other end of the line the phone rang. Eisner had a sense that he was about to do something momentous, reckless. But Kirsch had given him no choice.

  ‘De Vries.’

  ‘Eisner.’

  Furniture creaked: de Vries sitting up or sitting back.

  ‘Well, what can I do for you, Doctor?’

  Eisner covered the mouthpiece with his hand. At the tips of his fingers the grain of his skin was etched in black. They stank of grease and soot. ‘It’s more a case of what I can do for you.’

  Forty-two

  The entire village of Reinsdorf had turned out for the Service of Dedication. Kirsch could not find a seat in the pews and had to squeeze onto the end of a bench, one of several jammed in between the porch and the old font. After the service the congregation filed out into the sunshine, heading for the crossroads where the war memorial was to be unveiled. It was not until they were out of the churchyard that Kirsch was able to catch up with his family. He was surprised to see his mother in a brand-new double-breasted coat. It was long and black, with wide cuffs, a belt and big buttons at the waist and the shoulder. She wore a matching black hat and a fawn-coloured fur around her neck. He had never seen her looking so fashionable. Arm in arm with her husband, she strode along, head held high, as if off for a pleasant evening at the opera.

  Kirsch’s sister Emilie followed a few paces behind. She had put on lipstick and was accompanied by a gaunt-looking stranger of about thirty, with a stiff bearing and a gold watch-chain hanging from his waistcoat pocket. He hovered at the edge of the party, keeping such a respectable distance between himself and Emilie that for a while Kirsch wondered if he was actually with her at all.

  ‘This is Reinhard,’ Emilie said finally. ‘My brother, Martin.’

  The stranger stopped, held out his hand and bowed formally. ‘Reinhard Poppel. Honoured to meet you, sir.’

  They shook hands and carried on walking, the memorial in sight now, hidden beneath an expanse of dark red velvet. The villagers hung on to their hats as a sharp wind veered across the open space.

  ‘I understand, sir, that you also served.’

  It took a moment for Kirsch to realise that Reinhard Poppel was addressing him.

  ‘Served? Yes, I did, after a fashion.’

  Poppel stared at the site of the memorial.

  ‘Alas, I was just too young.’

  Emilie blanched. It was a struggle for Kirsch to keep from laughing. ‘Alas indeed,’ he said.

  In a flash, Emilie’s expression changed from embarrassment to anger, her eyes narrowing, as if to say: Do you want me to die an old maid?

  Kirsch put his hands behind his back and set about asking polite questions. It turned out Herr Poppel was an educational inspector and had met Emilie on one of his school inspections.

  ‘I was struck immediately by how attentive her classes were, and how eager the children were to learn,’ he said. ‘Even in mathematics the girls showed real enthusiasm.’

  ‘You sound surprised.’

  ‘Well, it’s rare – understandably, perhaps, given how unlikely they are to need it.’

  ‘You’re forgetting the household accounts,’ Kirsch said, looking into the distance.

  ‘Oh, indeed. But this was a class in geometry, not arithmetic. I fear Euclid is not much help in the larder.’

  ‘Curdles the milk.’

  Herr Poppel laughed obligingly, delighted to be getting on so famously with his sweetheart’s eminent brother. ‘Emilie is lucky,’ he added. ‘There’s no doubt she has found her true vocation.’

  Privately Kirsch doubted it. It was his impression that what Emilie had always wanted was to be a musician, to have attended one of the great schools in Berlin or Dresden, and to have travelled the world giving concerts – and perhaps she would have done it, had it not been for the war.

  The villagers had formed a wide semicircle around the memorial, parents carrying their children or holding them firmly by the shoulders, as if afraid of what might happen if they got too close. Herr Poppel was no longer with them. Kirsch searched the faces of the onlookers, hoping for his sister’s sake that he had not been too unfriendly. He finally spotted him talking to a man in a brown uniform. Beyond them, more storm
troopers were jumping down from a truck.

  ‘What are they doing here?’

  ‘They’re the band,’ Emilie said. ‘The only ones who would play for free.’

  A retired lieutenant-general in full uniform appeared beside the monument, shaking hands with local dignitaries and members of the steering committee. As the church bells struck twelve, the slab of granite was unveiled to a smattering of applause. Naked, rough-hewn and massive, it looked utterly out of place among the tidy houses and rustic outbuildings. A single large wreath was propped up against the stone. The lieutenant-general made a short speech about the duty of remembrance, his voice small in the gusting wind. The erection of memorials such as this, many of which were shamefully overdue, he said, played a vital part in the restoration of national dignity now in train across Germany. At that the Brown-shirts clapped, followed by a section of the crowd. Then the lieutenant-general read out a list of the fourteen fallen heroes of Reinsdorf, together with their ranks and regiments. Some people in the crowd took out handkerchiefs. A small child cried in its mother’s arms because it had spotted a duck waddling across the road and wanted to touch it. Then the brass band struck up with ‘Ich hatt’ einen Kameraden’ while photographs were taken for the local press.

  ‘I didn’t think we’d raised enough money for this,’ Kirsch said, as they stood waiting for the formalities to finish. ‘I thought we were short.’

  ‘We were,’ Emilie said, ‘before Alma pitched in.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Emilie frowned at him, pressing a finger to her lips, obliging Kirsch to edge closer.

  ‘Her father made up the difference,’ Emilie said. ‘Just last week.’

  Kirsch felt unsteady on his feet. He had resolved to tell no one about the end of their engagement until he had spoken to Alma in person. He had telephoned the house at Oranienburg twice, leaving messages, but they had not been returned. She was hurt, he supposed, even insulted. Perhaps she didn’t believe that he was ill at all. It had sounded unconvincing to him even as he had written it. He still planned to visit her, to tell her everything: that his breaking off the engagement was a lucky escape for her. But it was hard to see her agreeing to a meeting designed solely to salve his conscience, and which could only bring her further humiliation. He would just have to go up to Oranienburg and present himself at the door, and risk whatever came next.