The Goddess of Small Victories (27 page)

Turning around, he caught sight of me. “Adele! To what do I owe the honor of this unaccustomed visit?”

“I’m walking to the Institute with you this morning. I have to straighten out some administrative issues. The damn bureaucrats are driving me bananas.”

“Your trip to Europe is coming along?”

Kurt opened the gate; he was eager to start walking.

“If my wife continues to insult the staff at the Institute, I doubt she’ll ever set off.”

“You’ve never had to deal with this kind of headache. You don’t know just how exasperating it can be.”

Einstein patted his pockets in a gesture I afterward recognized. He was looking for his pipe.

“Bureaucracy brings death to every action.”

“But Adele’s shouting could awaken the dead!”

“Are you experimenting with humor, Gödel?”

“He got out of bed on the right side today.”

“Stability is good for you. You’re a permanent member now! You can look at the future with more assurance.”

“If Adele would only let me work in peace.”

“Stop complaining! You’ll have all the peace in the world if I ever manage to leave!”

Since Germany’s surrender, I had been galvanized by the prospect of returning to Europe. We had received news of the Gödel family in June 1945, and of mine only much later. Marianne and Rudolf had both survived the bombings, she in Brno, he in Vienna. Redlich, who was Kurt’s godfather, died in the gas chambers. I’d heard that my father died. I’d heard that my sister died. I folded the pain away deep inside me next to my old memories, the whole under the warm coverlet of my guilt as a survivor. I’d had time during the long years of silence to imagine the worst. And the worst had happened. My mother, left all alone, had fallen on hard times. The few letters she sent describing her privations were blackened by the censors. I mailed her small amounts of money as soon as I had any. I was doing everything I could to arrange a trip to Vienna to bring her help. But after the uncertainty, the sad news had left me riddled with anxiety. I was still recovering from an appendectomy and in a pitiful state: I’d lost weight, my teeth were working loose, and my hair was falling out in handfuls. I transferred my anxieties to the American bureaucrats who were doing their darnedest to complicate my life. Meanwhile, Kurt continued imperturbably in his routine.

His recent appointment gave us a bit of breathing room. The Institute had finally named him to a permanent position with an annual salary of $6,000.
¹⁹
He also had a guaranteed retirement pension of $1,500 in case of medical impairment or an inability to work. It was a lifeline and we grabbed it, but our financial security was entirely relative: in 1946, a gallon of milk cost 70¢ and a stamp 3¢. The pension was primarily an indication that the Institute had doubts about Kurt’s ability to work in the long run. Dropping the title of “Professor” suited him perfectly.

“Morgenstern thinks it would be a good idea for you to start teaching again. When I’m away, you won’t see anyone.”

“I’ll look after him, Adele. You don’t have to worry.”

“I’m big enough to look after myself!”

Albert and I exchanged knowing glances. He smiled reassuringly.

“Let’s go! I’ve got correspondence that’s apocalyptically late, and this blasted reporter plans to deprive me of my nap. Maybe before dinner I’ll find the time to do a little physics!”

We walked briskly down Mercer Street. The stroll between tree-shaded houses was pleasant on this early autumn day. The two of them followed the same route every morning at the same time. What had begun as a relationship between brilliant colleagues had become, four years later, a necessary friendship anchored in routine. Kurt rose late from bed, took his temperature, and wrote it down in a little notebook. He swallowed an assortment of pills, sipped weak coffee, then brushed his clothes. He shined his shoes and finally dressed so as to arrive exactly on time at Herr Einstein’s door. They returned together, sometimes for lunch, but most often after the sacrosanct afternoon tea at the Institute. I respected this protocol: it smoothed the jagged edges of my man’s fragile state of mind.

Our feet rustled through the sumptuous covering of red leaves on the sidewalk. Princeton was a town made for autumn, a town for taking good postprandial walks. Neither man said anything: my presence inhibited their intellectual gymnastics. Albert adroitly set himself to include me in the conversation.

“Have you recovered from your fright, Adele? Will you let me take you sailing a second time?”

“Herr Einstein, although I have every respect for you … never again! I was far too terrified!”

“And yet you’re always so intrepid.”

“But not suicidal. I have never learned to swim.”

“I never did either. A turn on this puny lake, it’s not like rounding Cape Horn!”

We had accepted an invitation the previous Sunday to go for a sail. We had heard many stories of all the times the great man had capsized. Despite his timidity, my husband had not dared refuse. We boarded and took our places, reassured to see the lake looking peaceful. The two men had quickly become embroiled in a lively discussion. I relaxed, floating on the quiet water, warming my face in the serene autumn sun. Suddenly, half asleep, I saw a shadow: a boat was bearing down on us at high speed. Albert seemed not to have noticed it. I yelled, “
Achtung!
” He veered at the last moment. Kurt, his face bloodless, clung to the gunwale, while the older man laughed like a child.

“That evening after the incident, my ulcer flared up horribly. By the way, Adele, remember to buy me a new supply of milk of magnesia when you get home. I’m almost out.”

“Already? You must bathe in the stuff!”

“Gödel, you should visit a doctor instead of medicating yourself like that.”

“Doctors are incompetent for the most part. I have the situation under control.”

Herr Einstein kneaded his shoulder.

“Take a little break, my friend! Go on vacation with Adele! She needs one too.”

“I’m busy.”

“We’re always too busy. And our bodies shout what our minds refuse to admit.”

“You can’t possibly understand, Herr Einstein. You’re indestructible.”

“I have been through it myself! I had just separated from Mileva, my first wife. I had written ten articles and a book in
less than a year and lost fifty-five pounds. I suffered the tortures of hell. I thought I had an ulcer, maybe even cancer! I was just overworked. A little rest, a good doctor … a good cook—and life gets back on track!”

A stylish young woman in a tight-waisted suit, sporting white gloves and a feathered hat came toward us. She smiled as she recognized our famous friend. The two men turned to admire her swaying gait as she walked past. I swatted Kurt with my purse, making Herr Einstein laugh.

“Life gets back on track, and woman gets a little of her own back.”

Albert never talked about Mileva, his first partner. His second wife and cousin, Elsa, had died of heart problems in 1936, a year after they moved to 112 Mercer Street. Since then, the physicist had lived in a gynaeceum devoted to his comfort that included his sister, Maja, his stepdaughter, Margot, and his secretary, Helen Dukas. Einstein enjoyed the company of women, a fact he freely admitted, and he also expressed quite crude misogynistic sentiments. Rumor had it that Albert’s mother had disliked Mileva intensely, forcing the couple to keep their relation secret for a long time. It was something we had in common, the only thing. The first Frau Einstein had been a scientist. The marriage had disintegrated shortly before World War I and ended in divorce. Mileva stayed in Switzerland, where she raised their two sons. The younger, Eduard, was diagnosed with schizophrenia and had to be put in a mental hospital. There was also talk of an earlier child, a daughter who disappeared in the chaos of history. Albert’s life, like that of most mortals, was packed with tragic incidents, more or less shameful secrets, and disillusions.

“Couldn’t we cut across through those houses? Why do you make your route longer by walking to the end of Mercer?”

“My dear Adele, if I start changing my habits now, I’m absolutely certain to lose my way! I have no sense of direction. Out on the water, I am constantly getting lost! And if you only knew the number of times I’ve had to call for a tow truck.”

“That’s hardly going to convince us to come sailing with you again.”

“You’ll always find an admirer to help you, Herr Einstein.”

“I heard a strange story. Apparently, a motorist ran into a tree because he was so busy watching you?”

“Only two things are infinite, Adele. The universe and the stupidity of man. And I’m not entirely sure about the universe!”

The public never reacted to my dear husband with much enthusiasm. He had a way of throwing cold water on even his most ardent admirers, all the while lamenting his ostracism. Einstein found his celebrity a disaster: tourists came to visit his street as though it were a zoo. Hounded by requests, he barely found the time to work. He concluded, not without vanity, that fame would make him stupid. A common affliction in his eyes.

“People respond to you, Herr Einstein. They like you.”

“I want to know why! The other day, a letter came to me from a young girl. She wanted to know if I really existed or if I was like Santa Claus! They’re ready to have me stuffed and mounted so they can exhibit me next to Mickey Mouse.”

“You’re the white-haired sage in a world gone mad.”

“You’re wrong, my friend. I represent the dream of science in a form accessible to everyone. Relativity in a cardboard box and wrapped with a bow. My first atomic bomb in a kit.”

“Your sense of humor is so dark.”

“It’s Jewish humor, Gödel. Derision is the only weapon against absurdity. Talking about horror, I heard a good one
recently. Three scientists in a nuclear laboratory get a big dose of radiation. They’re all going to die, but they’ll be granted a last wish. The Frenchman asks to have dinner with Jean Harlow. The Englishman asks to meet the queen. The Jew … asks for a second opinion.”

We laughed politely. Albert had a knack for pat jokes.

“Cynicism doesn’t become you, Herr Einstein. I prefer to think of you as an incarnation of wisdom.”

“I’m worried that posterity will see me more as the son of a bitch who invented the bomb.
²⁰
My apologies, Adele.”

“No need. I’ve been known to make a New York cabbie blush.”

The old man fingered his earlobe. Surprising me completely, my husband patted him affectionately on the shoulder.

“No one will hold you responsible for that, Professor. You’re not personally to blame for Hiroshima.”

“I know. I wrote that equation,
E = mc
²
, without thinking that thirty years later—boom!—it would contribute to thousands of deaths in a war already won. Technical progress is like an ax that someone has put in the hands of a psychopath.”

“No one blames Newton for having identified gravity, although it determines the ax’s path.”

“Don’t take this wrong, Gödel, but I sometimes wonder if we live in the same world. Do you see me as a kind of Gepetto, a puppet master?”

“I’m not that simple. But I have to admit that I am very fond of cartoons.”

“You’re a walking paradox, my friend. How can you go from Leibniz to Walt Disney without a tremor?”

“I don’t see any contradiction. Each brings me relief from the other.”

“We have been to see
Snow White
at least five times.”

“And which dwarf is your husband? Bashful? Doc?”

“Grumpy, for sure!”

“Are you Snow White, Adele?”

“I’m too old for the part.”

My husband shot me an angry look. I had no right to talk ironically about our relations, even if Albert had never had illusions about his friend’s susceptibility. In our fairy tale, it was I who had awakened Kurt from a long sleep. I’d saved him from many a personal dragon and a few family witches.

“Laugh if you like! To me, only fables represent the world as it should be. They give it meaning.”

“Dear Gödel, what is incomprehensible is that the world should be comprehensible.”

Einstein lowered his head by way of politely ignoring two passersby who were on the point of accosting him.

“I have again put on two socks that don’t match. Margot won’t let me hear the end of it. Now there’s another mystery. Where do these blasted socks disappear to?”

“A conundrum that Kurt has never been able to solve!”

“To some space-time singularity, most likely, along with our hopes and our youth.”

“You are in form, Gödel! Humor? Poetry? What did you have for breakfast this morning?”

“Maybe we need to turn the question around. Why does the other sock not disappear?”

“By God! You’re right, Adele. A problem without a solution is a problem that has been poorly framed. Is the election of the exiled sock subject to determinism? I’m going to write Pauli and ask him. A further extension of quantum physics. It wouldn’t surprise me if he unearthed a little matrix to explain it. What
do you think, Gödel? Here’s an exciting subject for your article. The relativist washing machine!”

“I already have a subject for my article.”

“What is this about, Kurt? You haven’t mentioned it.”

“An editor, Paul Arthur Schilpp, has asked me to contribute to a book on Professor Einstein, a tribute to him on his seventieth birthday.”

“You’ll have something to keep you busy while I’m gone.”

Albert was still absorbed in the subject of his feet.

“I’d solved the problem by not wearing socks, but Maja worried that I would catch cold. I sweat so much that I could wring my socks out at night and fill whole flasks with the juice. ‘Genuine Genius Sweat.’ ”

“How is your sister?”

“Maja is still in bed. She hasn’t really recovered from her heart attack. Seeing her decline breaks my heart. And more egotistically, it confronts me with my own mortality. Why don’t you pay her a visit on the way home, Adele? She doesn’t get much company.”

He was forced to interrupt himself to greet the growing number of acquaintances we passed as we approached the university, which was celebrating its bicentennial. The usual quiet was disrupted by many festive events and crowds of visitors. By the autumn of 1946, we had been living in Princeton for more than five years, an eternity in that enclave outside of time. I had grown used to provincial life without actually loving it, although it seemed narrow in comparison with the turbulence of prewar Vienna. Princeton was a big, insular village centered around its university. Surrounded by forests and lakes, punctuated by impeccable lawns, it gave itself European airs with its neo-Gothic buildings. In this quaint cocoon, the Institute for
Advanced Study had assembled an extraordinary group of geniuses in flight from the war. The exodus of high-profile Jews, Socialists, bohemians, and pacifists—sometimes all four were rolled into one—had brought the Institute a gold mine of new recruits. My husband was one of them, though he could claim none of those labels. He was just a scientist in an uncomfortable position. Others had risked their lives. The IAS, whose building was now outside the university, was a state within a state, a sort of scientific Mount Olympus, absent the gods. From the vantage point of the wives, Princeton was neither more nor less than a garrison town. They tacitly reproduced the hierarchy set by their husbands’ prestige: the von Neumanns and the Oppenheimers lived in imposing mansions. The demigod Einstein, true to his nonconformity, had chosen a modest house. Kurt was a case apart: a general with an enlisted man’s pay, since we made do with a miserable apartment. All these fine folk visited each other’s homes for dinners and musical evenings. The Mitteleuropa intelligentsia was trying to recreate its fertile cultural life far from war-ravaged Europe. I did not share the general nostalgia.