In the Kitchen, 1914
Mileva sits at the kitchen table. It’s summer, early morning. The window is open—the coolness of the night still lingers in the air. Using her palm, she smooths out two handwritten sheets of paper. She knows they are from Albert, but she keeps turning them over and scrutinizing the signature, refusing to believe that he could write these words. Although she has a difficult time believing it, she knows her husband’s handwriting all too well, his slanted letters, the characteristic curlicues of his Ls and Ns. His cursive has so many flourishes that even a forger would have a difficult time imitating it. If he were to sign it with only his first initial, she would still recognize it as Albert’s. She had received enough of his letters; she had seen his ostentatious signature enough times. Looking at the letter she received yesterday, she got the impression that he had not hesitated, not even for a second. The script is uniform, his hand steady. Mileva even recognized the blue ink he used—she had bought it for him in Zurich, at the stationary store where she usually buys writing paper and notebooks for Hans Albert.
She is rereading the letter that his colleague Fritz Haber handed her yesterday. Like a true coward, Albert hadn’t dared to give it to her personally.
Berlin, July 18th, 1914
Conditions:
A. You will see to it:
1. that my clothes and laundry are kept clean
2. that I receive my three meals regularly in my room
3. that my bedroom and office are always kept in order,
in particular, that the desk is available to me alone
B. You will renounce all personal relations with me in so far as maintaining them is not absolutely necessary for social reasons. Specifically, you will do without:
1. My sitting at home with you
2. My going out or traveling with you.
C. In your relations with me you will commit yourself to adhering to the following rules:
1. You will neither expect intimacy from me nor reproach me in any way.
2. You must desist immediately from addressing me if I request it.
3. You must leave my bedroom or office immediately without protest if I so request.
D. You will not disparage me either in word or in deed in front of my children.
This is just written proof of my situation, Mileva thinks. If I don’t consent to these humiliating conditions, our life together will be over. She places the letter back on the kitchen table, walks over to the window, and leans on the wooden frame. Then she touches the wall with her fingers as if to maintain her balance. She feels an overwhelming need to touch something solid and real, to confirm that she is here, that she is alive. She knows how bedraggled she looks in her nightgown, with her cloud of disheveled hair, but nobody is in the kitchen at this hour to see her stumbling around and straining her eyes—holding back tears. I can’t keep crying, she tells herself. I’ve got to pull myself together and decide what to do. She breathes in the fresh morning air. The kitchen window overlooks a courtyard. Berlin gray, that’s what they call the grim color of building facades, streets, and courtyards in this city. She misses the hills and greenery that had graced her view in Zurich. She longs for light. She longs for air. The smell of last night’s supper, of fried sausages and potato salad, still permeates the kitchen. On the stove are a greasy pan and a porcelain bowl with the leftovers. The bread on the table is stale. The maid still hasn’t arrived. She and the boys have been staying with Fritz and Clara Haber for some ten days now. She could have put the food in the pantry herself last night. But she hadn’t the strength for it. Crushed by Albert’s Conditions, she feels dizzy, as if she had just received a powerful blow to the head. This is probably how a boxer feels after a fight, she thinks.
Her first reaction after reading Albert’s so-called letter last night was one of shock. Then she burst out laughing. Albert’s Conditions reminded her of those warning signs that are placed around confectioners’ shops back home: No Hair Grooming! No Spitting on the Floor! They are most likely useless, since the customers they’re aimed at, those who would be likely to take out a pocket comb or spit in front of the mirror in the shop, are almost certainly illiterate. She had the opportunity to witness this when she used to stop by the only confectioner’s shop in Kać, a village near her family’s estate, and invariably notice some young man fixing his hair in front of the mirror, right next to the warning sign.
She remembered how the notice that hung in the school bathroom used to make her and her friend Desanka roar with laughter. It said: “Wash your hands before eating and after excreting.” They were amused by the rhyme “eating-excreting.” When one of them had to go to “that place,” as was the customary phrase at the time, she would simply say “eat-excrete.” Albert’s Conditions are exactly like the “eat-excrete” warning, she thought. Dear Mileva, make sure to regularly wash your hands. Don’t spit on the floor. Don’t fix your hair in the confectioner’s shop. Cover your mouth while coughing. Don’t belch in front of other people. Cross your legs when sitting down. Be quiet unless you’re spoken to and behave properly like a good little girl, and everything will turn out just fine. She was overtaken by a fit of hysterical laughter, then disbelief, at the thought that Albert’s words were meant to be taken seriously. He dares to set the terms of our life together! To me, Mileva, his wife of eleven years, the woman who gave birth to his two sons! Hans Albert is ten, and Eduard will turn four in a few days. She crumpled the letter and threw it on the floor. Her laughter provided only a momentary release, just enough to catch her breath. Mileva couldn’t accept that Albert’s Conditions were real. She only realized it when her body told her it was so. Only then did she feel the emptiness rising in her chest, when she struggled to breathe, when her heart jumped up like a feral cat, clawing its way out of her ribcage, when she felt that too familiar pain. She knew that pain—it was her measure of reality, her faithful reminder. It always appeared when she refused to accept what was happening to her. She barely prevented herself from sinking into complete despair.
As long as it hurts, at least I know I’m alive, she thinks, leaning against the kitchen wall.
The book Theory of Sorrow was published as part of the Growing Together project, co-financed by the European Union.
The book was translated by Vladislav Beronja.
