Albert Einstein published his General Theory of Relativity in 1915. Initially we wanted to cover the anniversary of this event on the blog, but in searching for an original angle, not covered by the mainstream press, we came across a lesser-known but equally interesting member of his family, Lieserl, his daughter.
No-one is better qualified to present to our readers the unusual story of Lieserl and her relationship to the German scientist than Michele Zackheim, author of EINSTEIN'S DAUGHTER: The Search for Lieserl (and of other fascinating books [1]). For many years she worked in the visual arts as a fresco muralist, an installation artist, a print-maker, and a painter. Her work has been widely exhibited and is included in the permanent collections of The National Museum of Women in the Arts in Washington, D.C. and in many other museums throughout the United States. She has been the recipient of two awards from the National Endowment for the Arts. Michele teaches Creative Writing from a Visual Perspective at the School of Visual Arts in New York City.
Ms. Zackheim very kindly agreed to write the following article for the blog.
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The New York Times a fait état de la découverte d'une correspondance amoureuse entre Albert Einstein et Mileva Marić. On y apprit qu'en 1902, avant leur mariage, ils avaient eu une fille du nom de Lieserl. Jusque-là, il n'avait jamais été question de Lieserl dans la biographie d'Einstein.
Mileva Marić et Albert Einstein
In 1987, The New York Times ran an article about the discovery of love letters between Albert Einstein and Mileva Marić. In that correspondence it was disclosed for the first time that in 1902, before they were married, they had a daughter. They named her Lieserl. Until these letters were discovered, she had not been written into the Einstein story.
It intrigued me to think that hidden deep in the Balkans lurked the mystery of Einstein's missing child, a child whose fate remained unknown. Impetuously, naively, I decided to find her.
It took me almost seven years to write Einstein's Daughter: The Search for Lieserl. My research took me on extensive trips to London, Berlin, Zurich, Bern, and Budapest, and three times to Serbia—twice while the country was at war; once when there was promise in the air.
Albert Einstein had always been my idol. In my small town in California, he was the only Jewish figure who didn't elicit anti-Semitic rhetoric. It never entered my mind that I would grow to dislike him deeply. But I did.
* * *
age of 18
One day in 1994, I drove along the freeway that edges San Francisco Bay to Albany, California. It was a foggy day and the saltwater scent of the bay was delicious. I had an appointment to visit Evelyn Einstein, Albert's granddaughter. That first visit prompted a turbulent fifteen years of friendship.
Evelyn met me at the front door and then quickly sat down in a wheelchair that was decorated with garish plastic Star Trek gewgaws. She was a heavy, somewhat plain-looking woman with cropped brown-and-silver hair, and she wore black pants, tan Birkenstock sandals, and a bright crimson shirt. (Each time I saw her over the next fifteen years, she was wearing the exact same, clean, well-ironed shirt.) Attached to her collar was a silver Star Trek pin with a button.
"I like pushing this button," she said to me as soon as we shook hands. "Look." She pushed it and laughed when I was startled by the loud noise.
As she guided me into the living room between piles of wet boxes, I was swept back in time to the rooms I had seen in her grandmother Mileva's houses in both Titel and Novi Sad, in Serbia. Evelyn's furniture was the same style—heavy and dark and uninviting. I couldn't tell if the upholstery was gray or just dingy.
A few days earlier, a water pipe had burst and flooded the living room. The tables were covered with piles of damp paper. The sofa was heaped with musty boxes. I was soon to become familiar with Evelyn's house: a chaotic, jumbled repository of history.
When I tried to sympathize with her about the disaster, she merely laughed. "Oh, don't be concerned," she said. "My house is always a bit upside down."
I was invited to move some boxes and sit on a clammy sofa while Evelyn faced me in her wheelchair.
"I have to apologize," she said, "for not dressing up for your visit. You see, my mother never taught me how to dress. And, as you can see," she said, making a sweeping motion with her arm, "I have inherited my family's slovenly behavior. I'm not elegant. You could shoot me before you would get me into nylon stockings. High heels have always horrified me! Anyway, I try not to stand out in company."
All of a sudden, a crowd of clocks began to chime.
"I have twenty Swiss pendulum clocks," Evelyn said over the racket, "and I love the cacophony."
Evelyn appeared to take a perverse joy in confusion. I soon learned that she would begin a conversation, whether on the phone or in person, cautiously. If I simply chatted about my family, she would begin to warm up. By the time we were halfway into our conversation, she was speaking freely and easily, with a wonderful, high-spirited humor. And I could always depend on hearing her lively—and cranky—reflections on world politics.
Evelyn was often difficult, yet I enjoyed her shrewd intelligence and her humor. When I visited, I could make her happy by driving her to her favorite sushi restaurant in Berkeley and treating her to whatever she wanted. One late afternoon, over an enormous amount of sushi, she said, "Most of the time, I'm alone. I'm quite a hermit. My problems drive my friends away. I feel totally abandoned. You'll drop out of my life at some time. Just wait and see."
Many years passed before her demands and her insatiable need for attention finally wore me down, just as she promised.
But in retrospect, she was the only one in that family who had a sense of humor.
* * *
Einstein's son Hans and his wife Frieda adopted Evelyn from an agency in Chicago, Illinois. She was told that her birth mother was a simple farm girl and her father a farm hand. But her adoptive mother told a close friend that Evelyn was actually Albert's daughter; that she was the result of one of his many dalliances. [2] Einstein insisted that Hans, even though his wife was ill by then, adopt her.
I don't know the truth, although I've heard this story from various sources.
Evelyn tried having Einstein's DNA tested with matter from his brain. "The great man's brain had disintegrated in formaldehyde, so it was useless. Anyway," she said, "One has to ask if two farm hands in the Midwest could have a daughter with my IQ." Evelyn Einstein's was 178.
"Hans Albert, my adoptive father, may really be my brother—and my brother, Bernhard, may really be my nephew. And when I'm in a good mood, I enjoy a perverse delight in the entire scenario!"
Evelyn did not like the iconic image of Einstein sticking out his tongue. It was taken sixty-four years ago, after a birthday party honoring him at The Princeton Club. He was tired and didn't want another camera in his face. Understandable, yes. But why is this photograph considered a reflection of his humor? He was not being funny; he was being nasty. Sticking out one's tongue is considered a gesture of contempt, an insult. But the aura of saintliness that surrounded Einstein was solid. He had become an icon.
True, often he was funny and captivating and wise – but always with his friends and lovers and the general public. Not with his family. With his family he was gruff and unforgiving. I never heard a funny story about him from family members.
In 1997, when Evelyn's birthday was approaching, I asked her what she wanted more than anything in the world. "I want to meet the actor Robin Williams. He's the most intelligent, funny, intuitive person I have ever seen."
I wrote him a letter and within two weeks had scheduled a meeting between Evelyn and Robin Williams, who lived in the San Francisco area. On the appointed date, he drove to Evelyn's house with his assistant. They spent two hours together. She was thrilled. Over the telephone after the visit, her voice sounded more hopeful than it ever had. I asked her how the meeting went.
"I don't remember ever meeting a famous person," she told me. I reminded her about her grandfather, about Robert Oppenheimer, about Churchill's daughter, about the attempt to make a love match between her and Edward Teller's nephew.
"They were not anywhere in the same league as Williams!" Evelyn exclaimed. "He's special; they're ordinary."
Michele Zackheim
[1] Michele's first novel, Violette's Embrace, is a fictional account of an American artist on the trail of the French writer and cult heroine, Violette Leduc. Broken Colors, a novel, traces the path of the painter, Sophie Marks from England of World War II to postwar Paris and the Italian countryside and then on to the American Southwest. Michele's most recent novel Last Train to Paris tells the story of Rose Manon, posted as a foreign correspondent to Paris, who finds herself caught in a web of terror and decades later must come to terms with the consequences of a heart-wrenching decision. The novel is in the tradition of bestsellers such as Suite Française by Irène Némirovsky.
Violet's Embrace Broken Colors The Last Train to Paris
[2] The daughter of Albert Einstein and Mileva Maric’s , Lieserl was born in 1902 in Titel, in the Vojvodina, before the couple married. Albert was in Bern when she was born and never saw his daughter; indeed he refused to travel to Titel to see her. Mileva stayed with Lieserl for a year in Vojvodina and then joined Albert in Bern where they were married. Lieserl was left with her grandparents and died in a scarlet fever epidemic when she was about three years old. No grave was registered or found.
In my interviews with Evelyn Einstein, she often raised the idea that she was the result of a love affair between Albert Einstein and a dancer from New York. However, the only material I could find about Evelyn was her birth certificate stating that she, in 1941, was born “out-of-wedlock” to a young couple in the midwest. Hans Albert and Frieda Einstein adopted her from a foundling agency in Chicago. Evelyn’s theory was that Albert Einstein thought that his son and daughter-in-law should adopt her because (1) they had just lost a child and (2) he felt guilty about abandoning Lieserl in 1902.
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