The Einstein Prophecy

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

All morning, Einstein had been poring over the latest notes and internal queries that Oppenheimer had sent by secret courier. There was no escaping the sense of urgency. Apparently, some communiqués from the highest echelon of the Nazi command had been intercepted and decoded at Bletchley Park, and unless they had been deliberately devised to be leaked and thereby mislead the Allied scientists (which was always a possibility), the German physicists were honing in on the last steps necessary to create a nuclear reaction. The race to unleash the unparalleled power of the atom was picking up speed, and Einstein knew that if the Third Reich got to the finish line first, the civilized world would cease to exist. Washington, New York, London, Moscow — all of them would be consumed in balls of fire overnight, and Hitler would rule the globe unchallenged. Evil, in its purest distillation ever, would reign triumphant.

President Roosevelt himself had acknowledged as much in a phone call at dawn that day. “Even your friend Bertie Russell has come around and made some comments helpful to the war effort.”

For the world’s most renowned pacifist to do so, Einstein recognized, was newsworthy. Although no one concurred, he still believed that it might have been Russell who was the target in the stadium that day. They had once compared hate mail, and Russell had won by a mile.

“But those bastards in Berlin are breathing down our neck,” Roosevelt had explained, “and I don’t need to tell you, of all people, what it will mean if they crack this before we do.”

“You do not, Mr. President.”

He could hear another voice, insisting that the president come to a meeting.

“Duty calls,” he said, “but if there is anything you need, Albert, just say the word.”

The phone had clicked off, and after Einstein had calmed down Helen — it wasn’t every day that the White House telephoned — he’d gone straight back to work. Now, he could hear her in the yard below, calling for the cat.

That, at least, was one problem he could immediately address.

Lifting the window sash, he poked his head out — the autumn air was bracing — and said, “I know where she is.”

“Where? I put out fresh milk for her, but she hasn’t touched it.”

“Wait. I will come down.” A walk in the yard might clear his head.

Helen was at the back steps, by the bowl of untouched milk, when he came through the kitchen.

“She went into the garage last night,” he said.

“The garage is locked.”

“There is something wrong with the latch. Come, let’s get her out.”

The ground was uneven and matted with a brown carpet of damp leaves. Helen stayed close to his side, making sure he didn’t slip and take a fall. He didn’t know what he would do without her. When he had first employed her, seventeen years ago now, he’d had no idea how much he would come to rely upon her, for everything from household chores to protecting him from intruders and interruptions to his work.

When they got to the garage, the latch was again hanging loose, and the wooden doors, their white paint chipped and flaking, were rattling in their frame. He pulled one of them open, and the autumn sunlight fell on the clutter of cardboard boxes packed with papers, and some old office furniture he should have discarded long ago.

And on what looked, to his surprise, like a blanched and brittle femur.

“Is that what I think it is?” Helen said in wonder, as she inched past him to pick it up.

Now he could see that it was one of several bones, scattered around the dirt floor. Had some wild animal been making this its lair, dragging its prey inside for a leisurely meal?

“Oh my God,” Helen said, drawing back with one hand to her mouth and the other pointing with the bone into the darker recesses of the garage.

A pair of bare feet stuck out from behind a pile of cartons. Einstein put out an arm to hold Helen back, then stepped forward. Something told him that the man, whoever he turned out to be, was dead.

“Open the other door,” he said to Helen. “We need more light.”

She pushed it back as he came around the boxes.

The man lay sprawled on the ground, facedown, his arms flung out to either side like a skydiver in free fall. He was wearing a long black slicker, its hood drawn up over the back of his head. A canvas sack lay beside him, along with a sharpened chisel. He was utterly still.

Bending down, his back creaking, Einstein touched the man’s shoulder, then shook it gently. The motion went no farther down the body than the arm. He shook it again, expecting no response and getting none.

“Who is it?” Helen asked, without coming close enough to see. “Is he… all right?”

“No.”

“Should I call for an ambulance?”

“Too late. I think you must call the police.”

Helen scurried off to the house.

Was it a hobo, he wondered, who had taken shelter for the night? The poor soul, Einstein thought… to die like this, alone, on a dirt floor. With all of his earthly possessions in a canvas bag.

But what accounted for the bones? They appeared ancient. Why would he have been carrying those?

Delicately, Einstein drew the hood aside, revealing a thatch of dark blond hair, the kind only a young man might possess. And then, curiosity getting the better of him, he gently pushed the body onto its side… and instantly regretted that he had.

The skin of the face was puckered, as if it had been sucked dry, the lips were raised so tight the gums were showing, the eyes were open, empty, and staring into infinity. It was hard to tell if he had been twenty, or two hundred.

“I am sorry,” Einstein said softly. The man smelled like a swamp. “Very sorry.” He let the body roll back into its previous posture, and kept vigil beside it until Helen could return with the police. It would be wrong to leave the poor man alone again. Not knowing what else to do while he waited, he laid a hand gently on his shoulder and recited, under his breath and with his head bowed, an ancient Hebrew prayer for the dead.