Vanya answered every question the students and professors asked after his lecture. One by one, the crowd thinned until Vanya was left alone. He stayed at the blackboard and continued. He was close. He could feel it. But was Ricci the right tensor?
“Maybe I can help?” The voice came from a shadow in the back of the auditorium. Vanya startled. The chalk snapped.
“Kir?”
“I said I might be able to help,” Kir said, smiling. He was halfway down the stairs in the auditorium, coming straight for Vanya. He wore his signature black suit. Strong like a Russian bull is the phrase that came to Vanya when he looked at Kir, because of his build and his self-assured arrogance. It was that demeanor, his ability to intimidate, not his work, that had earned Kir his title as department chair. He was a proficient mathematician at best, Vanya had come to learn.
“I’m fine, sir,” Vanya said, forcing a smile of his own. “I don’t need help.”
“Yes, but it’s all so interesting,” Kir continued. They were the same words he’d used at Vanya’s very first lecture on Poincaré. Back then, Vanya was so flattered his face had flushed. Kir had patted his back. His palm spanned the entire width of Vanya’s left side. “You’re certain what you’ve presented is correct?” Kir had asked Vanya’s twenty-year-old self.
“Of course.”
“Good, good. Then you won’t mind if I check your notes?” Kir was already reaching for the stack of papers in Vanya’s hands. “See if I can make sure you haven’t missed anything?” Vanya couldn’t object. Nor did he want to, not then. Kir was the center of his academic universe, the chair of his department. There could be no higher compliment. Vanya had handed over everything he had, expecting to hear back soon. But he didn’t.
It took six months for Vanya to realize what had happened. Vanya’s lecture on gravitational waves was published and credited to Kir and Kir alone. When Vanya confronted him, Kir smiled. “You know this is my work. You merely made suggestions.”
“But…,” Vanya tried.
“Did you write a single word that appeared in that article?” No. Vanya hadn’t. His work was confined to numbers and equations. Kir’s grin grew. “Don’t forget, I was the one who gave you that article. Do you think you would have come up with anything if it hadn’t been for my guidance? You must learn there’s an order to things.”
“B-but,” Vanya stuttered, feeling the first shock of shame. “The others who attended the lecture, surely they know?”
Kir leaned closer and whispered, “Remember, you’re a Jew.” That was when Vanya understood that no one would defend him. No one would risk their career and family for him.
Vanya’s work brought Kir fame—and power. Scientists across Russia elevated him to the top of the academy, and that only made Kir bolder and more aggressive. “Tell me what you’re working on so I can help,” Kir would say when he tracked Vanya in the halls or waited for him in Vanya’s office under the guise of giving him another article to study. “You should be grateful I’m looking out for you. Protecting you.”
Vanya tried to cloister himself away while digging deeper into Albert Einstein. Still, Kir found his ways. He waited at the tram stop, lurked in the halls outside the classroom and in the stacks at the library. He even hovered over Vanya when he helped his peers. Eventually, Kir told Vanya that to retain his position, he’d need to present a lecture every month. Before the lecture, he had to submit his notes to Kir. Vanya had no choice but to agree. He couldn’t lose his professorship—he needed it for Baba and Miri as much as for himself. They’d be thrown from their house, even from Kovno, if he was demoted and declared no longer useful. What did it matter if Kir saw his notes, he said to himself the first time he handed them over. Then Kir returned them, the exact same equations, only rewritten in Kir’s hand. “I’ve added ideas,” Kir said with a smile. “And I’ve already circulated these to the department.” Which meant he’d told the other professors the work was his, not Vanya’s. Surely they knew the lie, but still no one said a thing. It was a wonder Vanya had published that single article in which he declared Einstein’s math mistaken. He’d only managed it because Kir thought the business of Jew arguing against Jew was below him.
“This lecture today, it was about your fight with Einstein, no?” Kir said now, standing in front of Vanya in the auditorium. The sound of voices and footsteps slid from under the door. For a second, Vanya thought about running, but didn’t. His hands went cold. Sweat slid down his back. Kir continued. “You forgot to give me your notes for today.”
“I—I wasn’t prepared ahead of time. I’m sorry.”
Kir frowned. “You know I can get you anything you need to solve this.”
“You couldn’t get me funding. For the eclipse.”
“No.” Kir dropped his chin, and something like disappointment flashed across his face. It was the first time Vanya had ever seen him flinch. “No. The czar is staring down war. Using his coffers for bullets, not photographs. Besides, pictures are nothing. It’s math that matters.” Kir cleared his throat. “Let me look at what you have.” When Vanya hesitated, Kir continued, “A family like yours needs help. These are tough times. With war on the horizon, I can keep you safe.” Kir held out his enormous hands, pointing toward Vanya’s notes, and Vanya handed over what he had—the piece of paper he’d stashed in his pocket before he’d left with Miri. Kir raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. As he looked over the paper, he murmured, “Tell me. Your sister. Did she save that Jewish wretch this morning?”
Shocked, Vanya spoke without thinking. “My sister has nothing to do with this.”
Kir didn’t take his eyes off the paper between them. He added, “Did you hear about my promotion? I run the university now. Appointed by the czar himself.”
“Congratulations. On your new position,” Vanya mumbled. Then he hurried to the side door. He tripped. Fell into the first row of seats and righted himself. He’d banged his shin, badly. He tried to walk without limping, felt his face burning red with pain and anger.
“Good day, Vanya Abramov,” Kir called after him. “My regards to your family.”
VII
I almost killed him,” Miri said. She and Yuri stood in a corner at the end of the women’s ward. It was late and all the other doctors had gone home. Miri’s arms and legs had never felt so heavy, and her head ached. She’d seen dozens and dozens of patients after the fishmonger’s surgery, but he was still all she could think about.
“You saved him. The diagnosis, that was the hardest, most important part,” Yuri said.
“Don’t say that. Not to me. He would have died if you weren’t there.”
“Every surgeon makes a mistake their first time.”
“Not like that. I don’t deserve it.”
“Surgeon? The title?”
“And your comfort. You should be chastising me.”
“Never. Let me play for you. Please? You’re a surgeon now, and I promised I’d play when you became a surgeon.”