Jillian Cantor: Half Life

If only he were able to take up his own studies again, I would no longer be his everything, his only thing. Maths would consume his mind, I knew it would, and I would be able to breathe a little easier and focus on my own studies. That gave me an idea: tomorrow morning I would write Papa and ask if he would send the money he was still saving for me for the Sorbonne so Kaz could use it for his education. Paris now felt like a world away. The only real way for me to get there would be for Kaz to finish his education first, and be sought after enough in his field to secure a job in Paris so we could afford to move there and both be fulfilled.

I liked this new plan of mine, and I knew Papa would want to help. I exhaled and reached my hand up to Kazimierz’s face, ran my fingers against his beard. “Come to bed, my love,” I said. “You worry too much. Everything will be all right tomorrow, you’ll see.”

Kazimierz leaned in closer again and kissed me, and then all else fell away: concern, regret, suffocation. For at least this night, he was my everything too.

Paris, 1894

My mind has been filled with my studies at the Sorbonne, focused on passing my exams at the top of my class, putting all the other students, the men, to shame, while also having enough money to move to my own room closer to school, and to stay alive, warm, and fed. So I have not thought about Kazimierz Zorawski in years, until the letter arrives from Hela from Warsaw, with a newspaper clipping inside:

Julius and Kazimiera Zorawski proudly announce the marriage of their eldest son, Kazimierz Zorawski, to Leokadia Jewniewicz, esteemed concert pianist and daughter of prominent mathematician Hipolit Jewniewicz. Zorawski is completing his doctorate in mathematics at Jagiellonian University…

I put the clipping down, not wanting to read any further, my face already turning hot at the words about his fiancée, Leokadia: proudly , esteemed , prominent . All the things his parents never would’ve said about me, and probably still wouldn’t, even now. Never mind that I passed first in my class in my physics examination, or that I was awarded the prestigious Alexandrovitch Scholarship last year that had come with a generous and much needed 600 rubles. But my world is bigger now than the Zorawskis. I do not regret the choice I made to come to Paris, even if it is still a constant struggle to prove myself as a woman. I have opportunity here nonetheless and my freedom to learn, and that is everything. I put the clipping back inside of Hela’s envelope, then hide it all inside a chemistry textbook, on the shelf in my lab.

I’ve already stayed much too long in the lab, and I am running late for a meeting with Professor Kowalski and his wife.

AS I WALK ALONG THE STREETS OF THE LATIN QUARTER TO the Kowalskis’ hotel, I try to put the newspaper clipping out of my mind. I have other things to worry about. I was recently tasked with doing a study by the Society for the Encouragement of National Industry, researching the magnetic properties of different kinds of steel. And the possible outcomes, the idea of testing, day in and day out, in the lab, an experiment all my own, has been endlessly thrilling. But there isn’t enough room in Monsieur Lippman’s lab for all the equipment I will need to properly test the different steels, and I’m not exactly sure how I’m going to complete the study.

I’d confided this much to Monsieur Kowalski last night, after I’d attended his lecture. I know him, and his new wife, from back in Poland. They’re in Paris right now, both on their honeymoon and for him to give lectures. “Just come to tea tomorrow,” Monsieur Kowalski had said when I told him about my concerns last night. “I have an idea for you to fix your lab problem.”

Monsieur Kowalski is a prominent physicist in Poland, and it would’ve been too rude to turn him down. Though I also don’t know what he can truly do to help, given that he’s based in Poland, and I must stay in Paris for the time being, at least until I complete this study and my examinations. I have been dreading the idea of socializing with him and his wife today, though, as I anticipate so much stilted conversation, so much effort, and it is why I stayed so long in the lab to begin with, why I attended to all my unopened mail before leaving. Oh, Hela. Why did she even send that clipping to me?

I climb the stairs up to their suite now and knock on the door. Madame Kowalska answers with a bright smile. She has blond hair, pulled tightly back into a bun, and a pretty face like a cherub. Her cheeks glow pink — perhaps customary for a new bride on her honeymoon, and for the briefest moment, I wonder if this is what Leokadia looks like now too?

“Marya, come in.” It’s strange to hear someone call me Marya again, other than my sister. In Bronia’s voice it sounds like a pet name, a reminder of our childhood, but in Madame Kowalska’s voice, whom I barely know, it sounds all wrong.

“I’ve been going by Marie,” I correct gently.

“Oh yes, of course. That’s right. Marie.” She shakes her head. “You are very French now, I suppose?”

Perhaps she means to make a compliment, but it comes out sounding like an insult. I want to tell Madame that France is a place for me to learn, that I am still a Pole, just like her, and that I would never abandon our native country altogether, whether I’ve grown used to my adopted French name or not. But before I can say any of that, I notice a stranger, a man, standing across the room at the window. He leans his elbows on the window ledge, staring, as if entranced by the street below. He’s quite tall, and well dressed—his suit looks made of much newer cloth than anything I own, and it fits his lean frame nicely.

“Sugar in your tea?” Madame asks me.

“No, thank you,” I say, and when the man hears my voice, he turns, looks at me. His eyes are bright blue, and he immediately smiles, the corners of his mouth turning up just above his beard, making him seem younger than the few gray hairs in his beard might imply.

He walks over, picks up my hand and kisses it, the rough hair of his beard scratching just enough on the back of my hand to make me feel oddly delighted. It is the first time a man’s lips have grazed my hand since Kazimierz, and how strange it is to recognize now that it gives me a little thrill. “Pierre Curie,” he says.

He’s another scientist. We’ve never met before, but I recognize his name, having heard it come up in conversation in the lab once or twice. “Yes, I’ve heard of you, Monsieur Curie,” I say.

“Pierre, please.”

“Pierre… You are studying crystallography?” He nods, and his eyes light up, with curiosity, or excitement for his work. “Marie Sklodowska,” I say. “I am working with magnetic fields.”

“Ah, you have made introductions to each other before I got the chance.” Monsieur Kowalski walks in from the other room. “Here he is, Marie, the solution to your problem.”

“Solution?” I am genuinely puzzled. I don’t need another scientist’s help, particularly not one who doesn’t even specialize in what I’m preparing to research. And I’m certainly not about to hand my study over to a man. Am I going to have to spend the entire evening explaining myself, justifying my capabilities? The very idea of it is exhausting, and I wonder if I can leave now without appearing rude.

But Madame Kowalska has just poured everyone tea and invites us to sit around the table. I have no choice but to take my place, and thank her for her hospitality. She’s not a scientist, and she appears vaguely bored already, stifling a yawn. I take a seat across the table from Pierre, accept my cup of tea and take a sip. I feel Pierre’s eyes on me, and I look away, stare into my tea.