Yannick Grannec - The Goddess of Small Victories

Princeton was an opportunity not to be missed. It was a world tailored to his measure and one where they spoke his language. He was so excited at the prospect of going! I had my doubts, I’ll admit. Crossing the Atlantic was a long and exhausting trip, even for a passenger on the upper decks. How was he to survive this exile when a trifle could send him spiraling into anxiety? How was he to negotiate this unfamiliar country and its people? How would he stand the uncertainty, when what he dreaded most was a break in his routine?

He had promised to return. He had asked me not to cry. To wait. What else had I done all these years? Telegrams were expensive, and letters traveled by boat. Waiting was all I had left. Yet we had already survived a far greater separation, the distance between a genius and a dancer.

I finished my shift a little before midnight. I ushered the last of the drinkers out into the street and lowered the blinds, hung my dirndl on a hanger, and retouched my face powder in the light of the bar. Too old to dance, not old enough to give up the life. If you had told me five years earlier that I would one day be serving beer in a traditional costume, I’d have mocked you for a false prophet and lifted my skirts in your face. But times had changed, and I’d given up my room and my independence. My father now escorted me home from work: the streets had grown that dangerous. A rotting Vienna was loosing its nighttime farts, erupting in public brawls and political violence whose sense escaped me. The political strife had just come to a head in Germany and would soon arrive in Austria. Some had already chosen their camp. Lieesa was drawn to the Heimwehr’s Catholic militias, which, given her lightskirt past, was slightly ironic. Other carousing friends of mine gave up nightlife for politics and joined the Socialist Schutzbund militia. All were puppets. None of the successive coalition governments managed to stave off the ravages of the Great Depression. The tension in the streets was escalating, fanned by the Nazis: there were threats of a general strike and a German invasion. Chancellor Dollfuss had resumed control of the country by steamrolling every form of opposition, on the right as well as the left. He was in sole control of a sinking ship.

Nothing now stood in the way of the Nazis taking power. They wouldn’t burn down our parliament as they had burned the Reichstag. There was no parliament. From the border came rumors of a new order. Soon they would be here burning books, banning music, closing the cafés, and turning off the lights in Vienna.

My father was late that night. In my anxiety, I reread Kurt’s letter for the hundredth time. I lived in suspense between his letters, comforted by their regularity, disappointed by their coldness. Hating their author sometimes, never for long. Tearing up at imaginary signs of love, worrying over every line — half mother and half lover. Was he sleeping enough? Was he thinking of me? Was he being faithful? He seemed happy, but how long would it last? How many days before he pulled the curtains shut? Did he have a stomachache or a headache? I was looking without admitting it for early signs of a relapse in every overly neutral statement. So as not to miss it this time.

Princeton, October 10, 1933

Dear Adele ,

In your last letter you asked for some particulars about Princeton and the surrounding area. I have had no time at all to engage in tourism. But here, to forestall your reproaches, is a brief description .

Princeton is a university village in the greater suburbs of New York. The trip into the city is exhausting. To get from the university to the isolated little station at Princeton Junction, you have to take the “Dinky,” an uncomfortable shuttle. The commuter train then takes two hours, and you arrive at Pennsylvania Station, which is located at Seventh Avenue and 31st Street in Manhattan, to emerge at an intersection on Broadway that is dizzying with lights and noise. So it is unnecessary to ask me “not to traipse around New York every night.” I have neither the stamina nor the desire to do so .

I am quite satisfied, on the other hand, with the IAS. The program is very ambitious and recruitment has been everything that Oswald Veblen and Abraham Flexner, the director, hoped for. They have assembled the cream of today’s scientific community. They even managed to attract Herr Einstein. Not bad considering that all of America was clamoring for him. I am not impressionable, but meeting him was an unforgettable experience. We spoke for more than an hour about philosophy and hardly even touched on mathematics or physics. He claims that he is too poor a mathematician! You would enjoy this great man and his humor. Do you know what he says about Princeton? “It’s a wonderful little spot, a quaint and ceremonious village of puny demigods on stilts.”

I am just a lecturer on temporary appointment, and I envy the first resident scholars: von Neumann, Weyl, and Morse. Freed of any obligation to teach, their only assignment is to think. No one cares what you do as long as you look busy .

Princeton is charming in the fall. You would hate its flame-colored forests and impeccable lawns, girl of nighttime Vienna that you are. For its first academic year the IAS is being housed in the university’s Fine Hall, a temporary arrangement. The buildings are acceptable, and Americans have a remarkable sense of hygiene. I am preparing my next course of lectures: “On the Undecidability of Propositions in Formal Mathematical Systems.” I’ll spare you the details, though an obscure exposition has never put you off! You’ll be glad to know that my work is at last being warmly received .

My days are very full. I am a sort of emeritus professor during the day and a solitary student at night. My interactions with colleagues are cordial but, all in all, quite limited. I miss the cafés of Vienna. Mrs. Veblen sees to my social life and invites me to teas and musical evenings .

I am flabbergasted by the amount of food that people eat. Everything is huge: a typical steak might last me a week, a dry martini would fill a bathtub. I would be ill if I did not watch what I ate very carefully. I also monitor my temperature. I take long walks in the open air every day .

I will not be in Vienna for your birthday. We will make up for it when I get back. What would you like me to bring you from New York? I have very little time to spend on this kind of project, but I can commission the wife of one of my colleagues. America makes so many exotic things that would appeal to your curiosity. Some music, perhaps? I have heard strange compositions here that you, I am quite sure, would find delightful .

All my love, take care of yourself ,

Kurt ∞

With my finger, I was tracing the small infinity symbol, already nearly erased, when I was startled by three loud knocks on the nightclub’s wooden shutters. Through the peephole I saw Lieesa, readjusting her girdle with a total unconcern for modesty. I hesitated. My friend had changed. She was no longer the blond tightrope artist who passed from hand to hand with a guileless smile and could match vodka for vodka with a Hungarian. I didn’t care for her new acquaintances, and she had never liked Kurt. I answered with three identical knocks and went out by the courtyard door. Lieesa was leaning against the ivy-covered wall smoking a cigarette.

“Come for a drink? There’s someone I want you to meet.”