“So you actually held the letter from Einstein?” Travers said. “How exciting that must have been! Only two months after Einstein had published his theory of general relativity. And years before they realized black holes really existed. When was this exactly?” He took out a notebook and began to scribble notes. “My esteemed colleague…” he muttered to himself. “Formulated so simply. This is great stuff. I mean, I’ve been trying to find out stuff on Schwarzschild for my paper for months, but there’s hardly any information on him. I guess because of the war.”

“No information can get out of a black hole once the Schwarzschild radius has been passed,” I said.

“Hey, that’s great!” he said, scribbling. “Can I use that in my paper?”

Now I am the one who sits endlessly in front of the wireless sending out messages to the Red Cross, to my professor in Jena, to Dr. Einstein. I have frostbitten the forefinger and thumb of my right hand and have to tap out the letters with my left. But nothing is getting out, and I must get a message out. I must find someone to tell me the name of Schwarzschild’s disease.

“I have a theory,” Müller says. “The Jews have seized power and have signed a treaty with the Russians. We are completely cut off.”

“I am going to see if the mail has come,” I say, so that I do not have to listen to any more of his theories, but the doctor stops me on my way out of the hut.

I tell him what the message said. “Impetigo!” the doctor shouts. “You saw him! Did that look like impetigo to you?”

I shake my head, unable to tell him what I think it looks like.

“What are his symptoms?” Müller asks, burning with curiosity. I have not told him about Schwarzschild. I am afraid that if I tell him, he will only become more curious and will insist on going up to the front to see Schwarzschild himself.