Marie Curie - Kathleen Krull [4]
He also taught them small ways to resist Russian rule. Above all, it was important to remember you were Polish. Every day on their way to the public school they attended, Marie and her best friend Kazia would spit on a hated Russian monument in the square. In 1881, when the Russian czar was killed by a terrorist bomb, she and Kazia danced with joy in their classroom.
The Polish teachers at school followed a secret curriculum to instill national pride in their students. “Botany class” was really Polish history; “German class” was actually Polish literature. Someone would ring a warning bell when a Russian official approached, so the students could swap their forbidden Polish books for Russian ones. Always the star pupil, Marie was often required to recite in front of officials, the very Russians she despised. Having to play along with the charade, unable to show her true feelings, made her angry enough “to scratch like a cat.” But she became good at hiding her emotions when she needed to. Presenting a calm, cool exterior to the outside world was to become a lifelong habit.
At the age of fifteen, Marie was idealistic, with piercing gray eyes, perfect skin, a mass of uncontrollable blonde curls. She was shy and insecure, which she disguised with an attitude of superiority that put off some people. Although she could speak five languages, she never mastered the art of small talk.
Upon graduation, she won the coveted gold medal for best student. She happily presented it to her father, who expected nothing less. Then she took to her bed, struck by another depression.
Alarmed, her father sent her to relatives in the countryside. There she found nourishment in nature—the mountains, rich farmlands, landscapes dotted with castles—as well as in the homes filled with books, music, and art. She had eccentric aunts who smoked cigarettes and wore pants and ran businesses, uncles who were talented violinists. One aunt had gone to a Swiss university; one cousin was a serious student of chemistry. These months were the only time in her life Marie had no cares or responsibilities. For once she relaxed and enjoyed life. She took horse-drawn sleigh rides with people her age, riding from house to house to dance the wild mazurka. One night she danced her red slippers into shreds. She let her brain go on vacation for a year—she rode horses, read “absurd little novels,” drew in her sketchbook. “I can’t believe geometry or algebra ever existed,” she wrote a bit giddily.
She played practical jokes, though even her pranks had the precision of science experiments, changing one variable to test a theory. One relative liked to drink a whole jug of milk with each meal. Marie decided that each day she would thin his milk with more and more water and see if he noticed. Finally he did, to the accompaniment of her hysterical giggles. The same relative was the target of a complicated prank, when she and her cousins turned his too-neat room upside down. On large nails from the ceiling rafters, they hung his bed, chair, table, even his shoes, then hid nearby until he opened the door.
It may seem surprising that a brainiac like Marie would essentially take off her sixteenth year to fool around. But she’d reached the end of the educational road for a girl in Poland at that time. Her brother was going to attend medical school—and any extra funds in the family went to support him. Polish universities were not open to women, no matter how many gold medals they won. One thing the year off allowed her was some space to think about life. She didn’t want to be a parasite; she wanted to contribute to society. Yet how? It was a confusing