by Derwin Mak
“Professor Epstein,” Tsien said, standing straight. But when addressing his doctoral supervisor, he bowed slightly. “Von Kármán láoshī.” He handed over a stack of papers. “Here is the numerical analysis of the transfer functions you asked for.”
“Thank you, Hsue-shen. I have something for you as well.” Von Kármán rummaged through the journals and papers scattered across his desk. “You mentioned that you want to learn about rockets.” He pulled out a journal, folded it open to a page, and handed it to his student.
Tsien read the names of the authors. “Frank Malina and William Duncan Rennie.”
“Bill is in Canada, visiting his parents,” said von Kármán. “But Frank is around. You should meet him.”
“Thank you, von Kármán lăoshī.” Tsien turned and left the office.
Epstein looked at von Kármán. “What did he call you?”
“It means ‘old teacher,”’ von Kármán explained.
Epstein understood. “He respects you greatly.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
“Tsien was in my relativistic quantum course,” Epstein continued. “He is brilliant.”
“Yes, he is good,” von Kármán said. “The other Chinese students have a nickname for him: ‘The Son of Heaven.”’
“Tell me,” Epstein said with a twinkle in his eye, “Do you think he has Jewish blood?”
Arroyo Seco, California
October 1937
They were called the Suicide Squad.
Lead by Frank Malina, with the sponsorship of von Kármán, they were a mad monk outfit of Caltech graduate students and local enthusiasts that conducted rocket experiments. After an unfortunate incident in the Gates Chemistry Building, the group was exiled from campus and forced to continue their work at Arroyo Seco, a dry river bed canyon a few miles from Caltech.
Malina, Tsien, and Rennie, along with a chemist named John Parsons and a mechanic named Edward Forman, had worked until 3:00 AM to prepare a rocket motor for their latest test. After catching a few hours of sleep, they drove at dawn to Arroyo Seco and mounted the motor onto its test stand. They connected the fuel and oxidizer lines, then piled sandbags around the apparatus before retreating to their viewing site.
Malina handed Tsien the trigger. “Will you do the honors?”
Tsien pressed the button. The rocket motor ignited, bright flame leaping from the nickel-steel nozzle into the early morning air.
The five young men cheered.
Rennie checked his stopwatch. “Forty-four seconds and counting. That’s a record, guys!”
Parsons pointed. “What’s that other flame there?”
“I believe the fuel line has broken,” Tsien said calmly. “It is on fire.”
Malina’s eyes widened. “Uh, guys ... Run!”
The Suicide Squad fled across the canyon, moments before the rocket engine exploded behind them.
Pasadena, California
December 1938
Tsien was in a foul mood.
Last night, he had gone to see The Adventures of Robin Hood, taking a break from the stress of finishing his PhD thesis. A patron at the theater had demanded the usher eject Tsien from his seat. He did not want to sit next to an Asian.
Someone knocked gently on the corner of his desk. Tsien looked up. It was Frank Malina, his tall, lean frame towering over the desk. His angular face, topped by a short crop of curly dark hair, sported a razor-fine moustache.
“Are you all right?” Malina asked.
“Yes.”
Malina looked skeptical, but continued. “Hey, do you know Sid Weinbaum?”
“No.”
“Sid’s one of the research assistants in the Chemistry Department. He’s throwing a party at his place tomorrow tonight. Do you want to go?”
The following evening, Tsien and Malina found themselves strolling up the walk to Sidney Weinbaum’s small gray bungalow on Steuben Street. Inside the house, some twenty or thirty Caltech students were sprawled out on the furniture and chairs of the living room. Tsien and Malina had come neatly dressed in vests, ties, and polished shoes—a dignified contrast to the sloppily attired Bohemian crowd around them.
Normally a loner at social events, Tsien found it surprisingly easy to talk with this group. He found sympathetic ears for his outrage at the recent Japanese atrocities in Nanjing. They discussed other international crises, including the Great Depression and the rise of fascism in Europe. Someone suggested Tsien should read the works of John Strachey.
Later, after refreshments were served, Tsien found himself talking to an attractive young blonde, telling her about his idea for a transcontinental rocketliner that could travel from New York to Los Angeles in an hour. Even trips to the Moon, Tsien told her, might be possible in the near future.
The young woman listened for a while, then smiled politely and excused herself. Perhaps she thought the strange little Chinaman had been drinking too much.
Caltech
November 1943
Blackboards went around all three sides of the lecture hall. Tsien had already filled two of them with his small, precise handwriting and was well into the third, the chalk making gentle squeaks as he wrote.
“Professor Tsien, I don’t understand the third equation on the second board.”
Tsien continued to write without responding.
Moments later, another voice called out. “Sir, are you going to answer his question?”
“That was a statement of fact, not a question.”
Finally, with the third blackboard filled, Tsien completed the last equation with a flourish and put down the chalk.
A timid hand was raised. “Sir, this method you have here, using the calculus of variations—is it foolproof?”
Tsien gave the student a cold stare. “Only fools need foolproof methods.”
“Sir, we’ve had no quizzes, no midterms, no problem sets. Can you at least tell us something about the exam?”
“If you understand everything, you will be fine.” His patience exhausted, Tsien turned and strode briskly out of the lecture hall.
A few days later, Tsien was called into von Kármán’s office.
“Hsue-shen, a number of students have come to me expressing ... concerns about your class.” Von Kármán had lost weight and appeared to be in poor health. “You might consider changing your approach.”
“Von Kármán láoshá, we are not teaching kindergarten. This is graduate school!”
“From my experience,” von Kármán continued, “a good lecture is when one-third of them understand what you are talking about, a third has a pretty good idea, and the rest have no clue.”
Tsien shook his head. “I am interested only in lecturing to people who understand everything.”
“I know you prefer to do research,” von Kármán said, “but as a professor you must recognize that teaching is also an important part of your responsibilities.”
Tsien nodded. “I will do better, von Kármán lăoshī.”
Mojave Desert, California
December 10, 1944
The Private A rocket sat poised at the base of its inclined launch tower, an angular gray metallic truss that stuck out starkly against the beige desert floor. On the horizon, the sharp peaks of the Granite Mountains could be seen.
Tsien focused his binoculars on the Private A. The rocket was small, barely eight feet in length, with four stubby tail fins for stabilization. Its main engine was augmented with four solid propellant boosters, which together would deliver over twenty thousand pounds of thrust in less than one-fifth of a second at the moment of lift-off.
As Tsien lowered his binoculars, he marveled at how far they had come since the crazy days of the Suicide Squad. Their experiments had eventually attracted the attention of the U.S. Army Ordnance Corps, which began funding Caltech to advance the development of long-range rockets. With von Kármán’s endorsement, Tsien obtained a security clearance to work on the military projects. A new institution, the Jet Propulsion L
aboratory, was established to carry out the research.
“Any news on Theodore?” Frank Malina asked. Von Kármán had recently undergone surgery for intestinal cancer.
Tsien shook his head. “The operation went poorly. He is not well.”
The eyes of the Caltech engineers and Army personnel were focused on the distant rocket.
“Here we go,” whispered Malina.
There was a flash of flame, a cloud of smoke and sand billowed out, and the Private A raced up the rails of the launch tower. It cleared the structure and streaked into the heavens, a small black cruciform soaring against a crystal blue sky.
The onlookers cheered and patting each other on the back. It was the first successful launch of a large solid-fuelled rocket in the United States.
Shanghai, China
July 1947
Jiang Ying sang like an angel.
Her powerful soprano voice soared from the stage to the highest rafters of the Lanxin Theatre. Dressed in an elegant silk qipao, her lustrous black hair gleamed like lacquer under the lights, accentuating her delicate cheekbones and unblemished skin. She was the most beautiful woman Tsien had ever seen.
This was his first visit back to China since he had set sail on the Jackson twelve years ago. His mother had passed away in his absence, but his father was still alive, and Tsien had spent several weeks with him in Hangzhou.
He was now in Shanghai, and earlier in the day had delivered a keynote speech at his alma mater, Jiaotong University. It was at the dinner following his speech that Tsien was offered the presidency of Jiaotong. The recital at the Lanxin was the final gift from his hosts.
The audience was on its feet before Jiang Ying’s final note had faded.
Tsien bribed his way backstage and somehow managed to find his way to her dressing room. She actually came out to see him, thinking to indulge another autograph seeker. But Tsien had other ideas.
“Will you go out with me?” It was all he could think to say. He was, after all, just an engineer.
Jiang Ying was annoyed. It was by far the worst pickup line she had ever heard. But she said yes.
Tsien Hsue-shen and Jiang Ying were married less than two months later.
Caltech
June 6, 1950
It was raining the day the FBI came to Tsien’s office.
“Can I help you?” Tsien asked.
“I’m agent Hanssen, FBI. This is agent Roberts.” They flashed identification and sat without being invited.
“What do you want?”
“Let me get right to the point,” Hanssen said. “Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?”
In shock, Tsien was unable to answer for several moments. Finally, he said, “Absolutely not.”
Roberts produced a picture. “Do you know this man?”
“Yes. That is Sidney Weinbaum.”
“What is your relationship with Mr. Weinbaum?” Hanssen asked.
“He was a research assistant in the Chemistry Department. I used to go to his parties when I was a PhD student, but I have not seen him recently. How is he?”
Roberts leaned forward. “Mr. Tsien, are you aware that these so-called ‘parties’ were in fact meetings of Professional Unit 122 of the Pasadena Communist Party?”
“No!” Tsien exclaimed.
Hanssen produced a piece of paper. “This is a copy of a membership list dated February 1, 1938. Your name is on this list, associated with the alias ‘John Decker’.”
Tsien’s face was ashen. “This is impossible! he stammered. “I am not a Communist! I have never been a Communist! I have no idea how I got onto such a list. I have never heard the name John Decker.”
The FBI men waited for Tsien to calm down. Then, Hanssen said, “Tell me about Weinbaum. Would you say he’s a loyal American?”
Tsien struggled to answer. “I am an engineer, and as an engineer, the only yardstick I have to measure anything is data. Since data cannot be applied to such intangibles as a person’s character or political beliefs, I cannot speculate on the loyalty of Mr. Weinbaum.”
Hanssen and Roberts looked at each other, then closed their notebooks and stood.
“That will be all for now,” Hanssen said. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
Later that day, Tsien received a hand-delivered letter from the headquarters of the Sixth Army at the Presidio in San Francisco, informing him that the U.S. Government had revoked his security clearance.
June 12, 1950
“What are you going to do?”
Von Kármán had never seen his former student so upset. Tsien was white as a sheet, his hands trembled, and his eyes appeared moist. He was struggling to maintain his composure and looked about to burst into tears.
In truth, von Kármán was not in much better shape himself. He had never fully recovered from his cancer surgery in 1944 and was forced to turn down a position to lead the Scientific Advisory Group at the Pentagon. Though his mind was ever sharp, his body had become thin and weak.
“I want to return to China,” Tsien said.
“You must not do that!” von Kármán exclaimed.
“Why not?”
“Because you will immediately bring further suspicion upon yourself. It will make you look guilty.”
“I am guilty of nothing,” Tsien said, “but I cannot work without a security clearance.”
“You cannot work on the military rocket programs without a security clearance,” von Kármán pointed out. “Your theoretical studies and your teaching are not affected.”
“In China—”
“What is there for you in China?” von Kármán interrupted. “Do you still have a chance at the presidency of Jiaotong University?”
“The offer was withdrawn. The ‘new administration’ was suspicious of my wife’s links to the Kuomintang.” Jiang Ying was the daughter of one of Chiang Kai-shek’s military advisors. Tsien snickered at the irony.
“When you were in China, you toured some of their universities,” von Kármán continued. “What did you think of their research facilities?”
“It is obvious, von Kármán lăoshī. There is nothing in China that matches what is in America.”
“Then if you return to China, your days of ground-breaking scientific research are over,” von Kármán warned. “China needs people to rebuild the country, not sit around thinking about space travel.”
Von Kármán’s tone softened. “Think about what you are doing, Hsue-shen. Do not make hasty decisions. This crazy business will pass. I have been in America over twenty years, and I have seen how quickly things can change.”
Tsien looked at his mentor with gratitude. “I am thankful that you are still at Caltech to counsel me. I do not know what I would have done without your wisdom ... perhaps something I might have regretted later.” He bowed. “Thank you, von Kármán lăoshī.”
“You have called me that for twelve years, Hsue-shen, but I would be grateful if you could start calling me something else: Lăo péngyou.”
Tsien smiled. His old friend’s pronunciation was excellent.
Los Angeles, California
Fall 1950
Following his arrest on September 7th, Tsien was incarcerated for two weeks at a federal facility on Terminal Island. Under the Subversive Control Act of 1950, Tsien was charged with failing to divulge his membership in the Communist Party when he reentered the United States after his 1947 visit to China. He was eventually released on bail but was forbidden to travel outside Los Angeles County.
Tsien’s first deportation hearing took place on November 15th, in a government building at 117 West Ninth Street in downtown Los Angeles. With his attorney Grant Cooper at his side, Tsien waited for the proceedings to begin. Presided over by INS examining officer Albert Del Guercio, INS hearing officer Roy Waddell, and State Department observer Nick Di Carlo, the hearing began with an investigation of Tsien’s background and recent activities.
“What were you doing in China in 1947?” D
el Guercio asked.
“Visiting my father and getting married,” Tsien deadpanned.
Later, two retired police officers named Hynes and Kimple took the stand.
“We have a membership list for the Los Angeles area Communist cells.” Hynes handed a sheet to Del Guercio. “You can see that Mr. Tsien’s name is on the list, next to the alias ‘John Decker.”’
“How was this list obtained?” Di Carlo asked.
“I’ll ask the questions here,” Del Guercio snarled. “Mr. Kimple, how did you get this list?”
“I was undercover,” Kimple replied. “I had infiltrated the Communist Party as an assistant to their membership director. Every time a list or membership card came by my desk, I’d write down the names.”
Grant Cooper leaned forward. “So this list is not an original. It’s a copy in your handwriting.”
“Yes,” Kimple replied.
“And Mr. Tsien’s name,” Cooper continued. “Did you copy it from an actual membership card or from another list?”
Kimple paused. “I don’t remember. Probably another list, maybe.”
Cooper pressed. “Assuming another list, was it an actual membership list or a recruitment list?”
“What difference does that make?” Del Guercio asked.
“My client is a rocket scientist!” Cooper exclaimed. “It makes perfect sense for the Reds to try recruiting him, but that doesn’t mean he ever joined them.”
Del Guercio waved his hand impatiently. “Let’s move on.” He took a piece of paper from Waddell. “Mr. Tsien, you state in your deposition that you had no idea the gatherings at the Weinbaum residence were meetings of the Communist Party.”
“That is correct,” Tsien said.
“This is hard to believe, since you said yourself that you attended these events on a regular basis.” Del Guercio put down the paper. “Is it possible that these could have been Communist meetings?”
