Atomic Women

by Roseanne Montillo

  Fermi had this to say about Szilard: “He is certainly a very peculiar man, extremely intelligent.… He is extremely brilliant and… he seems to enjoy startling people.… Contrary to perhaps what is the most common belief about secrecy, secrecy was not started by generals, was not started by security officers, but was started by physicists. And the man who is mostly responsible for this certainly extremely novel idea for physicists was Szilard.”

  It was necessary, he decided, to bring the president into the equation. But Szilard knew where he stood in the great scheme of things. He was not the most famous of the scientists who had come to America. While at times that fact pained him, he realized that this was not the time for petty thoughts. He asked some of his colleagues and friends, including Einstein, to help write a letter to President Roosevelt explaining the possibilities of what they were looking into.

  Einstein had become one of the most recognizable scientists, thanks in part to his theory of relativity, which, in truth, few could really understand. Aside from his own celebrity status, Einstein had also elevated the status of physics itself. Americans had immediately fallen in love with this man, who was seen by all as a shy genius, a bit of a scatterbrain who could laugh at himself, and highly unpretentious. They loved those who were associated with him, too, assuming that geniuses ran in packs.

  Initially, Einstein had not wanted anything to do with atomic projects. But with the discovery of nuclear fission, he realized that chain reactions could be used with devastating results. Although the general implications of an atomic bomb were already hinted at, Einstein agreed the president must be told of the physicists’ concerns.

  Einstein warned President Roosevelt that building a superbomb was now very much a possibility. Most scientists feared that the Germans might already be working on such a thing and believed that the United States had to beat them at their game. It would be devastating if the Germans succeeded first.

  “Certain aspects of the situation which have arisen,” Einstein advised the president, “seem to call for watchfulness and, if necessary, quick action on the part of the Administration.”

  Einstein urged the president to maintain contact with nuclear physicists through a confidante who could do the following:

  a) to approach Government Departments, keep them informed of the further development, and put forward recommendations for Government action, giving particular attention to the problem of securing a supply of uranium ore for the United States;

  b) to speed up the experimental work, which is at present being carried on within the limits of the budgets of University laboratories, by providing funds, if such funds be required, through his contacts with private persons who are willing to make contributions for this cause, and perhaps also by obtaining the co-operation of industrial laboratories which have the necessary equipment.

  In fall 1939, Alexander Sachs, an economist who worked as President Roosevelt’s adviser, brought Einstein’s letter to the president. This letter would eventually trigger the Manhattan Project in 1942. Sachs convinced President Roosevelt that the United States, much like other countries, needed to explore the possibility of a fission weapon. President Roosevelt agreed, and the Advisory Committee on Uranium was quickly formed. Money was set aside for buying uranium, and contracts were awarded to various schools across the country, including Columbia, Cornell, and Johns Hopkins, in Baltimore, Maryland, as well as organizations such as the Carnegie Institution for Science, for advanced scientific studies of uranium.

  It was from these universities and their laboratories that scientists would eventually be recruited for the Manhattan Project. These men and women, who had been studying nuclear science and anything related to it, were believed to possess the skills and knowledge that the country needed. It was that knowledge that was important, regardless of a scientist’s gender. Many employers would not have considered women for work a man could do, but some of the sharpest minds in the new field belonged to women, and they were needed.

  And so, instigated by the belief that the Germans were building atomic bombs, many women scientists made their way to the laboratories. Those who joined the project saw this as their patriotic duty; it was their job to help the government, to help stop a madman who could kill millions of people with the push of a button. They were eager to serve in whatever capacity necessary.

  Three main sites would eventually be chosen. To provide fuel for the bomb, Oak Ridge, Tennessee, was selected as the site to enrich uranium, and Hanford, Washington, as the site produce the plutonium. At a third site, scientists would design and build the bomb. This spot needed a certain amount of isolation but also easy transportation. There had to be abundant water available, and mountains had to surround the site. It would be only a small facility, officials initially thought: a small laboratory where a few scientists would hash out the final details of the bomb’s design. But, as it turned out, Los Alamos, New Mexico, defied everyone’s expectations.

  Neither Fermi, Szilard, nor any of the Hungarian scientists would take the lead at any of these facilities. Following the attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, they were classified as enemy aliens and thus could not be put in charge of such secret affairs, though they still could work on them. And so they continued to study and research at a feverish pace.

  Through it all, James Franck, who had joined the Metallurgical Laboratory at the University of Chicago, urged officials to come up with guidelines for the weapons, should they come to fruition. They should be used only under extreme circumstances, Franck said, and only as a last resort. But few gave much thought to what he was proposing. Their focus was on finishing the bomb as soon as possible.

  But then something spectacular happened. A new element arrived on the block, an element that could shift things completely and help in the production of the weapon. Scientists learned that uranium-238 could absorb neutrons, thus becoming uranium-239. This, in turn, emitted beta particles, becoming the first human-made element, eventually called neptunium-239. Neptunium-239 also went through a process of exhibiting beta decay, which changed into plutonium-239. And just like uranium, plutonium was found to have the power to fission, or split in two. When bombarded by neutrons, plutonium also released huge amounts of energy. It was a stunning discovery, as scientists now had two paths to building the atomic bomb.

  By this point, it was 1941 and Lise Meitner was still in Sweden, away from the Nazis, not knowing that her discovery of fission had laid the groundwork for this secret military operation. The women who would arrived in Oak Ridge, in Hanford, in Los Alamos, and in the various laboratories across the country followed in Lise’s footsteps and saw her as their guide, a woman who had helped steer their careers. To them she was a benevolent, brilliant, groundbreaking inspiration, much as Marie Curie had once been to Lise. Once Lise learned of the intentions of the Manhattan Project and found out how her discovery was being used, she would be repulsed. She would not be the only one to feel that way.

  PART

  TWO

  Bomb Making in America

  chapter seven

  Two of a Kind

  1939

  In attendance at the start of the Washington conference on January 26, 1939, were the scientists Joseph Mayer and Maria Goeppert-Mayer. They listened attentively to Niels Bohr as he talked about Otto Hahn and Fritz Strassmann’s discovery, as well as Lise Meitner’s subsequent theory of nuclear fission. When Bohr finished, the Mayers, with their friend Robert Fowler, another scientist, rushed out and hopped into their car.

  As soon as they arrived home in Baltimore, they prepared a large pot of coffee, spread sheets of paper on their large oak table, and began to make calculations.

  When Maria Goeppert was a child, her father, Friedrich Goeppert, had insisted that she find something purposeful to do, something that she’d love and that would provide an income so that she would not need a man to take care of her. And so she had. Her father’s views were progressive at the time, as she would later realize. While most wo
men focused on housekeeping and childbearing, Maria, as her father always said, was too exceptional to fall into that routine. He was a professor of medicine at the University of Göttingen, the sixth generation of professors in the family, and Maria expected to follow suit. He taught pediatrics and was also the founder of a children’s clinic in the city. That he was a doctor with high expectations for his only child might have played a part in his thinking. But Maria did in fact show exceptional aptitude for learning early on, and that had boosted his case.

  While Dr. Goeppert might have hoped for a son, he nonetheless enjoyed Maria’s company and taught her all he knew. She was a blond and blue-eyed girl with an earnest, pale, round face, eager to please her father but also prone to adventures and mischief. She recalled waking up one morning to find that he had prepared a special pair of glasses for her so that they could watch a solar eclipse together. When the moment arrived, he explained everything that was happening, step-by-step—one of the many scientific lessons he gave her and one of the first to awaken her curiosity.

  Born in 1906 in Katowice, Upper Silesia, in Poland, Maria had moved with her parents to the university town of Göttingen, Germany, when she was four years old and never left until she met Joseph Mayer. While she had spent a term at Cambridge University, she thought it likely that she would follow in her father’s footsteps, becoming a doctor in their hometown and teaching at the local university.

  Maria’s mother, Maria, née Wolff, did not work outside the home, but she enjoyed the perks of being a professor’s wife. The family employed servants to take over the household duties, while she dedicated herself to socializing and having parties, with the Goepperts’ house becoming the place to be, especially during the holidays.

  It was a happy home, despite the fact that it was a small family. The Goepperts had wanted more children, but Frau Goeppert had suffered a handful of miscarriages and felt very lucky to have given birth to Maria. So Maria was showered with enough attention for herself and several siblings.

  Although Göttingen was considered rural, it was still a very active place, and all activities revolved around its great university. It was officially called the Georgia Augusta, but everywhere it was known as Göttingen, whose motto was Extra Göttingen non est vita—outside of Göttingen there’s no life. To a certain degree, everyone in town embodied that slogan.

  To the delight of Frau Goeppert, the young Maria agreed to learn what were considered the more feminine pursuits of life, such as knitting and crocheting, but Maria never enjoyed them. She was her father’s daughter, with a penchant for reading and experimenting and following her curiosity, particularly in high school, where mathematics began to intrigue her. She often gathered her friends in their large home, to her mother’s satisfaction. However, it was only to study mathematics, which Frau Goeppert did not understand or approve of.

  In 1921, Maria entered the Association for Women’s Education and Study, a private school in her town to prepare girls for the university entrance exam. Maria and her parents had never discussed whether she would go to university; she soon realized that she was always meant to.

  When she was sixteen years old, her school closed, but rather than transferring to a boys’ school for another year to finish her education, she decided to take the university entrance exam a year earlier than planned.

  When she arrived at the school in Hanover, where the test was administered, she was a little dejected to see only four other female test takers among a sea of older boys. The boys did not seem concerned, laughing confidently and staring at the girls with open contempt as they took their seats in the little room; boys were always more numerous than girls, and when there were girls in attendance, they made sure to try to make the event as uncomfortable as possible, or so Maria later explained in her own texts. The test was a long one; the written portion lasted a whole week, and it covered the basics of German, English, French, physics, mathematics, history, and other subjects. This was followed by a daylong oral exam.

  By week’s end, all the girls had passed, but surprisingly, only one of the boys had made it through. He would also attend the University of Göttingen, and one of the examiners, who was a teacher there and who would later become Maria’s friend, eventually told her that the boy had not done well but had been admitted because he had seemed like an “earnest” young man.

  At the university, Maria developed a reputation for being not only the smartest woman on campus but also the prettiest. Blond and slim, she was immediately very popular, especially in the department of mathematics, the subject she had decided to study. This choice had shocked her teachers, for they had imagined that with her facility for languages she would have been a foreign language teacher. But there were others who were happy with her choice.

  In a small town that revolved around the university, it was impossible for people not to know one another. Many professors were familiar with Maria’s family and she became a sort of surrogate daughter to some. The Goepperts lived next door to Professor David Hilbert, whose former student, the brilliant Max Born, had become the chair of the theoretical physics department at the university. Professor Hilbert suggested that Maria speak to Born, who would eventually become her mentor.

  Though possessing an exceptional mind, Born was also a very fragile man. A phenomenal atomic physicist, he had suffered from various ailments from a very young age. To some he gave the impression of being a typically formal and in-charge type of teacher, and a rather stiff one at that. Only those closest to him were aware of the frequent bouts of depression that overtook him and the darkness that he often battled.

  James Franck, a friend of Born’s, was also a professor at Göttingen University and he, too, became a friend of Maria. The opposite of Born, Franck was gentle instead of tense, a naturally kind man whose studies brought excitement to the university life.

  In Germany the 1920s were known as the “golden twenties” of atomic physics. Because of Max Born’s and James Franck’s presence at Göttingen, other well-known and promising physicists arrived at the university to study the science of the atom. There was a young Enrico Fermi, who traveled from Italy, and later an even younger J. Robert Oppenheimer, hailing from California. The two men never met in Germany, but matters in the early 1940s would bring them together in the United States as part of a secret military operation with which their names would be forever linked.

  While in Germany, the scientists worked, researched, and studied, talking excitedly about the new discoveries. In the United States atomic physics was still a faraway subject, considered to be almost science fiction, but in Europe, and particularly in Germany, great advances were being made. And Maria was surrounded by all of it, soaking it all in.

  This nascent field had actually inspired Maria even before she arrived at the university. Her neighbor, Professor Hilbert, was in the habit of giving lectures on the subject at least once a week. He liked to update not only the experts but also the curious on the latest developments, and he often invited his young neighbor to attend, to hear about the sciences and to be introduced to university life and those who were involved in it.

  Maria chose to study mathematics mostly because newspapers all over the country were touting the great demand in Germany for female mathematics teachers. There were many jobs to be had in the field, the papers said, and Maria wanted to work after graduation. But after enrolling, she found that physics was becoming more interesting to her.

  “Mathematics began to seem too much like puzzle solving,” Maria said. “Physics is puzzle solving, too, but of puzzles created by nature, not by the mind of man.” She switched courses in 1927, a year that was pivotal in her life not only because of her academic change but also because her father died. The shock of it nearly broke her.

  During this time, she turned to Professor Born for support. He became a sympathetic ear, listening to her desperate woes when the moment called for it. Perhaps it was because his own depressive moods made him particularly sensitive to others. Whatever
the reason, she found an affinity with him, and she sought his open door whenever she was in need of soothing words.

  Across the Atlantic, as Maria Goeppert grieved for her father and dug deeper into the study of physics, Joseph Mayer was wrapping up his doctoral studies in physical chemistry at the University of California, Berkeley, and embarking on postgraduate work. In 1929, he was awarded a generous grant from the Rockefeller Foundation that would allow him to travel to and study at the University of Göttingen.

  Having packed his books and said good-bye to his mother and his friends, Joseph Mayer arrived in Göttingen. With the money in his pocket, he immediately bought himself a car. This was followed by whiskey and gin. Then he worried about a place to live. That winter was one of the coldest Europe had experienced in decades, and he realized that he needed to find suitable accommodations very quickly.

  Joseph Mayer was born to an Austrian engineer father and an American mother who had worked as a schoolteacher up until Joseph’s birth. His mother was energetic and fun, with a great sense of humor—traits that she passed on to her son. Joseph’s father, who had died five years before he came to Göttingen, had been the opposite of his wife: a very quiet and reserved man who liked to study. He had graduated from the Sorbonne in France with a degree in applied mathematics and designed bridges for a living. The family had lived in Montreal, Canada, for a while, but after his father retired, they moved to Hollywood, California.

  While Mayer was working in Utah for the summer, his friend decided to attend Caltech, and he followed him, entering in 1921 and graduating in 1924, at age twenty. Known as an outstanding student, Mayer applied to graduate school at UC Berkeley, where he got the opportunity to study under Gilbert Newton Lewis, known as the father of physical chemistry.