Einstein's War

by Matthew Stanley

  There was certainly a sense in which he enjoyed the fame (particularly increased attention from women), though he was uncomfortable with the hero worship. A lifetime antiauthoritarian, he found it “distasteful” when a few individuals were credited with “superhuman powers of intellect and character.” He was pleased, though, to see that the public made a hero of someone “whose goals lie exclusively in the spiritual and moral domain” (meaning himself) instead of that of money or power. He was also happy to leverage his reputation to support his causes of internationalism and pacifism. His friends knew the fame was exhausting: Ehrenfest tried to lure him to visit by promising, “Here there is nothing but people who are fond of you and not just of your cerebral cortex.”

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  SCIENTIFIC FAME AT the end of 1919 was a strange thing. Einstein, the pacifist antinationalist, was suddenly celebrated as the figurehead of German science. Things could still get stranger. The Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences announced that Fritz Haber had been awarded the Nobel Prize in Chemistry. The prize was for his work on the nitrogen fixation processes that had revolutionized agriculture, but no one was likely to forget that he used those same processes to keep Germany in the war for years or that he had pioneered chemical weapons. He had been isolated from other scientists since the end of the fighting and at one point was on a list of war criminals wanted for extradition. He was devastated and depressed by how the war ended.

  Soon, though, Haber dedicated his life to keeping German science going in the postwar economic crisis (he tried to extract gold from seawater to pay war reparations). He never accepted that he had done anything wrong with his invention of gas warfare. After the war a colleague showed him a petition to outlaw chemical weapons—Haber’s furious response was that signing that document was unbecoming of a German. Somehow he and Einstein remained friends through all of this. Haber offered Einstein praise of special value coming from a militant toward a pacifist: “In a few centuries the common man will know our time as the period of the World War, but the educated man will connect the first quarter of the century with your name.” Einstein did not have many close friends, and he greatly valued the ones he had despite their moral and political differences.

  It was still unclear whether postwar Germany would go the way of Einstein or Haber, internationalism or nationalism. Einstein worried that the League of Nations did not seem to be doing much, and certainly that nationalism continued to dominate: “My political optimism has suffered a jolt.” He saw the values of internationalism playing out more in private groups than governmental ones. He particularly praised the Quakers for what they had done “to alleviate the misery in central Europe.” As long as there were people “willing and able to provide such substantial forces and means to help men without regard to race or political affiliation, we have good reason in spite of it all to believe that the psychological conditions for a useful development of the League of Nations are there.” The German government asked him to use his connections with the Society of Friends to help with food aid (in July 1920 a staggering 632,000 children were being fed by the Quakers alone). Einstein was happy to do so, and to emphasize the connections between that work and his. He wrote:

  Whatever great political disappointments we have experienced and still must experience, we must not abandon hope for a just and satisfying order in the world. . . . No other branch of public life is as well suited to revive mutual trust between nations, and even more should be done to make the nation profoundly aware of the blessed work of the Quakers.

  The branch of public life Einstein had high hopes for was, of course, his own—science. He said that intellectuals had always been at the forefront of internationalism (the Manifesto of 93 apparently being an exception):

  The most valuable contribution to a reconciliation of the nations and a permanent fraternity of mankind is in my opinion contained in their scientific and artistic creations, because they raise the human mind above personal and national aims of a selfish character. . . . The intellectuals should never weary of emphasizing the internationality of mankind’s most beautiful treasures and their corporations should never stoop to foster political passions by public declarations or other demonstrations.

  Scientists could repair the wounds of war better than any politician.

  And he felt he had a perfect example of this: the 1919 eclipse expeditions. He praised the internationalism of the expeditions as showing the way forward for science. “Our English colleagues not only did excellent work but also behaved superbly in the personal sense. . . . I see that these men really did rise above the situation.” And to de Sitter: “The outcome of the English expeditions pleased me very much and more so the friendly behavior of our English colleagues toward me, despite my still being a half-Boche” (referring to an insulting term for Germans).

  Haber worried about Einstein’s sudden desire to “fraternize” with the British. The world needed to know, Haber said, where this revolution in science came from: “The English and Belgians want to divest the name Albert Einstein of the German character that was hitherto attached to it.” Einstein replied that no reasonable person could accuse him of disloyalty—how many job offers had he turned down from other countries so he could stay in Berlin? And, he reminded Haber, it was his German friends who he was staying for—not Germany. He also casually mentioned how poorly both his theory and his politics had been received there during the war. Perhaps there was something special about their former enemies after all: “It even has to be said that . . . the English have behaved much more nobly than our colleagues here. They are for the most part Quakers and pacifists. How magnificent their attitude has been toward me and relativity theory in comparison!” Eddington and Russell came to stand in for their whole country, in a mirror image of wartime stereotypes on both sides.

  Even with the relativity enthusiasm in Britain, though, wartime echoes there continued to make it difficult for German science to flourish after the war. It was certainly not the case that “most” British scientists were pacifists and Quakers. The lifeblood of scientific communication—journals and papers—was still restricted. Throughout 1919 the RAS, for instance, readily provided back issues of their journals to Belgium and Serbia while refusing to send them to “enemy countries.” German and Austrian scientists struggled to get themselves up to date. Planck tried to get one copy of every scientific publication not received during the war—some 13,000 issues. Requests for these were often directed to Eddington, whose sympathies were well known. He did what he could within institutional restrictions, often taking advantage of bureaucratic confusion to bypass the unofficial blockade. Einstein pitched in with his fame, too, hoping to trade German publications for Anglophone ones and getting Lorentz to act as an intermediary.

  Sometimes his status was indeed helpful. But there were dark sides to his prominence. One was that he became an excellent target for the surging right wing of German politics. Einstein himself said that as “a Jew with liberal international views” he was a symbol of everything they hated. Both his science and his character came under attack by the suspiciously well-funded Working Party of German Scientists for the Preservation of Pure Science. This organization, led by the enigmatic Paul Weyland, orchestrated a smear campaign and anti-relativity rallies in Berlin. The group dismissed the enthusiasm for the theory as “mass suggestion.”

  Its largest anti-Einstein event was held at the Berlin Philharmonic Hall. Einstein actually sneaked in to see what they were saying about him and noted anti-Semitic conspiracy literature being handed out in the foyer. The combination of his absurd fame and the absurd politics was almost too much for him. “This world is a strange madhouse. Currently, every coachman and every waiter is debating whether relativity theory is correct. Belief in this matter depends on political party affiliation.”

  Powerful people came to Einstein’s defense. The German government was particularly concerned about the diplomatic consequences of the most
famous scientist in the world coming under attack. Their chargé d’affaires in London warned:

  The attacks on Prof. Einstein and the agitation against the well-known scientist are making a very bad impression over here. At the present moment in particular Prof. Einstein is a cultural factor of the first rank, as Einstein’s name is known in the broadest circles. We should not drive out of Germany a man with whom we could make real cultural propaganda.

  Einstein appreciated the efforts being made by the higher-ups to keep him in Berlin, even if their sudden concern for him felt faintly ridiculous: “The role I play is similar to that of a saint’s relics that a cathedral absolutely has to have.” Violence was a real possibility but Einstein decided to stay regardless. Flippantly, he compared the situation to being plagued by bedbugs while sleeping in a good bed.

  The anti-Semitism behind the attacks on Einstein was not random. Anti-Jewish sentiment surged in Berlin after the war, mainly aimed at eastern European refugees who were blamed for crime and political chaos. Einstein saw this clearly and spoke up to defend both himself and his fellow Jews. It was this persecution alongside people with whom he shared little other than distant heritage that first pushed him toward Zionism: “These and similar experiences have awakened my Jewish-national feelings.” He had little interest in a Jewish homeland per se—he didn’t even want to participate in the Jewish community in Berlin—he just wanted a place where people like him might go to be safe. If his fame was good for anything, perhaps it could help here: “I believe that this undertaking deserves energetic collaboration. . . . My name, in high favor since the English solar eclipse expeditions, can be of benefit to the cause by encouraging the lukewarm kinsmen.”

  All of this took place against a tragic backdrop for Einstein. His mother, Pauline, had been seriously ill throughout 1919. He managed to use his status to bring her to Berlin for her final days. She died in February 1920. Einstein confessed he was completely exhausted by her long decline: “One feels in one’s bones the significance of blood ties.”

  Other family concerns occupied him too. The postwar collapse of the German mark made it more and more difficult for him to support Mileva and his sons. He began to accept invitations to lecture in just about any country that could offer stable currency. Sometimes his outrageous speaking fees were accepted, sometimes not. Practice did not make him a better traveler; Elsa still had to remind him to have his shirts washed and not to wear his shabby traveling suit for formal events. She needled him by casually mentioning the delicious ripe asparagus at home that he would not get to eat. He passed the time on his train and boat rides reading The Brothers Karamazov, which he loved. The German government took advantage of his country-hopping to improve their own international relations. Einstein was a godsend for increasing goodwill. A German diplomat in Norway commented, “Admiration for the scientist was extraordinary.”

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  THE ADMIRATION HAD become global, but scientific internationalism remained an ongoing project. Even in Britain, the home of Einstein fever, Eddington was still unusual as an advocate of a general return to normal scientific relations. The framework of the IRC made ordinary scientific interactions quite difficult. Soon after the announcement of the eclipse results a group of German scientists organized a special meeting of the Astronomische Gesellschaft on general relativity, but almost no British scientists were willing to break with the IRC’s expected boycott. Eddington decided that even if he couldn’t get British participation in any official capacity, he could still participate as an individual. He wrote to the head of the Gesellschaft:

  I hope to show my interest in the Astronomische Gesellschaft by attending the next meeting—an individual step which no one has any right to object to. . . . International Science is bound to win and recent events—the verification of Einstein’s theory—has made a tremendous difference in the past month.

  He tried to participate in German science as if there had been no disruption from the war, even publishing a paper in the Zeitschrift für Physik despite his almost complete inability to write or read German. It began: “This paper is intended to give a full account on the theory of the radiative equilibrium of the stars. It is written primarily because the original papers are not easily accessible in Central Europe in present circumstances.”

  Eddington must have thought it was a good sign when on November 14, 1919, Einstein was nominated for the Gold Medal of the RAS, the group’s highest honor. A month later it was decided that he would indeed receive the award. The decision needed to be formally confirmed at the January meeting but Eddington sent word to Einstein about the medal right away. His friend Ernest Ludlam was heading to Germany to help with the Quaker Emergency Committee’s relief work. He could convey the news to Einstein in person, surely better than a letter. A victory for scientific internationalism should be reported as soon as possible.

  This turned out to be a bad choice. The January meeting should have been a rubber stamp for Einstein’s award. Instead, something went wrong. We do not know exactly what. The minutes of the meeting only record that “the award of the Gold Medal to Professor Einstein was not confirmed.” There was a strong implied message, though. For the first time since 1891 the RAS had decided to give no Gold Medal at all that year. Just perhaps, there were some British scientists who were still not comfortable celebrating a German scientist. The original nominations came from H. H. Turner and James Jeans, who, as Eddington said, had been intensely anti-German during the war. Their nomination seemed like a change of heart. Then they did not show up to the confirming vote in January—did they change their mind again? Had it been an elaborate attempt to embarrass Einstein? Eddington penned a heartfelt apology to Einstein:

  I am sorry to say an unexpected thing has happened and at the meeting on Jan. 9 the Council of the RAS rejected the award, which had been carried by quite a large majority at the previous meeting. The facts (which are confidential) are that three names were proposed for the Medal. You were selected by an overwhelming majority in December. Meanwhile the “irreconcilables” took alarm, mustered up their full forces in January, and managed to defeat the confirmation of the award in January. . . . I confess I was very much surprised when the motion was proposed and carried originally (it was proposed by two men who during the war have been violently “patriotic”). . . . I am sure that your disappointment will not be in any way personal; and that you will share with me the regret that this promising opening of a better international spirit has had a rebuff from reaction. Nevertheless I am sure the better spirit is making progress.

  The letter closed with Eddington’s hopes that Einstein could make a trip to England soon regardless, and perhaps even visit the RAS (he admitted that there might be “some awkwardness after what happened”).

  Eddington certainly saw the episode as a continuation of wartime animosity, of which there were plenty of examples. Ludlam, too, apologized to Einstein for the incident. Writing on Quaker Emergency Committee stationery, he offered an explanation for the RAS’s embarrassing behavior:

  I find it difficult to believe that English men of science can really be so narrow minded. I think one of the chief difficulties is that scientific men work so hard, and have so much to read, that they have not time to study the real facts in international affairs and accept too easily the opinions of the common press. . . . Perhaps, when you consider the campaign of lies which has lasted for five years—in all countries—you will not judge these poor islanders too harshly.

  Perhaps scientists were simply too focused on their technical work to understand the realities of politics. Einstein’s response to the “tragicomical” affair tried to soothe his friends’ frustration: “The greater will be my pleasure in accepting your invitation [to visit], for now my trip is purely of a private nature. My irritating ignorance of the English language will disturb less.” Despite goodwill on both sides, Einstein was still unable to visit Eddington that spring. A face-to
-face meeting had to wait for the future.

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  EINSTEIN WAS NOMINATED for the Gold Medal again the following year, and again rejected. It was not until 1926 that he finally received the award. Eddington told Einstein that he had not much to do with the decision. This was, in a sense, true—he was in Leiden when the vote was taken. But Eddington had created the conditions under which it was possible to welcome a former enemy in Britain at all, from the expedition to popular lectures to battling for the very possibility of international science. His contemporaries commented freely on this. Ernest Rutherford named Eddington as the one responsible for Einstein’s fame:

  The war had just ended, and the complacency of the Victorian and Edwardian times had been shattered. The people felt that all their values and all their ideals had lost their bearings. Now, suddenly, they learnt that an astronomical prediction by a German scientist had been confirmed by expeditions . . . by British astronomers. An astronomical discovery, transcending worldly strife, struck a responsive chord.

  Oliver Lodge said Einstein would have been unknown without Eddington. J. J. Thomson offered a somewhat backhanded compliment that Eddington had “by his eloquence, clearness and literary power persuaded multitudes of people in this country and America that they understand what relativity means.”

  Einstein’s biographers have frequently resorted to religious imagery to help convey his sudden transformation from obscure academic to worldwide authority. He was canonized on November 6; he was another Moses carrying a new scripture; he was a wise man bearing a secularized Christmas message of peace; his lectures were “a place where miracles happen.” Eddington then would be some combination of Peter and Paul. The rock on which the church of relativity was built, or the evangelist who brought the good news into hostile lands (even if those are somewhat un-Quakerly images). He was not the prophet, but he made the prophecy possible.