Pandora's Keepers (4 page)

In 1916 Szilard began riding the streetcar from his home, over the ornate Franz Josef Bridge spanning the Danube River, to
the Technical University just below Gellért Hill, where he attended classes and discussed with fellow students the Great War
raging across Europe. Szilard was drawn into the war the next summer when he was drafted into the Austro-Hungarian army and
sent to officers’ school, where he acted impertinent and nonchalant. He believed that Austria-Hungary and its ally Germany
would eventually lose the war—and said so. He had little patience for what he considered mindless military discipline. His
belt buckle was always tugged to one side, his boots always needed a shine.

After the war ended, Szilard returned to the Technical University, where revolutionary turmoil swirled around him. Students,
artists, and intellectuals debated issues of the day in sidewalk cafés. Szilard thrived as the gadfly who asked the uncomfortable
questions that others avoided. He was sympathetic to the communist regime that had come to power in Hungary at the end of
the war under Béla Kun but recoiled at the brutalities that Kun inflicted in the name of the people and feared a conservative
backlash. Szilard felt this backlash personally when he was confronted by angry students at the university who shouted, “You
can’t study here. You’re Jews.”
⁹
They rushed Szilard, hitting and kicking him. The blood, bruises, and shame left Szilard with a fear of anti-Semitism that
he would carry for years to come.

Realizing that, as a Jew, he was in personal danger, Szilard decided to leave Hungary for the University of Berlin. He arrived
in Berlin in 1920 and took the university by storm. Berlin’s physics faculty included giants such as Einstein, Max Planck,
and Max von Laue, and Szilard sensed new developments in the air. In 1932 British physicist James Chadwick discovered the
neutron. The neutron had no electric charge, which meant it could pass through the electrical barrier surrounding the atom
and penetrate the nucleus. Szilard saw in the neutron’s ability to easily penetrate the nucleus the possibility of eventually
releasing the vast store of energy contained within the atom.

The same year as Chadwick’s discovery, Szilard moved from the University of Berlin to the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute, where
he continued his experimental work in nuclear physics. As he probed the mysteries of the atom within the institute, he grew
edgy as he observed what was happening outside its walls. Szilard noticed that most Germans stood passively watching the growing
Nazi threat. When he asked his German friends, “Why don’t you oppose Nazism?” most of them shrugged and muttered, “What good
would it do?” Szilard concluded that Hitler would gain power not because Nazism was so appealing to Germans but because so
few Germans would resist it.

Unlike most physicists during these years, Szilard had no illusions that things would get better. He saw Nazism for what it
was: an evil force that spelled disaster for Germany and all of Europe. Months before Hitler came to power, and years before
he engulfed Europe in a bloody war, Szilard’s assessment of the problems brewing for Jews in Germany led him to grave predictions.
He shared them in a letter to Rabi, whom he had met and befriended in the late 1920s. “As far as the fate of Germany is concerned,”
Szilard wrote Rabi, “I always was very pessimistic, but I range now with the optimists. (You know, an optimist is a man who
jumps out of the window of the 22nd floor and who says smiling when he passes the 10th floor, falling down: ‘Well, nothing
happened to me up till now.’)”
¹⁰
Szilard’s sarcasm belied his deep pessimism and despair.

On the night of February 27, 1933, Nazi saboteurs set fire to the Reichstag, Germany’s parliament. Hitler blamed the arson
on a Jewish-Communist plot and bullied Reichstag deputies into granting him dictatorial powers. On April first the Nazis directed
a national boycott of Jewish businesses and beat Jews in the streets. On April seventh thousands of Jewish academics lost
their positions in German universities. Szilard was particularly incensed by the prohibition against teaching “Jewish science”—any
theory, even Einstein’s profound theory of relativity, that had been developed by a Jew. He decided the time had come to get
out. He grabbed his suitcases and took the night train to Vienna. The following day Nazi border guards stopped the same train
and held back everyone whose passport was stamped “non-Aryan.” This close call so traumatized Szilard that, forever after,
he kept two suitcases packed and close at hand wherever he lived.
¹¹

In Vienna Szilard called on Western embassies and warned them that the Nazi assault on Jews was just beginning. The diplomats
listened politely but said, and did, nothing. So Szilard decided to leave the Continent for the greater safety of Britain.
He sought a permanent academic position there, but Depression-era Britain had only a limited ability to absorb refugees—there
were neither enough positions nor enough money to fund them. Unable to secure a university appointment, Szilard decided to
camp out in a modest hotel in London while he contemplated his next step. For the moment, he lived on the income from his
patent licenses and money he had saved from tutoring fees.

Szilard was an idea man par excellence. Each day for months he strolled London’s busy streets and beautiful parks pondering
nuclear physics and his fears for Europe’s future. One afternoon, while walking on a sidewalk in Bloomsbury, he had a fateful
idea. He later recalled:

As the light changed to green and I crossed the street, it suddenly occurred to me that if we could find an element which
is split by neutrons and which would emit
two
neutrons when it absorbed
one
neutron, such an element, if assembled in sufficiently large mass, could sustain a nuclear chain reaction. I didn’t see at
the moment just how one would go about finding such an element or what experiments would be needed, but the idea never left
me.
¹²

Szilard imagined that if a neutron struck a nucleus and split the atom, the breakup might release the binding energy that
holds the atom together. Some of that atom’s neutrons might in turn be released, which could hit and split other atoms. If
more than one neutron was released from each split atom, the process could expand exponentially. “One neutron would release
two, which would each strike an atomic nucleus to release four… and so on. In millionths of a second, billions of atoms would
split.”
¹³

Suddenly Szilard remembered the H. G. Wells novel he had read a year earlier. Published in 1914, just before the outbreak
of World War I,
The World Set Free
prophetically described a conflict in which cities were destroyed by atomic bombs. “Of course,” Szilard wrote a friend to
whom he sent a copy of the novel, “all this is moonshine, but I have reason to believe that the forecast of the writers may
prove to be more accurate than the forecast of the scientists.”
¹⁴

Szilard stood alone in his belief in a chain reaction. At the time, his mentor and friend Einstein—the world’s preeminent
theoretical physicist—told reporters that such an effort would be “fruitless.”
¹⁵
Attempting to unlock the energy of the atom by neutron bombardment, said Einstein, was likely to enjoy about the same chance
of success as “shooting birds in the dark in a country where there are only a few birds.”
¹⁶
A doyen of the scientific establishment, the great experimentalist Lord Ernest Rutherford dismissed the prospect of a chain
reaction with devastating British understatement: “The outlook for gaining useful energy from atoms by artificial processes
of transformation does not look promising.”
¹⁷
With comments like these the order of the day, it is easy to appreciate Szilard’s difficulty in getting support for exploring
the possibility of a nuclear chain reaction.

It was not an idle joke. Recognizing that the days of peace in Europe were numbered and that the future of Western civilization
and modern science would depend on the degree of support that could be mustered in the New World, Szilard decided to emigrate
to America. About Christmastime 1937 Szilard attended a dinner at Magdalen College in Oxford, where a fellow of the college
told Szilard that he was leaving soon on a visit to the United States. “Buy a one-way ticket,” Szilard advised him.
¹⁸

Szilard’s reasoning was simple. As he told a fellow Jewish refugee planning to leave the Continent, Britain was “a
very
likeable country, but it would certainly be a lot smarter if you went to America. In America you would be a free human being
and very soon would not even be a stranger.”
¹⁹
In practical terms, he also saw a much better opportunity for nuclear physics research in the United States.

In January 1938 Szilard decided the time had come to depart. He begged his parents in Budapest to join him, but they refused
to budge—they were old and did not want to leave the only world they knew. Szilard could do nothing more than bid them a sad
farewell. Once in New York, he found himself quickly and happily at home. Nazism was far away. He did not feel like a foreigner.
When he had some difficulty adjusting, this nation of immigrants offered understanding and sympathy. He had felt much more
like a refugee in Europe.

So, quickly and eagerly Szilard decided to become a U.S. citizen. Emotionally and politically, he felt that he already belonged
irretrievably to America. In his thinking and action, he scarcely had any affinity with the mentality of Nazi Germany. Soon
he was in touch with other refugee physicists in the United States and was visiting Columbia frequently to see Rabi. With
Rabi’s help, Szilard resumed his research on the atomic nucleus and began warning anyone who would listen about the looming
threat of Nazism.

Although Szilard had conceived the idea of a chain reaction, he lacked the resources—a laboratory, assistants, and financial
support—to search for it. That quest fell to another refugee physicist, Enrico Fermi, who had the resources that Szilard lacked—and
the brains to match. In contrast to Szilard, who moved from one temporary job to the next, lived in hotel rooms, and proposed
experiments to other people, Fermi was a well-established academic who ran a famous physics institute located in a small,
quiet park on a hill in central Rome. The park, landscaped with palm trees, bamboo thickets, and a garden that attracted singing
sparrows at dusk, made the institute a peaceful and attractive center of study.

A short man with rounded shoulders, narrow nose, thick black hair, and hazel eyes that stood out against a dark complexion,
Fermi charmed people by craning his neck forward and flashing a winning smile that exposed a gap between his front teeth.
Quiet and unpretentious, he displayed an unusual combination of personal modesty and self-confidence. He wore a simple leather
jacket and always drove his own car. When he encountered a roadblock in front of his institute one day, he leaned out the
window and said, “I am His Excellency Enrico Fermi’s chauffeur”—which got him waved through. He had such a gift for seeing
into the heart of problems and such an easy manner of solving them that other physicists nicknamed him “the Pope.”

Fermi was born in 1901 into a middle-class family of civil servants and attended Italian public schools. He showed intellectual
brilliance from an early age and also a cool, reserved manner. He was more prone to deeds than to talk and carefully guarded
his innermost thoughts. Though somewhat cold, he was absolutely impartial. Fermi’s most striking trait was his willingness
to accept the world and people as they were. “He took people around him at their own value,” said a friend. “That’s why I
was very fond of him.”
²⁰
He understood complex theories but preferred making simple points. Likewise, though he did not spend a lot of time analyzing
people, he seldom misjudged them. Fermi abhorred confrontation and avoided battles that he was not confident of winning. If
faced with superior force, he invariably withdrew from a contest. Consistent with this, he rarely made promises unless he
was sure he could deliver on them.

Fermi began his career as a physicist in 1922, the year he received his doctorate from the University of Pisa. That same year,
Benito Mussolini marched on Rome at the head of his armed Black Shirts and seized control of the Italian government in the
name of Fascism. Preoccupied as he was with physics, the menace of Fascism seemed remote to Fermi. In 1923 he won a fellowship
to study in Germany with the renowned Max Born, who had gathered a group of brilliant young physicists around him at Göttingen,
including Werner Heisenberg and Wolfgang Pauli. Heisenberg and Pauli did not bring Fermi into their circle of conversation;
most of the time the young Italian worked alone in silence. As a result, Fermi, who had succeeded almost effortlessly until
then, felt ignored and unappreciated at Göttingen, an unwelcome foreigner in Germany. The experience embittered Fermi, who
would remember it for a long time to come.

Fermi returned to Italy and took up a professorship of theoretical physics at the University of Rome. Over the next decade
Fermi turned his physics institute into a leading center for the study of the nucleus. Fermi preferred tackling concrete problems.
His method was never to waste time and to keep things as simple as possible—a no-nonsense, matter-of-fact, commonsense perspective.
In this way, he kept going forward until he reached his goal, carefully and relentlessly. He was a master at achieving important
results with a minimum of effort. Like Szilard, Fermi saw the significance of the neutron and designed experiments around
it. He decided to bombard nuclei of atoms with neutrons and see what happened. Fermi’s insight was to slow neutrons down by
sending them through paraffin (a particularly dense substance); the slower the neutrons moved, he thought, the more likely
they were to stick in the nucleus they were hitting.