Franck was appalled by the government’s disregard of his committee’s report and at the resultant destruction of human life. He spent much of the remainder of his long life arguing for restraint in punishing the vanquished enemy. “The feeling of revenge is, of course, strong in Jewish circles,” Franck wrote to his friend, Albert Einstein, after the war. “If that goes on, the Nazis will have won in their battle for demoralization of the whole world. . . . I will have no part in the punishment and gradual elimination of the innocent.”
Despite his reputation for pacifism, Einstein would have none of this. Einstein responded, “The Germans slaughtered millions of civilian’s according to a carefully conceived plan. . . . They would do it again if they could. The few white ravens among them changes absolutely nothing. . . . Dear Franck! Keep your hands off this foul affair!”
As the resignations of Haber and Franck and the mounting dismissals of Jewish professors began to attract worldwide attention, Johannes Stark, by this time ensconced in the presidency of the Reich Physical and Technical Institute, went on the offensive. It infuriated him that although Jews accounted for less than 1 percent of Germany’s population, they held over an eighth of professorial chairs in German universities and a quarter of the Nobel Prizes awarded to German citizens.
In a letter to the journal Nature, Stark argued that Germany’s fight was not against its scientists, but rather against the Jews, who, in his view, had gained an inappropriate level of influence in the sciences during the Weimar years. The reform of the German civil service was not to intervene in the freedom of scientific inquiry but to restore the level of academic freedom that had existed in the past, before the establishment of the “Jewish tyranny.” The Jewish scientists who had been dismissed or forced to immigrate had simply been caught up in what was really an effort to restore proper order to science in the Reich.
The Nazi campaign to eliminate Jewish professors from German universities drew a strong negative response from Jews around the world. In Stark’s mind, this reaction was still further evidence of the Jewish cabal that had taken over science and that he and Lenard felt so desperately required a correction—not just in Germany but also elsewhere in Europe. For the most part, Stark aggressively enforced the law, but there were idiosyncratic exceptions where Stark personally interceded on behalf of affected Jews.
One example of Stark’s unpredictable interventions was the case of Gustav Hertz. The impending dismissal was brought to Stark’s attention by the German University Lecturers Association in November 1934, along with the case of Richard Gans. On Hertz’s behalf, Stark ruled,
There is nothing Jewish in Professor Hertz’s outward appearance, behavior, and scientific activity. . . . He is one of our few first class German physicists and is also a Nobel Laureate. He is, in addition, the nephew of the great physicist Heinrich Hertz [with whom Lenard had studied and for whom he bore a fondness] and is thus the bearer of this famous name. It would be a blunder without parallel to deny this man the right to examine students because his grandfather was a Jew. I am convinced that he would not possibly accept such a personal insult but would resign from his office, leave the country, and be welcomed everywhere with open arms.
On the matter of Gans, Stark argued that while he “cannot boast of any accomplishments as important as those of Hertz, nevertheless, his scientific papers are of value. He also has steered clear of the Einstein circle.”
It seemed at times like these that Stark was making up his own definition of who was and who was not subject to penalties under the 1933 law. At least on this particular day and for these particular supplicants, Stark saw the risk in dismissing a pair of valuable Jewish scientists. As reflected in the Gans case, an important criterion in his decision making was where a scientist stood with respect to his views of Einstein’s theories. However, the dismissal of most Jewish professors did not receive this level of attention. Two years later, the Nuremburg Laws relieved both Hertz and Gans of their responsibilities to examine students, effectively removing both men from their university posts. Hertz and Gans found positions in industry. Although they were threatened by deportation to concentration camps, they ultimately were protected by their companies as essential to the war effort. Both remained in Germany throughout the war.
Relatively few German scientists truly agreed with Stark and Lenard’s extreme ideological position, but it was suicidal for even the most accomplished German academics to disagree and risk drawing their predatory attention.
One example of how Stark and Lenard could place a scientist in a dangerously awkward position occurred early in Stark’s administration. Stark was asked by the Ministry of Propaganda to organize a demonstration of support for Hitler by having a dozen Nobel laureates sign a brief declaration, which read, “In Adolf Hitler, we German natural researchers perceive and admire the savior and leader of the German people. Under his protection and encouragement, our scientific work will serve the German people and increase German esteem in the world.” The University of Goettingen’s Werner Heisenberg diplomatically responded that while he had no problem with the document itself, he felt it inappropriate for scientists to involve themselves in political affairs. The remainder of the laureates followed suit. Stark personally reported the outcome of the fiasco to Reichsminister Goebbels. Stark would not forget the embarrassment. Eventually, he would center his crosshairs directly on Heisenberg.
The behavior of the less well-known, rank-and-file, university professors proved more reliable. By removing ambitious and talented Jews from the competition, the law effectively made the path to a university job much easier for the “true Germans” who remained. Even so, Lenard’s 1934 publication of Deutsche Physik met with general consternation in the scientific community, particularly among younger physicists who had developed the mathematical skills necessary to understand Einstein’s theories.
Writing at a later time, one doctoral student wrote, “When Lenard’s book, Deutsche Physik, was published, it met with headshaking and amazement among colleagues. We young physicists read a few pages out of curiosity, and then put it aside.” The student recalled admiring one of his professors for having the courage to say, “‘This is all very strange. One cannot do away with the facts of physics just like that.’ We students got the message. I remember that I was glad to have this assurance and confirmation of my own thoughts.”
Nevertheless, Deutsche Physik attracted a small but dedicated coterie of adherents whose speeches and writings proved valuable to Stark and Lenard. The 1933 civil service law had provided the leverage they needed to effectively rid German universities of Jewish professors. About twelve hundred professors from all disciplines lost their jobs in the immediate aftermath of the law’s implementation. Among these were one hundred six physicists, eighty-six chemists, and eighty-five others involved in scientific investigation or the development of technology. Hundreds of others considered insufficiently supportive of the new regime were transferred to lesser positions.
All told, about sixteen hundred natural scientists summarily lost their jobs as a result of the institution of the 1933 civil service law. In the absence of any means of supporting themselves and their families, the only option for many was to leave Germany. Among them were a sampling of elite physicists, mathematicians, and chemists who eventually would assist the Allies in developing technologies that would help tip the balance of World War II against Hitler’s Germany.
The scientists were part of a much larger movement. Between 1933 and 1935, enforcement of the Law for the Restoration of the Professional Civil Service caused 65,000 Jews to leave Germany. Of the remaining 562,000 Jews residing in Germany following this first wave of departures, another 300,000 emigrated because of racial or ideological discrimination. The fate of those who stayed mirrored the horrors enacted by the German armies in their sweep through Europe: 227,000 German Jews perished in concentration camps. Only a tiny enclave of 25,000 Jews remained in Germany after the war.
The emigration of Germ
an scholars did not come easily. Virtually all of the countries that might have provided safe haven had restrictive immigration policies toward Jews. In response, a number of organizations sprung up to provide money, legal assistance, and bureaucratic support for displaced German academics. Founded in London in 1933, the Academic Assistance Council had, by the end of 1935, placed sixty-two professors in tenured positions and helped one hundred forty-eight others to find at least temporary employment outside of Germany.
In 1933, the German anatomist Philipp Schwartz founded the Switzerland-based Notgemeinschaft Deutscher Wissenschaftler, an emergency services organization that ultimately relocated two thousand displaced German and Austrian university teachers, mostly in Great Britain and the United States. The board of the Notgemeinschaft was a “Who’s who” of Jewish German physicists, including, at one time or another, Max Born, James Franck, and Fritz Haber. Aid societies sprung up in France and the United States as well. The American Emergency Committee in Aid of Displaced Scholars compiled lists of dismissed Jewish academics and guided as many of them as it could through often-complex processes to positions in U.S. universities. The trickle of would-be refugees quickly became a torrent, overwhelming the capacity of relief organizations to respond to the crisis.
The events in Germany, and especially his own banishment from Europe, strengthened Einstein’s self-identification as a Jew. Referring back to the tumult of those times, Einstein wrote in a 1952 letter to Israeli prime minister David Ben Gurion, “My relationship to the Jewish people has become my strongest human bond ever since I became fully aware of our precarious situation among the nations of the world.” Einstein had learned the hard way that his lifelong disavowal of biblical Judaism in no way exempted him from the genetic, cultural, and ethical qualities that identified him as a Jew.
Einstein gave a lecture to help raise funds for the work of the Academic Assistance Council that drew ten thousand people to London’s Albert Hall. He continued his quest with Chaim Weitzmann to build what is now Hebrew University in Jerusalem and referred potential immigrant scholars to Palestine. He became personally involved in the immigration cases of his many friends and colleagues. However, over time, even Einstein’s reputation could not address the demands of such a large number of dismissed German scholars. He received and responded to so many requests and wrote so many affidavits on behalf of stranded Jewish scientists that, by the late 1930s, his overused signature had lost much of its influence.
In a 1933 letter to his friend Max Born, Einstein despaired,
Two years ago I tried to appeal to Rockefeller’s conscience about the absurd method of allocating grants [to displaced scientists], unfortunately without success. Bohr has now gone to see him in an attempt to persuade him to take some action. . . . I am firmly convinced that all those who have made a name already will be taken care of. But the others, the young ones, will not have the chance to develop.
Max Born and his wife Hedi were among Einstein’s closest friends, and he had conducted a regular correspondence with both of them since 1916. Like James Franck, the Borns were well-assimilated, secular Jews who had no thoughts of leaving Germany prior to the rise of Adolf Hitler. In the end, they had no choice. Stark and Lenard knew of Born’s relationship with Einstein. They begrudged his support for Einstein during the events surrounding the 1920 anti-Einstein lectures at the Philharmonic and the debate at Bad Nauheim. As a friend of Einstein and a theoretical physicist to boot, Born could expect no quarter.
Born had considered following Franck’s example in resigning from his post at Goettingen. However, the matter was taken out of his hands when he received a telegram on April 25, 1933, dismissing him from the faculty. Like Franck, Born had been advised that little would come of the new laws. A much-belated June 1933 letter from Werner Heisenberg, also a member of the Goettingen faculty, suggested that he and Max Planck could intervene on Born’s behalf. The letter mischaracterized Planck’s visit with Hitler as having been reassuring that the “Government will not undertake anything that might impede our science” and that “the political changes could take place without any damage to physics at Goettingen.” Heisenberg reassured Born that “only a very few are affected by the law—certainly not you and Franck.” In time, Heisenberg would personally suffer from Lenard and Stark’s malevolence, but at this point he provided nothing but encouragement. He concluded, “Therefore, I entreat you not to make any decisions now but to wait to see how our country looks in the autumn.”
Heisenberg had misread the tea leaves. With Stark at the helm and Lenard pulling strings with Hitler, the Nazis pursued the elimination of Jews from academic life with ever-increasing vigor. Hordes of brown shirts roamed the streets and grew more aggressive. Born became desperate about the increasing threat of violence to himself and his family. “After I had been given ‘leave of absence,’ we decided to leave Germany at once. We had rented an apartment for the summer vacation in Wolkenstein in the Groedner valley [of Northern Italy] . . . from a farmer by the name of Peratoner. He was willing to take us immediately. Thus, we left for the South Tyrol at the beginning of May [1933].”
The Borns and their three children became academic nomads. They first settled temporarily in Cambridge, where Born had obtained a visiting lectureship. From there, he sought Einstein’s assistance in securing a permanent position while becoming involved in the quest to place other scientists who were even less fortunate than he. In June 1933, he wrote Einstein,
Almost every week some unfortunate wretch approaches me personally, and every day I receive letters from people left stranded. And I am completely helpless, as I am myself a guest of the English and my name is not widely known;
I can do nothing except advise the Academic Assistance Council in London and the Notgemeinschaft in Zurich. But neither of these institutions has any money.
For a while, Born held out hope that his return to Germany might be possible, but by 1934 he became convinced that he would have to find a new home and a place to work. They spent the winter of 1935–1936 in Bangalore, India, where Born was a visiting lecturer. He then spent several months lecturing in Moscow. “We were, of course, not very keen on going to Russia,” he wrote, “Which would mean learning a new, very complicated language, uprooting the children a second time, and starting an entirely new life.” Unable or unwilling to continue their peripatetic existence, and with no other choices available to them, the Borns applied for Russian visas and began the long process of officially becoming Russian émigrés.
In the end, Born’s perseverance, his diligence in pursuing every possible opportunity, paid off. The family’s wanderings ended with his recruitment to the University of Edinburgh, where Born assumed the Tait Chair of Natural Philosophy. While the post had an impressive ring to its title, there was little going on in Edinburgh in the world of theoretical physics. With little equipment and few colleagues, Born’s involvement at the top level of theoretical physics came to an abrupt halt. Given the opportunities for innovative research proffered by the war effort, it was the least propitious possible time to be stuck in Edinburgh.
Seeing no way forward with his chosen career, Born reinvented himself as a scientific philosopher, an epistomologist. He cut a fresh path through the morass of conflicting arguments that had long sustained the vicious battles between Lenard’s experimentalism and Einstein’s theory. “A single-crystal can be clear. Nevertheless a mass of fragments of this crystal is opaque,” Born noted on one occasion. “Even the theoretical physicist must be guided by the ideal of the closest possible contact with the world of facts. Only then do the formulas live and beget new life.” Once stolidly aligned in the theoretical camp, Born now tried to square up the relationship between theory and observation, writing, “My advice to those who wish to learn the art of scientific prophesy is not to rely on abstract reasoning, but to decipher the secret language of Nature from Nature’s documents, the facts of experience.”
Born became a British citizen in 1939, the day before Eng
land entered the war against Germany. He retired to Germany in 1952. Surprisingly, his colleagues had never stopped nominating Born for a Nobel Prize, which he was awarded in 1954. The Swedish Academy of Sciences cited Born’s early work on quantum mechanics, and especially his mathematical expression of the wave function. For his Nobel lecture, Born turned to the echoes of the conflict between experimental and theoretical physics. After all, he had been in the thick of it. In his view, it was time for détente:
I believe that ideas such as absolute certitude, absolute exactness, final truth, etc. are figments of the imagination which should not be admissible in any field of science. On the other hand, any assertion of probability is either right or wrong from the standpoint of the theory on which it is based. This loosening of thinking seems to me to be the greatest blessing which modern science has given to us. For the belief in a single truth and in being the possessor thereof is the root cause of all evil in the world.
Although Born personally did not contribute importantly to the Allies’ war effort, some of the students and assistants he trained at Goettingen resided in the front rank of wartime scientists. Among his doctoral students and research assistants who immigrated to the United States and participated in the Manhattan Project were Robert Oppenheimer, Enrico Fermi, Edward Teller, and Eugene Wigner. Perhaps his most brilliant assistant, Werner Heisenberg, led the grossly underfunded and unsuccessful German effort to develop a nuclear weapon for the Third Reich. Historian Nancy Thorndike Greenspan noted that Born “let his superstars stretch past him; to those less gifted, he patiently handed out respectable but doable assignments.”
The Man Who Stalked Einstein Page 18