On April 2, 1946, less than a year after war ended in Europe, General Eisenhower was honored at a gala reception hosted by the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. One of the Met’s own Monuments Men, Director James Rorimer (played by Matt Damon in the movie), greeted his commander as Ike was hailed for his “oversight of the repatriation of artworks stolen by the Nazis during World War II.” Eleven of these are now in the collection of the Metropolitan, given by families whose treasures had been saved; a tour of the lot is online today. Ike told the Met audience what the Monuments Men had unearthed the year before:
There, in caves, in mines, and in isolated mountain hideouts, we found that Hitler and his gang, with unerring instinct for enriching themselves, had stored art treasures filched from their rightful owners throughout conquered Europe. Alongside bar and minted gold were found paintings, statues, tapestries, jewelry, and all else that the Nazis knew mankind would pay much to rescue and to preserve.
The moment is captured in a much-reproduced photo from the National Archives, which shows General Eisenhower at a salt mine near Merkers in the company of Generals Omar Bradley and “Blood and Guts” George Patton. At the Met he was in different company. Ike would serve the museum as trustee (1948–1953) and honorary trustee (1953–1969). His fellow trustees included Thomas B. Watson of IBM and Arthur Hayes Sulzberger of the New York Times, both also trustees of Columbia University. They saw in Eisenhower a future president of their university, and perhaps of the United States.
IKE, WHO HAD BEGUN TO DALLY with amateur oil painting, made reference in his museum talk to a fellow army artist, Bill Mauldin, the stellar cartoonist of Stars and Stripes. He said, “Frequently the soldier was led to express in artistic fashion something of his own reactions to the phenomena of war. At least you are acquainted with the efforts of our friend Mr. Mauldin in this regard, who spared no pains to show what he thought of us brass hats.” Mauldin had ridiculed the spit-and-polish regulations General Patton imposed on his battle-weary troops. In return, old “Blood and Guts” had Mauldin hauled into his office for “sabotaging military discipline” and threatened “to throw his ass in jail.” Mauldin’s biographer, Todd de Pastino, tells the story. As soon as he heard the news, Eisenhower overruled Patton’s censure, issuing a directive that no commanders were to interfere with the Stars and Stripes—including Mauldin’s cartoons. Ike’s stand on a free press was welcomed by the GIs, hailed by the press, and spread to a wider public in the postwar years. It confirmed Ike’s reputation as a brass hat in touch with civil society: some saw it as a first step to higher office than military command.
SUSAN EISENHOWER, IKE’S GRANDDAUGHTER, tells us that, overseas in 1942, Ike wrote in his diary a short eulogy on his father, who had died back home in Abilene, Kansas: “His finest monument is his reputation.” He could have been describing himself. When Ike returned to the United States, his reputation had soared as a leader of men who swept the Nazis from Europe in the world’s greatest battle to date. He’d juggled the demands of prima donna generals such as Montgomery and Patton and thorny allies like de Gaulle; he had established interim civil regimes in the liberated countries and in partitioned Germany; he had exposed and opened the concentration camps; he’d attended to monuments and returned stolen treasures. As shown in his speech at the Metropolitan Museum, he was also a true humanist who spoke and wrote well: “They who have dwelt with death will be among the most ardent worshipers of life and beauty and of the peace in which these can thrive.”
With a legion of fans behind him and active support by Republican stalwarts such as Watson and Sulzberger and progressive Democrats like James Roosevelt, the “Draft Ike” movement began as early as 1948 and hit its stride in 1952, as David Pietrusza points out. After a brief stint as president of Columbia University—to establish his bona fides as a civilian leader—Republican Dwight D. Eisenhower swept the Electoral College, 442 to 89, to become our thirty-fourth president.
Only the Dixiecrat states refused Ike their votes, but Ike made his position clear. In 1953, in his first State of the Union message, he declared: “I propose to use whatever authority exists in the office of the President to end segregation in the District of Columbia, including the federal government, and any segregation in the Armed Forces.” He used that authority, and followed it up with the first civil rights legislation since Reconstruction. And then, of course, Ike presided over the interstate highways, the end of the Korean War, the start-up of NASA, the establishment of the National Medal of Science, and the pushback against “so many handguns out there.” Finally, after two terms in Washington, Ike proudly stated: “The United States never lost a soldier or a foot of ground in my administration. We kept the peace. People ask how it happened—by God, it didn’t just happen, I’ll tell you that.”
5.
Nobel on Columbus Avenue
The summer of 1997 was a busy one for phone lines, email connections, and delivery services between Baltimore and Worcester, with numerous collaborative experiments.
—Andrew Z. Fire, Nobel Lecture (2006)
NEWS OF THOSE “NUMEROUS COLLABORATIVE EXPERIMENTS” went viral after December 10, 2006, when King Carl XVI Gustaf of Sweden honored Andrew Fire of Stanford and Craig Mello of the University of Massachusetts with the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine. The two scientists had identified RNA interference (RNAi), a defense mechanism used by many organisms against double-stranded RNA (dsRNA) viruses. Interfering RNAs have provided us with a means of selectively shutting down one or another genes in a cell and given us clues to antiviral therapies to come.
A few months later, the names of Fire and Mello joined those of other American laureates carved into a pink granite monument at the corner of Columbus Avenue and 81st Street in New York. The monument, dedicated to Alfred Nobel and to American Nobel laureates past and present, stands behind the American Museum of Natural History in a park named after Theodore Roosevelt, the first American laureate (Peace Prize, 1906). The names of 290 other American Nobel prize–winners have been inscribed on the sides of the monument, and there is ample space for more to come.
The monument in New York came to mind as I read Craig Mello’s conversation with Adam Smith of the Nobel Foundation, who called Mello right after a call from Stockholm had given Mello the news of his award on October 2, 2006.
[ADAM SMITH]:
Well first of all many, many congratulations on being awarded the prize.
[Craig Mello]:
Thank you so much.
[AS]:
Where were you when you heard the news?
[CM]:
I was checking my daughter’s blood sugar. She has type 1 diabetes so I was actually up, one of the few, I guess, in the North Americas who was awake.
[AS]:
Yes, I imagine so.
[CM]:
We check her frequently and I just happened to be up, checking her blood sugar. And she had a good sugar actually, 95, which is normal.
[AS]:
That’s good news, yes.
[CM]:
I was on my way back to bed and the phone rang.
[AS]:
So two good pieces of news at once! I imagine you were thinking of other things but what was your first thought on being told?
[CM]:
Well, you know, gee, that’s a really hard question! You know first it’s disbelief, and I don’t think it sinks in quickly. I felt I was sort of too young to get it this soon and thought, if it happened . . .
“This soon” and not later, 46-year-old Mello joined other striplings whose names were carved in granite, among them Joshua Lederberg and James Watson (ages 33 and 34, respectively, when they received their notifying telephone calls).
The Nobel monument was a recent addition to the New York scene. The slab was unveiled on a damp October day in 2003 by Mayor Michael Bloomberg, with appropriate remarks by Swedish and Norwegian dignitaries, choral music, and a stirring address by Eric Kandel (Physiology or Medicine, 2000), who paid tribu
te to the city’s public school system, of which he was a product. In the audience were many Nobel prize–winners, their guests, consular and civic officials, and platoons of students from high schools in the neighborhood.
As the flock of VIPs dispersed, a teenaged couple made its way to the monument. Arm draped around his girlfriend’s shoulder, a gangly youth pointed up at the open space under all those names: “I’m going to be the first black guy up there in science!”
That’s why we have prizes and monuments, I thought at the time. To carve something in stone for a kid to look up to.
THE STORY OF dsRNA-MEDIATED gene silencing wasn’t always carved in stone for a kid to admire. The work of Mello and Fire bears the hallmarks of a “seminal discovery,” a term usually applied in retrospect and of three aspects. First, the unexpected often comes from a field far removed from the scientist’s own field of expertise. Next, it stares one in the face, unexpectedly, like Mendel’s sweet peas or Darwin’s finches. Finally, it tips its hand when the seminal publication uses key words like “unexpected” or “surprise” in title or abstract. Here’s how siRNA (small interfering RNA) was announced in the 1998 paper that Fire, Mello, and others published in Nature: “To our surprise, we found that double-stranded RNA was substantially more effective at producing interference than was either strand individually.”
While the role of siRNA-mediated gene silencing is now written in stone, the path to its discovery was by no means straightforward: it began with petunias, led to worms, then finally on to yeast and beast. Andrew Fire recalled in his conversation with Adam Smith, “Well, we were led to it pretty much by our experimental noses. The people in the plant field had done tremendous work on gene silencing and so we, sort of, were following in their footsteps in trying to sort out what was responsible for this weird silencing phenomenon in the worm.”
Their experimental noses had a long trail to sniff. Deciphering what George Sen and Helen Blau called “the silence of the genes” began with decoding the color purple in petunias and has wound up producing compounds of promise in disease. In 1990, plant scientists Carolyn Napoli, Christine Lemieux, and Richard Jorgensen were studying the formation of anthocyanin, the pigment that makes petunias purple. Testing whether the enzyme chalcone synthase was the protein critical for the color purple, they overexpressed chalcone synthase (CHS) in petunias. In their paper they wrote, “Unexpectedly the introduced gene created a block in anthocyanin biosynthesis,” and 42% of the plants became white or had chimeric purple–white patterns. They had silenced the gene for CHS, and this silencing proved to be heritable: “progeny testing showed that the novel phenotype co-segregated with the introduced CHS gene.” Purple no longer, by heredity.
Sure enough, “unexpectedly” was the operative word in the petunia paper, and the work it described led directly to Fire and Mello’s “surprise” at finding double-stranded RNA interference in worms. Many viruses contain double-stranded RNA, which, when injected into a cell, binds to a complex series of proteins (one called Dicer) that degrade viral RNA, and so the cell survives the infection.
These days, when I pass by that monument on Columbus Avenue, I’m reminded of petunias, and all those messages sent by “phone lines, email connections, and delivery services between Baltimore and Worcester.” Going viral, indeed.
PLANNING FOR THE NOBEL MONUMENT in New York began with discussions in December 2001, when the Nobel Foundation celebrated its centenary in Stockholm. Most of the living Nobel laureates in Physiology or Medicine (including a good number of Americans: Joshua Lederberg, Barry Blumberg, Alfred Gilman, Joseph Goldstein, Michael Brown, Eric Kandel, among others) showed up to revisit their grandest moment. The occasion was celebrated by lectures, symposia, concerts and the grandest of all banquets in Stockholm’s splendid Town Hall. My wife and I were guests, and we were lucky enough to have been seated at the banquet table with the senior American laureate present, Tom Weller of Harvard (1915–2008). He told a story that described one way to make a great discovery: make a great error, and correct it.
Over wines of not inconsiderable vintage, Weller reminded his dinner companions that the first time American scientists had been feted in this hall, it was for a dazzling cure based on luck and error. In 1934, two Harvard clinicians, George R. Minot and William Murphy, joined George C. Whipple, a Rochester pathologist, on the podium in Stockholm. From the wrong animal model, they had found a cure for pernicious anemia.
George Richards Minot, a patrician Bostonian, had been a professor of medicine at Harvard since 1928. He also maintained an active private practice oriented to hematology. William Parry Murphy, on the other hand, was a Westerner of decidedly nonpatrician stock. After one year at the University of Oregon Medical School he won a scholarship to Harvard Medical School, graduated in 1922, and in the midst of his Boston residency Minot made Murphy an offer he could not refuse.
Minot, as the story goes in Medicine at Harvard, was accustomed to picking young physicians of Peter Bent Brigham Hospital as associates to run his office practice, which consisted in good part of patients with diseases of the blood—and with homes on Beacon Hill. As senior resident, Murphy was next in line for this plum job, but it was customary for the young men to earn their credentials by publishing one or more papers before they started. Murphy took to the journals and found a recent report by George Whipple and Frieda Robscheit-Robbins that dogs made anemic by repeated bleeding could be restored to health by being fed huge quantities of uncooked liver. If it worked in dogs, why not in humans?
The first patients to whom Murphy fed slightly cooked liver were patients with pernicious anemia. One of these patients was an old woman who had recently become cranky and obstreperous, but whom, after a mighty contest of wills, Murphy cajoled into taking her daily ration of half a pound of liver. Murphy described his everlasting “surprise” that not only did her red blood cells respond to a week or so of this cumbersome regimen, but also that she was relieved of her mental symptoms. She soon reverted to her former, agreeable self. Eventually, his lucky observation of her mental improvement persuaded Murphy that the active factor in liver must work not only in the marrow but also elsewhere in the body. Iron alone could not do the trick.
By May 1926, Minot and Murphy had treated each of forty-five patients with half a pound of liver a day. Soon Minot persuaded a young biochemist, E. J. Cohn, to make a liver extract, which would be rich in the anti–pernicious anemia factor. The extract briskly revved up red cell production by the marrow and cured the disease as readily as raw liver. Indeed, it remained the primary treatment for pernicious anemia until Alexander Todd isolated and named vitamin B12 in 1948. It was among the first miracle drugs to cure a hitherto fatal disease.
Ironically, Whipple’s dogs had not suffered from pernicious anemia—they had iron-deficiency anemia caused by repeated bleedings, and their response was due to the iron present in massive doses of liver. Whipple’s error and Minot’s luck led directly to the first Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine awarded for work in the United States.
There’s more to the Minot story, and it touches on Mello’s conversation with Adam Smith of the Nobel Foundation. Like Mello’s young daughter, Minot suffered from what we would now call type I diabetes: he was gravely ill when he made his great discovery. A strapping six-footer, Minot had developed a severe case of diabetes, and by 1922 his weight had dropped to 120 pounds. As luck would have it, Charles Best and Frederick Banting in Toronto, following the approach of John Macleod (Medicine and Physiology, 1923) had prepared the first useful batches of insulin. Minot was in the initial group of patients treated with the hormone by Eliott Joslin, the first American specialist in diabetes. One Nobel led to another: had insulin not been discovered, vitamin B12 might have been a distant dream. It’s what Robert Hooke predicted in 1665 when the Royal Society began its assault on “not precisely Knowing”: “By this means they find some reason to suspect that those [phenomena] confessed to be occult, are performed by the small machines of Natur
e.”
THE NAMES OF FIRE AND MELLO are now up there with those of Minot and Murphy, carved in stone on that pink granite slab behind a New York museum. More likely than not, some other kid from the neighborhood will point up at those names and start to wonder about what it takes to discover the new.
6.
Lupus and the Course of Empire
United nations shall combine,
To distant climes their sound convey,
That Anna’s actions are divine,
And this the most important day
The day that gave great Anna birth
Who fix’d a lasting peace on earth.
—G. F. Handel, “Ode for the Birthday of Queen Anne” (1713)
George the Third
Ought never to have occurred.
One can only wonder
At so grotesque a blunder.
—E. C. Bentley, “George III,” (1929)
WERE IT NOT FOR LUPUS and the antiphospholipid antibody syndrome, the United States might now have a National Health Service. That’s my conclusion from finding links between the most prominent victim of the syndrome—Queen Anne—and recent debates over Scotland’s secession from England. Anne (1665–1714) was the last of the Stuarts, a dynasty that gave England not only the union with Scotland but also the Royal Society, Isaac Newton, and the copyright law. The “grotesque” Georges who succeeded her led the British to Bunker Hill and Yorktown.
The Fevers of Reason Page 4