Nucleus

by Rory Clements

  ‘Only through his work with the Society for the Protection of Science and Learning.’

  ‘Well, he’s Hungarian, a good friend of Einstein and as mad as Paul Birbach. In fact he’s another bath-time thinker. He also happens to be one of the many Jewish scientists who fled Hitler. In Leo’s case, he left Germany pretty much on the first train after Hitler was elected in 1933. Anyway, when he heard what Rutherford was saying about the atom, he had a eureka moment – while walking the streets of central London as it happens. He already knew from Cockcroft and Walton’s experiment how much energy was released when a lithium atom was split. He was looking up at a traffic light on Southampton Row, apparently, when he suddenly thought this: what if there was an element which when its atom was hit by one neutron released two or more neutrons? His answer: there would be a chain reaction, liberating energy over and over again. This would all happen in a fraction of a second, of course – and the result would be a massive energy burst. An explosion of breathtaking magnitude. The equivalent of thousands of tons of high explosives.’

  Wilde stirred his tea. ‘A superbomb,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Indeed. And we now know there is an element to make it happen – uranium.’ Lancing ran his long smooth fingers through his fair hair. ‘But I don’t want to alarm you. Fission wouldn’t have to be used for nefarious purposes. If the explosion were controlled, it could become a fabulous source of power, perhaps even enough to provide electricity for a town.’

  Wilde nodded and sipped his tea.

  ‘Which takes us to Otto Hahn, Fritz Strassmann and a wonderful lady named Lise Meitner. Lise, being Austrian-Jewish, had to get out of Germany in a hurry after the Anschluss last year, but her name is forever linked to what Hahn and Strassmann achieved at their laboratory in Berlin. She was the physicist, they were the chemists. And you may have heard what Rutherford said on the subject – all science is either physics or stamp collecting.’

  Wilde waited. Lancing was drawing again. This time his picture was very simple: a little figure eight laid on its side.

  ‘Last December, Hahn and Strassmann artificially induced fission – though it wasn’t a word they knew. They were firing neutrons at uranium. When the nucleus received the neutrons, it burst apart into new, lighter elements. That bursting is what we now call nuclear fission. A tremendous amount of energy is released – a million times more powerful than any other source. Two hundred million electron volts per atom, if that means anything to you. More importantly it releases two or more neutrons which can, in turn, be captured by other nuclei. Szilard’s chain reaction.’ He jabbed his pencil at the paper, scratching lines out from his double-bubble like a comic book explosion. He grinned sheepishly. ‘The only problem now is how to harness that power. That’s where we’re at.’

  ‘Thank you, Geoff,’ said Wilde. ‘I am indebted.’ He meant it.

  ‘You can teach me about the Armada one day.’

  ‘So how difficult would it be to build a superbomb?’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t know. Birbach and Hellquist think it can be done quite simply. Personally, I think they’re being rather optimistic. You would need a lot of high-grade uranium – and that’s not easy to come by.’ He stopped and looked around the room. ‘I can’t help wondering . . . maybe we shouldn’t be talking about these things.’

  Wilde followed his eyes. ‘I thought spies were my line, Geoff.’

  ‘I haven’t told you any secrets but, well, one can’t ignore the international situation. There’s a lot going on at the Cavendish, as you might imagine. The secret boys have been up to say we have to be careful who we talk to and what we talk about.’

  ‘They fear the Nazis will spy on you?’

  ‘Possibly. The Cavendish has for years been at the heart of particle physics – the very nucleus if you like. And it’s not just the Germans who are interested in the place. I expect Stalin would also like to know what we’re up to. But look – there are specialisations within specialisations . . . The fine detail of fission isn’t quite my line. I’m more of a wave theory man, though, of course there are close links.’ Lancing gave a wan smile. ‘You know, Tom, I hate to admit it, but I think the Cavendish’s glory days are over. The big money and the big breakthroughs are more likely to come from America. Bragg has been steering us away from particle experimentation because he believes we can’t compete. Our enemies might not know that, though, so we’re still vulnerable.’

  ‘And Hellquist and Birbach?’

  ‘They’re not the only brilliant minds left in the Cavendish. Dirac’s still here having turned down Princeton. There’s still good work being done, just not as showy as it was under Rutherford.’

  Wilde knew all about Ernest Rutherford. Who didn’t? He was the big, bold New Zealander who discovered the nucleus and its properties and who led the Cavendish so brilliantly for almost twenty years until his death in 1937. But Wilde wanted to know more about another man. ‘Have you heard of a German physicist named Arnold Lindberg?’

  ‘Of course. The world of physics is very small. Lindberg is – was – a brilliant man. He was picked up by the Gestapo two or three years ago. Haven’t heard a dicky bird since.’

  ‘He was in a concentration camp. But he’s out now – and in England. He’s coming to Cambridge – and he’d very much like to continue his studies here at the Cavendish. What are the chances?’

  Wilde had expected enthusiasm, but Lancing was silent for a few moments. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘No, I’m pretty sure he won’t be accepted here.’

  ‘Really? Why not?’

  There was an awkward pause. Lancing looked at the wall clock. ‘Look, Tom, I have to dash. Hell of a lot to do today.’

  He drained his tea and stood up. Wilde did the same, his question unanswered. They walked to the main door together, a sudden slight stiffness between them.

  ‘Do you know, Tom,’ said Lancing, ‘there’s only one bloody telephone here for scores of us? Our discoveries are the stuff of science fiction, but our damned facilities are medieval.’ He forced a laugh.

  ‘Sounds like Cambridge University through and through.’ Wilde smiled. ‘Thanks for showing me around. I think I almost got the hang of it.’ He shook Lancing’s hand and set off across the yard to the Rudge.

  ‘Hang on,’ Lancing called after him. ‘I almost forgot! Clarissa demands your presence for cocktails and whatever this evening. Bit of a bash, I think. Not doing anything, are you? I’ll pick you up. Best bib and tucker.’

  So, he was going to come face to face with the famous Clarissa Lancing. Not only that, he would also be meeting Mr Milton Hardiman, the man with whom he was supposed to make contact. How very convenient.

  *

  Wilde climbed aboard the Rudge and kicked her into life. In his head, he was still trying to make sense of fission. Of course it didn’t really matter exactly how fission worked, or even what it meant. What did matter was that the possibility of a superbomb was no longer the stuff of fiction. And Lancing’s reassuring words that it could just as well be used as a peaceful source of energy, like coal, to power the nation was of little comfort. No wonder Dexter Flood in the White House had been interested in what was happening in the Cavendish.

  And yet . . . and yet it wasn’t the prospect of a superbomb that came to mind when he thought of the looming war. It was a vision of the muddy fields of Flanders and the gas-poisoned trenches. History taught that one war was pretty much like the last; a depressing thought. He had been a schoolboy last time and his mother had taken him to America before he could get involved; this time he would stay and do what he could.

  He was outside the lab now, back in Free School Lane, and was about to twist the throttle when he stopped. A man in his forties of middling height – perhaps five foot seven – with a thick wedge of charcoal hair perched on top of a severe short back and sides was heading towards Bene’t Street. But it wasn’t just the hair that Wilde noticed, it was also his legs, bowed and bandy like those of a cowboy
who had spent a great deal too long in the saddle. He had not seen those legs since the summer of 1912.

  Wilde shook himself. Of course it couldn’t be him. Why would he be here in Cambridge after all these years? He lifted his goggles and narrowed his eyes. It was him, surely.

  He accelerated and drew in a little ahead of the man, stopping to look back. The face was the same as it had been as a seventeen-year-old, although a little thicker, lined by the sun, and with a hint of jowls. ‘Henty?’ Wilde said. It was a question, not a statement. ‘Henty O’Gara?’

  The man stopped, too, his body immediately tense. ‘Are you talking to me?’ he said.

  ‘You are Henty O’Gara, aren’t you?’

  ‘I think you’ve got the wrong man.’ He was about to walk on, but then checked himself and jutted his chin out. ‘And who might you be, mister?’

  ‘Tom Wilde. Your cousin Tom.’ Wilde had no doubt now. The accent was Irish, the tone soft, west coast Ireland; the voice was Henty’s. No doubt at all. ‘Summer of 1912, Galway Bay. Remember? I was thirteen, you were seventeen. You must remember it.’

  *

  O’Gara was thinking fast. Of course he recalled Tom Wilde and the County Galway beach house and the summer the two sides of the family had spent together, swimming and riding and fighting. It had been a good time, when even the rainy days seemed full of sun. But that was then and this was now, and he was on a mission under a different name.

  His instinct, drummed into him, was that he must stick with the story and the nom de guerre Declan Burns at all times. But Tom Wilde wasn’t about to wear that one, was he? This had to be sorted out more subtly. So Henty O’Gara he would be again for a few brief moments, and then he need never see cousin Tom again.

  ‘Well, well! Is it really you, Tom? Jesus, look at you. You were a snotty little public school toff who wanted to learn to box last time I saw you.’ He laughed and held up his fists. ‘Put ’em up, Yank!’

  Wilde removed his motorcycle gauntlet and shook O’Gara by the hand. ‘Henty O’Gara, by all that’s holy.’

  O’Gara’s astonished expression had creased into a grin. ‘So it is now. So it is. What are you doing here, you Yankee bastard? I thought you’d be fighting your way across America, not consorting with the fucking English.’

  ‘I’m a don. I teach history. What of you, Henty? What are you doing these days?’

  ‘Horses, Tom. Always horses. I’m over here because I’ve got some nice runners at Newmarket and then Ascot.’

  ‘You’re a trainer then? Or jockey?’

  ‘Neither. I own the fuckers.’

  ‘And where are you staying?’

  ‘Newmarket, of course – and I intend taking their English lordships for all they’ve got.’

  ‘Then you have to give me a tip. I’ve got someone who’ll love me forever if I can provide him with a sure-fire winner.’

  ‘OK. It’s a bit early, perhaps, but we have a lot of faith in Carthaginian Eye for the July Cup.’

  For a few moments they just looked at each other. Their conversation hadn’t even come close to bridging the years. Since O’Gara’s father – Tom’s mother’s brother – had died during the Irish civil war, the two branches of the family had had little to do with each other. So what else had happened? Who was alive, who dead? Henty must certainly have made some money if he had racehorses. But how? And a hundred other questions. Was he married? Where did he live?

  Wilde glanced at his watch. He could spare an hour. ‘Can I buy you a drink for old time’s sake, Henty? The Eagle’s just around the corner.’

  O’Gara was about to say no. This was already getting complicated. But then he let out a deep roar of laughter. ‘Jesus, of course I’ll take a drink off you.’ Then again, no. ‘What’s the time, Tom?’

  ‘Nearly one o’clock.’

  ‘Ah, what a damnable shame, I’ll have to stand you up. Got a meeting to get to. But give me your address and telephone number, won’t you – and I promise I’ll be in touch. We’ll get together before I leave Newmarket, and then we can have a proper drink together.’

  Wilde pulled out his notebook, wrote his details down, tore out the page and handed it to O’Gara. ‘There you go. Come over any time.’

  ‘I heard about your wife and child. Jesus, I was sorry to hear that. Are you married again, Tom?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  O’Gara chuckled. ‘I won’t intrude. What about Auntie Mary, is she still . . .’

  ‘My mother’s well enough. Living in Boston, Mass. Just been over to see her as a matter of fact. Thought it wise before, you know – well, we all know, don’t we, the coming war.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed.’ He held out his hand. ‘You know, Tom, it’s a real pleasure to see you again after all this time – twenty-seven years, Jesus . . . Where did the days and years go? Anyway yer snotty fucker, I’ll be in touch with you soon.’

  *

  O’Gara watched Wilde ride away down Bene’t Street towards the junction of King’s Parade and Trumpington Street. Then he slipped into the telephone kiosk to the right of the pub and waited for the bells to chime one o’clock.

  CHAPTER 11

  The queues stretched all down Tiergartenstrasse, on the south side of the great gardens that breathed fresh air into the teeming centre of the city. The huge old mansions and palaces here were some of the grandest properties in Berlin, once the homes of the nobility and wealthy industrialists, but now they as likely as not housed embassies and their offices. In better days, their view over the park had been spectacular, even enjoyed by Boswell with a glass of cherry schnapps in his hand, yet now the outlook was distressing: a long line of downcast human beings, perhaps a mile long, quiet, orderly and patient, yet desperate. Most were women or elderly men, all Jewish, all seeking the precious visa that would enable them to leave this hellish country behind.

  SS officers lounged back in an open-topped Mercedes, idly watching the waiting line, and occasionally taking notes or photographs. An open-topped carrier with yet more troopers pulled up, this time with the Brownshirts of the Sturmabteilung or SA.

  A strange and horrible wailing rose from the long line. There were gasps and tears and quaking. Some people seemed close to collapse.

  Lydia watched open-mouthed. She had heard of these things from Bertha, who had been here soon after Kristallnacht the previous autumn, but hearing things second-hand and seeing for yourself were very different.

  The SA stormtroopers, all of whom had pistols and clubs, leapt from the rear of their vehicle and began to strut up and down the line, demanding papers. Lydia had stopped on the other side of the road. She felt both terror and fury at the sight of the tormentors with their shiny high boots, their brown shirts and the swastika armbands on their right sleeves.

  One of the Brownshirts gently removed the glasses of a middle-aged woman and examined them closely. He said something to her, then held the glasses to his mouth and breathed vapour on the lenses before rubbing them against his tunic to clean them. He smiled and handed them back to her. She nodded her thanks and reached out to take them, but the SA man’s fingers opened and the spectacles fell to the pavement, shattering the glass. He grinned and quite deliberately crunched the heel of his high boot into the broken and twisted remnants. Shrugging, he took hold of her nose between thumb and forefinger. ‘They were too small for this thing anyway.’ Laughing, he moved on to another victim.

  Lydia wanted to slap this bully’s face, but she knew it would not end well. She had to swallow her revulsion and concentrate on finding Albert Haas. As she was turning away she saw two black-clad officers climb out of the Mercedes car and approach the queue with a bucket. She was close enough to see them hand the bucket to an elderly man and to hear one of the SS men say, ‘Säubern Sie das Auto. Bitte.’

  The old man, bewildered and shaking, took the bucket. He stood there, unable to move, clearly petrified.

  ‘What are you waiting for, Jew? Get on with it.’

  He uptur
ned the bucket to show them. ‘I cannot clean your car. There is no water in it. No cloth.’

  ‘Do you not salute an officer?’

  The old man’s eyes flicked from left to right and back. The women and men around him averted their eyes, afraid to attract the attention of the SS. The old man held out his arm straight, as ordered. But it still wasn’t enough.

  ‘Say the words, kike.’

  ‘Heil Hitler.’ It was as if the words would choke him.

  ‘You are Jewish, are you not?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The old man bowed his head.

  ‘Then you should be circumcised.’

  ‘Yes, I am, sir.’

  ‘Show me.’

  The old man was trembling. ‘Sir, I cannot. There are ladies present.’

  ‘Pah. I am sure they have seen such things. Down with your trousers – or would you like me to remove them for you?’

  Gingerly, the old man undid his belt and fly buttons. Slowly, he lowered his trousers a fraction.

  ‘Well? Where is it? Where is your Jew’s cock?’

  Shamed and humiliated, the man exposed himself. The SS officer leant forward and examined him. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘That is a Jew’s cock. You smell disgusting. Now pull up your filthy trousers, find some soap and water and a cloth and clean the car. And make it shine. If I see any dust or grease, you will be on a charge. Next stop Sachsenhausen.’

  ‘But, sir, if I go I will lose my place in the line.’

  The other SS man took his Luger from its holster and pointed it at the old man’s chest. ‘I will count to five.’