“And if it’s something new?”
“If I had to do the structure from scratch, it would be a real challenge, but I think it won’t be that hard. I’ll try to convert it into a carotenoid that is already known using procedures where we know exactly what chemical changes we have made. That way, we can reason back to what we started from.”
When the kitchen was cleaned up, they swept aside the books and settled on the sofa, Joe at one end and Emma at the other. Joe leaned back happily and put his bare feet up onto the sofa between them. Emma was fascinated. He had beautiful feet: small for a man, pale and smooth with high graceful arches, and slightly spatulate toes. She took his left foot into her hands and gently massaged it. She caressed first one foot, then the other. Uncharacteristically, Joe stopped talking.
“That feels nice,” he whispered after a while.
“You have pretty feet. Did you know that? Like the rest of you.”
Joe quickly rose from the sofa and fell to his knees in front of her. “Oh, Emma, Emma, I’m crazy about you. I know you don’t think we should get romantically involved, but damn it, we are. At least I am. Please, oh, please.” His face was flushed; his eyes shone.
“Joe, you’re babbling.” Emma laughed. “Just hush up. I will. Yes, yes, yes.”
CHAPTER 14
1932-1934
“HOW’S YOUR GERMAN?”
Startled, Emma looked up from her cultures. She had not heard Joe come in to her lab.
“Oh, Joe, you startled me. You should knock first.”
“Sorry, love.”
Since they had become lovers, Joe had been unable to conceal his happiness and growing familiarity with Emma. He came frequently to her office and lab. Rumors had begun to circulate. They had to be more discreet. If their affair became known to the Dean, they ran the risk of being fired for moral turpitude: conjugal relations between unmarried persons were strictly prohibited. But Emma was as happy as Joe and no more willing to hide her feelings than he was. She took his hand and pulled him to a lab stool beside her.
“My German is OK. I can read it. Used it for one of my two languages for the Ph.D., but I don’t speak it well. My Latin is better. Why?”
“I need to go up to Columbus again, to the chemistry library at Ohio State and dig out everything I can about carotenoid chemistry. Most of it is gonna be in German. I’ll have to start with Beilstein.”
“Beilstein?”
“Beilsteins Handbuch der organischen Chemie. It’s a huge compendium of everything that has ever been published about every organic compound in the world. Very German: sehr gründlich.”
“Really? Every one? There must be, what, hundreds of thousands.”
“Yup. They fell behind for a while because of the war, but I think they will have everything up through 1929. The listings give you citations to the original papers, and I’ll need to look all of those up. Most of them will probably be in German too. I’ll be taking a lot of notes.” He flashed his usual big grin. “Maybe I should take the Kraut, Professor Köhler, along. But I’d rather take you. How about it, Emma? Come to Columbus with me?” His eyes twinkled. “It won’t be all work and no play.”
Emma cancelled her Friday class and took a Thursday evening train to Columbus with Joe. They registered—a bit nervously—at the hotel as Dr. and Mrs. Bellafiori. To deceive the clerk Emma had turned a ring on her left hand so that the stone faced down and it looked like a wedding band.
During the days they worked intensely in the Ohio State library. Emma found the indexing system used by Beilstein baffling, but Joe was familiar with it, so he identified research papers for Emma to translate and take notes from. Emma did not fully understand the chemistry, but she knew what Joe was looking for and filled pages with notes on characterization and chemical reactions of compounds they suspected of being related in structure to their four fungal pigments.
As they left the hotel on Sunday morning, they passed an older man in the hall whom they did not know, but Emma recognized as a Harrington College professor of classical languages. He nodded curtly and continued down the hall without speaking.
“Do you think he knew who we were?” Joe said softly after the man was out of sight.
“I don’t know,” Emma replied. “I hope not. Or if he did, he has the decency to keep his mouth shut.”
THE FOLLOWING MONTHS were so full that Emma and Joe were almost oblivious to the growing economic disaster that had engulfed their country. True, as a consequence of falling enrollments and declining tuition income, Harrington College had forced them, along with the rest of the faculty, to take a ten percent reduction in their already meager salaries, but they lived so simply that there were no serious consequences. Emma was compelled to write to the Oosterfelds and apologize that she would no longer be able to send small sums each month, as she had done for the past two years. The rare letters she had from Susan admitted that the Hansen family farm was struggling, but never asked for help.
“We’re scraping by,” Susan wrote, “but on a farm you always have something to eat.”
They were very busy teaching their classes, but they were distracted by a series of exciting successes in their research. Emma had submitted a paper to the journal Mycologia on the isolation of mutant strains of Neurospora using x-rays that included a preliminary description of her collection of mutated strains that exhibited defects in pigment formation, and it had been accepted with only minor revisions required by the journal’s editor.
Joe had sent a paper describing his method of differential elution from columns of powdered cellulose for isolation of Neurospora pigments to a new journal called Analytical Chemistry, and that paper was also in press. Most exciting, he had cleverly deduced the structure of Pigment A from microanalysis and chemical conversion to a known carotenoid and was preparing a manuscript to submit to the Journal of the American Chemical Society. He had succeeded in isolating crystals of Pigments B and D, although Pigment C was still resisting his efforts at crystallizing it.
In October 1932 the Depression tightened its grip on them when the State Bank of Harrington failed. Rumors that the bank had lost a great deal of money on foreclosed mortgages and defaulted loans sparked a run on the bank as frightened depositors sought to withdraw their money. Neither Emma nor Joe had much money in the bank, but both had relied on checking accounts there to pay bills.
A far greater problem was that Harrington College used the bank for most of its financial activity, and its funds were now either frozen, or worse, lost. The college could not issue monthly salary checks to the faculty or other employees, so they printed paper scrip, which amounted to promises to pay the printed amounts some time in the future. Would local landlords and merchants honor the college’s scrip? No one knew. Most initially refused, but were later forced to do so or receive no payment at all.
In March of 1933 the newly elected President Franklin Roosevelt pushed the Emergency Banking Act through Congress, but it was well into the year before the Harrington State Bank was certified to re-open. By that time Emma and Joe had exhausted the meager fund that had supported their research expenses. Emma could no longer buy medium for growing the fungal cells that provided pigment for Joe to purify, and Joe could not purchase the chemicals he needed or pay for microanalysis of his samples.
He paced the lab in frustration. “We can’t just stop, Emma. Things were going so well.”
“Maybe we can borrow a little from our salaries?” she suggested. “I’ll apply to the USDA again and maybe the Rockefeller Foundation. We can show how much progress we have made. If I don’t get the money, we’ll move a lot more slowly, but we’re going to keep at it.”
The following months were difficult ones. Joe’s research nearly halted, and Emma was only able to do a few additional genetic mapping studies. There were many months when they did not know whether they could pay their rent or buy groceries.
A bit of encouragement arrived with the notice that the Journal of the American Chemical Society ha
d published Bellafiori and Hansen’s paper, “Structure of Neurosporaxanthin, a Novel Carotenoid Pigment from Neurospora crassa.” Joe and Emma had the pleasures of their love affair to comfort them, but they had to be careful to avoid discovery of their times of intimacy by nosy neighbors, gossiping colleagues, and students.
LATE IN THE summer of 1933 they celebrated a reunion when Joe returned from his obligatory six-week Army summer training camp. It had been a long six weeks. Harrington College had cancelled all summer classes because enrollments were so small, and Emma had been able to do little more than revise her plans and notes for the classes she would teach in the fall and fuss over the genetic mapping data she had collected when she still had funds for research. She missed Joe terribly. He had become the most important figure in her life. She walked the abandoned campus every day, imagining conversations she would have with him.
“I’m just going to lie here with you until dark, so I can slip home without being seen,” she whispered as they lay in Joe’s scrambled bed.
“You know, if we got married, we wouldn’t have to sneak around like guilty adulterers,” Joe replied. “We could save some money too, with just one apartment.”
Emma sat up in mock indignation. “Joe Bellafiori. Is that a proposal of marriage? If so, it must be about the most unromantic one ever.”
Joe laughed, climbed naked out of the bed, pulled Emma, also naked, to a standing position.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and knelt before her. “Emma Hansen. Love of my life, my partner in science and love, precious Emma, will you marry me? Will you make me the happiest man on the planet? Please marry me.”
“That’s better.” She laughed. “Yes, Joe Bellafiori, yes, I will marry you. If I hadn’t known if before you went away to Army camp, I discovered it then. My life is empty, terribly incomplete, without you.”
Joe rose to his feet and enfolded her in his arms. “I’m so happy. Don’t know why I took so long to ask. When shall we do it?”
“That’s a problem, Joe. We’re so hard up. Our future is insecure. I think we have to wait. This fall I will go up for tenure. Once I’m promoted—assuming that I am . . .”
“Oh, you will be. They’d be idiots not to promote you!”
“Have you not noticed an abundance of idiots in this college? Dean Woodrow has never liked me. Anyway, I think I have a strong case. Once I have a tenured position, maybe even a decent raise, we will be more secure. And you, you must go to old Köhler and demand to be made an Assistant Professor on the tenure track. With all your teaching and two research papers already . . . My God, none of the other chemistry professors have ever published anything since they got here. Biology professors either, for that matter.”
“OK, I’ll do it. You’re right. It’s one of the things I love about you—your toughness, the fire in your belly.” He bent to kiss it. “Your lovely, lovely belly.”
LATE THE FOLLOWING spring Emma received a telephone call from Dean Woodrow’s office, a summons to meet with the Dean. She knew that he was likely to deliver the College’s decision on her promotion to Associate Professor of Biology with tenure. Now, in 1934, she had been on the faculty for six years, and the usual academic rules required a decision to be made, so that she would have a terminal seventh year to find another job if promotion was denied.
It had been a tense wait. Emma knew that her senior colleagues in Biology, Foster and Rothermel, were supportive. How could they not be, when she taught twice as much as they did and had published original research, which they had not? But the review process had been secretive and the Dean had been silent for months, so she paced nervously outside his office until he came to the door and invited her in.
“Ah, Miss Hansen, come in, come in,” he rumbled. “Sit down, please.” Still refusing to call her Doctor Hansen, but this was not the moment to correct him. He offered a weak smile. “I have good news. The President and the Board of Trustees have approved the recommendation of the College that you should be promoted to tenure with the rank of Associate Professor.”
“Oh, that is good news. Thank you. I look forward to serving the College in the future.”
Dean Woodrow cleared his throat. “Um, yes. I, uh, must confess that I underestimated you at the time of your hiring.”
A silence hung in the air. Was that all he had to say?
“If I may ask, Dean Woodrow, uh, I have been told that it is customary to make some, uh, adjustment in one’s salary at the time of promotion. I have had no increases since 1928. In fact, my salary was reduced by ten percent three years ago.”
“Surely you are aware that the College is in a very difficult financial situation because of the prolonged depression that afflicts our nation?”
“Of course.”
“So, you will understand that no increase in your salary is possible at this time.”
Emma fumed, but decided to save this battle for another day. She began to rise from her chair
Dean Woodrow raised a hand. “Uh, a moment more, Miss Hansen. There is another matter, a, ahem, rather delicate matter, that I wish to discuss with you.”
“Yes?”
“One has heard, um, rumors, of, um, shall I say, a . . . personal relationship between you and Dr. Bellafiori, a, uh, relationship that is said to exceed the bounds of propriety.”
“Yes?” Emma replied coldly. The bastard.
“I hardly need to remind you that the College cannot countenance any, ah, behavior of, ah, um, less than the highest moral character on the part of its faculty. Our professors are expected to serve as models of behavior to our students. Any, ah, intimate relations between you and Dr. Bellafiori would violate our standards of conduct and, ah, constitute grounds for dismissal. Ahem. That would be most unfortunate, I’m sure you would agree.”
Emma detected a gleam of satisfaction in Dean Woodrow’s eyes, even as he put on a most serious face.
“Well, I hope I can put your, uh, concerns to rest. Dr. Bellafiori and I are engaged to be married.” She paused until her anger calmed and she could speak without a constriction in her throat. “I presume that marriage will make us respectable.”
Dean Woodrow smirked. “Yes, yes, of course.” He cleared his throat. “But it does give rise to another problem.”
“What problem?”
“If you marry, one of you will have to resign.”
“Whatever for?”
“Harrington College—like virtually every other college and university in America, I might add—has an anti-nepotism rule. Only one member of a family may hold a position with the college. It avoids the problem of a faculty member, or other employee, from exerting undue influence to hire a spouse or other family member. Quite properly so, I feel. So, if you and Dr. Bellafiori were to marry, one of you will have to resign. Under normal circumstances, that would be the wife, of course, but as you have just been promoted to tenure and Dr. Bellafiori was just made an Assistant Professor without tenure, perhaps, ah, you might arrive at a different decision.”
Emma jumped to her feet. “That’s absurd. Joe—Dr. Bellafiori—was already on the faculty when I first met him. I had nothing to do with his hiring. Surely an exception can be made because our situation doesn’t fit the sense of the rule.”
“Oh, no, no, no. Rules are rules. One cannot go about making exceptions. Otherwise, soon we have no rule at all,” Dean Woodrow lectured, as though talking to a dull student. “Besides, would you not attempt to apply pressure at the time of Bellafiori’s tenure decision? Oh, no, that would not do. You and Dr. Bellafiori must decide. If you marry, one of you must resign. And, I must repeat my warning that any cohabitation outside of marriage will not be tolerated by Harrington College.”
CHAPTER 15
1934
SWEATING IN THE same blue suit she had worn for her interview with Dean Woodrow six years earlier, Emma sat before the large oak table, willing herself to remain calm. Her mouth was dry, her mind racing. She and Joe had decided to petition the Harrington College Boar
d of Trustees for an exception to the college’s anti-nepotism rule. The Board had been meeting in MacAllister Hall since ten and now convened in the afternoon to hear their appeal. Joe and Emma had waited all forenoon, twisted in growing agitation, uncomfortable in their best clothing, far too nervous to eat any lunch.
The five members of the Board of Trustees, the President of the College and Dean Woodrow sat around three sides of the table, their faces impassive. Dean Woodrow had nodded curtly to her and Joe as they entered the room, but the others showed no reaction. All of those who now stood in judgment of her and Joe’s petition were men. Gray-haired or bald, one bearded, serious men of substance, each dressed in nearly identical grey three-piece suits with gold watch chains drooping over their ample vests.
All but one. An older lady, dressed in an elegant, but old-fashioned, long mauve dress with a high collar that was closed with an ivory cameo brooch, her gray hair set in perfect rows of waves, wearing wire-framed glasses and a serious expression, sat among the male Board members. Elizabeth Harrington, a granddaughter of Clinton Harrington, the founder of Harrington College, was a majority shareholder in Harrington Steel and Manufacturing and the only female member of the Board. No doubt she had been appointed because of her family connections and continued financial support of the College.
Emma knew nothing of Miss Harrington’s opinions of feminism. Would she have become conservative and traditionalist, as the holders of inherited wealth often do? Would she resent this aggressive lady professor who wanted special consideration so that she could marry, when Miss Harrington was a spinster? Emma knew only that Miss Harrington had lived a rather secluded life. She was rumored to play a strong role in managing the family fortune, but Emma had not been able to learn much about her. Miss Harrington was her best hope. Emma sought her eyes and was answered with a stern, undecipherable expression. Yes, speak to Miss Harrington.
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