Half-Life: The Divided Life of Bruno Pontecorvo, Physicist or Spy

by Close, Frank

  But there was no hotel, and he never collected the passport. That was the last confirmed sighting of him in the West. On September 2, 1950, the Pontecorvos vanished, not to be heard from again for the next five years.

  TWELVE

  THE DEAR DEPARTED

  1950

  THE FIRST HINT OF TROUBLE CAME AT THE END OF AUGUST, WHEN Bruno’s parents turned up at the Hotel Terminus in Chamonix. Arriving on the twenty-fourth, they expected to spend a few days with Bruno and his family, as they had arranged just a fortnight ago. For three days, they searched all the campsites. They telephoned the cosmic ray laboratory on the Pic du Midi, where Bruno’s colleagues were working, and eventually met one of them, Dr. D. P. Price. He told them that he too wanted to see Bruno for help with some experiments, but that the Italian scientist had not been seen.

  The telegram Bruno had sent to Milan on the evening of August 23 didn’t reach his parents in Chamonix until the twenty-sixth. On August 31 he sent the second telegram. The letter, which blamed his absence on the car accident and the children’s ailments, took longer. After receiving these communications, his parents waited in Chamonix until September 9, hoping to receive a further letter. Then they spent three days in Annecy, and returned to Italy.

  They had received two telegrams and a brief letter, and they naturally expected to hear more from Bruno, who, they believed, should by then have been home in England. On September 11, during their stay in Annecy, his mother sent the first anguished letter to his house in Abingdon: “Dearest we no longer know what has happened to you and we are very worried. We begged you to send us word as soon as you arrived in England for our peace of mind. You are now in England and you must have got there on the 3rd crossing the sea but still no word. . . . Write IMMEDIATELY to Milan on how the journey went and how the children are: THE WHOLE TRUTH.”1

  While Bruno’s parents had been away, they had received a telegram from Egon Bretscher of Harwell, inviting Bruno to Chamonix to help with the cosmic ray experiment. They wrote to his colleague, Dr. Price, whom they had met in Chamonix, and explained why they had been unable to deliver the telegram to Bruno. Their letter shows their worry. They describe themselves as “restless,” as they have been without news of “their boy” for some time: “We’ve had no communication from him since his telegram and letter. We travelled to Savoie and because he knew we had to change our address in Milan, since we left the furnished rooms that we inhabited, he couldn’t write to us anymore. We have sent him in Abingdon our address . . . but he would not get the letter before he returned to Abingdon.”2

  On September 15, their daughter Laura phoned. Unknown to them, she was in Rome. She “calmed” them with her news: Bruno had left on August 31, the accident had caused only cosmetic damage to the car, and Bruno and the children were well. The next day, Bruno’s father wrote to him in Abingdon. He said that, after all their worries, hearing from Laura had at last put their minds at rest, though a small chastisement was included: “We had no news and we imagined all sorts of mishaps after the car accident and the children’s indisposition. But . . . a postcard to say you had arrived safely as we asked you for should have been sent.”

  Bruno’s mother, however, was less happy. Her intuition had told her that something was amiss. Here is her postscript to the letter:

  My dear Bruno. I must correct the fact that papa says WE were calmed down by Laura. It would be better if he said he was calmed down because as for me the knowledge that you had taken up your return journey gives me great pleasure but only half sets my mind at ease. To be quite happy about everything we needed just two words (it is not too much to ask and it would be enough) to tell us that you had arrived in England, well, without accident, and without the children being too over-tired! But these words have not arrived up to now. And your silence is inexplicable. Ever since the accident that you had, you should understand that our hearts stood still. And in this state of mind we spent the time at Chamonix and Annecy on the way home. We hope that a line will come from you now and that you will tell us that all is well and the children have got over their indisposition. . . . Never do it again.

  Having admonished him, his mother’s maternal love took over, with tragic irony: “Poor little Bruno. Besides your misfortunes you have had complaints from us but be sure for another time, if there ever is another time dear, think of us. Kisses and love to all [signed] Mama.”3 Bruno, by then in the USSR, never received this letter. Which is profoundly sad: there never would be another time.

  This letter eventually arrived at number 5 Letcombe Avenue, in Abingdon. The postman pushed it through the front door, after which it joined the accumulating mail and newspapers on the floor. Bruno’s parents’ anxieties erupted again when they received no reply. On September 21, in Glasgow, Guido received a letter from them, asking if Bruno had returned to England as “they had no news of him.”4 Guido did his best to find answers; upon drawing a blank, he sent them a telegram on the twenty-third: “Bruno not back yet. Colleagues enquiring.”5 Giovanni, in Amersham, also received a postcard from his parents, on the twenty-fourth. This too expressed their anxiety.

  As they had recently moved to a new apartment in Milan, they worried that news from Bruno might have gone astray. In a desperate hope that he might have written to them at Chamonix, they contacted the Hotel Terminus. On September 26, the manager received their postcard, which pleaded for news of their son. He was unable to help.

  ENGLAND

  During their summer absence, the Pontecorvos had canceled the daily deliveries of milk, newspapers, and mail to their Abingdon house. (The deliveries were scheduled to resume again upon their return.) A memory of that long-ago summer has remained with Anthony Gardner ever since: his mother would periodically come into the living room and tell Paul and Anthony, “The ducks have disappeared again.”6

  The birds needed water. There was no pond in either the Pontecorvos’ garden or the Gardners’. Paul and Anthony knew where to look. The River Stert, which was actually more of a stream than a river, flowed near their house, and was the ducks’ favorite haunt. When their mother expressed concern, the boys would go to the stream, find the birds, and bring them home.

  On Monday, September 4, soon after dawn, the milkman left bottles on the Pontecorvos’ doorstep. This was followed by a delivery of letters and cards. The Gardner family, having spent the summer in a pas de deux with the Pontecorvos’ ducks, eagerly anticipated their neighbors’ return.

  At first they thought the Pontecorvos had been delayed. Then they began to worry that something awful had happened. Milk bottles accumulated outside the door on a daily basis. The milk turned sour, and deliveries stopped. The Pontecorvos owed money to the dairy for milk delivered both prior to the their departure, and after their (scheduled) return. The dairy owner, John Candy, later sent a bill to the Soviet embassy, but he “never had a reply and is still waiting for his money.”7

  Although neighbors, local schoolchildren, and various deliverymen were all aware that the Pontecorvos hadn’t returned, no one at Harwell initially suspected anything untoward. However, in hindsight, clues were rapidly accumulating.

  Joe Hatton, a physicist who worked with Bruno Pontecorvo at Chalk River and Harwell, in his nineties remained a fountain of knowledge. His memories of Bruno are typical of everyone who knew him: “He was one of the most delightful men you could imagine. He had an extraordinary presence. He could charm a bullfinch out of a tree.” As for the summer of 1950, when Pontecorvo disappeared: “I can remember my reaction. A postcard came [from] somewhere in Italy.”

  Joe recalled that it seemed like a typical holiday postcard, except that it read as if Pontecorvo wasn’t going to see him again. He ruminated poignantly: “I was surprised. I wondered what it meant. He must have sent it when he was about to run for it. . . . Soon after that, it was announced that he had done a bunk.”8

  Some weeks elapsed before the truth came to light. Hatton received his postcard a few days before the Harwell conference on nuclea
r physics. Scheduled to begin on September 7 and last a week, it would be a major international gathering. On opening day, there was no sign of Bruno, but as yet there was no undue concern. Niels Bohr arrived on the eleventh, an event that experts such as Bruno Pontecorvo would not want to miss.9 Professor Piero Caldirola, whom Bruno had met in Italy and invited to the conference, looked in vain for his new friend. On the final day, Caldirola went to Pontecorvo’s house in Abingdon and put a card through the door. It explained that Caldirola had hoped they would meet at the conference, but that this had not been possible as “you had not arrived” by the time it finished. Caldirola departed, puzzled.10

  It was becoming clear that the Pontecorvos would not return to Abingdon anytime soon—or perhaps at all. The Gardners accepted the inevitable, leading to the first casualties of the “Pontecorvo affair”: they ate the ducks.

  ROYSSE’S: SEPTEMBER

  At Roysse’s, during the weekend of September 17, the boys were returning for the new school year.

  Among them was Mark Bretscher, whose father, Egon, was a close colleague of Bruno’s. Mark was one of the new boys, preparing for his first day at school. As mentioned earlier, the plan was that Gil Pontecorvo, who had been at the school a year already, would be Mark’s companion, guiding him through this rite of passage. However, Gil was not home, so Mark had to take the plunge alone. That was when he first realized that “something was up.”11

  The school records show that fees were due two or three weeks in advance of the term. Hitherto, the Pontecorvos had always paid on time, although as the year went along, the payments got nearer to the deadline.12 If the previous year was any guide, the fees should have been paid toward the end of August 1950. At first glance, the school records appear to indicate that they were: “Pontecorvo—fees paid—for the Michaelmas term, which began on 19 September (boarders return 18 September).”13

  However, this is a pro forma entry, and, in the “paid” column, instead of a date, there is a note that the anticipated check had not arrived. Gil Pontecorvo’s name is crossed out in pencil, with a question mark beside it. The administrators at Roysse’s didn’t know what was happening; Gil hadn’t showed up and his fees were overdue.

  FIRST WORRIES

  A Harwell employee who had returned from the Pic du Midi for the nuclear physics conference told his colleagues how Bruno had canceled his visit to Chamonix due to an accident and his children’s illness. This news, which originated with Bruno’s parents, confirmed Bruno’s own written message to Harwell, sent on August 31.14

  The conference ended on September 14, and, given that there was still no sign of Bruno, Egon Bretscher sent telegrams to Edoardo Amaldi and Bruno’s parents. He asked them to deliver a message to Bruno, if they happened to be in touch with him: the cosmic ray team at Pic du Midi was having some difficulties with their apparatus and would welcome Bruno’s help. It was this telegram that first confirmed Bruno’s parents’ worst fear: their son had not reached home. This stimulated their letters to Guido and Giovanni. Bruno’s parents then contacted Dr. Price, at Chamonix, to tell him that they had heard nothing and were becoming “restless.” Price forwarded this news to Bretscher at Harwell; it was at this point that events relating to Bruno’s disappearance began to be recorded in the British security files. These provide a crucial record of the unfolding crisis.

  It wasn’t until September 20 that Cockcroft, the director of Harwell, “became anxious [and] asked the Security Officer [Henry Arnold] to make enquiries about Pontecorvo’s whereabouts.”15 These inquiries drew a blank. On the twenty-sixth, Arnold phoned Colonel John Collard, his contact in MI5, to say that Pontecorvo—who had been expected back by the ninth—had not yet returned. Collard advised Arnold to treat this “initially as an administrative matter.” He instructed Arnold to make a casual inquiry with Bruno’s sister Anna about his movements, but advised that she should not be alerted to the security implications of his disappearance.16

  This advice seems to suggest a rather relaxed attitude on the part of both Henry Arnold and MI5, especially given the amount of time that had elapsed. Better late than never, someone finally took action. The fact was that Bruno Pontecorvo had vanished, and there was a strong possibility that he had gone to the USSR. Ronnie Reed, the head of counterespionage against the Soviets at MI5, took charge of the case.

  Meanwhile agents of MI6 began making inquiries in Italy, and throughout mainland Europe. Edoardo Amaldi had already received the telegram from Bretscher. Now he was called by “someone from British Intelligence,” who asked Amaldi whether Bruno, if he was in Italy, would be likely to come to see him. Amaldi said this was likely, as Bruno was a longtime colleague and friend. “If he does, please ring this number,” the caller requested, without elaborating further.17 The significance of the call only became clear later, when news of Bruno’s disappearance broke.18

  On October 5, the following note was added to Pontecorvo’s file: “In addition to action taken by MI6, enquiries by Harwell of his Bank Manager and the Automobile Association [confirm] a return passage on the Dunkirk Ferry was booked for PONTECORVO’S car on 4 September but was not used.”19 MI5 now decided to examine the Pontecorvo home in Abingdon. A security officer and a local police constable broke into the house “under the pretext of turning off the water.”20 Forcing the locks was child’s play. However, getting inside was another matter: the piles of letters, postcards, and newspapers that littered the hallway kept getting trapped under the door.

  Children’s toys still lay on the living room floor, and family photos sat in their frames on the sideboard. In the wardrobe upstairs, they found Marianne’s fur coat.21 Ronnie Reed’s analysis was that the family had expected to return to Abingdon, and that Bruno’s disappearance, far from being preplanned, had come out of the blue: “Much property and many of his belongings that would have been invaluable to him and his family in Russia had been left behind. Their winter clothes are still there.”22 This last point was confirmed by a fellow passenger on the plane from Stockholm to Helsinki, who described the Pontecorvos as “much worse dressed than the normal aircraft passengers. Marianne did not even appear to have a fur coat.”23

  NEWS BREAKS

  By the third week of October, classes at Roysse’s had been in session for a month, and still there was no sign of Gil. On Saturday, October 21, Paul Gardner went to the Regal Cinema with David Lees.24 The name of the film they saw has long been forgotten, but their memories of what happened when they returned home are still fresh, half a century later.

  Letcombe Avenue is a quiet street even today. In 1950 it was on the outskirts of Abingdon, bordering the countryside. As Paul turned the corner onto the avenue he found it “chock-a-block with people. Men in trilby hats were milling around.” To reach his own house he had to walk past the Pontecorvos’, and as he did so “one man grabbed me and said, ‘do you live here?’ I said yes—I was ten years old. ‘Do you know the family that lives here?’ ‘Yes’ ‘Do you have any photos of them?’ I said that I didn’t know, and at that moment my mother emerged, and pulled me into our house. She said, ‘I don’t know what’s happening out there, but it’s obviously something to do with the Pontecorvos.’”25

  His older brother, Anthony, recalls reporters knocking at their door, wanting to know about the Pontecorvos: “Dad told us to say nothing other than that we were friends.” Hordes of photographers took pictures of the Pontecorvos’ house—“a very boring house I might add,” made of red brick, a typical dwelling on a government estate.26

  David Lees too recalled the street outside the Pontecorvo house “swarming with press reporters and photographers.” He laughed as he remembered how “us young lads found it rather flattering to be the best sources of information available.” His abiding memory is of a London cab, which pulled up on Letcombe Avenue: “Out stepped a very smartly dressed man in a three piece suit, who exclaimed, ‘Hold on, cabbie, I won’t be long, keep the engine running. Can anybody tell me anything?’ he asked. So we boys all c
himed in with our little anecdotes and off he went. It all took about ten minutes.” Thus many of the “facts” about the Pontecorvos’ lifestyle, such as the claim that they were looking for a Russian language teacher, had given hints that they were about to disappear, and other fanciful tales that have been propagated over the decades stemmed from the imaginations of ten-year-old boys.27

  Then the headlines hit the papers: “Hunt for Missing Atom Scientist: The British Intelligence Service has been brought into the hunt for the missing atom scientist”; Bruno Pontecorvo “skipped just ahead of Italian police and British Intelligence”; “speculation the family may have gone to the Soviet Union.”28

  The story was front-page news around the world. “British atom scientist ‘lost’ in Europe,” wrote the Sydney Morning Herald. In the United States, the Palm Beach Post reported that Finland (where Pontecorvo was last sighted) was being “combed for the missing atom scientist [who has] evaporated into thin air.” Newspapers throughout the country ran stories speculating on Pontecorvo’s whereabouts, next to stories about spy trials, wars against the “Reds” in Asia, and the possibility of an atomic bomb being dropped on the reader’s town. By inference, and even by explicit assertion, Pontecorvo was linked to all of these. The Western media had no doubts: Pontecorvo was the third and potentially most dangerous of the “atom spies” who had fled to the Soviet Union as the net was about to close around him. A police guard was placed on his vacant home in Abingdon. The Melbourne Age announced that “to aid MI5” the Americans had sent “two G men” who had “moved into Abingdon disguised as farmers.”29

  The media then discovered that a Russian ship had apparently left the Helsinki docks, bound for Leningrad, a few hours after the Pontecorvos’ arrival in Finland. With echoes of a spy novel, the media revealed that, in addition to eleven “cabin trunks,” Bruno Pontecorvo had with him a “bulging brown briefcase” that he “kept close to his person.”30 This left little doubt in readers’ minds that the contents included atomic secrets.