The Berlin Project

by Gregory Benford

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  To the Cohen sisters:

  Martine, Elisabeth, and Beatrix

  Cast of Characters

  (in order of appearance)

  Otto Hahn: German chemist; awarded 1944 Nobel Prize in Chemistry, 1944 but received award in 1945. Worked with Fritz Strassmann and Lise Meitner.

  Karl Cohen (1913–2012): American chemist; PhD from Columbia University, 1936; Manhattan Project nuclear engineer; US Navy reactor program (under Hyman Rickover); director, General Electric nuclear power program.

  Marthe Malartre Cohen: wife of Karl Cohen.

  Rachel Paley: mother of Karl Cohen.

  Irving Kaplan: American chemist, PhD from Columbia University.

  Harold Urey: American chemist; awarded 1934 Nobel Prize in Chemistry, Manhattan Project; professor at Columbia University and UC San Diego.

  Enrico Fermi: Italian physicist; awarded 1938 Nobel Prize in Physics, Manhattan Project.

  Niels Bohr: Danish physicist; awarded 1922 Nobel Prize in Physics, Manhattan Project.

  Edward Teller: Hungarian-born physicist; Manhattan Project.

  Leo Szilard: Hungarian-born physicist; Manhattan Project.

  Albert Einstein: German-born physicist; awarded 1921 Nobel Prize in Physics.

  Martine Cohen: daughter of Karl and Marthe Malartre Cohen.

  Rabbi Elon Kornbluth: fictional major Jewish figure in Manhattan.

  Anton Paley: fictional Jewish refugee from Central Europe.

  John Dunning: professor at Columbia University; Manhattan Project physicist.

  Rudolf Peierls: German-born British physicist.

  Ernest Lawrence: American physicist; awarded 1939 Nobel Prize in Physics, Manhattan Project.

  Brigadier General Leslie Groves: builder of Pentagon; director of Manhattan Project.

  Otto Frisch: Austrian-British physicist; Manhattan Project.

  Moe Berg: American Major League Baseball catcher; United States Office of Strategic Services agent.

  Elisabeth Cohen: daughter of Karl and Marthe Malartre Cohen.

  John W. Campbell Jr.: science fiction writer and editor.

  Sir Arthur “Bomber” Harris: head of RAF Bomber Command.

  Frederick Reines: physicist; awarded 1995 Nobel Prize in Physics, Manhattan Project.

  Luis Alvarez: physicist; awarded 1968 Nobel Prize in Physics, Manhattan Project.

  Freeman Dyson: English physicist.

  Sam Goudsmit: Dutch-American physicist.

  Richard P. Feynman: American physicist; awarded 1965 Nobel Prize in Physics, Manhattan Project.

  Paul Dirac: English physicist; awarded 1933 Nobel Prize in Physics.

  Major General William Donovan: head of United States Office of Strategic Services.

  Paul Scherrer: Swiss physicist.

  Werner Heisenberg: German physicist; awarded 1932 Nobel Prize in Physics.

  Admiral Wilhelm Canaris: chief of the Abwehr, the German military intelligence service.

  Johannes Erwin Eugen Rommel: German army general, popularly known as “the Desert Fox.”

  Beatrix Cohen: daughter of Karl and Marthe Malartre Cohen.

  PROLOGUE

  Kaiser Wilhelm Institute, Berlin, 1938

  When his office door slammed open, Otto Hahn looked up.

  He stood, angry. “What?” The sight of scowling faces above dark leather coats and black uniforms shut him up.

  The very mention of the Gestapo, short for the “Geheime Staatspolizei,” elicited fear among the general population. Hahn was not so easily intimidated. He rose with dignity. “What is the meaning—”

  “Sit, Herr Professor,” said a major whose name SCHLICHER appeared above the pocket of his trim uniform. The Nazi party types always had the best tailors. Hahn could smell their strong boot polish. The major had a lean and hungry look, a glint in his eyes. “We are here to investigate the escape of your worker, Lise Meitner. She passed through the border to Denmark yesterday after leaving this laboratory.”

  “Did she?” Hahn feigned surprise. Two stiff-faced lieutenants stood just behind and beside the major. None were obviously armed.

  “You knew she would.” The major allowed himself a thin smile. “This woman’s escape—and she was carrying documents—comes just as we receive word that you and Strassmann have found a new method of yielding vast energies.”

  “Yes. So?”

  “You know Kurt Hess?”

  “Of course. He is my fellow chemist here, and the head of the organic department.”

  “Also a loyal party member. He told us you aided this Meitner to escape.”

  So, an accusation. Hahn formally bowed. “She told me she was leaving. That is all.”

  “As a German Jew she should—”

  “She is Austrian.”

  The major blinked, glancing at some papers he held in his left hand. Hahn took the moment to say mildly, “I gathered that your police generally wear civilian suits, in keeping with the secretive nature of your work.”

  The major shook his head in quick jerks. “There are strict protocols protecting the identity of Gestapo field personnel. When asked for identification, we operatives are only required to present this warrant disk”—a quick flip of a steel coin, then—“but we may wear the new provisional uniforms when making public arrests.”

  Hahn resisted his impulse to laugh at this marionette. “Of whom?”

  “You, perhaps. As head of this laboratory you should have notified us of Meitner’s escape.”

  “Kurt Hess already had, you said.”

  Another curt shake of his head. “I gather you published these results on a new energy source? In a journal?”

  “In Naturwissenschaften, yes.”

  “I have glanced over it, and my advisers assure me it is important. This published document refers to Uranspaltung? The breaking apart of the element uranium?”

  “Yes, we discovered that—”

  “Then those who assisted in this are to be kept within the Reich, by order of my superiors. Meitner, especially. You should have known that.”

  Hahn spread his hands, shrugged. Perhaps he could defuse this insolent party man. “I could not keep an Austrian citizen from leaving the country. I am merely a scientist and have no civil authority. I gather from gossip that she left with ten Reichsmarks in her purse. You Gestapo are everywhere these days, especially at the border. She has somehow eluded you?”

  Major Schlicher’s mouth tightened. Before he could speak a call came from the corridor outside. “Schnell!”

  The Gestapo men turned and ran out. Hahn followed them into the corridor, curious. A technician from his group was cowering against the wall. He was thin, pale, h
is eyes dancing anxiously.

  Another Gestapo officer displayed a file of documents to Major Schlicher. “He was trying to leave with them.”

  Major Schlicher snatched the papers and glanced through them while the technician stood frozen. “These are about this Uranspaltung, I see.”

  Hahn smelled the acrid scent of fear. He said calmly, “This is one of my technical assistants, Georg Weissman. He worked on the isotope detection experiments with us. I expect he was merely—”

  “Weissman, yes,” Major Schlicher said as he peered at the technician. “Another Jew in your group. There seem to be many, too many. So this man was trying to escape as well, eh? Bearing documents on this energy source of yours. Like the Meitner woman. Probably all planned.”

  Weissman suddenly barked, “Lise was right! She got out! Bless her! I want the same!” He stepped back, arms waving, eyes white.

  “Major, we simply publish the results of our work,” Hahn said. “It is very important, I agree. There is true potential in this research to liberate energy. Of course, that means this energy could possibly be used as a weapon, but better, as a source of power. I suggest—”

  “Enough!” The major pointed at Weissman. “Arrest this man, Lieutenant. We will see what we can get out of him.” He gestured grandly, smiling.

  Weissman hesitated, turned, and then bolted.

  A lieutenant stepped forward, a black Luger in his hand. The shot rapped hard against the ceramic corridor walls. Weissman fell.

  Karl Cohen

  PART I

  * * *

  THE CURVE OF BINDING ENERGY

  Life has two important dates—

  when you’re born and when you find out why.

  —Mark Twain

  1.

  September 26, 1938

  Not yet an hour on the ground back home in America, and already he was in trouble.

  Karl Cohen had just passed through the immigration office with his new bride, Marthe, when the family descended. His tiny aunt Ida tossed off the cheerful accusation, “Where’s your shiksa wife?”—somehow missing Marthe three feet away, perhaps because of Marthe’s polished Paris look.

  “She’s not a goy,” he muttered, voice low. Ida’s eyes danced mischievously behind horn-rims. Karl kept his smile steady.

  His mother, Rae, led the tittering inspection brigade, all eyes now on Marthe’s tailored gray suit, fashionable hat at a rakish tilt, stylish brushed leather shoes, Paris fashion on parade. His aunt Ida embraced him, saying again, “She’s my new goy greenhorn niece, eh?”

  “She’s not a goy,” Karl said stiffly as his uncle Jack leaned in for a handshake, saying gruffly, “Name’s not very Jewish, this Marthe. How do you spell it?”

  Karl managed to ignore that as his sister Mattie rapped back at Jack, “The French way, damn it.”

  As Karl managed the leather suitcases in their dustcovers, he said, “She’s as much a Jew as you, Jack.” He couldn’t keep a grating tone out of his voice.

  In some official way that was true, though Marthe had converted from Catholicism only a week before, and gotten her tourist visa the day after that. Jack nodded and helped with the hatboxes, the toilet case that tinkled from the cut-glass bottles within, and another case for soap and cosmetics. The army of gear a woman carried! Karl had never known that till the hurricane-swept voyage over on the Normandie—pursued, a deck officer said, by a German U-boat. More drama than a honeymoon cruise needed.

  They came onto the Pier 49 entrance along the Hudson River, the women afloat on their chatting, Marthe’s eyes darting among these new relatives, her carefully lipsticked smile fixed, hand still clutching her passport with REPUBLIQUE FRANÇAISE stamped boldly on it. “I had to show them the check you kindly gave me, for a thousand dollars,” Marthe said to Rae in her lilting fashion. The family brightened at this accent that made words flow like a liquid. “It is required, to show I am not an indigent. The inspector tossed my French francs aside as worthless.” Bronx laughs greeted this.

  Karl breathed in the peculiar scent of Manhattan, its crisp urban flavorings. He felt a gauzy lightness as his family chattered around him. He was back, they were safe. The New World.

  A shortwave radio on a chair was rasping out a speech in German and Karl recognized it: Hitler, making his threatened ultimatum speech in guttural, barking stutters. The oncoming catastrophe was pursuing them, even here. Would the English and French let Hitler take the Sudetenland from Czechoslovakia? All signs at the Munich meeting said they would, or else there would be war.

  Rae asked, “What will Hitler do next?”

  “We decided not to hang around and find out,” Karl said as they got into two cabs. A chorus of agreement, but eyes were still on Marthe.

  Karl ended up next to Uncle Jack, who bore in immediately, his usual brusque business style. “You don’t get the inheritance money from your grandfather Jonas, y’know, till I verify that your wife is . . . one of us.”

  Karl bristled but kept his voice level. “She is—here.”

  The certificate of conversion to the Jewish faith they got in Paris had gold script and flourishes. Jack studied it. “Just last week!”

  “It’s official. She had been meaning to—”

  Marthe broke in from the window seat, “I had been attracted to the faith before, and Karl made me finally do it.” She smiled, hands carefully knitted together in front of her. Karl noticed she wore her best leather gloves. “You will find my rabbi specifies the syllabus I studied.”

  Jack’s mouth twisted, vexed. “You get nothing from my father’s estate if I judge her not to be a Jew, y’know.”

  Karl softened his tone. “We have nothing to live on, Jack. I had to get her out before the war.”

  Jack scowled, turning away from Marthe, and whispered, “My dad felt we Jews should stick together. But this new gal of yours—”

  “My wife.”

  “—she’s a Catholic, just got some paperwork done, that doesn’t mean—”

  “Jack, I’m broke.”

  Jack frowned and worked his mouth around, as if tasting something sour. A short snort of frustration escaped his teeth. “I’ll think on it.”

  Harold Urey

  2.

  Thursday, January 19, 1939

  Karl’s desk telephone rang for the first time. He frowned at the jangle. It had been installed just days before and hardly anyone knew the number.

  “Mr. Cohen? I’m Armbruster at Bank of New York.”

  A curt, clipped tone. Karl could feel himself reddening. “Ah, I was going to come over—”

  “With a check?”

  “Well, no, I’m still running behind—”

  “You’re three months in arrears, Mr. Cohen.”

  Stall. “How did you get this number?”

  “Your wife.”

  “You shouldn’t call my home about this.”

  “Keeping it secret, eh? Wifey doesn’t know you borrowed two hundred bucks to get by? Well, your home was the only number you gave us. Your short note is due, Mr. Cohen. I don’t think I can delay much longer, and you know we dock you an arrears fee, don’t you?”

  “I’m not a simpleton.”

  “What happens next, that’s simple. We attach your paycheck at Columbia University, Cohen. Pronto.”

  “I—I’ll get it.”

  “You do that.” Click.

  He got up, paced. Making the first and last months’ rent just to move in had strapped him. He couldn’t bear the half-furnished look of the apartment they had just gotten into, so he’d let Marthe order a decent carpet. Plus, he couldn’t go to work in the worn, sagging pants and shirts he had used for years. One of the Columbia lab techs had mistaken him for the janitor. He hadn’t realized that the old adage, that two could live as cheaply as one, was flat wrong. So he had borrowed, and now he couldn’t make the payments.

  Uncle Jack’s I’ll think on it had turned into delay and paperwork, four months’ worth now. So Karl had kept up a facade of thrifty p
rosperity but could do so no longer. He gritted his teeth. Harold Urey had told him the day before that his position here was uncertain, the money to run out in two months. Then what?

  A knock on his door. Would the bank guy come here? It was only a few blocks away. He froze.

  A fist hammered again. “Come on, Karl!” came Irving Kaplan’s booming voice. “I know you’re in there.”

  Karl looked at his desk, where he had been summing up his new calculation, using a fountain pen and lined paper.

  The knock hammered again, louder. Karl finished the line, an equation giving a clear, simple result in deep-blue ink. He liked using a fountain pen rather than a pencil. This was a summary for Harold Urey, and he wanted it neat. Doing it in ink made it final. He liked the calculation’s result. Just as I guessed, he thought. No, not a guess. An intuition. Not fascinating work, and at $125 a month, a married man couldn’t get by, really.

  When he opened the door, Irving hooked a finger at him. “C’mon. Big seminar, announced word of mouth. It’s Bohr!”

  Karl blinked and considered. He had gotten interested in all this nuclear business while touring Europe in the last few years. And Niels Bohr was the biggest theorist in the hot-topic field.

  “Um. Bohr. I thought he was in Denmark.”

  “Just off the boat, seems like. Come on!” Irving was an old friend and could insist. His beanpole frame commanded attention.

  Irving filled him in, talking fast on the way down the stairs from their twelfth-floor offices. The elevators were always in use and slow. Irving was not a man to wait. The Pupin Physics Laboratories were in a tall stack of overburnt brick with limestone trim. Karl was not athletic, slighter than Irving, and still getting used to climbing between stories in the largest building on the Columbia University campus. He had done his PhD work in Havemeyer Hall, a smaller and more comfortable building, though with poor lighting. It had suited his introvert nature well, since he could slip in and out without having to exchange small talk, which bored him.