Einstein's War

by Matthew Stanley

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  ZURICH HAD PROVED to be a productive place for Einstein. He was lecturing every week but didn’t bother to prepare well, so teaching did not take too much of his time. His office became a central place for faculty interaction—not because of his interpersonal skills, though. The cigar-puffing Einstein made his office the last redoubt against the building’s nonsmoking policy, so any colleague needing a quick smoke suddenly found an issue on which they needed his thoughts.

  Marie Curie brought her daughters to visit Einstein there and the two families hiked into the Engadin valley in the Swiss Alps. Curie spoke little German, and French had been Einstein’s worst subject in school. Nonetheless, they seemed to communicate fine. Curie was most interested in discussing quantum theory, while Einstein was deep into the problems of relativity. One of her daughters recalled: “Einstein, preoccupied, passed alongside the crevasses and toiled up the steep rocks without noticing them. Stopping suddenly, and seizing Marie’s arm, he exclaimed: ‘You understand, what I need to know is exactly what happens in a lift when it falls into emptiness.’”

  Planck, too, wanted Einstein’s insights, and turned his institutional power to bringing him to Berlin. He had plenty of resources to make this happen. Both the German government and industry were interested in making Berlin an intellectual center. As a young empire, Germany was still anxious about showing the world that they were the equal of the other great nations. Patronage of the sciences and intellectual life in general was a way to demonstrate their progressive modernity. Planck put together an irresistible package: a professorship with no teaching duties in which Einstein would become the youngest-ever member of the prestigious Prussian Academy of Sciences. The salary would be 12,000 deutschmarks, the maximum allowed by law, half paid by the Academy and half by the industrialist Leonard Koppel.

  Industrial money would also fund a new Kaiser Wilhelm Institute of Theoretical Physics under Einstein’s directorship. Much of the rapid expansion of German science in these years was built on the Kaiser Wilhelm Institutes (KWI)—semiautonomous organizations funded largely by private money. Many of the donors were Jewish, since highly visible philanthropy was a good way to demonstrate their German identity. Each KWI focused on a particular scientific field and was intended to conduct cutting-edge research. Einstein’s friend Fritz Haber had become head of the chemistry institute in 1912. He used the deep resources available to make Berlin an unrivaled world leader in physical chemistry. When he heard Planck was trying to lure Einstein there, Haber quickly joined in to convince the government to welcome his friend.

  Planck laid his personal standing on the line to secure the deal for Einstein, but he still had to convince the young iconoclast to accept it. He and his colleague Walther Nernst went to Zurich to persuade him. Upon their arrival Einstein begged for just a little more time to make a decision. He encouraged them to take a sightseeing trip and return to the train station at the end of the day. In a totally unnecessary bit of theatricality, Einstein said he would be waiting there wearing a white flower if he rejects the offer, red if he accepts. The flower was red.

  It was not obvious to his colleagues why Einstein agreed to go to Berlin. He did not have good memories of living in Germany, Zurich was paying him well, and he had many friends and colleagues there. Most of the professors in Berlin were conservative, wealthy, and saw themselves as an integral part of the German Empire. The famous physiologist Emil du Bois-Reymond declared that the university community was “the spiritual troops” of the kaiser’s dynasty. These were not people Einstein was likely to get along with.

  So why did he decide to go? Not having to teach was certainly a draw; he wrote to Lorentz of his excitement at being able to “indulge wholly in my musings.” Planck, Haber, and Nernst promised a particularly exciting intellectual community. But the major reason was almost certainly love—it was an opportunity to continue his affair with Elsa. Their correspondence increased in intensity and he reassured her that Mileva would be no obstacle to their relationship.

  The Einsteins moved to Dahlem, a suburb of the German capital, in the spring of 1914. Mileva found her husband distant and uninterested. She was surely not surprised to learn about Elsa (this was not the first time she had suspected Albert of straying). The Einstein household rapidly became an uncomfortable place for everyone. Mileva and the boys moved out just a few months after arriving in Berlin. They stayed in Haber’s house (which, they found, was decorated with pictures of himself). Haber’s wife, Clara Immerwahr, was a talented chemist in her own right and was not at all happy about having to spend her time cleaning up after Einstein’s marital mess.

  Haber offered to act as an intermediary between the feuding couple, relaying messages and suggesting compromises. He had been one of Einstein’s few confidants during the whole episode (he knew about Elsa before almost anyone else) and looked for opportunities to calm the situation. Einstein refused to continue living with Mileva in any way other than a “loyal business relationship.” He said he was only willing to do even this for the benefit of the children. With typically Einsteinian bluntness he composed a patronizing, insulting document listing what he would require of Mileva in order to remain married. She must do his laundry, provide his meals, and keep the bedroom and office tidy. She could expect no social interaction with him, public or private. She must cease talking to him or leave the room if he demanded it.

  Mileva agreed, but staying in Berlin was just too painful. She planned on returning to Zurich with the children. Haber had a final three-hour meeting with Albert to hammer out the details. At the end of July the reliable Besso came to Berlin to gather Mileva and the boys and escort them back to Zurich. Haber accompanied Einstein to the rail station to say good-bye. Einstein, crying as the train carrying his children rolled away, leaned on his friend. He wrote a note to Elsa: “Now you have proof that I can make a sacrifice for you.”

  He decided that he and Elsa had to “act very saintly” while everything was in upheaval, lest they become the focus of gossip, and they did not see each other for a month. Suddenly alone, Einstein found himself able to focus on his work. Berlin’s bustle provided some shelter from his family drama: “You get so much outside stimulation that you do not feel your own hollowness so harshly as in a calmer little spot.” The intellectual community was remarkable. He reported admiration for the “sheer amount of competence and glowing interest in science one finds here! . . . And the people, you ask? They are basically the same as everywhere. In Zurich they feign republican probity, here military rigidity and discipline.”

  There was plenty of military display at the Prussian Academy, where Einstein attended weekly meetings. He complained about the “peacocklike” fellows at the Academy and the requirement that he maintain “a certain discipline with regard to clothes and so on.” The building sat ostentatiously on Unter den Linden in the center of Berlin. Full of pomp and ritual, it no doubt brought back all of Einstein’s unpleasant childhood memories of German formality (it certainly brought back his tendency to laugh at the self-importance of it all). Nonetheless, Planck had worked hard to make everything perfect, to the point of Einstein protesting that he was not a prizewinning hen. And despite everything being in its place, the Academy was at best lukewarm to his work on relativity—he harrumphed that it only got “as much respect as it does suspicion.”

  It was not until July, as his personal life crumbled around him, that Einstein first addressed his fifty or so colleagues at the Academy. He thanked them for making it possible to devote himself entirely to science. He reminded them that he was a theorist, not an experimentalist. This meant that he was engaged with the difficult task of trying to “worm” general principles out of nature, a task for which there were no blueprints or reliable methods. Einstein said he was looking for no less than a complete reworking of the foundation of physics.

  Einstein’s address ended on a warning that, even if he found these principles, there was no gua
rantee that they would be accessible to experiment or observation. This, he said, was where relativity found itself. But while he told the Academy not to expect empirical confirmation anytime soon, he immediately began trying to get precisely that confirmation. Now that he had access to the resources of the Reich he could finally get Freundlich to look for the gravitational deflection of light. There was a perfect opportunity to make this test at the imminent eclipse of August 21, 1914, in the Crimea. Freundlich was eager to organize the expedition and carry out the observation himself. He arranged the use of four astrographic cameras for the eclipse and planned the journey into Russia.

  With Planck’s help, Einstein was able to secure the serious sum of 5,000 marks to pay for the expedition. The Academy covered 2,000 marks; the remainder came from the Krupp corporation, which had grown rich selling heavy guns to the German Army. On July 19, Freundlich’s party embarked on a train in Berlin and headed east.

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  AS THE GERMAN astronomers entered Russian territory, Eddington was finishing a week of camaraderie in South Africa. The British Association for the Advancement of Science had stopped there on its way to Australia, where a large international scientific meeting was planned. The stated purpose of the meeting was to “celebrate the system of exchange of scientific thought” between the northern and southern hemispheres. The officers of the BA (Eddington had just been made one) left Britain in June, dedicating a full four months to the lengthy round trip.

  Eddington was pleased to spend the journey in close contact with his friends Dyson and the geneticist William Bateson. Even with friends, he was not a great conversationalist. Contemporaries noted his “hesitancy, even inarticulateness at time in general conversation.” He was not much for small talk, but if one could get him on the right subject—say, mystery novels—he would chat easily, making puns or sly wordplay. Sports was another reliable topic. At one astronomical meeting he cut off discussion of giant star populations so he could go get the cricket scores.

  All of the officers of the BA were subjected to the traditional hazing of the Father Neptune ceremony as they crossed the equator. We don’t know exactly what rituals they were forced to perform (the ceremony varies from ship to ship), though it was probably more of the embarrassing than physically dangerous variety—perhaps eating uncooked eggs and having to wear their clothes backward. Eddington’s letters home to his mother mention his delight in the clear views of the Southern Cross and “the finest stretch” of the Milky Way.

  After Cape Town the group made their first stop in Australia, Perth. He and Dyson visited the geological marvel of the Kalgoorlie gold mine and hiked with botanists to see eucalyptus and banksia at the spectacular Lesmurdie Falls. Eddington delivered a public lecture on the movements of the stars, which drew some four hundred people. The rest of the scientists attending the conference joined up with the BA there. The news they brought from Europe gave a somber air to the proceedings.

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  ARCHDUKE FRANZ FERDINAND and his wife, Sophie, arrived in Sarajevo on their wedding anniversary. They never liked traveling with much security and wanted to have a relaxed trip. The path of the motorcade from the train station to city hall had been well publicized, and the Black Hand waited along the route. One of them threw a bomb, wounding members of the archduke’s party and cutting Sophie’s cheek. The rest of the assassins either froze or, assuming the sound of the explosion meant the deed was done, waited quietly. Incredibly, the cars continued on to their destination. Franz Ferdinand made a short speech there and then asked to visit one of his men wounded in the bombing. A fantastic combination of poor directions and a car with no reverse gear meant the Austrians had to stop on a crowded street for a moment. A young man on the sidewalk couldn’t believe his luck. Gavrilo Princip took aim—he almost hesitated when he saw the duchess—and fired twice. Both Sophie and Franz Ferdinand were shot. Bystanders recall the archduke’s ostrich-plumed helmet toppling. The heir to the Austrian throne died about eleven a.m.

  Several members of the conspiracy were quickly arrested and it was found that their weapons were of Serbian manufacture. The Austrian authorities knew that this was not definitive evidence of responsibility, but they also noted the excitement about the assassination in the Serbian press. Vienna started a full investigation, though the outcome was never really in doubt. The question was only what the response would be. Austria-Hungary had been vacillating between rough and gentle treatment of Serbia for years. Ironically, Franz Ferdinand himself had always advocated for peaceful measures. His death made that impossible.

  Austria-Hungary was well aware that their decision would have more than local consequences. The previous Serbian crisis in 1913 almost led to Russian intervention. So on one hand they knew the stakes could be high; on the other, they had made it through that crisis without disaster. Germany advised their allies that Russia would probably not defend Serbia—they certainly would not want to support attacks on a royal family. Nonetheless, Berlin recommended, if action was to be taken it should be done quickly while public outrage was high.

  Unfortunately for the Germans, Austro-Hungarian political culture moved at a snail’s pace. There were rules and formalities to follow. They decided they needed to send an ultimatum and receive a reply before anything was done. The ultimatum had ten points, demanding Austro-Hungarian authority over the internal Serbian investigations into the assassinations and suppression of anti-Austrian propaganda. It was designed to be refused (perhaps like Einstein’s demands to Mileva). Winston Churchill, then Britain’s First Lord of the Admiralty, called it “the most insolent document of its kind ever devised.” The Russians expressed support for Serbia. Regardless, Belgrade’s reply was as compliant as possible. It was poorly composed—they rushed to meet the forty-eight-hour time limit and their typist was inexperienced. The reply arrived just before the deadline.

  The only point they explicitly rejected was Austro-Hungarian control over the investigation and prosecution. Anticipating that their reply would not be well received, Serbia began mobilizing its army and evacuated Belgrade. On the morning of July 28, the emperor of Austria-Hungary, Franz Joseph, declared war. Russia began activating their army to protect their Serbian friends. Germany sent spies disguised as tourists into France and Russia to watch for military movements.

  If the Russians were committed, then there was tremendous pressure on Germany to mobilize. The Schlieffen Plan depended on beating their enemies to the punch on two fronts. If they waited too long there would be no chance for victory. Even as his military advisers pressed for immediate action, Kaiser Wilhelm was not sure. He thought the Serbian response to the ultimatum was surely enough to satisfy the Austro-Hungarians. As he usually did in the summer, Wilhelm went on a Scandinavian cruise and put in an appearance at the Kiel Regatta. He socialized with representatives of the Royal Navy, impressing them with his English.

  When it became clear that he could not dissuade his allies in Vienna from moving forward, he thought perhaps he could get the Russians to relent. Telegrams went back and forth between him and Tsar Nicholas looking for common ground. It is important to remember that the monarchs of Europe—England’s George V, Russia’s Nicholas II, Germany’s Wilhelm II—were hardly implacable opponents. They were all cousins. Surely Queen Victoria’s grandchildren could work something out among themselves?

  The moment became the perfect mix of danger and opportunity. The German military was still the strongest on the Continent, but Russia and France were steadily improving. So a conflict now (as opposed to in a year or two) would be to Germany’s advantage. Further, since Russia had already mobilized, Berlin could say they were only acting in defense. Wilhelm was confident that he could keep Britain out of the war too. On July 31 he announced a State of Imminent Danger of War. Mobilization had begun, the Schlieffen Plan was under way. If Germany were to support Austria-Hungary, they had to attack Russia. If they were going to attack Russia, they would have to fight Fr
ance as well. Carefully crafted tables of troop movements were opened and activated. A small force would go east to keep Russia occupied while a massive attack west hopefully knocked France out of the war.

  The French president, Raymond Poincaré, visited Russia, suggesting that they honor their treaty obligations to attack Germany. French diplomats also pressed Britain for a decision. Great Britain was obligated by an 1839 treaty to defend Belgium against attack, which was a likely circumstance. London worked desperately to avoid any formal commitment. This was partially policy—no one wanted to be dragged into a war against their will—and partially because the cabinet simply could not agree among themselves what to do. France hoped that if Britain would make a statement of solidarity, perhaps Germany could be dissuaded. Frustratingly, Britain announced that there could be an “honourable expectation” of intervention, but no “contractual obligation.” The prime minister, H. H. Asquith, could not formally mobilize the armed forces. Instead, when Churchill asked about bringing the fleet to war status, he affirmed with “sort of a grunt.”

  The historian A.J.P. Taylor blamed the start of the war on railway timetables. This is not too far from the truth. Rigidity of planning dominated all the powers’ strategies. Germany’s hope for victory, the Schlieffen Plan, relied on an intricate plan of armies moving east and west on the nation’s preeminent rail network. Every coordinated piece had to be in place, every loading and unloading happening at a precise time. And it was a single unit—removing one part of the plan would ruin everything. It was all or nothing. So at the last moment, when Wilhelm had second thoughts and ordered the attack against France halted, he was told no. It was impossible. Once begun, the schedule could not be interrupted.