It's a stifling, humid July day as I struggle with my proposed column on the interface of science and politics. As if fate had intended, I have an invitation from Lincoln Grahlfs, Vice Com- mander of the National Association of Atomic Vets, to view a traveling exhibit in Madison, the "Hiroshima-Nagasaki Legacy." This display is composed of photographs, poetry, and artwork designed to inform the public on the consequences of nuclear weapons, including effects of postwar nuclear testing.
I arrive too late for the formal presentation, but in air-conditioned comfort study the posters and photographs. One can debate President Truman's decision to drop the atomic bombs. But what is not debatable is the horrible human toll of a nuclear attack. In contrast to shrapnel, heat, and blast from conventional weapons, nuclear weapons pose hazards lasting in the future to victims and, through genetic defects, to their progeny. It's clear that we need to work toward a world in which these weapons are never used again.
After studying the exhibit and visiting with some arriving attendees, I wander over to State Street that runs between the Capitol and the University of Wisconsin Campus. There is always an interesting cast of characters on that stretch of real estate - even more interesting today as it is packed for Maxwell Street Days.
There are some great ethnic restaurants along that stretch. Since it's so hot, something cool and satisfying is in order, like sushimi. I wind my way through the crowd to my favorite Japanese restaurant.
It's delightfully cool inside. I order sushimi, relax, and enjoy that assortment of raw sea bass, tuna, and salmon with some sliced ginger and hot mustard that will go through the roof of your mouth if you're not careful.
Outside the air-conditioned restaurant people are milling around in that stifling humidity. There must be some bright people out there, intelligent and concerned with world peace. But I wonder how many of them know of the nuclear testing that occurred during the Cold War, and of the thousands of veterans who were exposed to radiation during those tests.
Scientists, led by J. Robert Oppenheimer who had developed the bomb, were horrified by the destruction of the weapons they had designed. Now that the race with Nazi Germany to develop the bomb had been won, and Japan surrendered after two bombs, Oppenheimer opposed developing even more powerful weapons.
But there was another race - the Cold War with the Soviet Union. After the successful Soviet nuclear test in 1949, the race was on to develop even more powerful nuclear weapons. Scientists came to realize that although they would develop the weapons, control of their use rested with politicians - heads of state.
As the divergence of science and politics widened, so too did divergence within the scientific community. It was not always so, and didn't matter in an earlier time. But now, scientists, especially nuclear physicists, were instruments of foreign policy.
Before WWII, the great minds of science, many of them European exiles aware of war clouds hovering over Europe, were a close-knit group. They traveled and socialized together. Hungarian Edward Teller and his wife, who was a gracious hostess, were central to that social circle.
Teller was exceedingly brilliant, gregarious, volatile, often disruptive, never seen as a team player, and prone to dark moods. Only Enrico Fermi could lighten him up - with his thick Italian accent, "Hey Edward, a how a come a the Hungarians never a invented anything?"
In the early days Teller admired Oppenheimer, the top American-born physicist. That early closeness would make their eventual split even more painful in their evolution from science to the world of public policy.
As the nuclear physicists became instruments of foreign policy, what they said, and advocated publicly, mattered to politicians. It was thus that Oppenheimer, the leading scientific voice against further nuclear testing, came to be viewed as an enemy of the Eisenhower administration. A coalition led by AEC Director Lewis Strauss, FBI Director Hoover, and key members of congress, with the assistance of Teller, and the tacit approval of President Eisenhower, discredited Oppenheimer as a "security risk," effectively ending his career in public service.
The renowned German physicist, Werner von Braun, referring to this saga would later observe, "What a strange country America is. In Britain he would have been knighted for his scientific achievements."
Getting crosswise with powerful politicians can be hazardous to one's career. A recent example is when CIA agent Valerie Plame's husband got crosswise with Karl Rove and VP Richard Cheney.
If it's any consolation, consequences could be even more devastating. The great Soviet physicist Andre Sacharov tells of his reluctance to work on nuclear weapons. He and colleague Igor Tamm were summoned to the office of a top official responsible for weapons research. As they were arguing against being assigned to nuclear research, the phone rang - the direct line telephone to the Kremlin.
The official picked up the phone and replied that, yes; Tamm and Sacharov were in his office at that very moment. Then a pause - "Yes, sir, I'll tell them."
Turning to Tamm and Sacharov, the official said, "I have just been talking with Lavrenti Pavlovich [Beria, Head of the KGB]. He is asking you to accept our request."
As in America, Soviet men of science met the world of politics, a world for which they were totally unprepared. And as with Oppenheimer in America, Sacharov was later punished, though more severely, for his political doubts.
With that last piece of tuna between my chopsticks, I gaze at the crowd of students mingling outside. Some of them will go into science, some into politics. How will they interact, whether the issue be world food problems, global climate change, or issues of war and peace?
Upon finishing my sushimi, I have the grist for this column.
- Monroe resident John Waelti can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net.
I arrive too late for the formal presentation, but in air-conditioned comfort study the posters and photographs. One can debate President Truman's decision to drop the atomic bombs. But what is not debatable is the horrible human toll of a nuclear attack. In contrast to shrapnel, heat, and blast from conventional weapons, nuclear weapons pose hazards lasting in the future to victims and, through genetic defects, to their progeny. It's clear that we need to work toward a world in which these weapons are never used again.
After studying the exhibit and visiting with some arriving attendees, I wander over to State Street that runs between the Capitol and the University of Wisconsin Campus. There is always an interesting cast of characters on that stretch of real estate - even more interesting today as it is packed for Maxwell Street Days.
There are some great ethnic restaurants along that stretch. Since it's so hot, something cool and satisfying is in order, like sushimi. I wind my way through the crowd to my favorite Japanese restaurant.
It's delightfully cool inside. I order sushimi, relax, and enjoy that assortment of raw sea bass, tuna, and salmon with some sliced ginger and hot mustard that will go through the roof of your mouth if you're not careful.
Outside the air-conditioned restaurant people are milling around in that stifling humidity. There must be some bright people out there, intelligent and concerned with world peace. But I wonder how many of them know of the nuclear testing that occurred during the Cold War, and of the thousands of veterans who were exposed to radiation during those tests.
Scientists, led by J. Robert Oppenheimer who had developed the bomb, were horrified by the destruction of the weapons they had designed. Now that the race with Nazi Germany to develop the bomb had been won, and Japan surrendered after two bombs, Oppenheimer opposed developing even more powerful weapons.
But there was another race - the Cold War with the Soviet Union. After the successful Soviet nuclear test in 1949, the race was on to develop even more powerful nuclear weapons. Scientists came to realize that although they would develop the weapons, control of their use rested with politicians - heads of state.
As the divergence of science and politics widened, so too did divergence within the scientific community. It was not always so, and didn't matter in an earlier time. But now, scientists, especially nuclear physicists, were instruments of foreign policy.
Before WWII, the great minds of science, many of them European exiles aware of war clouds hovering over Europe, were a close-knit group. They traveled and socialized together. Hungarian Edward Teller and his wife, who was a gracious hostess, were central to that social circle.
Teller was exceedingly brilliant, gregarious, volatile, often disruptive, never seen as a team player, and prone to dark moods. Only Enrico Fermi could lighten him up - with his thick Italian accent, "Hey Edward, a how a come a the Hungarians never a invented anything?"
In the early days Teller admired Oppenheimer, the top American-born physicist. That early closeness would make their eventual split even more painful in their evolution from science to the world of public policy.
As the nuclear physicists became instruments of foreign policy, what they said, and advocated publicly, mattered to politicians. It was thus that Oppenheimer, the leading scientific voice against further nuclear testing, came to be viewed as an enemy of the Eisenhower administration. A coalition led by AEC Director Lewis Strauss, FBI Director Hoover, and key members of congress, with the assistance of Teller, and the tacit approval of President Eisenhower, discredited Oppenheimer as a "security risk," effectively ending his career in public service.
The renowned German physicist, Werner von Braun, referring to this saga would later observe, "What a strange country America is. In Britain he would have been knighted for his scientific achievements."
Getting crosswise with powerful politicians can be hazardous to one's career. A recent example is when CIA agent Valerie Plame's husband got crosswise with Karl Rove and VP Richard Cheney.
If it's any consolation, consequences could be even more devastating. The great Soviet physicist Andre Sacharov tells of his reluctance to work on nuclear weapons. He and colleague Igor Tamm were summoned to the office of a top official responsible for weapons research. As they were arguing against being assigned to nuclear research, the phone rang - the direct line telephone to the Kremlin.
The official picked up the phone and replied that, yes; Tamm and Sacharov were in his office at that very moment. Then a pause - "Yes, sir, I'll tell them."
Turning to Tamm and Sacharov, the official said, "I have just been talking with Lavrenti Pavlovich [Beria, Head of the KGB]. He is asking you to accept our request."
As in America, Soviet men of science met the world of politics, a world for which they were totally unprepared. And as with Oppenheimer in America, Sacharov was later punished, though more severely, for his political doubts.
With that last piece of tuna between my chopsticks, I gaze at the crowd of students mingling outside. Some of them will go into science, some into politics. How will they interact, whether the issue be world food problems, global climate change, or issues of war and peace?
Upon finishing my sushimi, I have the grist for this column.
- Monroe resident John Waelti can be reached at jjwaelti1@tds.net.
