(1867 – 1934)
1. Getting Ready for Visiting Marie Curie
I decided to visit Marie Curie in April 1934 (a year after my birth). By then, Marie Curie had earned all her medals and honours and also knew she was a very sick woman.
In the case of other punchees, I appeared accompanied by one of my ward-friends and actually did not change my attire. On this occasion, Archie was not keen to accompany me and both Moti and Tiger declined. Tiger felt that I did not need protection and Moti decided to stay behind with Archie.
To the surprise of all of them I felt the need to dress up.
“But what is wrong with your informal attire, Peter’le?” asked Archie. “It is very comfortable: a pair of slacks and a tee-shirt. This is the first time you contemplate formalities.”
“I agree,” observed Moti. Tiger nodded.
“But Marie Curie was a lady. She may not take kindly to my informal appearance,” I explained.
“Wasn’t Livia Augusta a lady?” persevered Archie.
“She was indeed; but Marie Curie was virtually a contemporary. She died one year after my birth. She would appreciate that my comfortable clothes were informal; Livia did not.”
“Oh well,” interceded Tiger. “Why not ask for Lord Pan’s advice.”
As if he had been listening, Theophil materialised in front of us. Looking at me critically, he offered me a tuxedo and dress shirt.
“I don’t want to overdo things, Maestro,” I told him.
“Oh well,” he responded and offered me an ordinary suit, a plain shirt and a grey tie. It was the outfit I used when delivering lectures.
“Can I have a matching tie?” I asked.
“Sure thing,” he grinned and proffered a number of ties. Having chosen an elegant red tie, I looked around with satisfaction.
“And here is a bunch of flowers: you may as well call on her as a proper gentleman,” chided Theophil. “But remember, Peter’le: this is a business call – not a social one.”
“I know this,” I assured him, “but I am sure she’ll appreciate my formal appearance. After all, they wore the same type of clothes during her lifetime.”
2. A Lengthy Chat with Marie Curie
Marie Curie looked out of her depth: “How did you enter without using the knocker?”
“What you see is a mere image,” I explained and, noting she remained bewildered, added: “The real Peter Berger died of old age. You see his replica, looking as he did when middle aged.”
“Oh well,” she muttered. “To hear is to believe. But then, what induced you to come to this place?”
She listened with curiosity to my explanation. She then pointed out that, in her opinion, the task set to me was unrealistic. Billions of people lived in our civilisations from times immemorial. How could anybody pick the seven or eight most significant individuals out of such a multitude? She felt confident that progress was a slow process and that useful information must have been lost over the years.
“Just think about our own century,” she insisted. “How many important discoveries were made by pure chance?”
“I agree,” I confirmed. “But luck and chance are inadequate on their own. You need the right person at the correct moment. Isn’t it remarkable that gravity was not recognised until Isaac Newton ‘discovered’ what ought to have been obvious for generations?”
“I take your point,” she agreed willingly. “Sometimes, though, you must have the confidence of your convictions so as to find those who would listen to you.”
“True,” I agreed. “You imply that somebody may have realised the existence of gravity but did not have the urge to make his views known. The same could be true in respect of other mind-shaking innovations.”
“Precisely,” she approbated. Then, as if by a flash, she looked at the bunch of flowers I had brought with me.
“Nowadays I rarely get flowers. Young men bring them to their sweethearts and men of the older generation are often afraid of being misunderstood.”
I grinned at the stale joke whilst she took the flowers and put them in a vase which, I sensed, had not been used for a while.
“When were you born?” she wanted to know.
“In April 1933, in Vienna.”
“1933!” she exclaimed. “That is the very year in which Adolf Hitler came to power.”
“You know about him, don’t you?”
“I do; I do indeed. He made the Munich Putsch – a coup d’ètat – about ten years earlier. It failed and he was convicted of treason. I believe he wrote Mein Kampf in prison. They let him out after only nine months. I hate him and his ideology. Anti-Semitism was one of his tenets.”
“Anti-Semitism has been dominant in Europe for centuries,” I told her. “I recall, in particular, the Kishinev Pogrom of 1903. Actually, anti-Semitism was part of the culture of many East European countries.”
“It was,” she confirmed. “It was professed in Czarist Russia, a vast empire that engulfed Poland. You know, when I went to primary school in Warsaw, I had to study Russian. I have remained conversant in it.”
“Poland had a large Jewish community. Vilna [Vilnius] was the leading Ashkenazi community during the 19th and the early 20th centuries.”
“I know. For generations Poland was regarded one of the most tolerant countries in Europe. Jews flocked to it and established themselves.”
“Tolerant havens frequently become centres of anti-Semitism or any other form of xenophobia when a minority becomes substantial, fails to mix with the indigenous population and adheres to its own norms. For at least three centuries Germany was extremely tolerant. Then anti-Semitism raised its ugly head.”
“I know,” she told me. “In France it was dormant. Marcel Proust described it vividly. And I recall the Dreyfus Affair, in which an innocent Jewish army-man was convicted of treason and sentenced to life exile in a penal colony.”
“I am familiar with the event; but – in the very least – Emile Zola published his letter, entitled ‘J’Accuse…!’, which eventually led to Dreyfus’ exoneration and reinstatement. But why are you so familiar with xenophobia?”
“I was born in Poland,” she reminded me. “My maiden name was Skolodowska. Poland has always remained my home country. Still, prejudices against women were widespread at home. To finish my studies and launch my career, I had to move to Paris in 1891.”
“Why to Paris?” I asked.
“My sister had already moved there and so I joined her. So, you see, I know all about prejudices.”
“These did not stop you from reaching the very top,” I pointed out.
“They didn’t. But I had a break of good luck when I fell in love with Pierre Curie and married him in 1895. We worked harmoniously together. Even so, when the Swedish Academy accepted nominations for the Nobel Prize in Physics in 1903, they wanted to apportion it between Pierre and another physicist. Pierre insisted that my name be included. In the end, the two of us shared half the prize with Becquerel.”
“I know this. Nonetheless you continued on your own after his demise in 1906.”
“I did; but, you know, we isolated both elements: polonium and radium in 1895. It was a joint enterprise. We supported one another. Both elements have a very short half- life and so the task was complex.”
“Please don’t feel the need to enter details. I am not a scientist and, in all probability, will follow you only in parts.”
“Pierre and I noted that a given compound emitted more radiation than would come from uranium and thorium and so felt certain there were other elements present. We set ourselves the task of separating them.”
“That much is easy to follow. But the details of the process you used would be beyond me,” I told her.
“We named the first element ‘polonium’ after my homeland, which alas was at that time partitioned between Czarist Russia, Germany and the Austro-Hungarian (Habsburg) Empire. I hoped to draw the world’s attention to this sorry situation by naming one new element polonium.”
“As far as I remember, there were numerous struggles centred on Poland and the Ukraine during the protracted wars of the Bolsheviks. I believe that, in the end, Poland emerged as a sovereign and united country.”
“It did; and I was delighted. But I cannot forgive Lenin for his cruel instigation of wars surrounding Poland. Ostensibly, he wanted Poland to become a communist state. I was relieved that, in the end, his struggle was unsuccessful. Was he one of the persons you considered as contributors to the developments of the 20th century?”
“He was; but I decided to give him a miss. All in all, he was a failure: he was unrealistic. His successor, Stalin, was a brute!”
“I know that Stalin took over the reins. Is it true that he poisoned Lenin?”
“We can’t be certain. I would not put it past him. Stalin killed anybody who stood in his way or whom he suspected of disloyalty. His was a reign of terror.”
“Did you consider him?”
“Overlooking him would have been unrealistic. I also took notice of Sun Yat Sen and Mao.”
“I do not know much about them. Who else was on your list?”
“Freud, Spengler, Einstein, Hubble and Chaplin,” I told her.
“I met Albert Einstein in the 1911 Solvay Conference in Brussels. I think very highly of him. I have read Freud and, of course, met Hubble. I like watching Chaplin. City Lights was special. It had a social message.”
“So did his subsequent films but they were made after your time. My favourite is Modern Times, which was Chaplin’s last semi-silent film.”
“Please tell me about it.”
She listened with interest to my narration. I followed it up by telling her about The Great Dictator.
“What is wrong with poking fun at Hitler? Don’t tell me that you approve of him.”
“Of course, I don’t. The very mention of his name passes a shiver down my spine. But there was nothing ridiculous about him. He was vicious: the epitome of evil. Chaplin failed to bring out the nasty side of the dictator.”
“Actually, why did you consider Chaplin?”
“He was a master of his field: the cinema. His films depict the 20th century with all its faults.”
“I see,” she approbated. “Can you also tell me about Hitler’s actions?”
“Go ahead,” I heard Theophil’s voice in my mind.
“Hitler became the absolute ruler – Führer – of Germany. His pogroms started in 1934. He destroyed all political enemies and then turned on the Jews. He and his minions murdered six millions of us. His object was to exterminate all Jews in Europe.”
“What did the rest of the world say?”
“Not much: some politicians fraternised with him and subsequently most turned a blind eye or, like ostriches, buried their heads in the sand. However, some countries sheltered Jewish refugees. But, Madame Curie: I do not like to talk about this. Hitler ‘annexed’ Austria and my parents escaped in the nick of time. I grew up in Israel.”
“Israel? There was no such country during my lifetime.”
“There wasn’t. Great Britain had a mandate over Palestine, which built up a substantial Jewish settlement – the Yishuv. Israel was founded in 1948.”
“So, there was a war,” she concluded. “It must have broken out after my time.”
“You can tell her about it,” my mind heard Theophil’s voice.
“Whom are you listening to? Is there anyone else in this room?”
“You are observant,” said Theophil and materialised in front of us, assuming the form of an ordinary, non-descript, man.
“You look like my father, Vladyslaw Solokovski; but he died years ago. Who are you?”
“I am Peter’le’s mentor. Humanity refers to me as Satan, the evil Archangel; but I am a mere observer and remain invisible unless I show my hand. Today I assumed a form you could relate to, Marie. And it is easier if I – rather than Peter’le – enlighten you. But don’t ask me anything respecting the end of your life.”
“I know my days are numbered,” she told him. “Is it a sickness I picked up from the isotopes we handled?”
“They and the x-rays you administered (without the safety of protective shields, such as a lead belt) when you joined the Red Cross during WWI. These rays and radiation act slowly.”
“Well, please tell me about the rest of the 20th century.”
Obligingly, Theophil related to her the developments which led to the outbreak of WWII. She looked surprised when he told her how Hitler took back the Saarland (which had been constituted an independent state after WWI), wrenched the ‘Sudetenland’ from Czechoslovakia and ‘annexed’ Austria. Theophil then mentioned how Stalin and Hitler entered into a non-aggression agreement, which effectively led to the latter’s sweeping attack on Poland.
“My poor homeland’s peace was destroyed once again,” she said bitterly. “I assume the West closed its eyes!”
“Not so, Marie,” corrected Theophil. “When Hitler attacked Poland in 1939 Britain and France declared war on Germany.” My mentor proceeded to tell her how Hitler defeated and conquered France and that the United States remained neutral until the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbour in 1941.
“Did Adolf Hitler live in peaceful co-existence with Communist Russia?” she wanted to know.
“He didn’t. In 1941 he launched a surprise attack on Russia without declaring war. The United States helped Russia to arm. In due course Hitler was defeated in 1945 and committed suicide.”
“What happened to Poland at the end of WWII?”
“It became a communist country; independent in name only. Stalin controlled all of Eastern Europe and a communist regime sprang up in Poland. After his death, the world changed: the Soviet Union collapsed and, in the process, Poland became an independent democratic country.”
“Did it regain freedom?” she asked anxiously.
“It did,” confirmed Theophil.
“I am relieved,” she approbated; “but please tell me more about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Are you of this world?”
“Depends on what you mean by ‘world’. I exist in another dimension but watching your universe is my hobby.”
“So ours is not the only universe?”
“You have to draw your own conclusions,” said Theophil firmly and vanished.
3. Marie Curie’s Later Life
Marie Curie looked at me searchingly. For a few minutes silence prevailed. Then she asked me if I was familiar with her life after Pierre’s demise.
“I believe you had a hostile French Press,” I answered.
“I had two nasty experiences,” she told me unfalteringly. “The first scandal took place in 1910 when I was considered for a vacant seat for physics in the French Academy of Sciences. The conservative press attacked me, claiming, inter alia, that I was Jewish. The liberal press came to my defence, but the damage had been done. The seat was allocated to someone else.”
“I understand that you reacted by immersing yourself in your research.”
“I did but it was then discovered that I had a romantic affair with an unhappily married man. A real scandal erupted in 1911. My lover had been a pupil of my late husband and, like me, was a devoted physicist. The press went so far as to suggest that I had carried on with him during Pierre’s life. When I returned from the conference in Brussels an angry mob congregated in front of my dwelling. I had to take refuge in the house of friends.”
“You must have been devastated,” I muttered.
“Wasn’t I ever!” she conceded. “Still, by sheer luck I was at that time awarded my second Nobel Prize. This was an additional recognition of my discovery of the two elements. In my acceptance lecture I gave credit to Pierre and also to Ernest Rutherford, who was the first to split the atom. He, too, had attended the Brussels Conference.”
“And you met Einstein in Brussels.”
“So I did; and he sent me an encouraging letter when the scandal broke out, urging me to stand my ground. I welcomed this warm support. We became family friends. Actually, why did you select me rather than Einstein or Rutherford?”
“Let us take them one by one. I did, of course, consider Einstein, but had some doubts about the way he treated his wife and also in respect of his originality.”
“Are you telling me that he was not a gentleman or an honest man?” she showed her irritation. “But, be this as it may, how about Rutherford?”
“He was a great scientist and I am sure that his splitting of the atom led, directly or indirectly, to the concept of the atom bombs which the Americans dropped on Hiroshima and on Nagasaki. This led to Japan’s capitulation. However, Rutherford was not as highly acclaimed as either Einstein or yourself.”
“Is fame the main criterion? I thought you were searching for the person who exerted major influence on the 20th century?”
“I do. I appreciate that Rutherford made a major contribution to physics. Nonetheless, he did not become a moving force. In my opinion, the limelight falls on you. I am thinking of the major influence that your work had on medicine. You must be aware that controlled radiation has prolonged the life of many cancer patients. Two friends of mine owe their longevity to the timely applications of radiation. Apart from being a milestone in physics and chemistry, your work contributed to the advancement of medicine.”
“I understand and am proud. But, you know, my main contribution was my work for the Red Cross during WWI. Radon helped to heal wounds, and my field x-ray device saved many soldiers from unnecessary amputations.”
“I took this into account. Note that Einstein and Chaplin gave lip service to the war effort but did not risk their own lives.”
“Aren’t you too harsh? And, you know, many ordinary men and women risked their lives whilst serving in the Red Cross.”
“I don’t think I’m too harsh. I must assess the individuals from all angles. And, yes, I know that many individuals risked their lives; but their sacrifices did not leave an impact on the 20th century.”
I sensed that it was time to end the interview but felt the need to ask for her opinion of Sigmund Freud and of Oswald Spengler. Marie Curie was forthcoming. She told me that she had read Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams but did not find the tenets of benefit when she tried to rely on them to work out the meaning of nightmares she had in the wake of the tribulations in her life. She had read The Decline of the West but wondered whether Spengler’s prophecy materialised.
“The West has declined,” I told her. “By the end of the century all colonial empires disappeared. Nonetheless, I have doubts about the accuracy of his system. History does not repeat itself and the future has remained ‘not ours to see’. Many events which took place during the second half of the 20th century were unpredictable during Spengler’s lifetime.”
“Please tell me: what happened during the last decades of my century?”
“They were marked by an electronic communications revolution. It was a process: in 1982 I purchased my first personal computer, which had a word processing system. Later I acquired a mobile phone.”
“A mobile … what?” she looked perplexed.
“A telephone you can carry with you. I am used to taking it with me wherever I go.”
“Sounds interesting,” she approbated and, as an afterthought, added: “I wonder whether this is a real experience or a mirage.”
Theophil whisked me away before I had the time to reply or to bow to her. As if by flash, I was back in my ward.