Domesticity, Doubts and Defectors

The joy of finding myself in a proper home at long last was such a relief that for a while I couldn't quite believe it. Although to many the house in Abingdon might have appeared to be a characterless suburban ``semi'', or just one small part of a stark, modern development, I could not have been more delighted had it been designed specially for me by Frank Lloyd Wright. To have a living-room AND a dining-room, four bedrooms, bathroom and kitchen, as well as comforts such as a downstairs cloakroom, a garden, garage and outbuildings, seemed to me the height of luxury. I had not had so much space since those first delirious days in Berkeley. Naturally one could not expect central heating in England at that time, but the house was solidly built, and suitably equipped.

I planned a green colour-scheme for the ground floor, and bought some upholstered furniture to match a carpet I had had since childhood. There were still a number of shortages of household commodities in Britain; there was quite a lot of rationing and we didn't have much money to spend. However, I managed to buy a washing-machine, a clumsy contraption that couldn't switch itself off. It was one of the first of its kind to come off the production-line after the war, and with various modifications it served me well for nearly twenty years. I also bought a minute refrigerator the size of a grocery box that stood on the wooden work-surface of my new kitchen. From the Army Surplus Stores I acquired several cotton blankets, which I dyed the colour of jade and made into substantial, floor-length curtains. To match these, I contrived a long cushion for the low, wide front window-sill in the living-room to turn it into a seat from which I could watch the world go by. I loved looking at the row of magnificently tall conifers protecting the front road of the estate from the main thoroughfare. They swayed lyrically when the wind blew and made me feel that I was deep in the countryside. Egon Bretscher teased me, and called me an ``exhibitionist'' for doing my sewing exposed to public gaze, but I feel sure he didn't realize what a delight it was to have something pleasant to look at for a change.

The children, reunited with their friends from the prefabs, had what remained of the Fitzharries House garden to play in. There were a number of grassy open spaces, piles of stones to climb and a stream full of tadpoles. Friends came to visit us; I had a spare-room for overnight guests for which my mother supplied a few extra pieces of furniture. It was so satisfying to be able to take some sort of pride in my house, not to mention being able to move about without bumping into things and falling over the children. I suspect that I probably spent far too much time concentrating on my new surroundings and not enough on other, more fundamental considerations.

Unfortunately, the school situation wasn't so good. Michael resisted the local kindergarten with a ferocity that did credit to a three-year-old. I admit to having had a slight aversion to the horse-faced female who ran it, but her establishment had a good reputation for keeping the under-fives occupied, and there was no alternative other than letting my small son run wild at home, so kindergarten it was. Peter had to attend the Abingdon State Primary, which he found large and impersonal after the little private school in Harwell village. He tended to retire into a world of his own, and there were complaints that he didn't pay attention in class. I felt that these were temporary situations which would soon sort themselves out when the children became used to their new environment. It was wonderful to be near to the shops, a short bus ride from Oxford, and not to feel isolated and underprivileged any more. After a few months we even managed to have a telephone installed; and although we were obliged to share the line with a neighbour, and switch it from one subscriber to another by a knob on a cumbersome wooden box on the wall, it was comforting to know that we wouldn't have to turn out on a rainy night to use the call-box on the street corner, or the one in Icknield House, as we had been forced to do while living in the prefab.

Oscar soon received a promotion, which meant a little more money and several privileges. The whole community still seemed unable to shake off the obsession with rank. Upward progression from ``Scientific Officer'' through ``Senior Scientific Officer'' to ``Principal Scientific Officer'', was almost guaranteed unless one was negligent or criminal. Above that, it was experience and merit that counted. Now that he was established as a SENIOR PRINCIPAL Scientific Officer, Oscar was proved to have been considered worthy of special consideration, and was in a position where advancement to one of the key jobs was not beyond the bounds of possibility. A lot of bitterness and hard feeling ensued from these promotions, which was not made easier by workmates being neighbours as well. People might just as well have had their grade posted on their front door along with the street number. It was impossible to keep one's place in the hierarchy secret. This was true not only among the academically qualified staff who were regarded as the elite; there were ``Experimental Officers'' and professional engineering categories as well, and even more hard-feeling was generated in those quarters than in ours. Academic achievement and class distinction were easily confused.

There hardly seemed to be a single family living on the Fitzharries Estate who could rise above this preoccupation, but one or two succeeded. For example, there were the prosperous, cosmopolitan Seligmans, who persuaded the authorities to allocate to them a house that was in by far the most pleasant position of all. It was at the very end of one of the shortest roads on the Fitzharries Estate, and it backed on to a meadow. They relieved the brickwork with carved window-boxes ordered from Switzerland, and created an atmosphere, not only of comfort and good-living, but of luxury too. We were, alas, too late to secure such a good position. Our house was right in the middle of the longest road, and our garden backed on to other houses. Still, it was a great improvement to our life-style.

There was another estate that had just been built. This one was just outside Wantage, west of Harwell. The houses there were primarily intended for the families of Ministry of Works staff, and although the site was in an attractive, wooded valley, some of them were of a rather inferior quality and did not have garages. This was strange, for many of their occupants were more affluent than their scientific counterparts. As with the Abingdon accommodation, houses were allocated on the basis of ``x'' for length of service, ``y'' for seniority, plus ``z-squared'' for the size of family. This democratic system of priority ensured that the lowly who were encumbered with large families got enough space. Later these rules went by the board, and even childless couples succeeding in laying claim to the larger houses. The rents were nominal, subsidized and certainly nowhere near economic.

We had a number of amusing and friendly people living nearby. There was some lovely countryside, and the short distances from Harwell could be covered quickly by car or the frequent bus service. Life could have been one long contentment but for a growing awareness that I was not making a success of certain areas of my personal life. I feel sure that this was the reason for becoming increasingly involved in the relationships I formed with my neighbours. I have often reflected since on the immense value of a wide circle of sympathetic friends, but at that time I was very largely dependent on them.

A remarkable family came from Canada and were allotted a house not far from ours. They were Bruno and Marianne Pontecorvo, who had but recently left Chalk River. Bruno had already achieved something of a reputation, having been a pupil of the Italian Nobel Laureate, Enrico Fermi, studying the products of neutron-induced fission - work which later proved to have a direct bearing on the production of plutonium. He was lively, sociable and devastatingly handsome. Like so many of his colleagues, he too was of Jewish origin, yet so typically Italian in appearance and gesture that I would not have been surprised to learn that he had come straight from Hollywood. He was also blessed with an absurd sense of humour. After Mussolini came to power in his native country, Pontecorvo worked in Paris for a while with the French physicist Joliot-Curie, son-in-law of the discoverer of radium, Marie Curie. It was there that he met his Swedish wife. Marianne seemed to have been designed to afford a complete contrast to her husband. She was small and looked frail, with translucent skin and hair the colour of a day-old chicken's feathers. She was as hesitant and shy as Bruno was assertive in word and gesture.

There were three Pontecorvo children. Gil, a fast-growing ten-year-old who had adopted the speech and appearance of a typical Canadian school-boy, and two much younger sons of four and three called Tito and Antonio. As they were spoken to, sometimes yelled at, in Italian by their father, remonstrated and soothed in Swedish by their mother, and taught in English at school, it was not surprising that the two little ones kept their own counsel. They were typical examples of the old Yorkshire motto: ``Hear all, say nowt''. Marianne was an unusual person. She complained about their house in a voice that was barely audible. Apart from one or two pleasant pieces of modern furniture, and a collection of interesting books, their home always put me in mind of a luxury camp-site. There was something ``temporary'' about it. Bruno habitually worked in the kitchen as it was one of the warmer rooms, and the refrigerator was kept in the hall. Little attention seemed to have been given to arrangements or decor. It was inhabited rather than lived-in.

I frequently found Marianne on my doorstep. She was always making vague enquiries as to whether she could get this or that commodity. Never having lived in England before, she found it very different from Canada, and even stranger than France or Sweden. She was constantly sighing, and wondering if there were not a smaller house for them. She was one of the few who didn't seem to care about her husband's seniority. It would never have occurred to her that, as her husband was appointed at Senior Principal level, plus the fact that they had three children, it would be considered unthinkable that the Housing Officer would offer them anything but the best available. Although she called on me so often, I found it difficult to persuade her to come in. Even on the coldest days she would stand just outside, and I had almost to drag her over the threshold before she would join me for a cup of coffee and ask me her questions in comfort.

My spare-time activity continued much as before, except that I now had a long bus journey or a drive to get to rehearsals for plays and concerts at Harwell. I kept open house for all my friends from Ridgeway House, and frequently we would practise some of our music in my living-room. I had adequate space for my piano and a string ensemble if necessary. A number of concerts and plays were put on up at AERE. Two or three performances of Shaw's ``Misalliance'' were staged in the tin gymnasium; we sang Dvorak's D-Minor Mass in Harwell Parish Church, and at Christmas entertained the staff with a selection of unusual carols. But by far the biggest tour-de-force was ``Toad of Toad Hall'', which was produced by the wife of a staff member who had previously worked professionally in the theatre, while the scenery was beautifully designed by another wife, a girl who had trained in stage design at an art school before her marriage. There was always a round of applause when the curtain rose on her trees and river banks. The actors and orchestra were made up of an all-star cast of scientists and their families. I sang a solo, and even Peter at the age of five had a speaking role as the baby rabbit. The piano part was exuberantly executed by Hans Kronberger, while Henry Arnold, willing and co-operative as ever, distinguished himself as the back of the horse. The gymnasium was sold out each night of the performance and we were all left with an enormous sense of achievement and warmth when it was over. It was even reported in an Oxford newspaper, but not surprisingly it omitted to mention those responsible for the music.

The conductor at all these events was, of course, Brian Flowers. He continued to provide the main inspiration in the musical life of the establishment. A frequent caller at my house, he introduced me to the works of English composers such as Benjamin Britten, Moeran and Michael Tippet. He wrote songs himself in the English style, settings of poems by John Donne, James Joyce and Robert Herrick, that I tried to sing. Although taking some time to recover from the broken engagement, he seemed to find consolation in music just as I did, trying as I was to escape from the sense of failure and frustration.

That we became friends was inevitable; that the friendship was to ripen into love we couldn't foresee. We had a complementary effect on each other. This first manifested itself in music too. Brian could read anything at sight; even a full orchestral score on the piano desk seemed to make sense. I am, on the other hand, being what is now known as slightly dyslexic, could play only by ear or from memory. Then, as in the future, we managed to make a lot of weird and wonderful noises together. He had a very calming effect on me, helped me to concentrate upon the matter in hand, and put the brakes on the frenetic way in which I lived my life. I realized bit by bit that this was no ordinary affair, no ship that would pass in the night, no temporary folly; but I persisted in my self-imposed blindness to these problems. To-morrow would take care of itself, and for the moment there was a happiness and contentment that I hadn't experienced in years. For his part, Oscar tried to accept the situation as insignificant, in the way that so many husbands have done since time immemorial, and will continue to do as long as the system of monogamy prevails in our society and there are partners who are prepared to forgive lapses in fidelity.

Obviously I would have to come down to earth with a thud before long. By the following summer the depression that I hoped I had left behind in the prefab returned to plague me. Only when I was with Brian did the dark cloud lift.

In the autumn of 1949, conferences were planned in Basle and Como. The second of these major international meetings of nuclear scientists was to coincide with the centenary of Volta's discovery of the battery. The Italians call it ``pila'', which caused some considerable confusion among the interpreters when delegates were discussing the atomic ``pile'', as a nuclear reactor was called in those days. Both Oscar and Brian were to participate, the latter in a rather junior capacity, but the prospect pleased him immensely.

I had not intended to attend these great gatherings. The school term had started in earnest for Peter, who was by this time six years old and should have been taking his lessons seriously. Regretfully, I stayed behind when both men set off with Bruno in his car. However, once left alone, I grew restless, and the conflict within me was causing an unbearable turbulence of spirit. Such was my state of mind that I acted on impulse and asked a cooperative neighbour whether she would be good enough to take Peter into her home en pension were I to go away for two to three weeks. I promised to pay her well and send in my charlady to clean her house instead of mine. She agreed with alacrity, particularly as her son was destined to remain an only child and needed company. Michael, I took to my aunt in Dorset, who, having no grandchildren of her own, was always delighted to care for him. Having made these arrangements, I hurried up to London and bought myself a single, cross-channel passage via Newhaven and Dieppe, which was the cheapest available, and a third-class train fare to Como.

Oscar met the train in Bruno's car, which he had borrowed for an hour, and drove me up the steep, hair-pin bends that led to the small village of San Maurizio high above the Lake, where we had rooms in a simple pension. It offered a superb view of the shining water far below us, the islands and surrounding hills. There was a small garden in front of the modest hostelry where the grass and flowers were shaded from the brilliant sun by tall pine trees. Judged by any standards it was a romantic spot. For me at that moment, it was unbearable. Brian was waiting in the garden. I realized that I was being silly, but I didn't care.

This was a time of great progress in the world of nuclear physics, and most of the leading scholars were gathered in hotels around the picturesque town and lake. Professors Fermi, Siegbahn, Alfven, Powell and Pauli were just among the many who had restarted their normal academic activities when the war finished, and were now leading research teams in what it was hoped would lead to the peaceful uses of the great new discoveries. It was a very special occasion, and one at which there was an air of celebration and of hope. I remember one grand ceremony in the town-hall of the historic town of Pavia, situated nearby. There, elaborately uniformed officials of the town made a formal procession before embarking on a series of theatrical orations such as the Italians love to deliver. In the middle of the proceedings the great Fermi was spotted, sitting in a modest seat, dressed overall in nothing more spectacular than his raincoat. With the sort of flourish usually seen only in a Verdi opera, the worthy burghers doffed their richly embroidered vestments. Almost on the verge of tears they welcomed their famous, if inconspicuous former fellow-countryman, and escorted him with embarrassing reverence to a seat of honour.

Apart from Fermi, who had been living in the United States ever since Fascism had made life difficult for him, and had there led the construction of the first ever atomic pile, under the football stadium in Chicago, there were a number of other Italians of repute among the delegates: Bernadini, Occhialini and one who was returning to his native country after a long absence, Giulio Racah. Giulio had been passed over for a Chair at the University of Florence when Mussolini, in compliance with Hitler's anti-Semitic policies, had prevented the appointment of Jews to university posts. Instead, he had accepted a professorship at the Hebrew University in Palestine. After taking part in its fight for independence, he was now playing a leading role in the academic life of a country that was by this time one year old - Israel. Later, he and his family were to become my great friends, and from them I learned much about their country, the formation of which had been near to my heart since I was a teenager. There were banquets, boat trips on the Lake and excursions up the mountains, with no expense spared to commemorate and rejoice in the coming together of all these great figures. Everyone with something to contribute was roped in. The directors of the Olivetti typewriter company received us at their impressive factory at Ivrea, winding up the tour of their assembly lines by giving us a gastronomic lunch in a gargantuan assembly hall. In order to emphasize the European atmosphere of the occasion, the menu was written entirely in Latin. A smart and elegant Italian noblewoman who owned a superb villa high up on Monte Rosa gave a lavish cocktail party, causing those of us unused to drinking at an altitude of 12,000 feet to fall about in the snow while trying to walk back to the cable-cars. The Casino at St Vincente offered a splendid dinner. Waiters processed with elaborately garnished silver dishes of lobsters and tournedos held high on their shoulders. After this epicurean orgy it was hard to stay awake during the flowery, theatrical speeches which seemed as if they would continue all night.

There were informal gatherings in hotels, restaurants and little street cafés as well. At one of these I nearly made a severe faux pas. A solitary gentleman sitting at a nearby table looked suspiciously as if he were either going insane or about to have a seizure. He was shaking his round head, and the protruding eyes in his flushed face opened and closed rapidly as he swayed backwards and forwards muttering to himself incomprehensibly. Not wanting to become involved in an incident, I asked my companions whether we could move to another table. I was speedily taken outside where Brian informed me that our ``disturbed'' neighbour was none other than the greatly respected and renowned Professor Pauli behaving in the way he usually did when working out problems in his head.

After this momentous conference was over, Bruno Pontecorvo, who had been an active participant, suggested a trip to Rome. It had been talked about before, but plans were vague. By now he had received a message from Marianne saying that she would join him as soon as her sister arrived in Abingdon from Stockholm to care for their children. This was an opportunity too good to miss. I realized full well what a foolish venture it was since the ``eternal triangle'' was becoming entrenched. Foolish or not, I still was in no mood for caution, and we gladly accepted the offer. By so doing we were to experience a unique piece of history observed by none but ourselves.

We drove down the Mediterranean coast via Pisa, Bruno's birthplace, the Bay of La Spezia, Viareggio, Livorno and Civitavecchia. It was a typical warm, balmy Italian autumn, and the grapes were ripening in profusion in the vineyards, and over our heads from pergolas, as we sat having a meal or drinking a glass of wine. The golden scenery was at its most radiant, and all the wonderful churches and basilicas were not as yet infested with hoards of tourists from all over the globe. We were able to admire so many of these fine buildings in cool privacy and silence, an experience it was to prove difficult to repeat in future years.

While we were passing through Livorno, the pound sterling was devalued for the first time and no bank would cash our traveller's cheques. Bruno had a few dollars, but these didn't last long, and anyway he seemed loath to part with them, even temporarily. Soon we were beginning to worry about how we were going to pay for our food and shelter. We were all getting tired, hungry and short-tempered. Eventually I saw an elderly and important-looking gentleman emerging from one of the banks that had just closed its doors to us. His minions ushered him out, making obeisance and addressing him as ``Signore Direttore''. This was all I needed. In spite of protests from the others I waved my cheque book in supplication and whined: ``No é possibile mangiare'' (it is not possible to eat), like some indigenous beggar woman. It produced the desired effect, and he got the message instantly. We were promptly escorted to a ``cambio'' at the waterfront where, as if obeying a command from on high, the cashier sprang to attention and gave us a surprisingly good rate. I don't to this day know who the venerable personage was - he could have been a cabinet minister for all I knew - but thanks to his intervention we were at least able to afford a plate of pasta and modest overnight accommodation.

In Rome we parted from the Pontecorvos who had relations to see and old contacts to re-establish, and the three of us explored the Eternal City with energy and enthusiasm. None of us had been there before, and we were so absorbed by all its architectural splendour and treasures that our minds were temporarily released from the emotional situation that we were trying to avoid sorting out. We took in as many of the sights and sounds as possible. At night we were too exhausted to do anything but take the weight off our aching feet, and sleep.

When we met Bruno at the appointed time he seemed astonishingly reluctant to return home as agreed. Oscar, Brian and I hardly had the money for train tickets as this was the time of tight restrictions on the purchase of foreign currency. We were at his mercy, and if he didn't drive us back we should have had to throw ourselves on the mercy of the British Consul. He talked endlessly about the stupidity of going back to England when we could be heading south to some pleasant spot on the coast. We argued noisily and at length. Each time we made our protests he would simply ignore them and say: ``Listen, I have a better plan. We go to Positano.'' It made us feel anxious, as if we were being detained against our will, or were about to be abducted. We knew he was the sort of person who always liked to do things on the spur of the moment, but this sort of spontaneity was getting beyond even one of Bruno's jokes.

After the Pontecorvos had shocked the whole of the western world by defecting to the USSR the following year, a journalist called Alan Moorhead wrote in his book ``The Traitors'' that we had overstayed our leave. I don't know what Bruno's situation was in this respect, but I am fairly certain that even if we had arrived back in Abingdon a few days later than planned, neither Oscar nor Brian took any more time off than that allowed them, and resented the allegation that they had behaved irresponsibly. Apart from the question of money, getting back to work had been one of the reasons for exerting such pressure to be allowed to set off for home.

Once Bruno had grudgingly given in and turned his car in a northerly direction, his mood changed dramatically. I think it would be fair to say that the couple who had taken us to Rome were quite different characters from those with whom we were making the return journey. The atmosphere in the car was now thick with tension. Bruno, who had been his usual carefree and hilarious self on the journey out, was cross, nervous and irritable. Marianne seemed to be near to breaking point. She frequently wandered off, or shut herself in the car and burst into tears. Her small face looked pinched, and her eyes were nearly always red and swollen. It was obvious that something had affected them both profoundly. Excuses such as, ``Marianne doesn't feel good'', were unconvincing. Only once did she brighten up, and that was in Genoa where we happened to meet some Swedish sailors in a trattoria and she could speak her native language. Otherwise, they were an unhappy and pre-occupied couple.

It is my own guess that during their stay in Rome they were heavily pressurized, if not actually blackmailed, into transferring their loyalties to the Soviet Union. Bruno's sister, Giulia, was married to an associate of the Italian Communist leader, Togliatti, and he may well have turned the thumbscrews. As far as was known, Bruno had had no recent access to information that might have been of value to a ``potential enemy''. His own work at Harwell was related more to basic physics and to cosmic rays than to the development of atomic energy. But there was no doubt that he had once been a Communist; and it is possible that during his time in Canada, or earlier in France, he had jeopardized a secure future in Britain, particularly if Soviet agents had later decided to ``shop'' him. The fate of Alan Nunn May was only too fresh in our memories. But even if Soviet atomic scientists were going to gain no military advantage by recruiting his services, he certainly had experience and expertise that would be of value to them. Besides, getting hold of one of the more distinguished members of Harwell's staff could cause considerable worry, if not panic, among British security officials and scientists, and great embarrassment to the Government, not least in its relations with the United States.

That, of course, is with the benefit of hindsight. The following year, Bruno once again drove to Italy, this time accompanied not only by Marianne, but also by the children. It was months before we were to know that he had actually crossed the Iron Curtain, and there were many who worried about what had happened to the family. I still have a copy of a letter from Bruno's old father, written to Terry Price. They had met in Chamonix when both Terry and Bruno were working at the cosmic ray research centre there. Written in French, it expresses his sorrow and anxiety about his son. It is obvious that his parents in Italy were as ignorant as anyone else of the plans to defect, even if, as I suspect, another member of the Pontecorvo family had helped to engineer it.

It now seems likely that all the delaying tactics, when we were with them in Rome, could well have been a bid for time in which to get the children brought over from England; for Bruno and Marianne loved them dearly, and would never have left them behind had they decided to make their escape then and there.

When we successfully reached home in complete ignorance of what was going to happen, Brian showed me a piece of music he had composed and jotted down during the trip. It had more than a hint of the sort of melodic phrase frequently favoured by Sibelius. Was this prophetic? It was from Finland that the Pontecorvo family had vanished, flying via Stockholm where they made no contact with Marianne's family, en route for their new life in Soviet Russia which began in the autumn of 1950.

Eventually, Bruno became a high-ranking Soviet scientist - an Academician - and so greatly trusted by the Russian government that he was even allowed to visit his native Italy. On two occasions since the defection, Brian met him at conferences in Moscow. He seemed embarrassed, but glad to renew an old friendship. As is usual on these occasions, he was never far from a Russian ``colleague''. Late in 1969 Brian showed him his recently altered passport. Bruno seemed quite overcome and kept repeating ``SIR Brian, SIR Brian'', and went on to remind him how he had once been his pupil. He seemed hardly to know whether to laugh or cry. In the course of conversation he asked, ``Are you married?'' ``I married Mary,'' Brian told him. This piece of news was greeted with even more pleasure. In a moment when they seemed to be unobserved, Brian asked him if he was really happy. Bruno said that he was, except for the burden of Marianne's illness. She had been diagnosed as severely schizophrenic and was committed to an institution.

But turning back to that fateful autumn, it no longer surprises me that Marianne was not just the victim of circumstances. She had always been abnormally moody, and now there was something desperate about her state of mind. Bruno made frequent and brave attempts at behaving as if nothing had happened. He would force himself to make jokes, and was constantly trying to find something to cheer his wife. It was a sunny, clear day when we put the car on the ferry at Dieppe, and the crossing was calm. But Marianne remained immersed in black depression and would neither smile nor speak. When we disembarked at Newhaven and drove along the coast road, Bruno nudged her kindly to draw her attention to the beauty of the white cliffs and the channel. ``Guarde il mare'' (look at the sea), he said to her, as if pleading for some sort of response. In answer she merely tilted her head back on the seat and put her silk scarf over her face, as if to cut herself off from the world completely.

All five of us were returning home with problems to face. But those affecting Oscar, Brian and me turned out to be rather insignificant when compared with the onerous decisions the Pontecorvos were going to have to make.

I was glad to be with the children again. It was reported to me that Peter had missed me greatly. ``That child pined for you,'' said the charlady. Was I transmitting some of my own emotional unrest to this sensitive little boy?

Returning to a proper house instead of a makeshift was a pleasure I had never known before, but something inside me started to spell out an uneasy sense of impending trouble. It was Oscar's employment and position that had been responsible for my pleasant home, and I should have been indebted to him for providing it instead of letting my emotions lead my affection elsewhere.