Introspection and Apprehension

I don't think I have ever had such a tussle with myself as the one I had to face the following autumn. Brian had become interested in the theoretical aspects of atomic research, and he embarked upon what was eventually to be a significant and comprehensive contribution to the study of nuclear structure. He discussed this at length with Oscar, and arrangements were made for him to join the Theoretical Physics Division. This brought us into closer contact than ever. Another concert was planned.

It was to consist of madrigals, starting with Monteverdi and other early Italian works, continuing with those of the well-loved Elizabethan period and finishing up with one or two contemporary part-songs. My common sense told me to stay away from Harwell as much as possible, and more particularly from the choir, but with a lack of self-control that seemed to grow worse day by day, I took part in rehearsals.

The weather was wonderful that October. The colour of the falling leaves and the russet glow of the sun hanging low and large over the downs, were beautiful beyond belief. I can never see autumn shades and hear those madrigals without thinking of that bitter-sweet period. They will always remind me of the joy, and also the desperation, I felt about the decision looming in front of me. It had to be made, and although it involved others I knew no-one was going to make it for me.

Oscar was not going to kick me out of the matrimonial home, nor was Brian's conscience going to allow him to persuade me to leave my husband. I felt I couldn't go on drifting in this sea of uncertainty. Vainly I hoped for some event, some change in my fortunes, a bolt from the blue perhaps, which could help resolve the problem of what I dearly wanted to do, and what my conscience told me I ought to do; but nothing transpired to alter the immediate circumstances. The children were picking up a lot of my nervous tension, and this only served to intensify my feeling of guilt.

I am frequently amused by how insignificant the relationship between Brian and me would seem in to-day's society. It was beyond doubt that we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together; but in those far-off days there were legal and social problems in Britain which, for people such as myself, could appear insuperable. If a divorce were applied for, one partner had to sue the other for adultery, cruelty or desertion. There had to be an ``innocent'' and a ``guilty'' party, and the latter had at least to APPEAR to resist. Collusion, or agreement between the parties that the marriage had broken down, was a bar to obtaining a decree. I was perfectly prepared for Oscar to divorce me, and Brian was not averse to playing the role of that character so popular with writers of farce, ``the co-respondent''. None of this presented too much of a problem except for the question of Peter and Michael. It frequently happened that a woman who was the ``guilty'' party in such proceedings was deemed to be unfit to care for her children. Mine were, and remained until they reached maturity, my first priority. Surely, a silly and feckless mother is better than no mother at all? I could have gone away, taking them with me and disturbing their schooling again, or I could have tried to buy a cottage. Such was the prevailing climate of opinion that I stood small chance of getting a mortgage on my own, and certainly the Harwell authorities would not consider allocating me another house in which to ``live in sin''. Few people under the age of forty today can understand just how heavy was the pressure both from society and the law. Promising careers had been ruined by divorces, and well-deserved honours withheld. History of the time has illustrated this in the sad story of Princess Margaret's life, when she was discouraged, almost to the point of being forbidden, to marry the man of her choice, even though he was the ``innocent'' party in a divorce.

I could have taken refuge in my parents' home, where I knew we were always welcome, but they would have demanded a reason for an indefinite stay. Their unrelenting, puritanical attitude would have made living with them quite impossible had I told them the truth. The way in which they reacted to matrimonial irregularities had been illustrated with clarity during the abdication of King Edward VIII thirteen years previously. As my father later remarked: ``A king is never FORCED to see anyone.'' If he felt he were falling in love with Mrs Simpson he should have arranged not to receive her''. During the famous abdication speech via the BBC in November 1936, when ``His Royal Highness, Prince Edward'' (not yet created Duke of Windsor), who had relinquished the throne a couple of hours earlier, referred to ``the woman I love'', my grandmother rose from her chair and switched off the radio. For anyone of breeding, particularly royalty, to refer to their feelings in such a public manner, was considered undignified. According to their code, a marriage was a commitment for life, adultery was breaking the seventh commandment, and if it could not actually be avoided, was something to be swept hastily under the nearest carpet. In those days her family never received separated couples in their home, nor any whose reputation had been tarnished with sexual scandal.

How much easier it was for the very rich. They had houses where there were all sorts of excuses for couples to live separately. There were nannies and boarding schools to preserve continuity in the lives of children. It was in the middle and lower middle classes that a tidy, well regulated life was all important. Brian and I parted frequently, vowing to be strong-minded. I would return to my house and my children, he to his work. After the madrigal concert I resigned from the choir, and kept away from Harwell as much as I could. It was all rather pointless when the chances of running into each other on buses, in shops, or even when walking on the Downs, was extremely high.

Hans Kronberger was the greatest comfort during these periods of virtuous behaviour. I had to console him too, as he had just finished a short and unsatisfactory affair with a much older woman, which had left him depressed. I remember him saying, ``At least you and Brian can look back on something satisfactory with contentment. All I have is disappointment and a feeling of failure''. This was the first time he showed how intensely he resented failure in any undertaking, be it in his work or his private life. He made it clear that he was devoted to me, and rather sorry that I had not been the one with whom he could share a future. He always said, ``If you weren't married I would marry you''. To this I joked, ``Aren't you taking rather a lot for granted?'' But we both knew that caution had to be our watchword. There was enough emotional turbulence in the atmosphere as it was without indulging in a relationship on the rebound. We remained the closest of friends for the remainder of his life. He needed all the support I could give him during the next two decades, but it was not to be enough. Tragically, at the age of fifty, he killed himself. He had already had much tragedy in his life, escaping from the Nazis who had killed his mother and sister in Austria, and it was to continue. His wife died of brain cancer after a period of unbearable strain on them both, and yet we must be thankful they neither of them knew of the death of their younger daughter in a `plane crash in India. We helped care for the older girl, who is now a grandmother. I often wish he could have lived to see his great-grandson.

It was mostly to the avuncular Henry Arnold that I turned for solace. He pointed out with characteristic common sense that my situation was certainly not unique, and he never tried to give me any advice. He would treat me to excellent lunches, listening attentively to my recital of woes and fears. Instead of showing impatience with my inability to resolve the dilemma, he would encourage me to talk it out, exhorting me, as he put it, to ``spit it all out in Uncle's hand''. He also remarked that I had lost weight and didn't look well, which was obviously true. Occasionally he would mention the pressure of work, and hint that he was involved in a ``rather big job''. I knew better than to ask any questions of the Security Officer, but it was clear that some sort of a crisis was imminent.

Everyone at AERE was aware that there had recently been a leak of secret information from Harwell to the USSR. It was widely mentioned in the press, and the journalist Chapman Pincher was speculating about it freely in his articles about Harwell, which he had made his particular speciality. Although engrossed in my own problems, I was fairly certain that my telephone was being tapped. We had a manual exchange, and there was from time to time an ``open'', or echoic sound, followed by a soft, click, temporarily interrupting conversations.

Christmas was approaching, and we were all giving the parties that were expected of us. It was at one of these revelries in the Skinner's house that I inadvertently asked a direct, indiscreet and alarmingly pertinent question.

Klaus Fuchs had by this time formed a close relationship with Erna Skinner. He had become what the Berliners used to call a ``Hausfreund'', a man who would wait upon the lady of the house, be accepted in the family circle and act as an auxiliary to the husband. Just as the old-fashioned ``nanny'' would offer care for the children in a manner that the mother could not fulfil, so the house-friend would make up for any short-fall on the part of the master of the domain. Some would simply call such a person a lover, but that is an over-simplification. One man had never been enough for Erna, and she was frequently involved with a supplementary companion. Obviously, she had no intention of leaving Herbert, and he for his part was philosophical about it. His devotion to her was such that if a situation kept her happy he accepted it, and their marriage had already survived a few such adventures.

At the party I have just mentioned, Klaus was, as usual, among the assembled company, playing the part of deputy host, pouring drinks, yet keeping himself in the background where he was obviously most comfortable. I was on this occasion a little the worse for alcohol, but not so far gone that I cannot remember exactly what I said or did.

I thought it might be rather fun to tease Klaus, so I sidled up to him and asked in a voice which I did nothing to subdue: ``Why do you give all those secrets to the Russians?'' He never as much as batted an eyelid. ``Why should I?'' was his reply; but what a cacophonous chord I must have struck. Already up to his neck in espionage, he might well have supposed that I was planted there purposely by the Security Services, but that the drink had loosened my tongue and impaired my caution. The fact that Henry Arnold was so often present when he visited my prefab during the year could only have served to make this idea all the more plausible.

If this seems an improbable story, I can only swear to its veracity and point out that there are those who witnessed the incident. Not many years ago, Terry Price and I were reminiscing about the old days in Harwell. He reminded me, ``I was there when you told Klaus Fuchs he was a spy''.

It is not the only time that without intending to I have jumped to a conclusion that has turned out to be an accurate one. I claim neither credit nor any special gift. My Irish mother liked to boast that she had ``the sight'', and could foretell the future because she was the ``seventh child of a seventh child''. She had the sort of intuition that often replaces reasoning in someone intelligent but ill-informed. She was frequently accurate in her predictions, and they once led her to win a considerable sum on the football pools. Maybe I have inherited some of this inexplicable facility, although gambling has never brought me much success. For those who are interested in the occult, my birth date, 21-7-21, might make an interesting mathematical formula upon which to base numerical superstitions; but this is not the place to start dabbling in theories concerning extra-sensory perception. I accept as a fact that I too am a fairly intuitive person, and frequently deduce things I would far rather remain unaware of.

During the few days before we departed for Manchester to spend Christmas with my parents, I noticed that Klaus showed a certain coolness in my presence that I had never sensed before. I was not sufficiently astute to link it to my gaffe at the Skinners' party, and assumed that Erna had called him to heel. Naively, I supposed that because of my uninhibited behaviour she wanted to make sure that there was no poaching on what was now her own preserve, from me or any other flirtatious younger woman to whom she extended her abundant hospitality.

During the holiday I did my utmost to hide my state of unrest from my mother. She was convinced that I was ill, and knew that I was keeping a secret. Just how much more her sixth sense revealed I never discovered. It had occurred to me to stay a little longer in Manchester to give myself one last chance to keep my distance from Brian, but instead I banked upon determination to do this for me, and returned to Abingdon with Oscar and the children. I told Henry Arnold of my decision to keep to my resolution. He kissed me sympathetically, and wondered whether I could do it. As fate would have it, 1950 was barely a few days old when Brian and I ran headlong into each other in Oxford.

We had lunch together. This time I fell apart. The situation was becoming unendurable, and the agony had gone on too long. Brian looked pallid and tired. Oscar, not surprisingly, was fed up with the whole business. That evening I got a meal for the children, put them to bed, and read them a story. Then I downed several stiff whiskies and fell into a stupor. This pattern continued for a few days, until one morning I arrived on the Skinners' doorstep. I can't remember how I got there, but I was shaking from head to foot and for the last forty-eight hours hadn't been able to keep any food down. Erna sized up the situation in a second. ``Triangular relations never work, my dear,'' she sighed sympathetically. I asked her how, in that case, did she succeed in sustaining one? ``That, is very different'', she replied distantly, ``and we are older''. I have often wondered what she was trying to say. After about an hour, Herbert came over from his office, and talked soothingly to me before going off to call their doctor. He arrived very quickly, and gave me a massive dose of phenobarbitone. I fell on to Erna's bed and reality did not seem to exist any mare.

They decided that I had to be admitted to some sort of hospital for a few days. I could hear the doctor's voice, penetrating the mists of oblivion from outside the room, saying that he wouldn't like to be responsible for letting me go home, even to collect a toothbrush, and some mumbled words such as ``collapse'' and ``exhaustion''. Some time afterwards he and Herbert came back to where I was lying, roused me and said that they had telephoned several nursing homes, but that they were all full. Finally the doctor asked gently: ``Would you mind going into the Warnford, voluntarily, just for a few days?'' I hadn't the slightest idea what he meant and was too dopey to ask for an explanation.

Henry Arnold drove me to the Warnford Mental Hospital just outside Oxford that very afternoon. He seemed reluctant to leave me. Even in my drugged stupor I was aware that he was distressingly pre-occupied. The room in which we were received was comfortable enough, with a log fire and chintz-covered chairs, but surely the Skinners' well-meaning doctor can't have had any idea of the conditions that existed behind the welcoming facade of that otherwise wretched place. I am told that, nowadays it is reorganized, pleasantly refurbished, and specialises in the treatment of university students suffering from stress.

So often, since that time, I have had occasion to visit friends in psychiatric hospitals, and have found them to be friendly and calming places. Colourful curtains border the windows, and sympathetic staff wearing their own attractive clothes and abundant expressions of kindness fill the wards. Inevitably, there is an atmosphere overflowing with warmth, light and encouragement. This is a far cry from what I experienced within the grim, grey walls of the Warnford. Although surrounded by the camouflage of a large garden and park, it was overcrowded and understaffed. The nurses, dressed in long, starched clothes, which fitted their stiff demeanour, had bunches of keys hanging from the armour-plating of their belts. Doors were perpetually being unlocked and locked again, and there was no privacy. Even the doors of the toilets had large spy-holes rudely cut into them. All taps and metal fittings were boxed in as if to remind you that you might possibly become violent at a moment's notice. It was more like a high security prison than a hospital.

The ten beds in my ward were hard and high, their covers drab, while underfoot cold, cracked linoleum chilled the feet of anyone who didn't have their slippers within reach. The only heat came from an open fireplace with a portcullis bolted to it. The chimney smoked all the time, as if to accentuate the indignity of our plight. Those of us suffering from anxiety, exhaustion and depression were freely mixed up with the chronically insane. The sight of those unfortunate and bedraggled creatures was appalling. They sat in their chairs like lifeless beings, some in tortured positions, others staring out with unseeing eyes. Those who could move without help scratched their faces and hands or fidgeted compulsively. If anyone caused trouble with the nurses they were threatened with being sent to ``F 5''. This, so I was informed, was the ward where patients were put under ``restraint'', a polite word for the straight-jacket or the padded cell.

If I hadn't felt suicidal before, I certainly did now. Everything with which I could conceivably do myself a mischief was taken away: the belt from my dressing-gown, my lipstick and my nail-file. For some extraordinary reason, even my packet of Tampax was confiscated, and cruelly withheld when I needed it. It is hard to hold one's head up with dignity in such circumstances. I made no attempt to conceal my distaste and contempt. It is not to be wondered at that I earned for myself the label ``uncooperative''. We were kept only just warm enough, and fed soggy, unappetising food, but then so are the prisoners in Holloway. Could it be worse?

For the first few days I was kept under heavy sedation. Massive doses of paraldehyde were administered every night, and the smell of it remained in my nostrils at daybreak; but sleep was difficult because of the noisome fireplace and the chattering nurses. The doctors obviously regarded me as a foolish girl who had kicked over the traces, but maybe they should be excused for that. None of them was particularly sympathetic or sensitive. After a cursory and somewhat rough physical examination, and an interview, obviously contrived to reveal whether I was in touch with reality or not, one of them actually laughed at me derisively.

Although the care of mentally disturbed patients, of all categories, has seen many changes for the better since those bad old days, this gruesome experience has left me with a deep concern for those who suffer psychiatric ailments. I have frequently helped with the various mental health movements that exist in this country, not only to raise much-needed money, but to explain to those who have never suffered it just what such an illness means.

Brian came frequently. He persuaded me to rest if possible, to regain my strength; and then, if I wished to, we could go away and make a new life together. Then my father turned up. I had begged Henry to speak to him first, and prepare him for what he would find a most unpalatable situation; but as events turned out the endless details of the job he was immersed in prevented Henry from making the much-needed intervention in time. My poor parent was speechless with shock that his daughter could be involved in anything so devoid of respectability and moral rectitude. Adultery! He just could not take it in for several minutes; and when he did, he left speedily without even enquiring about my health, denouncing Brian as a ``cad'' and Harwell as a breeding-ground for immorality. He afterwards described it as the greatest shock of his life.

After that visit Brian came again, bringing with him an unexpected visitor, Klaus Fuchs. This time Klaus was kind, and even tender. He advised me to make up my mind and stand by my convictions. He told me that he had been brought up to believe that if one was sure beyond any doubt that a certain course of action was right, it should be followed, and the opinion of those opposed to it disregarded. He stressed that everyone has their own conscience to live with and must obey its commands. Later, the pathos of his words affected me greatly. Here was this man, born in Eisenach, as were J.S. Bach and Martin Luther, and like them raised to respect the highest Christian ideals, giving me kindly advice, knowing that the net of criminal suspicion was tightening around him for treacherous acts he had committed in the name of his own beliefs.

For some reason or other the doctors decided that I was to have no more visitors, and Brian was forbidden to come to the hospital for some days. After about a week, when the initial effect of the more powerful drugs had worn off and I was fully aware of my ghastly surroundings, Oscar arrived. I was ushered into the chintzy room again, where he was waiting. He said that if I wanted a divorce he would proceed to sue me, but he added that in no way could I expect to keep the children. He would have total jurisdiction and control over them. During our conversation I came to realize that my incarceration in an institution for the insane would probably prejudice my chances were I to challenge this in court. I thought of the two little boys, at present with my parents in Manchester, trusting me and waiting for me to return, and burst out hysterically that I would have to get out of this place and see them again. How could I consider it right that they should grow up knowing that I had abandoned them?

Thus it was, with Klaus's words ringing in my ears, that I sadly told Brian, when eventually he obtained permission to visit me, that come what may I had to go to my children, no matter what the consequences. I could not possibly square with my conscience turning my back on my responsibilities as a mother. We would have to say good-bye for a long time, if not for ever. Brian was as miserable as I, but he showed great understanding and true affection as he took his leave of me.

Two nights afterwards the hospital radio was switched on as usual for the nine o'clock news. I felt as if I had been punched in the stomach as I heard that Klaus Emil Julius Fuchs had been arrested in London, and remanded in custody on a charge of spying and passing secret information to Soviet Russia. So it was TRUE.

When charged he was reported to have remarked: ``You realize the effect that this will have on Harwell?'' It was as if he considered his removal from AERE would be more damaging than his treachery had been. He was taken to Brixton Prison. I thought sadly of this fastidious man in surroundings that must have been even more gruelling than my own.

To be detained against your will and denied freedom is a searing experience. Klaus was detained by law, and in a minor sense so was I. Although I had entered the hospital as what was then euphemistically called ``a voluntary patient'', seventy-two hours notice in writing was required before leaving it. This regulation was enforced to give a medical committee time to review the case in question. If a patient were found to be insane, he could then be detained against his will. I don't think my sanity was in question, but I had a suspicion that my family and the hospital authorities intended to keep me there until I had come to my senses. Only when I had said ``good-bye'' to Brian, and had made the decision to return to my husband and children, were all my possessions returned to me. Had I walked out earlier I should, almost certainly, have found myself with nothing but what I stood up in, and probably not even the price of a bus ticket. Being allowed to use a telephone was out of the question. Some time later I told Henry what the ``loony-bin'' was like. He was aghast, but it seemed that such was his concern for my health that he felt that the added strain of all that had transpired might have been too much for me were I not in some sort of custodial care.

Two days later Oscar drove me to Manchester. I was in disgrace. My parents took over the reins of my life, and I was too exhausted and drugged to protest. As far as they were concerned the whole disgusting episode was to be wiped out and forgotten as soon as possible. ``A page of a book that has been turned without being properly read'', was the way they described it. They put it about that I had suffered a nervous breakdown, and sent me to an expensive nursing home in Wales to recover. They were both considerably annoyed that Sir John Cockcroft took no steps whatsoever to have Brian banished to Canada or Australia, and my mother implied, in the course of one of her kindly meant lectures, that if I had to stray from the straight and narrow I could at least try to do it with someone of consequence. Brian was merely a Senior Scientific Officer with nothing but his salary.

The boys were sent to school in Manchester, and a temporary nanny was engaged to care for them while I recuperated in luxury. The nursing-home, once patronized by my mother after a bout of arthritis, was a converted castle. It was comfortable and conducive to rest and relaxation. All its patients were cocooned in thick carpets and down covers. If a bell were pressed to summon a nurse, there was no noise, merely a light outside the door and an instantaneous response. Outside my window was a glorious view of the green hills around Wrexham, where I was encouraged to go for walks when I was strong enough. Every attention was given to my physical needs and requirements. The food was exquisitely prepared. My father paid the bill and it was a big one. Although relieved, I felt bleak and hollow. Nothing had much meaning for me except my boys, and I longed for them. They were occasionally brought to see me in a car, and after a couple of hours taken away again. I was not deemed fit to care for them yet. Sometimes I think that my behaviour in this tabernacle of taste and solicitude was more irrational than before; more consistent with my previous place of detention. My reactions to everything were violent. When amused I would shriek with laughter; when sad there would be uncontrollable tears.

There was plenty of time to reflect upon the affairs of the world. Clement Attlee's Labour Party had won the General Election by the narrowest margin ever. The press was full of Ingrid Bergman, who had left her Swedish husband in Hollywood and become pregnant by the movie director Roberto Rosselini while on location in Italy. She was barred from seeing her daughter for years, and denounced by the self-righteous United States journals as ``shameless'' and a bad example to American womanhood. I felt for her and admired her courage, and yet I wondered why the world had to be so hard on her, and on me too.

While I was in this state of inactivity, Klaus was brought to trial and the newspapers had a field day. I followed the proceedings thoroughly, but with sadness. Espionage is a distasteful occupation, and the Communism we saw later is many times removed from that of our visions in the thirties. Every time I visited an East European country I could almost feel the oppressive atmosphere of a community turned in upon itself. Even in the newly welcoming China, which presents a different face of that particular political creed, the lack of personal freedom was apparent. Every day we hear of crimes against humanity in these so-called ``egalitarian'' and ``democratic'' states.

Although I have no intention of defending Klaus or excusing his actions, the gutter press more than earned its name at the time. Inspector Leonard Burt of the Intelligence Corps, who had been around during the time leading up to the arrest, sold an article which I felt unbecoming to an officer and a gentleman. He depicted Klaus as dirty and sly in manner. Even the adjective ``unshaven'' was thrown in for good measure, without pausing to think of a reason. Klaus had in fact undergone some painful dental treatment shortly before his arrest. A good policeman would have known that. Even that well-known journalist, Rebecca West, wrote a spiteful and sarcastic article in the Evening Standard under the title: ``The Brilliant Imbecile''. I felt that she had missed the point entirely, and I found it difficult to believe that she ever even met him. The respectable national dailies made much of the words of the Lord Chief Justice, Lord Goddard, when he said during his summing-up: ``Dare we now give shelter to political refugees who may be followers of this pernicious creed, who well may disguise themselves and bite the hand that feeds them?'' Obviously, it was sheer treachery to betray the country that had provided him with a home and citizenship.

What everyone lost sight of, however, was that Klaus was dedicated to his ideals as a communist, and that for him all other considerations were secondary to his chief goal; they were means to an end. Megalomaniac and fanatic he may have been, but he was true to his own sincere convictions nonetheless. He probably saw himself as a contemporary version of one of the reformist Christian martyrs he would have heard so much about from his father, ready to face the rack or the stake for what he believed in. To me, the most tragic thing about his whole career was that by the time of his arrest his beliefs had evaporated, and were no longer able to sustain him at his trial. A saint goes to his end supported by an unquestionable faith. Klaus went to jail without any help or commendation from those who had so recently used his loyalty to place him in danger. It was to his credit that some time earlier, when disillusionment had set in, he stopped passing information to Soviet agents. This is probably the reason why they ignored him. Many an author writing about him has quoted his sentence concerning the values of the British way of life and the good that derives from it. ``I don't know where it comes from,'' he is reputed to have said, ``but it is there''. His father, who had by this time settled in Leipzig, made a statement to the British and American press. ``My son is no Judas,'' said old Herr Fuchs, ``but a true international communist''.

I hope for his sake that Klaus could accept the regime of East Germany where he lived for the rest of his life after his release from prison. His father died at the age of ninety-seven, and he himself died in his seventies. We hear that he enjoyed a prominent position in the Atomic Energy programme of that country. We were told that he was disappointed that none of his English friends had kept in touch with him, except for Henry Arnold. But Henry will have had his reasons. Who could tell whether there would be any prospect of Klaus turning into what is now called a ``super-grass''? Many years later, when Brian was Langworthy Professor of Physics in Manchester, he received a letter from Klaus inviting him to attend a conference in East Berlin. It started: ``Lieber Herr Kollege Flowers'' (dear Colleague Flowers). Brian could not accept, but sent in his stead a member of his research team who was on his way home to Poland. His reply began, ``Dear Klaus''. Had Klaus chosen to forget how close our friendship had been, or was he merely scared to use a more familiar form of address? Despite feeling himself abandoned by his erstwhile friends, could it be that he knew that he had let us down in a way that was unforgivable?

Now that the time limit on classified information has passed, I can reveal how we heard, many years later, just how much Klaus helped the USSR with their work on the hydrogen bomb. At an international conference, during a party where drink somewhat reduced the discretion of a distinguished Soviet academician, it was admitted that his revelations had saved them two years' work.

At the time of the trial one assumes that the extent of the damage had not been fully evaluated. After Lord Goddard had passed the maximum sentence of fourteen years, Klaus thanked him for his fair trial, the police and the officers at Brixton prison for their considerate treatment, and left the dock with a dignity that was typical of him. He was to serve nine years only, earning the maximum remission of sentence. We were told that he was a model prisoner.

The mind boggles at the thought of a scientist spending years working with the Russians - assuming that they were ahead of the West in nuclear research - and passing vital information to us and the USA. He would have been hailed over here as a hero, or at least as a very brave man.

At the time of the trial, the Peierls and the Skinners were shattered. Genia exchanged tearful and emotional letters with the convict who was once on Rudi's staff and one of her protégés. Klaus wrote of learning to love again, and to weep. She and Rudi were granted permission to visit the prison, and when asked why he hadn't denounced Soviet policies when he lost faith in them, Klaus replied that he was going to wait until the power of the Soviet Union had achieved world supremacy, and then point out their errors to those in authority. He had been reported widely as having said that he thought that Russia was going to build a new world, and that he would play a leading part in it. From this and other sayings of his that were quoted at the time, one gathers that there was a psyche of overwhelming self-importance concealed under that cloak of self-effacing modesty.

Alan Moorhead attempted a character assessment in his book The Traitors, serialized by the Sunday Times the following year. While trying to show something of the human side of Klaus's nature, his visit to me in hospital was cited as an example of the kindliness he was capable of. Although my name was never mentioned, Moorhead wrote of ``an untidy love affair that had gone wrong,'' and ``a distracted woman in hospital''. Why he chose that instance to write about when there were so many others he could have used, one can only guess. Erna wrote to me that Herbert had taken this author to lunch in order to persuade him to omit any unnecessary scandal, but about me she said, ``Moorhead, munching away at Herbert's expense, said he got the story from the horse's mouth and refused to part with a word of it''. What a lot of articulate horses there were around then! I believe one of the cleaning-ladies was offered ``£50 for a photograph, and the sky's the limit for a good story''. Good money indeed, when one bears in mind that Klaus's salary was in the region of £2,000 per annum. Brian and I have often laughed over the description of the start of our long and happy companionship that neither of us has ever had cause to regret.

Shortly before his death, Henry Arnold, still active and astute in his eighties, told me he was going to see the Skinners' daughter Elaine, who was involved in politics and happily married with two intelligent children, in order to assure her that in no way was her mother privy to any of Klaus's activities or beliefs. Genia had summed up the sad situation by saying, ``If you MUST spy, you simply DON'T have friends''.

When I was eventually released from the nursing home in better physical shape, my father decided to pay for me to take the boys on a visit of several months to see my sister, who had by then settled in South Africa. I had to be kept away from Harwell at all costs. Obviously, he regarded the avoidance of any recurrence of the scandal as something worth investing in. It was to be a new experience, and I have always loved planning a journey, but even at this prospect my excitement was less than usual.

We set out by ship on the Union Castle Line. The long sea journey in a freshly-painted ship, with plenty of space on deck and social activity in the saloons, was therapeutic. It took two weeks to get to Capetown in those days, and flights were only just starting to be commonplace. There was plenty to distract me on board. I tipped a stewardess well to keep an eye on my children during the evenings, and indicated that if she fulfilled my request properly there would be more for her when we docked. She guarded our cabin like a tiger. By now I was convinced that Brian would be flirting me out of his system, so I flirted myself, danced and took part in those games one can play on board ship, knowing that those you play them with will probably never cross your path again.

There was a great deal of excitement in Harwell during my absence. Much of it reached me in long, excited letters from my friends. It seemed that the gossips of Harwell didn't have to rely only upon the trial of Klaus Fuchs for their daily bread. There was my sudden departure as well. Many busy-bodies had their say, some even declared that I had gone to Johannesburg because I was pregnant and didn't know who was responsible. In a community that was still rather inbred in its attitudes this was inevitable.

Brian wrote that he had done some work in nuclear physics that had gained him a considerable reputation in a relatively short time. He had also conducted a performance of Fauré's Requiem. When he urged the choir to sing up, particularly the sopranos, and told them, ``Do your best, as you will have to manage without Mary'', he got a sympathetic murmur.

Later, I heard that Cockcroft had decided that it was about time Brian had the chance to expand his academic potential, and arranged for him to join Rudi Peierls's Department of Mathematical Physics in Birmingham on loan for a year, which would give him the chance to write up his work for a PhD thesis. As it turned out he stayed there for two years, and his research eventually earned him a DSc and, a few years afterwards, the much-coveted Fellowship of the Royal Society.

The Skinners moved to Liverpool where Herbert was offered a chair, and became Head of the Department of Physics. I think he was relieved to get away from the scene of so many upheavals and settle down in a university once more. Erna was reputed to be miserable there, and even more dependent on alcohol as an escape.

Much later, during a visit to them, I was helping in the kitchen. A great friend of theirs told me of an expensive electric mixer that had been Klaus's last Christmas present to them. It lay, untouched and unused, in its box where it was to remain for some twenty years.

After the Fuchs affair there followed a series of ``purges'' in Harwell. Security was tightened to an extent that nearly amounted to panic. Anyone with the smallest suspicion of Communist activities in their past lives was under scrutiny, and all those vulnerable to blackmail, or with a secret to hide, came into the category classed as ``unreliable''. If one had ever been seen reading a copy of the ``Daily Worker'' (as the ``Morning Star'' was then called), it seemed one was to be marked for life. Now the Morning Star appears daily in the House of Lords.

A university appointment - another chair at Liverpool University - was found and offered to Bruno Pontecorvo. He accepted it because he had no alternative. Harwell could no longer contain someone with his background. However, he decided to leave under protest, denouncing the witch-hunt as ``childish''. When the new academic year started he had already fled the country. Oscar wrote despondently that Henry Arnold found it necessary to tell him that his position in Harwell also could no longer be guaranteed. If he could find alternative employment he would be wise to accept it. This brought the unfairness of the times home to me, and I felt sorry for him. Eventually he applied for, and obtained, a lectureship at the University of Cambridge. I was to stay in South Africa until the removal was complete. The idea did not appeal to me, but he had let most of the rooms in my house, and my furniture and possessions would be transferred to a temporary University flat before my return. This was also the wish of my parents, and as my father had financed my trip and many other things besides, I felt it would be churlish not to comply with it.

At one time there was talk of Oscar going to Australia for a spell, and as the war in Korea was making travel in the Far East rather complicated, he suggested that the children and I should stay in South Africa until he could arrange for us to meet him there. I hated the idea, and was relieved when the Cambridge post came his way. Although I had made my decision for the time being, the thought of having half the world between us made it seem even less likely that Brian and I would ever find each other again.

peter 2011-07-25