A Winter of Discontent

Eventually Oscar managed to find a dwelling of sorts. He was told at the office that he had been very lucky. Such was the housing situation in Montreal that there might have been no alternative other than to send me and the children home. The authorities seemed determined to be pessimistic. It has ever since astonished me that having been brought OUT to the New World, we were not going to get much help in staying there now that the wartime difficulties were eased and a passage back to England was feasible. In Berkeley there had been a special housing officer, while in Los Alamos and Chalk River special accommodation had been built. Yet with the resources of a big city and a large University the attitude here was doggedly negative. Surely they knew that staff with discontented and divided families are not going to produce good brain-work. What sort of luck was this?

Had it been spring-time our new home could have been the most tremendous success, but as the cold weather set in it turned out to be a disaster. The accommodation was designed for a purpose almost diametrically opposite to that of our requirements.

The one-time Minister for Lands and Forests in the Province of Quebec had built a fine summer villa for himself and his large family some time in the early part of the century. Situated on the edge of Lake St Louis, it was about twenty-five miles out of Montreal between the small villages of Chateaugai and Beauharnois, half-way to the border with the United States. This is not a serious distance compared with that which faces the average commuter these days. But in the autumn of 1945 there was no fast highway and public transport was negligible. The cheerless journey took an enormous slice out of each day on a road that passed through many small towns, the Indian reserve of Caughnawagha and the railway crossing at Laprairie, which was frequently closed to allow the trains to pass. The trees were shedding their leaves in the biting wind. The dark clouds bulged with snow. When they finally burst and everything turned white, the main roads were swept daily; but the long driveway up to the proud, gabled residence of M Honoré Mercier was now left to the erratic attentions of the concierge, Edmond, the family's last loyal though simple-minded retainer.

The house was a real beauty and one that a prosperous French Canadian citizen could be justly proud of. The view of the lake was splendid and the gardens, sloping down to the water's edge, were extensive and grand. Alas, the redoubtable M Mercier had died a short while previously and his elderly widow was left with something of a post-war white elephant on her hands which she could neither staff nor afford to run. Loath to part with it, she decided to divide it into furnished flats, relieve herself of the servant problem, and make a welcome addition to her reduced income.

When I think of the problems that nowadays face someone contemplating such a project, I can't refrain from laughter. The permission from those responsible for the neighbourhood to make such a change, the restrictions one has to grapple with, and the long wait for approval of each tiny alteration, did not exist in the Quebecois countryside. This was Madame Mercier's house and she would do exactly as she pleased. She was decidedly a patrician and used to getting her own way. Small, dark-haired and tubby, she would waddle around her property, her beady, black eyes missing nothing. She liked to make sure that her tenants were behaving in a manner she considered fitting for guests in her house. Despite the rent she demanded, she managed to convey the impression of a gracious hostess, kind-hearted but firm, and she did not like her rules broken. She spoke the French of a refined Parisian woman, unlike the patois of the local people that I found so difficult to follow. Together with the family of one of her sons, she had moved into the adjoining servants' cottage and settled down to a life of diminished luxury. She still took a long vacation in Florida every winter, and it was with impatience that we awaited her departure. Another son and his bride occupied the ground floor, the attic was already spoken for, and all that remained were some apartments on the main bedroom floor.

These were contrived by dividing the six large rooms, all equipped with ample wash-basins, into two separate three-roomed apartments. Each boasted a bathroom that would have found favour in ancient Rome. In the rooms she designated as kitchens, Madame Mercier installed large refrigerators. For cooking she provided each of the flats with two minute electric rings, and box ovens that didn't fit on top of them properly. Baking or roasting was going to be a dangerous feat of pyrotechnics. To complete what she fondly imagined was necessary equipment for a self-contained unit, she had added the luxury of a large enamel bowl to supplement basins that were hardly the right shape for washing up. Clearly the dear lady had had little or no contact with life ``below stairs''. In the rooms overlooking the lake that she deemed suitable as sitting-rooms, she had delicately screened off the ablution area with some rather forbidding, but no doubt valuable folding silk screens in sombre colours; and the bedrooms - one for each apartment - resembled those one expects to find in a five-star hotel, with elegant twin-beds from her own ample stock of furniture. Ours had blue satin counterpanes. Alas, I hadn't the wit to remove them before one received a large smudge from Peter's chocolate biscuit. Mme Mercier clearly didn't approve of make-shift sleeping arrangements, screens being re-arranged to form a children's bedroom, nor the buggy being dragged upstairs, and so, out of the kindness of her heart, produced some white, wrought iron cribs, the epitome of Victorian nursery elegance. Edmond, the concierge, must have had his mind on other things when assembling them, for after a couple of days I heard a resounding crash and had to rescue a screaming Michael from a pile of bars, bolts and ornate scroll-work.

We were among the first of her tenants, and it was left to us to discover that she had failed to realize that her electric circuit and heating plant were unable to stand the strain of multiple winter occupancy. At meal-times a fuse would blow, and when the temperature dropped the boiler gave up the ghost. There was endless trouble with the septic tank too.

To begin with, before I realized that we should be shivering in our overcoats half the time, I desperately wanted to rent the larger of these two flats, as the sitting-room - once the master bedroom - was large and boasted a beautiful bow window. The bathroom could easily have slept two in the area that separated the bath from the delicately concealed porcelain ``throne'', still leaving room for washing diapers, clothes and ourselves. But the rent was rather high, and with little money and less idea of what our day-to-day expenses would involve, I chose the smaller.

The ground outside was soon deep in snow. I dressed Peter in a hooded, wool and leather suit and sent him to play in the garden with some of the Mercier grand-children. Michael I covered with innumerable blankets in the buggy, and put him out to get his fresh air on the large verandah surrounding the house. The trouble was that I was out of ear-shot and had to depend on Peter, by throwing him snacks out of the window to attract his attention, before shouting: ``Is Michael crying?'' I feel sure that this habit was not approved of by our landlady, but to keep children indoors during any weather that wasn't actually producing a rain or snow-storm was unhealthy according to my book. When I saw the worthy Edmond sealing up our windows with putty for the winter, allowing us a three-inch slit in the woodwork for our ventilation, I nearly fainted. This well-meant British stoicism was fine, but clearly I did not know what sort of Canadian winter lay ahead.

It turned out to be more than ghastly. Sometimes it took all our combined energies to clear the driveway. Oscar needed the car to go to work, so there was no question of my getting away except at week-ends, and for shopping we were dependent upon M Dupont, who came twice a week with his truckload of canned food, wilted vegetables and indifferent variety of factory-produced cakes, scouring powder and toilet paper. Edmond fetched milk when he remembered. Occasionally, while feeling imprisoned and cut-off, I would set off with the children and trudge to Beaharnois. It was not a rewarding expedition and the goods on sale were uninspiring. A trip to Montreal was an expedition of transglobal dimensions, and none of the other occupants of the Villa Mercier seemed enthusiastic about the arrangement for reciprocal baby-sitting that I proposed. The last straw came when I went to fetch Michael one day. He was starting to sniffle a bit, and whereas the cold air would kill the bacteria, or so I thought, maybe half an hour of it would be enough. Some uncontrollable children who had rented the lodge at the end of the drive were tired of building a snowman; instead they had heaped snow into the buggy. Michael was chilled to the bone and exhausted with the screaming I had failed to hear.

All this inconvenience, and a sick baby, made me think that our rent was a little high. I called in the appropriate inspectors, adding that I did not want to complain about Mme Mercier who had been quite pleasant to us. ``At the rent she's charging you she'd need to be pleasant,'' answered the man, concerned. Things worked in a mysterious way in Quebec in those times. The Merciers were a respected and well-established family. Within a couple of weeks our rent had been increased.

After a bleak Christmas another flat was found and we moved into Montreal, falling out of the frying pan into a perilous fire. It is seldom that I have met a person quite as unprepossessing and unpleasant in manner as a certain Mr Robinson. Everything about him was swollen, from his belly to his lashless eyelids. He was florid, and one instinctively had the feeling that he would smell nasty if he came too close. He owned an oil-burner factory in Westmount, a pleasant part of Montreal not far from the city centre. Over the factory there had been a ballroom which he had had converted into a dingy, dirty cavern that he called a flat. The rent must have been assessed according to the size of the accommodation; both were enormous. Once again I appealed to the tribunal, and the rent was almost halved. Mr Robinson was furious. He would walk through our front door, frequently and uninvited, to complain about our tenancy. If he found the door locked he would send registered letters by the postman, who banged relentlessly. The walls and furniture were coated with a film of accumulated dirt, the floors were no better and all the cutlery and crockery had been stolen from Schraaft's, Child's and other well-known commissariats in New York at that time. There was a grand piano in the living-room but it was clearIy there for effect. Having prised the lid open I discovered over half the keys were missing. Further investigation revealed an absence of hammers and strings. The smell of fumes rising from the ground floor was unbearable, and the only place for Peter to play was in an adjacent parking lot. The double windows, which could not be opened, were practically opaque because the space between the panes had never been cleaned. If I had had the nerve to make a request that anything be done the miserable old man would stop by on his way home on Friday evening and switch off our heating, leaving us to shiver until the following Monday.

Once a large mirror, insecurely fastened to the wall, fell off with a resounding crash, narrowly missing Peter. The neighbours employed a black cleaning-lady who had a few hours to spare each week and agreed to come and help me. Her name was Eulene; she was six-foot tall and had a wonderful sense of humour. The rich contralto of her laughter helped to make life bearable. She and I picked up the shattered fragments and put them out of harm's way in a small, spooky attic which was reached by a short flight of stairs leading up from the living-room. A few days later Robinson called on one of his tours of inspection and decided to clamber up them, wheezing from the effort, to take a look around. There was a crash as he ran into the offending article. Purple in the face he stormed down and poured forth a stream of accusations and abuse. Eulene and I lied in unison: ``But Mr Robinson, you broke it yourself, we just heard you. We put it up there because it was coming off the wall and wasn't safe.'' We felt totally justified.

Acquiring Eulene on a twice-weekly basis made it possible for me to go shopping on my own. Occasionally she would return in the evening to allow us to go to a concert, a restaurant or accept one of the very few invitations we received. I did my best to entertain people to dinner so as to make a few friends, but even this was an up-hill job. Few of the wives of senior staff sought out the new arrivals. We had to take the initiative ourselves. Gradually I started to get to know people and formed friendships, some of which were to last.

Outings were bright spots. There was one party at which we met our future chief, John Cockcroft. He was undoubtedly a great leader, but withdrawn and difficult to talk to. He habitually removed the spectacles from his strained-looking eyes and polished them, as if to focus better on something just beyond the horizon. I was aware that it was an effort for him to make small-talk, but he made it politely, punctuating his sentences with the silences of a man who never speaks without thinking first.

I got on famously with Professor Lew Kowarski of the ``heavy water drama''. His sense of humour and of the ridiculous put me at ease immediately. Some say he looked like a Russian bear, but I thought of him as a simian giant. I think he did too, for he used to love recalling an occasion when he was stopped and asked the way to the Monkey House in Regent's Park Zoo. He swore that he had replied, ``I'm sorry, but I'm a stranger here myself.'' He adored good food, had a razor-sharp wit and an irrepressible capacity for coming out with tri-lingual puns. We established a rapport which was to emerge instantly every time we met in the years to come.

Although I never got to know him well, I was impressed by the quiet and studious Professor Guéron, the Frenchman famous for his research in chemistry. One of his claims to fame was that he absent-mindedly removed a radium source from the tongs with which he was carrying it, and put it in his trouser pocket where it remained until he undressed much later that night. The fact that he sired a normal child later on was proof that he had survived what could otherwise have been described as a ``do-it-yourself sterilization''.

Among those who returned our hospitality was Henry Seligman who subsequently distinguished himself in Harwell's Isotope Division before joining the International Atomic Energy Agency in Vienna. He was blessed with private means as his family were international bankers. He was another naturalized German, but being forced to uproot himself from his home did not mean hardship, and he could hardly be classed as a ``refugee''. There were branches of the Seligman Bank all over the place, so he had an abundant supply of dollars to supplement his salary, and life treated him well. His wife was a lively blond actress who always looked as if she had stepped straight off the pages of ``Vogue''. As yet they were childless and able to make a colourful contribution to the otherwise sluggish social scene. They had a smart apartment on Cote des Neiges, one of Montreal's more fashionable neighbourhoods. When applying for it, Lesley Seligman who epitomized all that was Anglo-Saxon in her appearance in contrast to the blatantly Semitic features of her husband, was told, ``Of course, this is an exclusive block. Our tenants all have excellent references and we don't take any Jews.'' ``That's excellent,'' replied Lesley, ``my husband will be so relieved.''

I also became friends with a kind lady who offered to take Michael so that we could have a long week-end away. Peter was old enough to come with us. I could not help but parody the words of the Bard: ``Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by a visit to New York.'' It was fun. Our friend from Manchester had married his fiancée, Inga, after all those years of patience. They met us and we celebrated in nightclubs, in theatres and by gossiping late into the night and talking of the future.

But all good things have to end and it was no joy to return to that mausoleum of a flat. I contracted 'flu followed by a severe kidney infection. This in turn gave way to a depression. I fought it like a tiger in the most foolish ways imaginable, such as eating a large lobster dinner while suffering from a high fever. (It says much for my constitution that I kept every scrap of it down). I also decided to have a complete beauty treatment. When the hairdresser suggested a ``permanent'' I suddenly realized that my thick, curly hair had become straight and sparse. A lump of misery rolled round my brain like a snowball, getting larger and larger until I could think of nothing else. The strength had been drained from my sinews and I wept for hours as I watched my children playing on a filthy carpet which I was too weak to scrub. Worst of all, Michael didn't seem to thrive. I took him to two paediatricians who couldn't find anything much the matter with him. Then one day he started vomiting and crying incessantly. We had no telephone, and at one point he looked so frail that I hurled Peter at an astonished neighbour with whom I had a nodding acquaintance and ran dramatically, as fast as I could through the snow to the nearest hospital, with what I was convinced was a moribund infant in my arms. After a long wait I was informed that it was gastroenteritis, given a prescription and sent home. I was brusquely informed that if there was no improvement I could bring him back in a week.

There was frustration everywhere I turned. I tried to fight the blues with activity, but was exhausted after every attempt. I became over-anxious about my baby, obsessed that the hospital doctor had overlooked something serious. The temperature outside fell to thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit below zero. I would stagger to the shops when Eulene was around, but was usually on the bed, crying, when Oscar returned from work.

At this time I confess that I was so preoccupied that I failed to take in the significance of all that was going on in the National Research Council which ran the Canadian atomic project.

We had just finished and won a war with a well-defined and identifiable enemy. Now a new potential adversary was emerging. Our former ``gallant ally'', the USSR, badly needed information and know-how in order to win the much coveted prize of a nuclear research programme. There had been trouble enough among the western policy-makers of the time, deciding just what concessions they were going to make in sharing their secret information with each other, let alone passing over anything to a country whose antipathy to her erstwhile comrades-in-arms was beginning to show through the veneer of friendliness. The Americans were clearly in a commanding position, but opinions varied enormously as to what would endanger their country's security. It was reckoned that several years would elapse before the Russians could catch up with them to any significant extent. All those whose idealist sympathies lay with Communism - and there were many who were yet to be disillusioned - felt that all information should be shared. It was, with the benefit of hindsight, not surprising that a few of these people should accept recruitment to the extensive network of Soviet espionage. After all, if Communism were to prove the only solution to the vast problems that confronted the world, it followed that those who had shared with the Russians the victory over Fascism should share their expertise as well.

I have since heard a story about a Russian officer who happened to understand physics and who had a good working knowledge of the English language. He had managed to get hold of several issues of the Physical Review, the journal of the American Physical Society in which most English-speaking physicists published the results of their research. He noticed a sudden cessation of papers, which had hitherto been freely published, concerning experiments on fission, and deduced, not surprisingly, that they had been withdrawn because of their military significance. He reported his convictions to his superiors and his statement went straight up the hierarchy and landed on Stalin's desk. It was, so I was told, at this point that the USSR decided to step up all efforts to recruit anyone in the West who was likely to be able to assist them with details of the work being carried out in conditions of such secrecy in North America. I don't know whether I have the details of this curious tale quite right, for it was told to me at a dinner party. Nonetheless, it came from the mouth of a highly distinguished and senior American scientist.

It was not until later that it was known just how much was being leaked from Los Alamos, but at this time a member of the Soviet Embassy staff in Ottawa asked far political asylum in Canada and revealed that a spy-ring had been set up in Montreal. Several arrests were made, and even those who were not members of it, but were known for their overt Communist sympathies, were tactfully relieved of their duties.

The news broke one day in February 1946. While driving through the streets of Montreal I happened to get stuck behind a police wagon outside the city's jail. There had, by all appearances, been a raid on Montreal's flourishing red-light district. The doors of the van opened and out poured the prostitutes: fat tarts, thin tarts, old tarts, young tarts, some pretty, others hideous. A curious vision of a procession of earnest, ``donnish'' scientists being similarly treated and herded, complete with their briefcases and their classified documents, entered my mind and I have never been able to dissociate the two images.

It was all very worrying for Oscar. This was the start of a ``witch-hunt'' policy that was to last many years, and was obviously going to affect anyone who had had leanings to the left, even if their loyalty to the West was such that the mere idea of subversive activity was abhorrent. He voiced his fears casually at a neighbour's party where none of the other guests, to the best of our knowledge, had anything whatsoever to do with the ``nuclear business''. It is an interesting example of the fears prevalent at the time that this remark was taken sufficiently seriously to be reported to ``the authorities'' and repeated back to him four years later during a much more serious security crisis.

The following month Dr Alan Nunn May, who had returned to London, was arrested on a charge of passing secret information to a Soviet agent. He had felt so strongly about the need for cooperation with the USSR that he had taken unilateral action and given them some of the material to which he personally had access. He was tried and sentenced to eight years' imprisonment. There were many who felt the sentence rather harsh, and many distinguished academics signed a petition urging a review of his case. John Cockcroft was one of the signatories, which he afterwards regretted, and I was told that the document disappeared into his pocket, never to be seen again.

Our next removal became imminent in March. So much seemed to have happened in such a short time. After some dickering by the recruitment board for the newly-formed Scientific Civil Service in England, Oscar accepted a reasonable offer as a Senior Scientific Officer at Harwell. The board were hard bargainers. They knew that their offers would be more lucrative than those of the academic world. The salary and benefits added up to about £1,000 per annum, which was an improvement over what could be expected from a British university at his level. But this offer was in its turn much better than the first one they made. In the meantime an offer from the University of California in Berkeley had been received. Although not an outstandingly handsome one, at least it put him in a better position to settle the terms of his British employment.

It was with mixed feelings that I packed up to return to England. The brightest prospect in the immediate future was that we were to return on the Queen Mary and that would involve another few days in my beloved New York. Michael and I had recovered from our ailments with the onset of warmer weather, and although we were both still rather thin, his appetite and my spirits were greatly revived.

Old Man Robinson was on the warpath. After our rent was formally reduced we withheld payment until we broke even, and then settled. He maintained that we owed him for the rent HE had demanded, on the grounds that he was going to get the decision reversed. He demanded enormous compensation for the broken mirror and a number of other imaginary ``damages''. When he saw our luggage being removed prior to our own departure, he delivered himself of another of his foul-mouthed diatribes and told us we were not to dare to depart without meeting his demands. We protested that we were merely having some of our effects sent home, and that our departure was set for a later date. He was not satisfied and sat outside in his large, pale blue Chevrolet until well after night-fall, convinced that he was about to be cheated. Finally, at about eleven o'clock that night, fatigue ended his vigil and he left. At 4 a.m., after making sure that he was not parked around the corner, we set off. About fifteen miles south of the city, we were horrified to see a Chevrolet of the same shade as Robinson's parked in a lay-by. Mercifully it did not give chase, and we were soon safely over the border with the United States, where we had been led to believe the dreadful fellow had for many years been persona non grata.

Back in New York, and enfolded in the loving arms of the Grossman family, we set about selling the car. We got a good price, and I flitted happily from store to store spending the proceeds on all manner of household appliances, clothes, shoes and children's necessities in short supply at home. I bought presents such as make-up, nylon stockings and gadgets for all my friends and relations. I also ordered boxes of food stuffs for Oscar's parents who were by this time very near to starvation. Their strict vegetarian convictions prevented them from consuming about half the food available to them, and their health was suffering considerably.

During the last day we spent in New York I had my first and only encounter with American detectives. We were getting some lunch in the coffee shop adjoining the hotel, and Oscar, having papers to read, agreed to take the children back to the room for their afternoon nap and stay there while I went to cope speedily with the few remaining items on my shopping list. When I returned I found that his briefcase had been stolen. He rushed off to the police, but Mrs Grossman's son responded to my frantic telephone call with the advice to get in touch with the FBI. They were not really interested in our passports, travel documents or sterling cash which was then useless in USA, but when they heard that mathematical formulae of a secret nature were involved they pricked up their ears. In view of recent events this was taken very seriously, and in no time at all they had swung into action. While Oscar was out, arranging for temporary papers to allow us to board the ship due to sail that night, I played a part in what seemed to be a real-life movie. Sergeants Murphy and O'Mara called on me in the hotel and quizzed me repeatedly, but kindly, about our movements, and the appearance and contents of the missing case. Peter trapped his fingers in the sliding door of the elevator, and Michael yelled for his next meal. Thus, with howling children providing the background music, I played my role and stood up to the cross-questioning as calmly as I knew how.

When we were two days out to sea, a cable arrived saying that the briefcase had been found and was being forwarded to London in the diplomatic pouch. Apparently the thief, being neither British and in need of pound notes, a curious mathematician nor a Soviet agent, had found his haul worse than useless, and abandoned it. How fortunate for us that he didn't hurl it in the Hudson.

In later years when Michael was sitting an English exam, one of the subjects for his essay was: ``A Day in my Life, by a Briefcase.'' He got the most excellent marks for being imaginative and very well informed.