PART ONE OF THE LIFE AND TIMES OF JAMES B. CONANT
JENNET CONANT
Almost a year before the first atomic bomb was ready, James
B. Conant and Vannevar Bush, the two scientific leaders of the secret Manhattan
Project, wrote Secretary of War Henry Stimson in September of 1944 expressing
their grave concerns about the alarming situation that would result if no US
policy was developed before the weapon was used in combat. “We cannot emphasize
too strongly the fact that it will be quite impossible to hold essential
knowledge of these developments secret once the war is over.” They emphasized
that progress in the new field of nuclear weapons would be so rapid in some
countries that “it would be extremely dangerous for this government to assume
that by holding secret its present knowledge we should be secure.”
They advocated sharing the new scientific information and
reaching an international agreement on the future control of nuclear weapons.
They warned if the United States was the first to unleash this indiscriminate
destruction on the world, it would set a dangerous precedent and precipitate an
arms race. They would never be safe again.
Their warning was ignored. Now with North Korea moving
relentlessly toward nuclear conflict, threatening to deliver its deadly weapons
to targets in South Korea, Japan and the Pacific coast of the United States,
the all-out nuclear war they feared may be close at hand.
No one can say that they did not see this day coming.
–Jennet Conant
The following is from Jennet Conant’s Man of the Hour: James B. Conant, Warrior Scientist.
Christmas Eve, 1945. Moscow was blanketed under a thick coat
of snow. There were almost no cars about. His driver eased down ruined streets
that made it look like a country still at war. The winter blizzards had begun
before the rebuilding had gotten under way, and now it would have to wait for the
thaw. Unfinished buildings stood frozen in time. Stores looked dark and
uninviting, and appeared to offer little for sale. Even so, huge numbers of
people gathered outside the shops and still more filled the crowded sidewalks,
all carrying parcels. Most were poorly dressed, covered heads bent against the
swirling white.
Over 27 million Soviet citizens died defeating the Nazis,
nearly a third of the country’s former wealth was gone, but Russia was already
on the rebound. There were children everywhere. Babies—so many babies—bundled
up within an inch of their lives against the bitter cold. Despite its tired
appearance, the capital was alive and teeming with humanity. James Conant was a
Yankee from hardy New England stock, but he had to admit he was impressed with
the Russians. They were a tough race, tested by war, insurrection and an
unforgiving climate. “There is no foolishness in this nation,” he wrote in his
diary. “Nothing soft.”
As the embassy car approached the gates of the Kremlin,
Conant peered up at the gloomy fortress-like complex on the Moskva River that
was the seat of the Soviet government. Situated in the heart of old Moscow,
bordered by the Red Square to the east, and Alexander Garden to the west, it
consisted of four palaces, four cathedrals, and some twenty towers enclosed
within red turreted walls. The famous citadel had been the imperial residence
of the czars for centuries, its opulent interior structures torn down and
rebuilt on an ever-grander scale by a succession of monarchs until the
Revolution of 1917. Even the Bolsheviks had been unable to resist the urge to
glorify their rule. When Vladimir Lenin finally made it his headquarters, he
stripped the golden eagles of the old regime from the towers and replaced them
with the gleaming red stars of the new Communist order. Now the Russian
dictator Joseph Stalin called the Kremlin home, and had chosen the savior’s
birthday to hold a reception in honor of his victorious allies. Since the
atheist Soviet state had banned Christmas as a bourgeois tradition, however,
the timing was not nearly as ironic for their host as it was for his guests.
The dinner was held in a cavernous banquet hall. America’s
secretary of state, James Francis Byrnes, and Great Britain’s foreign minister,
Ernest Bevin, took their places on either side of Stalin, each flanked by a
12-man delegation. The Soviet commissar of foreign affairs, Vyacheslav Molotov,
was also in attendance, along with various members of the politburo. The
Russians aimed to impress: there were boats of caviar, smoked sturgeon, guinea
hen, beef, and lamb and other delicacies, arrayed like a flotilla of silver
down the long table, along with oceans of booze—champagne, wine, brandy, and,
of course, vodka. As soon as the guests were seated, the toasts began.
According to custom, each course was preceded by a toast and a tumbler of
vodka, which courtesy required be responded to in kind, toast for toast, drink
for drink. One after another, the official toasts were drunk—to their nations,
peoples, armies, leaders, and innumerable government functionaries present that
night. As each ponderous speech of welcome and good wishes had to be translated
by an interpreter, even the short toasts seemed long. Conant, unused to so much
alcohol, found it hard to relax. If one of the Russian officials were to drink
to his health, he doubted his vodka-soaked brain would be able to formulate a
suitable reply.
*
The hastily improvised Moscow Foreign Ministers Conference
was Byrnes’s last-ditch effort at atomic diplomacy. For months, the Soviet
leaders had done everything they could to frustrate his attempts to use
America’s monopoly on the bomb as leverage in the peace talks. The failure of
Byrnes’s gunslinger-style tactics at the Foreign Ministers Conference in London
that fall had been an embarrassment. The negotiations had been fruitless. Rather
than treat the bomb with the respect and fear Byrnes expected, the Russians had
ridiculed the metaphorical bulge in his jacket in social gatherings while
refusing to address it seriously in formal sessions. Stalin had feigned
indifference, and issued a statement saying that it was only a weapon to
frighten the weak-willed. Molotov, a master at subterfuge and delay, adopted
the same line, and delighted in denigrating the bomb at every turn.
President Harry Truman was losing faith in Byrnes, who had
been dubbed Roosevelt’s “assistant president” by the press, a title that did
not sit well with his new boss. Even an old soldier like Henry Stimson, the
outgoing secretary of war, warned that the bomb was a game changer, and it was
a mistake to use it as a lever of pressure to extract internal political
changes and the granting of individual liberties. Such changes took time, and
the United States could not afford to delay reaching an agreement on the bomb.
“If we fail to approach them now,” Stimson argued, “and merely continue to
negotiate with them, having this weapon rather ostentatiously on our hip, their
suspicions and their distrust of our purposes and motives will increase.”
Desperate to reach some sort of compromise, and in the
process score a diplomatic triumph that would redeem his reputation, Byrnes
decided to take a more conciliatory approach. He would journey to the Soviet
capital and take his case directly to Stalin. With luck, the home turf
advantage would make the Russians more amenable to the need for international
action so that this unprecedented form of power did not become a postwar threat
to the world.
In Moscow, however, things did not go much better. Molotov
was as obstructionist as ever. He persisted in making flip remarks about
America’s atomic ace in the hole, clearly aimed at letting Byrnes know the
Soviet Union would not be cowed into making political concessions. As in the
Potsdam and London conferences, no member of the Soviet delegation showed any
interest in discussing the bomb, or the proposed resolution for the creation of
a United Nations commission to control atomic energy. The Soviets never
demanded the sharing of the atomic “secret,” or objected to the need for an
inspection system—something that would not be popular in the United States, let
alone in Russia—to police all military and industrial plants to prevent abuses
and safeguard against any nation clandestinely stockpiling weapons.
Conant had felt it was imperative the Soviets should know
about this radical new method of decisive warfare, and was surprised to find
there were no technical questions, no arguments. Although his arrival in Moscow
had been covered at length in the local press, not a single Soviet scientist
had sought him out. Molotov, during the course of a dinner at which he was
host, had suggested that perhaps the great American chemist, who was also
president of a great American citadel of learning (Harvard), should address the
University of Moscow on the subject of atomic energy. The following day,
however, Molotov withdrew the invitation, stating that he had no authority to
make such an offer and was “only trying to be pleasant.” If Byrnes had been
hoping the presence of the illustrious atomic pioneer at the negotiations would
spark debate about the future of the bomb, his ploy fizzled. Conant felt like
he might as well have stayed home for all the good he had done. He never
suspected that the reason behind the Soviet’s apparent disregard was to prevent
any chance of an inadvertent leak by Russian scientists that might alert the US
delegation that they were feverishly at work on an atom bomb of their own.
Conant had lost count of how many times they had drained
their glasses when Molotov, who was acting as master of ceremonies, rose slowly
to his feet. Raising a freshly filled glass, a broad grin on his round,
bespectacled accountant’s face, he proposed to the assembled party that they
had all had enough to drink to allow them to “speak of secret matters.” Turning
to Conant, he said mischievously, “Here sits a man who perhaps is carrying a
bit of the atomic bomb in his waist-coat pocket, with which he could blow us
all to tiny pieces—”
Before he could finish, Stalin jumped to his feet and broke
in angrily, “Comrade Molotov, this is too serious a matter to joke about.” After
the sharp rebuke of his unruly foreign minister, Stalin explained that although
he was no scientist himself and had absolutely no knowledge of physics, he was
not prepared to make light of Conant’s work. He then addressed the issue of the
bomb for the first time. He praised Conant and his fellow atomic scientists for
their achievement in creating the weapon that had brought the war to a close.
They had rendered “a great service,” he continued in his hoarse voice. “We must
now work together to see that this great invention is used for peaceful ends.”
On that solemn note, he raised his glass in honor of the quiet, silver-haired
American chemist. “Here’s to Professor Conant.”
Molotov, whose expression never altered, stood in grim
silence. No one dared look in his direction. In the Politburo, survival
depended on accurately reading and responding to the generalissimo’s moods, and
anyone who earned his displeasure could expect there to be consequences. After
an awkward pause, Conant stood. Holding his glass aloft, he thanked Stalin for
his kind remarks, and gamely acknowledged Molotov’s “humorous remarks,” though
in truth he was rather floored by his cavalier attitude. Adding that he felt
sufficiently emboldened by their sentiments, and by the “molecular energy of
the excellent wine,” he offered a toast of his own, addressed to his Russian
counterparts at the table. “I have no atomic energy in my pocket,” he began a
bit sheepishly. “But I can say that the scientists of Russia and those of the
other countries represented here tonight worked together to win a common
victory. I trust they may cooperate equally effectively in the tasks of peace
which lie ahead.”
After the coffee was served, and Conant rose to leave,
Stalin detained him for a moment. The Soviet leader was much shorter and
broader in person than Conant had imagined: not more than five foot four inches
tall, he resembled “a shrewd but kindly and humble old peasant.” Speaking
through an interpreter, Stalin repeated his earlier congratulations and again expressed
his hope that the bomb could be used only for peaceful purposes and not for
war. Then, referring to Conant’s generous toast, he said, “Those were fine
words, but were they sincere?”
Later, a few of the Americans and British gathered at Spaso
House, the grand neoclassical manor that served as the US embassy, to share
their impressions of the astonishing moment when history appeared to have
suddenly changed course. Stalin had publicly humiliated his longest-serving
deputy at a state dinner, signaling a decisive—if rather impulsive—change in
attitude. While the generalissimo could be capricious, he knew what he was
doing. Whether his displeasure with Molotov was genuine or staged was hard to
tell. But the significance of the moment was not lost on anyone. The
66-year-old Soviet despot, the most powerful and dangerous postwar ruler, was
finally ready to incorporate nuclear weapons into his worldview. “There in the
banquet hall of the Kremlin, we saw Stalin abruptly change Soviet policy,”
recalled Charles Bohlen, a State Department aide and subsequent ambassador to
Russia. “From that moment on, the Soviets gave the atomic bomb the serious
consideration it deserved.”
It was the moment they had all “pinned their hopes” on—a
sign that the Russians were prepared to cooperate. Stalin’s remarks indicated a
willingness to work with the United States and Britain to control atomic energy
and promote peace through international agreement. The Soviet experts in both
delegations fairly hummed with excitement as they analyzed the various
interpretations and implications of what had happened. Byrnes saw it as a cause
for optimism. He immediately began making plans for the British-American—and
now Soviet—resolution calling for the creation of an Atomic Energy Commission to
be presented at the upcoming meeting of the United Nations General Assembly in
London in January. He would even make arrangements, on his return to
Washington, to make a nationwide radio broadcast reporting on the success of
his trip.
Conant was not as quick to celebrate. Even in the convivial
atmosphere that prevailed by the end of the boozy evening, he had picked up on
some troubling undercurrents. When they had finished dinner, they were escorted
from the banquet hall to another room to watch a short film. It was purportedly
about the war with Japan, but focused exclusively on the Soviet contribution to
victory, even though the Red Army did not join the battle until August 9, 1945,
the same day the second atomic bomb laid waste to Nagasaki. There was no hint
that the United States and Britain had played any role except for a brief
mention of Pearl Harbor and, in the closing minutes, a fleeting glimpse of a
Japanese and Russian general signing a treaty aboard the US battleship Missouri.
Almost as an afterthought, an image of General Douglas MacArthur flashed by
seconds before the end of the film. Irritated, Conant dismissed it as pure
propaganda.
When the lights went up, he observed that many members of
the American and British delegations were also indignant. Afterward, he could
not help wondering at the Soviet’s motive in showing them such a “crass
nationalistic movie.” Was it intended as an “intentional insult?” If so, what
were the Russians playing at? “And no one, literally no one, is on a basis with
Russian officialdom to say, ‘That was a bit thick, you know,’” he noted in his
diary, adding, “This little episode shows a lot.”
Equally disquieting was the Soviets’ refusal to grant them
permission to make Stalin’s tribute to Conant and the atomic scientists public.
It was a matter of protocol: what was said in the Kremlin, stayed in the
Kremlin. Stalin’s recognition of America’s technical prowess could not be
reported to the world. Despite all the talk of friendship between their two
countries, the Iron Curtain was as tightly shut as ever. At the time, Conant
was chiefly annoyed by the fact that there seemed to be no channel by which
they could communicate their frustration to their hosts. Someone cynically
suggested the best way to get word out would be to write down a list of their
complaints and toss it in the wastebasket—it was certain that the next morning
their message would be read in Molotov’s office in the Kremlin.
Despite all the “unfavorable evidence” he accumulated during
his eleven days in Moscow, Conant remained convinced that the Russians would
eventually see reason. Logic dictated that continuing their wartime alliance
was the best way to proceed in the interdependent postwar years. If they did
not act together to stop the manufacture of atomic bombs before it became
widespread, the means of atomic destruction could find its way into the hands
of an unexpected and reckless enemy.
In a speech he gave in late November, which was reprinted in
the Boston Globe shortly before he departed for Moscow, Conant
had predicted the Russians would soon get the bomb, giving a rough forecast of
between five and fifteen years. He cautioned that the time estimate meant
little, as the United States’s monopoly on this power was only temporary. There
was “time, but not too much time,” to evolve a plan for the exchange of
scientific knowledge and the creation of an international inspection system.
Without inspection there was no way to ensure their protection. Without it no
one was safe. Conant startled his audience with this ominous injunction: “There
is no defense against a surprise attack with atomic bombs.”
One thing has been as clear as daylight to me ever since I
first became convinced of the reality of the atomic bomb; namely, that a secret
armaments race in respect to this weapon must at all costs be avoided. If a
situation were to develop where two great powers had stacks of bombs but
neither was sure of the exact status of the other, the possibility of a
devastating surprise attack by the one upon the other would poison all our
thinking. Like two gunmen with itchy trigger fingers, it would only be a
question of who fired first. Under such circumstances, the United States might
be the loser.
Conant’s estimate was slightly off. Exactly four years and
one month after Hiroshima, the Soviet Union would explode an atomic bomb, and
two countries would be locked in a cold war struggle.
Years later, looking back on that extraordinary Christmas
Eve in Moscow, Conant found it hard to believe that as 1945 came to a close, he
could have had such faith in the future. He had hoped that the difficulties
would disappear and they could proceed to work out a plan to preserve the peace
instead of continually preparing for war. “My ascent into the golden clouds of
irrational hope can only be explained by my honest appraisal of the worldwide
catastrophic consequences of a failure to attain international control,” he
later reflected. “Some scheme just had to work. And who is prepared to say my
basic belief was wrong?”
He wrote those lines in 1969. Toiling over his memoir,
safely ensconced in his wood-paneled study in Hanover, New Hampshire, he
observed the perilous state of the world, “with American and Soviet aircraft
and missiles poised to strike on a moment’s notice.” America was more
vulnerable than ever before, and Conant had lost much of his old certainty, but
none of the cold, clear-eyed Yankee pragmatism. A chemist, statesman, educator
and critic, he had had within his grasp all the elements to help forge the new
atomic age. Supremely confident, he had acted upon his convictions to shape the
kind of world he wanted to live in. He was, first and foremost, a defender of
democracy. He had helped design and manufacture weapons of mass destruction in
two world wars to protect liberty. He had fought for an open and fluid society,
for a fairer system of higher education, for free discussion, a competitive
spirit, and a courageous and responsible citizenry. He had occupied the
presidency of Harvard as a bully pulpit, and had never hesitated to take daring
stands on contentious issues, applying his reason, morals, and high ideals on
matters of national import. As a “social inventor,” his term for the half
century spent in public service, he had tried to find new formulas to keep
alive the precarious American political experiment known as democracy.
As a war scientist, however, he knew he had much to answer
for. Atomic energy’s “potentialities for destruction” were so awesome as to far
outweigh any possible gains that might accrue from America’s technical triumph
in the summer of 1945. Writing as an old man, he acknowledged that these new
weapons of aggression had added to the frightful insecurity of the world, and
he did not think future generations would be inclined to thank him for it. Yet the
nuclear standoff had continued for years—no mean accomplishment given the
number and variety of armed conflicts—which suggested that the stakes had
become too high and the risks too great. Perhaps there might still be time to
moderate the vicious arms race, though that remained for history to decide.
“The verdict of history,” he wrote, “has not yet been given.”
From Man of the Hour: James B. Conant, Warrior Scientist, by
Jennet Conant, courtesy Simon & Schuster. Copyright 2017, Jennet Conant.
__
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