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The [Oppenheimer] I had known was gentle and wise, a devoted friend, the soul of honor, a student, a humanist, a free spirit, a man dedicated to truth, to justice, passionately concerned with human welfare, and emotionally and intellectually committed to the ideal of a socialist society.
—Haakon Chevalier
“Thank you for coming, Robert. Have a seat.”
“My pleasure, General.” Leslie Groves had his own office here at Los Alamos, reserved for his frequent trips from Washington. It had a picture of President Roosevelt on one wall, a giant Mercator map of the world covering most of another, and, on his desk, angled enough that Oppie could see it, a photo of the general’s wife, twenty-year-old namesake son, and fifteen-year-old daughter.
“Robert, I think you know that I trust you; I’ve put enormous faith in you.”
“I’m very grateful, General.”
“And I suspect you’re attentive enough to realize that not everyone approved of my choice of you as director of this facility. Some of your ... previous associations, you understand.”
Oppie had heard much more than that. His employment history included no administrative positions at all; he’d never even been a university department head. When he’d gotten this assignment at Los Alamos, many had been stunned. One of his colleagues at Berkeley had muttered he didn’t think Oppie could even run a hamburger stand. “So I’ve gathered.”
“But I was sure I was right then,” said Groves, “and I’m sure I’m right now. You’re the best person for the job.” He chuckled. “Don’t let Colonel Nichols know I said that; he thinks I’m chary when it comes to praising—” there was a slight pause, giving a hint of emphasis to the next word, which otherwise was spoken in Groves’s normal gruff tone “— subordinates.”
“Thank you,” said Oppie, stiffly; the lines were being drawn.
“And, you know, it’s been fifteen months since we first met, you and I, and look at what we’ve accomplished.” He lifted and spread his arms, a gesture Robert took to encompass the entire mesa.
“It is remarkable.”
“And in all that time, I’ve never once given you an order, Robert. You know that.”
The general, son of a Presbyterian army chaplain, didn’t smoke, and Oppie tried to respect that by not indulging often in his presence, but he felt the need growing. “True.”
“So, please, Robert, don’t make me do so now. I’m asking you, man to man. We need to know the name of the intermediary you mentioned to Lieutenant Johnson and Colonel Pash. The colonel’s people have done a lot of digging, and they’ve come up with a list of likely candidates. I’m going to hand you this list, and I’m hoping you will circle the name of the one who was Eltenton’s go-between.” He rotated a sheet of paper in front of him a half turn and slid it across the steel desktop.
The first name was Joseph Weinberg, one of Oppie’s favorite ex-students; eight other names were listed below Joe’s, one per line—colleagues all. Oppie looked up from the page. “General, in good conscience, I simply can’t.”
“I’m asking you as a friend, Robert.”
“And I’m replying as one.”
“All right, then.” Groves took a deep breath and let it out noisily. “All right.” He locked his gaze on Oppie. “Dr. Oppenheimer, I order you to reveal the name.”
Oppie closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Hoke, he knew, had repeatedly read Victor Hugo in the original French; he’d understand that you couldn’t let an innocent man take your place.
“Chevalier,” he said, very softly.
“Who?” snapped Groves.
“Haakon Chevalier.”
Groves pulled back the paper and grabbed a pen. “Spell it.”
He spelled both names, and the general printed them in capital letters. “Never heard of him.”
“He’s not a scientist. He teaches French literature.”
“Good grief,” said Groves. “No wonder they couldn’t find him.”
“Also,” said Robert, “he’s taken a leave from the university. I honestly don’t know where he is now, but I’m sure he was against all this.”
“‘Chevalier,’” said Groves, reading his own note. “So, not an American?”
“Actually, he was born in New Jersey.”
“Good.”
“Oh?”
“American subject,” said Groves. “American justice.”
Oppie felt his gut clenching. He rose. The general looked up at him, surprised, then barked, “Dismissed”—one last twist of the knife.
#
The following week a letter arrived for Oppie, addressed, as all mail for those on the mesa was, to P.O. Box 1663, Santa Fe, New Mexico. The postmark, canceling the three-cent stamp, was New York. The envelope, as usual, had been opened.
Oppie slipped the two typed pages out and unfolded them. His heart kicked his sternum. It was from Haakon Chevalier and began, “Dear Opje.” Robert had acquired his nickname in 1928, when he was twenty-four, during the term he’d spent at the University of Leiden, and his friends of long standing continued to use the Dutch spelling. Oppie read on:
Are you still in this world? Yes, I know you are, but I am less sure about myself. I am in deep trouble. All my foundations seem to have been knocked out from under me, and I am alone dangling in space, with no ties, no hope, no future, only a past—such as it is. I am close to despair, and in such a moment, I think of you and I wish you were about to talk to.
Haakon’s first source of woe, he said, was ongoing strife with Barb. His second source was—
Hoke must have no idea of what had transpired; none. If he had gotten wind of it, if he’d had a clue, his tone would have been harsh, the French professor shouting J’accuse ...! But instead he seemed genuinely perplexed and forlorn. Chevalier wrote that he’d taken a sabbatical and gone to New York in hopes of landing a translating job with the Office of War Information. He’d cooled his heels in the Big Apple for three months waiting for his security clearance to be processed—something that should have been a routine matter—only to have it denied for reasons no one would discuss, mystifying him. In the interim, with no work, he’d exhausted his funds. The letter concluded:
I don’t know if this will reach you, which is the reason why I do not write you more. I should like to hear from you if you can spare time for the personally human, in these days when the human seems to become depersonalized.
And then his signature—first name only—the letters leaning, in a way that Robert used to find amusing but could summon no smile for today, to the left.
Oppie supposed the acid at the back of his throat was what guilt tasted like. With a shaking hand he set the page down, wondering what Schadenfreude Peer de Silva—who must have been briefed by Boris Pash by now—had felt in sending the letter on to Oppie with nary a word struck out.