In 1945, Maria Goeppert-Mayer visited Los Alamos. She left her children with a nursemaid and did not tell Joseph Mayer where she was going or why. On arriving in New Mexico, she met with Laura Fermi, whose family had been living in Los Alamos since the summer of 1944.
Although she had not told her husband the reason for her trip, he sensed that his wife was involved in the development of the bomb, though he did not know to what extent. As much as he wanted to know, he was aware of the secret nature of the experiments and tried not to push her to disclose more than she was comfortable revealing. Joseph Mayer had also been invited to join the confidential project, but he had refused, unable to take the endeavor seriously. He found the idea of building such a weapon ridiculous and did not want to become entangled in a project that would certainly end in failure, he told officials. However, Joseph did not know that Enrico Fermi had been able to operate the first atomic pile beneath the stands of the University of Chicago stadium. And he also did not know of the work happening at Oak Ridge or Hanford, much less at Los Alamos.
From Maria’s point of view, it was a strain on her marriage to keep that secret from Joseph. She also feared for Germany and its people. She despised Adolf Hitler but loathed the idea of harm coming to the good people of her country.
As Maria traveled to Los Alamos and toured the facilities, she was overwhelmed with fear. She tried to pinpoint what that gnawing presentiment was about and realized that two factors were nagging her: She was worried that Hitler and his scientists had already advanced far enough in their designs and constructed a bomb; and she was also afraid that the Americans would soon succeed in building and detonating the bomb themselves. As a scientist, she wanted to see an experiment come to fruition; she wanted to see the work come to light. And yet, what would happen when it did? How many innocent lives would be lost because of their doings? And how many lives would be lost because of the doings of a madman?
Her internal conflict was originally ignited by loyalty to her mentors. Max Born, the man she had gone to when her father passed away, the man who had put aside his own inner demons to help her wrestle with hers, had refused to help the British in their atomic projects; and James Franck, her former professor, had raised loud questions about the morality of unleashing such a powerful bomb on innocent people. Few had listened to him.
She knew that her husband would be able to understand her sense of loyalty to her family and friends, to her nation, and, to a certain extent, to the good people who still existed in Germany. Yet she could not tell him. And she certainly could not tell her children. She felt torn. And that rip was destroying her.