Hillman Et Al The Man Who Stalked Einstein

THE MAN WHO
ST A L KED EINSTEIN
THE MAN WHO
ST A L KED EINSTEIN
How Nazi Scientist Philipp Lenard

Changed the Course of History
Bruce J. Hillman, Birgit Ertl-Wagner,

and Bernd C. Wagner
Guilford, Connecticut
An imprint of Rowman & Littlefield
Distributed by NATIONAL BOOK NETWORK
Copyright © 2015 by Bruce J. Hillman, Birgit Ertl-Wagner, and Bernd C. Wag-

ner
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Hillman, Bruce J.
The man who stalked Einstein : how Nazi scientist Philipp Lenard changed the
course of history / Bruce J. Hillman, Birgit Ertl-Wagner, and Bernd C. Wagner.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-4930-1001-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4930-1569-6 (ebook)
1. Lenard, Philipp, 1862–1947. 2. Einstein, Albert, 1879–1955. 3. Relativity
(Physics) 4. National socialism and science. 5. Jewish scientists—Germany. I.
Ertl-Wagner, Birgit, 1970– II. Wagner, Bernd C., 1968– III. Title.
QC16.L4H55 2015
530.092—dc23
2014043486
TM
The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of
American National Standard for Information Sciences Permanence of Paper for
Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.
For my wife Pam, who gives me love, encouragement,
and much to think about
—Bruce Hillman
For Sophie, Hannah, and Clara—we love you

—Birgit Ertl-Wagner and Bernd Wagner
CONTENTS
Introduction ix
A Note on the Differences between Lenard’s and Einstein’s Science xiii
1 Pyrrhic Victory 1
2 The Heart of the Matter 13
3 Familiarity Breeds Contempt 23
4 An Interesting Evening Out 41
5 A Disagreement between Gentlemen 53
6 A Missed Opportunity 65
7 Lenard in Stockholm 79
8 Einstein versus the Small Popes in Uppsala 91
9 Dangerous Choices 109
10 Lenard and Hitler 119
11 Deutsche Physik 135
12 Academic Impurities 149
13 Some Say by Fire, Others Ice 169
Epilogue: Unapologetic Lives 181
Bibliography 191
vii
viii CONTENTS
Acknowledgments 201
Index 203
About the Authors 211
INTRODUCTION
The Man Who Stalked Einstein is the product of a partnership among

three individuals—an American Jew born immediately after World War
II and a German couple two decades younger, whose generation still lives
with the moral opprobrium of Nazi abuses. Friends for over a decade, we
approached writing our book from different but complementary perspec-
tives to achieve common goals: We wished to write a history on an
important topic. We also wanted to write a good story in an entertaining,
creative style that would read like a novel and appeal to a broad audience.
Although we narrate when necessary, we had a strong preference for our
characters to express themselves in their own words. To the extent the
historical record allows, we give vent to their unique voices.
We believe the result is a compelling story that weaves together en-
gaging characters, their dramatic actions, and the tumultuous times in
which they lived. In addition, we explain in plain English the research
and scientific philosophies of Philipp Lenard, Albert Einstein, and their
contemporaries so as to make them approachable to all readers.
There are several reasons why we decided to write this book. Fore-
most among these is that the antagonistic relationship between Albert
Einstein and Philipp Lenard makes for a memorable, character-driven
story. Einstein and Lenard were opposites in virtually every way. That
both men were brilliant scientists and Nobel laureates with opposing
views about what constituted important, believable science made some
ix
x THE MA N W HO STA LKED EINSTEIN
degree of conflict inevitable. However, the enmity that each felt for the
other was based on much more than their science. It was personal. Lenard
was so consumed by his own narcissism, his envy of Einstein’s fame, and
his hatred for Jews that he sacrificed the integrity of his science and his
personal reputation among the community of scientists on the altar of his
personal prejudices.
We follow the convergence of influences and events that turned Len-
ard from a productive and highly respected scientist to a man consumed
by racial hatred and an early supporter of Adolf Hitler and his Nazi Party.
We detail the environment that fostered the flowering of Deutsche Phy-
sik, Lenard’s irrational and unsupportable philosophy of Aryan scientific
supremacy. The acceptance of Deutsche Physik by the highest level of
Nazi leadership, underpinned by anti-Semitic laws enacted under the
Third Reich, enabled Lenard and his like-minded colleague Johannes
Stark to purge Germany’s institutes and universities of many of the great-
est scientists of the era and force them to immigrate to countries with
which Germany would soon be at war.
Oddly enough, the idea for this book had its origins on the lunarlike
landscape of the Cruden Bay golf links just north of Aberdeen, Scotland.
There, fate paired me for a round of golf with two brothers. Their father
had been a Canadian army officer attached to the U.S. military to observe
early nuclear weapons testing. Our conversation about what he had told
them of his experiences carried us through eighteen holes and a long and
bibulous dinner at a nearby pub right up until “last call.” Having just
completed writing a book on medical imaging for lay audiences, I was
looking to do something different. Some aspect of the race to develop an
atomic weapon seemed like just the ticket. After a number of false starts,
my research led me to the curled yellowed pages of a 1946 medical
journal detailing Colonel Lewis E. Etter’s postwar interviews of Philipp
Lenard. Doctor Etter had recently been discharged from the U.S. Army
Medical Corps and would soon return to the United States to complete his
training in radiology. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Lenard
claimed that he, not Wilhelm Conrad Roentgen, was responsible for dis-
covering X-rays. Researching further, I found that Lenard’s conflicts over
I N T RODU CT I ON xi
the delegation of credit for scientific discoveries extended to the British

physicist J. J. Thompson, as well as Marie Curie and Albert Einstein. In
Lenard’s brilliantly self-centered and paranoid character, I saw the mak-
ings of a powerful story.
The problem for me, of course, was that many of the letters, writings,
and secondary sources that would be essential to writing The Man Who
Stalked Einstein existed only in German. Translations of Lenard’s writ-
ings, in particular, would be especially hard to come by. Unable to trans-
late German, I approached Birgit and Bernd with a proposal.
I had known Birgit since 2001, when she had successfully applied for
a medical research fellowship in the United States, under my tutelage. I
met her husband Bernd just a few months later when they traveled to the
United States for a medical meeting. In 2012, over cocktails one evening
during a conference in Vienna, Birgit and I worked out the parameters of
our partnership: I would research, write, and relate to our agent, editor,
and publisher—should we be fortunate enough to find one. Birgit and
Bernd would research, translate, edit, and suggest the inclusion of materi-
al I had overlooked. Together, we shared a common vision that made
writing The Man Who Stalked Einstein interesting and fun. We hope you
will agree that this book fulfills our hopes for our collaboration.
Bruce Hillman, Birgit Ertl-Wagner, and Bernd Wagner
October 2014
A NOTE ON THE DIFFERENCES BETWEEN
LENARD’S AND EINSTEIN’S SCIENCE
The natural sciences took a great leap forward during the period covered
by our book, from the late 1800s until the end of World War II, an era in
which scientists modeled the atom and began to develop new theories
about the workings of the cosmos.
Lenard’s experimental physics and Einstein’s theoretical physics rep-
resent two opposing schools of thought that came into conflict throughout
Europe (but most notably in Germany) during the first decades of the
twentieth century. Basing their work on classical mechanics derived from
the discoveries of such greats as Isaac Newton, Nicolaus Copernicus, and
Johannes Kepler, the experimentalists believed that valid new knowledge
was the product of “induction.” Induction calls for a scientist to express a
hypothesis; design experiments to test the correctness of the hypothesis;
observe whether the results support or reject the hypothesis; and, in the
end, employ proven hypotheses to construct laws describing the behavior
of natural phenomena.
In contrast, theoretical physics is primarily based on “deduction,”
wherein scientists express new understandings of how the universe works
based on established knowledge and their assumptions concerning un-
known principles. To show the plausibility of his theories, Einstein fa-
mously designed “thought experiments” using familiar, everyday phe-
nomena to make his theories relevant and understandable. Even so, his
xiii
xi v THE MA N W HO STA LKED EINSTEIN
theories awaited experimental observations to ultimately determine their

accuracy and utility.
Newton’s universal law of gravity provides a classic example of in-
duction. The law states that the gravitational force exerted by an object is
proportional to the square of its mass and inversely proportional to the
square of the distance between the two masses. In other words, larger
objects exert more gravitational pull than smaller objects, and the impact
of gravity lessens as the distance between objects grows farther apart.
Newton’s work on gravity began with observation. Based on his observa-
tions, Newton formed a hypothesis about how gravity worked. He then
designed a series of experiments that allowed Newton to accept or reject
the hypothesis based on his results. By repeating this process for a series
of hypotheses, he ultimately arrived at his law of gravitation.
The problem is that while the laws of classical physics hold up well
for many applications, they do not quite work for all applications, espe-
cially when miniscule masses like atoms and subatomic particles and
high velocities are involved. As a generalization, phenomena that do not
fall into the realm of human perception are often difficult to interpret
using the laws of classical physics. With advances in instrumentation
improving the accuracy of quantitation of natural occurrences, breaches
in the applicability of Newtonian physics became more evident.
Kepler’s law is one example where Einstein’s theoretical physics pro-
vided a plausible explanation of an exception to a law of classical phys-
ics. One part of Kepler’s law states that planets orbit the sun in a regular
and reproducible ellipse with the sun residing at one of the focal points of
the ellipse. However, by Einstein’s time, it became evident that there was
a small but definite irregularity in the orbit of Mercury that conflicted
with Kepler’s law. The point of Mercury’s orbit when the planet is near-
est the sun—known as its “perihelion”—actually changes from orbit to
orbit. Calculations based on Einstein’s theory of general relativity ex-
plained the shifting perihelion. As we detail in this book, Einstein’s ex-
planation of the shifting perihelion of Mercury was an important factor in
validating the utility of his theory of general relativity.
A N OT E ON T H E DI FFE RE NCES xv
Another example of how theoretical physics gained acceptance was

Einstein’s use of the concept of a curved universe to predict that light
emitted by stars directionally adjacent to our sun bends under the influ-
ence of the sun’s gravity. Arthur Eddington’s much-ballyhooed experi-
ment, which was conducted during an expedition to Africa and South
America to witness the 1919 solar eclipse and is also described in our
book, proved Einstein correct. The publicity surrounding the occasion
shot Einstein to international celebrity and produced converts to his theo-
ries.
An important point of disagreement between experimentalists and
theorists was Einstein’s unified construct of space and time. First pro-
posed by the eighteenth-century philosopher Immanuel Kant, and funda-
mental to Einstein’s theory of relativity, Einstein held that space and time
do not exist in isolation but are dependent on the observer’s frame of
reference. This idea was alien to the experimentalists who held that space
and time were distinct, absolute entities. To help bring home the theo-
rists’ point of view, consider the following “thought experiment”:
A train travels along a track. A man inside the train measures the
amount of time it takes for a beam of light to travel from the ceiling to
the floor of the train and back again. Another man, standing stationary
alongside the track as the train passes, makes the same measurement.
To the man inside the train, the light beam appears as a vertical shaft.
Because the train is moving, the man standing beside the tracks sees
the light as a diagonal beam of greater length than the perpendicular.
Because the speed of light is invariable, the longer diagonal requires
more time to complete its path. Both frames of reference are valid, yet
the two yield different results. Hence, the amount of time for the light
beam to travel its course is relative, depending on the perspective of
the observer.
As we describe later in this book, Lenard mocked this critical aspect of

the principle of relativity during his 1920 public debate with Einstein,
unsuccessfully attempting to egg Einstein into a statement he might re-
gret.
xv i THE MA N W HO STA LKED EINSTEIN
The experimentalists also disputed the theorists’ penchant for express-

ing their deductions in the shorthand of advanced mathematics. Experi-
mental physics required only that a scientist be accomplished at basic
mathematical skills and have familiarity with classical Euclidean geome-
try. In general, the experimental physicists of the early twentieth century
relied more on describing observations than expressing mathematical for-
mulae. The experimentalists were deeply suspicious that the theorists’
frequent use of advanced mathematics was, at best, to obscure what
they’d done, if not to disseminate outright falsehoods. The experimental-
ists, unable or unwilling to shift to the new paradigm, were ill prepared to
participate in the new physics or even to effectively critique the theorists’
mathematically derived constructs. Lenard, in particular, grew resentful
as Einstein attracted young adherents, who were intrigued by the capabil-
ities of the theoretical approach and more facile than their elders with
advanced mathematics.
Finally, Einstein and Lenard clashed over the existence of “ether.”
Lenard was particularly attached to the notion that the transmission
through space of electromagnetic radiation, like light and X-rays, as well
as gravitation, depended on a so-called ether. This is ironic because Len-
ard was an arch-experimentalist. Despite extensive experimentation, nei-
ther he nor anyone else had been able to demonstrate the existence of
ether since Christiaan Huygens proposed the idea in the seventeenth cen-
tury. Einstein’s theoretical universe disdained ether as requiring a special
frame of reference apart from all others with respect to electromagnetism
in contradiction of his theory of special relativity. Einstein proposed that
quanta of light and other radiant energies were self-sustaining as they
moved through space. During the two decades when Lenard stalked Ein-
stein, he repeatedly brought up Einstein’s disbelief in ether as though it
were a moral failing of religious proportions.
Lenard and Einstein’s scientific differences sparked their heated inter-
personal dispute that highlighted an era of intellectual tumult and led to
the dismantling of the natural sciences in Germany. The resultant interna-
tional diaspora of German natural scientists, the most accomplished sci-
entific community of its era, still influences the science of today.
1
PYRRHIC VICTORY
Sieg heil!
The man’s cry found an echo in a thousand others. On the clear, cool
evening of May 11, 1933, the crowd repeated the familiar Nazi greeting
as ranks of university students marched past encouraging throngs of spec-
tators into the vast expanse of Berlin’s Opera Square. The students ar-
ranged themselves around an enormous blaze that the brown shirts of the
Nazi SA had set and stoked into an inferno earlier in the evening. Sparks
shot into the late spring night, their explosive barks all but drowned out
by the cheers of more than forty thousand onlookers.
Young faces reflected the heat of the bonfire and their excitement at
having all eyes upon them for this historic moment. At a signal, the front
rows of students moved forward, stooped to gather armfuls of books, and
tossed them into the flames. They gave way to the students behind them,
reciting as they did the prescribed verses each had committed to memory:
Against class warfare and materialism; for the community of the peo-
ple and an idealistic way of life!
Against decadence and moral degeneracy; for decency and custom in
family and government!
The ritual was repeated until the flames had consumed twenty-five
thousand books. Among the dozens of authors whose writings had been
trucked from libraries to Opera Square earlier in the day were socialists
1
2 THE MA N W HO STA LKED EINSTEIN
like Karl Marx, social activists like Helen Keller, and humanists like
Ernest Hemingway. Organizers also had removed from the library stacks
every copy they could find of the works of a number of Jewish scientists.
Their revolutionary discoveries had helped elevate German science to the
apotheosis of world recognition. Under the new Nazi regime, they had
fallen out of favor.
As the flames snapped and flexed in the wind, and the logs fueling the
blaze settled into embers, a lone figure limped up several steps to a
roughly constructed platform fronting the square. The chief of Nazi prop-
aganda, Reichsminister Joseph Goebbels, surveyed his audience. His
sweating, lupine face gleamed in the shifting light. When he sensed the
crowd’s anticipation had grown as taut as it could bear, he began to
speak.
The age of an overly refined Jewish intellectualism has come to an

end, and the German revolution has made the road clear again for the
German character. In the past fourteen years, comrades, as you have
been forced in silent shame to suffer the humiliations of the November
Republic, the libraries became filled with trash and filth from Jewish
asphalt litterateurs.
He paused to give the crowd space to roar its disapproval.
You do well, in these midnight hours, to consign the unclean spirit of

the past to the flames. . . . The old lies in the flames, but the new will
arise from the flame of our own hearts. . . . Let it be an oath to many
flames! Heil to the Reich and the nation and our leader Adolf Hitler!
Goebbels shot the Nazi straight-arm salute, fingers extended, palm

forward, into the cool night air. As the deafening applause settled down, a
group of students began to sing the Horst-Wessel song, the anthem of the
Nazi Party. The tune was picked up by other students and soon the sur-
rounding thousands. The celebration was just beginning. It would contin-
ue long into the night.
One man who did not join in the singing, but who was nonetheless
elated with the evening’s events, was Philipp Lenard. The 1905 Nobel
PY RRH I C V I CT ORY 3
Prize recipient for physics, director of the Institute of Physics at the

University of Heidelberg, and powerful scientific advisor to Adolf Hitler
risked a rare smile. It had taken a very long time, but he could finally
gloat about his victory over Albert Einstein. For nearly fifteen years, he
had led the opposition that finally forced the relativity Jew to flee his
native Germany. The burning of Einstein’s foolish scribblings that eve-
ning in Berlin—and numerous other locations throughout the Father-
land—was the beginning of the end of memory for Einstein’s outlandish
ideas about relativity, of which Lenard had written “. . . even now, were
falling apart.”
Driven by professional disagreement, intense envy over the public’s
adoration of Einstein, and virulent anti-Semitism, Lenard had unrelent-
ingly harassed Einstein and publicly denigrated his theory of relativity.
Beginning with two dramatic confrontations with Einstein in 1920, Len-
ard and his minions publicly assailed Einstein as the living personifica-
tion of an ignoble Jewish spirit in science and a threat to Aryan German
culture. He had been the mastermind behind the 1920 anti-Einstein lec-
tures at the auditorium of the Berlin Philharmonic. A month later, he had
famously debated Einstein about the theory of relativity at Bad Nauheim.
He had too often been forced to stand alone, but he had persevered, was
persevering even now that Einstein and his wife Elsa had fled to America.
It had not been easy, but that night’s triumphant burning of Einstein’s
work had made it all worthwhile.
It was Lenard and the few who had stood with him who had persistent-
ly antagonized Einstein and reversed Einstein’s popular standing. By the
early 1930s, Einstein had been made to feel like a pariah in the country of
his birth. He absented himself from Germany for longer periods than he
had in the past, traveling, lecturing on the theory of relativity, and speak-
ing out about German militarism to pacifist groups. Predictably, the end
of Einstein’s tenure in Germany arrived as Hitler was on the verge of
consolidating his power.
In the fall of 1932, as Elsa packed their things for a two-month trip to
America, Einstein bravely told friends that they would return to Berlin
after he had completed what would be his third professorship in residence
at Cal Tech, in Pasadena, California. But he probably knew this was

wishful thinking. He found himself increasingly at odds with the rising
tide of National Socialism. While Einstein, a nonpracticing Jew who once
described his ethnicity as “the son of Jewish parents,” still felt most at
home in Europe and especially among his friends in the German scientific
community, he had no illusions about who Hitler was and what drove his
intentions. A few years after leaving Germany, from his safe perch in
New Jersey, Einstein wrote about his impressions of Hitler during his run
to power:
Then Hitler appeared, a man with limited intellectual capabilities and

unfit for any useful work, full of envy and bitterness, against all whom
circumstances had favored over him. . . . In his desperate ambition for
power, he discovered that his speeches, confused and pervaded with
hate as they were, received wild acclaim from those whose situation
and orientation resembled his own. . . . But what really qualified him
for leadership was his bitter hatred of everything foreign and, in partic-
ular, his loathing of a defenseless minority, the German Jews. Their
intellectual sensitivity left him uneasy, and he considered it, with some
justification, as un-German. . . . [He propagated] the fraud about the
alleged superiority of the “Aryan” or “Nordic” race, a myth invented
by the anti-Semites to further their sinister purposes.
In early 1931, Einstein had written a letter of resignation to Max

Planck, the elder statesman among German physicists and the man who
had recruited him to Berlin. After much consideration, he decided not to
send it. Later, in December the same year, he wrote in his diary, “Today I
decided to give up my position in Berlin,” but once more he did not act on
his intention. Just before they left their holiday cottage in Caputh for their
December 1932 voyage to America, Einstein said to his wife, “Look at
the house very closely. You will never see it again.” Elsa took what her
husband had said very seriously. She packed thirty pieces of luggage for
the brief sabbatical. They would be prepared if the political circumstances
worsened.
Einstein’s premonitions proved to be well founded. Any hope that he
would be able to resume his academic life in Berlin turned to dust as,
three months later, the couple prepared for their return from California.
On March 10, 1933, the day before they were to depart Pasadena, Elsa’s
daughter, Margot, was twice cornered in the Einsteins’ Berlin apartment
by marauding, brown-shirted storm troopers seeking to intimidate her
stepfather. The apartment was raided three more times during the next
several days. The intruders made off with a number of Einstein’s personal
items, including a prized violin. Einstein telegraphed Margot that she
should make every effort to safely remove his extensive books and papers
from the apartment to the French embassy, then leave Germany as soon
as she could. She managed to do so and met her husband in Paris. At
about the same time, Elsa’s other daughter, Ilse, and her husband escaped
to the Netherlands. Months later, after he decided to immigrate to the
United States, a significant portion of Einstein’s papers accompanied him
on board ship.
The final insult came during his steamship passage aboard the Belgen-
land back to Europe. Einstein received word that authorities from Pots-
dam had ransacked their country cottage. The stated reason for the SA
invasion was that Einstein was suspected of supplying arms to revolution-
ary elements. The Nazis confiscated his beloved sailboat—the Tuemm-
ler—on the pretext that it could be used to smuggle contraband weapons
to socialists. Less than four years earlier, he and Elsa had built their
vacation home in the small village of Caputh, only a short drive from
downtown Berlin. Both of them dearly loved the rustic beauty and peace-
fulness so close to the bustle of their daily lives. “For us, this house was a
place of comfort and security,” he later wrote. “A place in which every-
one could find his own happiness and his own content.” For Einstein, the
ransacking of his cottage was an unmistakable signal that returning to
Germany would put their lives at risk. “They’ll drag you through the
streets by your hair,” one friend warned him. When questioned about the
Potsdam police searching for hidden weapons in his home, he responded
cryptically, “Everyone measures according to his own shoes.”
The Einsteins disembarked in Antwerp and sought the assistance of
personal friends, King Albert I and his queen, Elizabeth. Elizabeth was a
native of Bavaria who had been raised in the small town of Possenhofen,
near Munich. The Queen had met Einstein for the first time in 1929, when
she invited him to dinner to explain relativity to her. By the end of the
evening, Einstein had accompanied her in a duet, playing his violin. Invit-
ed to dinner again a year later, “I was greeted with heartwarming cordial-
ity,” he wrote Elsa. “These two people are of such a purity and benevo-
lence that it is hardly found.” A deep friendship developed between the
scientist and the royal couple. Now, Einstein was without a homeland.
Albert and Elizabeth took him and Elsa under their sovereign protection.
As he was not yet ready to make up his mind about where he would
next live and work, Einstein and Elsa bided their time in a cottage in Le
Coq sur Mer. Einstein’s residence along the Belgian coast gave him the
psychological space to consider his immediate options. Everything would
have been perfect except for the rumors reaching them that the Nazi
agitator Alfred Leibus had offered a $5,000 reward for Einstein’s assassi-
nation. Concerned for her esteemed guest, the Queen staffed the cottage
with two impressively muscled bodyguards. Whether it was out of fear of
these bodyguards or simply that no one wished to risk mounting an at-
tack, Einstein lived there securely.
What Einstein decided to do next indelibly inscribed his name among
the Reich’s enemies. He resigned his membership in the Prussian Acade-
my. It was an action that he could not have taken lightly. Even prior to the
rise of the Nazis, anti-Semitism was rampant among Germany’s elite
scientists, so his membership in the prestigious society had been hard
won. Planck had to campaign vigorously on Einstein’s behalf. In fact,
he’d even approached Philipp Lenard for his support, unaware of Len-
ard’s growing resentment toward Einstein. Sensing some hesitation,
Planck guilelessly asked Lenard if it wasn’t appropriate for such a famous
theoretician as Einstein to reside in the company of his equally celebrated
peers. Lenard famously responded, “Just because a goat may reside in a
stable, it does not make him a regal thoroughbred.”
In a letter to the Prussian Academy of March 28, 1933, Einstein ac-
knowledged that he owed the Academy his thanks for “the opportunity to
devote my time to scientific research, free from all professional obliga-
tions. I know how much I am obliged to her. I withdraw reluctantly from
this circle also because of the intellectual stimulation and the fine human
relationships which I have enjoyed throughout this long period.” He cited
the “current state of affairs in Germany” as the reason for his resignation
and doubtlessly considered the matter concluded.
Unfortunately, it was not. The Academy issued an April 1 press re-
lease indicating its members were “shocked to learn from newspaper
reports about Albert Einstein’s participation in the loathsome anti-Ger-
man campaign in America and France,” scolding Einstein for his “agita-
torial behavior abroad.” The document went on to note that by withdraw-
ing from the Academy, Einstein also was giving up his Prussian citizen-
ship, which was conditional upon his Academy membership. Indeed, the
German government first tried to postpone his relinquishing of his citi-
zenship by invoking a rarely applied tax law requiring Einstein to pay a
fine for fleeing the country. Einstein simply ignored the decree, recogniz-
ing it as a thinly veiled ruse to bring him back into Germany and arrest
him.
The Academy’s charge that Einstein had participated in anti-German
activities had some basis in fact. Einstein had made a number of state-
ments to U.S. pacifist groups over the previous few months, condemning
Nazi antagonism toward Germany’s Jews.
Nonetheless, he denied the charges in an indignant letter to the Acade-
my dated April 5, 1933. Although Einstein acknowledged that he had
described the German citizenry as suffering from a “psychiatric disease”
and that he had urged a “threatened civilization to do their utmost to
prevent the further spread of this mass psychosis, which is expressing
itself in Germany in such a terrible way,” he denied that he had ever been
a part of any “loathsome campaign.” He stood behind every word he had
ever published and asked that, in fairness, his defense of his actions be
disseminated to the members of the Academy and the public at large.
The Academy’s wrongful accusations had slandered him. He had re-
signed his Academy membership and his Prussian citizenship because “I
do not wish to live in a state in which individuals are not granted equal
rights before the law, as well as freedom of speech and instruction.”
Having concluded his dispute with the Prussian Academy, Einstein

deposited his passport at the German consulate in Brussels and returned
his attention to deciding where he would work in the future. Paul Ehren-
fest, a Dutch friend, tried to prevail on Einstein to join him in Leiden.
Similarly, scientists at Christ Church College in England, where he had
spent a number of happy times, argued that Oxford would provide the
best environment for continuing his work on what increasingly had been
attracting his professional attention: a general field theory that would
incorporate all known building blocks of the universe into a coherent
whole. While Einstein surely considered these options, he was most taken
with the possibility of moving to the United States. During his three trips
to the United States, Einstein had been favorably impressed by the free-
doms that Americans enjoyed. He also appreciated the absence of a for-
mal class system that in Europe denied advancement to those born into
lesser circumstances.
Physicist Robert Milliken had seen the possibility of recruiting Ein-
stein to Pasadena early in their relationship, so the door was open to him
at Cal Tech. Einstein might well have chosen this option except for the
mistake Milliken made in introducing Einstein to the renowned American
educational reformer and secretary of the Rockefeller Foundation, Abra-
ham Flexner. Flexner, who was Jewish, had incited a revolution in
American medical education. He had closed down sham medical schools
and helped to develop a more rigorous medical curriculum. In the spring
of 1932, while visiting Los Angeles, he asked Milliken’s permission to
meet the vaunted German physicist then serving his second professorship
in residence. The two hit it off. They were seen walking together, in deep
conversation, late into the evening, well beyond the time Elsa had set
aside for her husband and Flexner to meet.
Flexner spoke to Einstein about his plan to start a small, very exclu-
sive research university or think tank. Having secured a $5 million pledge
from department store magnate Louis Bamberger, Flexner envisioned a
highly vetted, prestigious faculty. It would have visiting scholars but
would not present degrees. Although Flexner had decided his institute
would be located in Princeton, New Jersey, it would have no formal

affiliation with Princeton University.
Einstein had lectured at Princeton University several times and en-
joyed the experience. The college’s leafy walkways and gothic, fitted-
stone architecture were more appealing to Einstein, and especially to
Elsa, than the foreign, materialistic feel of Southern California. Sensing
triumph, with only one more hurdle to surpass, Flexner timorously asked
Einstein what sort of salary he had in mind. The Rockefeller Foundation
had given him a generous budget, but perhaps not enough to command
the attention of such a great man. Einstein naïvely suggested $3,000
annually, quite a low figure by American standards. Smiling, Flexner told
him that he would work out his salary with Elsa. Einstein readily agreed.
They settled at $16,000.
The freedom to think and write and the flexibility of the arrangement
that Flexner promised so appealed to Einstein that he quickly agreed in
principle to become the second faculty member of the institute, after the
mathematician Hermann Weyl. This is not to say that Einstein hadn’t any
qualms about moving to such a strange place as America. He had ex-
pressed how he felt about the United States in a 1925 letter to his friend
Michael Besso, who had worked with him on the theory of special relativ-
ity: “To find Europe delightful, you have to visit the United States. While
people have fewer prejudices there, they nevertheless are hollow and
uninteresting, much more so than in Europe.” In a similarly dismissive
vein, he noted, “American men are nothing but the pet dogs of their
wives. People seem to be endlessly bored.”
The threat to his and his wife’s lives demanded that Einstein reconsid-
er those views. In the end, Einstein agreed to spend four or five months
annually in Princeton at what would become the Institute for Advanced
Studies. In the worst case, he thought, he would make up for U.S. intel-
lectual deficiencies by spending the rest of his time at Oxford or Leiden
or Madrid, where he also had accepted a yet-to-be-defined appointment.
It was not to be. Despite living another twenty-two years, Einstein never
again touched foot on European soil.
Einstein grew restless with domestic life in Le Coq sur Mer while
waiting for some signal from Flexner that things were settled with U.S.
Immigration and ready for him in Princeton. An unusual opportunity
presented itself in the form of an invitation from a wealthy member of the
British Parliament, a former army commander and pilot named Oliver
Locker-Lampson, whom Einstein had once met at Oxford. Einstein
traveled to England without Elsa, who preferred her quiet existence along
the Belgian shore.
Locker-Lampson was an admirer of Einstein and was greatly pleased
by Einstein’s acceptance of his invitation. During the few short weeks of
his visit, the two men became good friends. At Einstein’s request, Lock-
er-Lampson introduced a bill in Parliament to increase opportunities for
Jews to emigrate from Germany to Great Britain. In proposing the law,
Locker-Lampson nodded to Einstein, who was standing in the gallery of
the House of Commons that day, and said, “Germany has turned out its
most glorious citizen. . . . The Huns have stolen his savings, plundered his
place of residence, and even taken his violin. . . . How proud this country
must be to have offered him shelter.”
The shelter Locker-Lampson provided was a cottage on the Norfolk
moors. While Elsa prepared in Le Coq sur Mer for their voyage to Ameri-
ca, her husband contemplated the universe—or so he said—guarded by
two attractive young women who had been introduced to him as Locker-
Lampson’s “assistants.” Einstein happily spent his final days in England
drinking beer with his well-proportioned protectors and greeting visitors
wishing to meet the famous scientist. The press delighted in photograph-
ing Einstein with his shotgun-toting “bodyguards.” When asked whether
he felt secure with his protectors’ sharpshooting talents, he speculated,
“The beauty of my bodyguards would disarm a conspirator sooner than
their shotguns.”
Elsa could not have been pleased with the news of her husband’s
English idyll, but it is unlikely she was surprised. Married fourteen years,
she and Einstein had begun their affair in 1912, when he was still married
to his first wife, Mileva Marić. When Marić separated from Einstein in
1914, after he had accepted a professorship in Berlin, he noted, “I am
extremely happy with the separation, even though I rarely hear from my
boys. The peace and quiet feel enormously good, as does the really nice
affair with my cousin.”
Three years Einstein’s elder, Elsa was his cousin on both sides of his
family. The daughter of his mother’s sister and of his father’s brother, she
had been born an Einstein, became a Loewenthal when she married her
first husband, and took back the surname Einstein once again when she
married Albert in 1919. She and little “Albertle” had played together as
children. She was well aware of his wry wit and the devastating effect his
intelligence and fame had upon women.
“Marriage is the unsuccessful attempt to make something lasting out
of an incident,” Einstein once said. Although Elsa usually traveled with
her husband and kept a stern eye on him, she soon experienced the same
heartache as Mileva had. In 1923, four years into their marriage, Einstein
fell in love with his twenty-three-year-old secretary, Betty Neumann. Elsa
knew about it, but it was nearly two years before she convinced her
husband to break it off. Even so, she could not banish the feelings Ein-
stein had for Neumann. Einstein wrote Neumann, “I will have to look to
the stars for what is denied me on earth.” Elsa didn’t doubt that there had
been others. Locker-Lampson’s assistants were only a distraction. She
would say nothing and focus on her preparations for their imminent de-
parture.
The steamship Westmoreland left Antwerp with Elsa aboard in early
October 1933. It stopped in Southampton to pick up Einstein and his
assistant, Walther Mayer, on October 7, before making its way across the
Atlantic to New York. To avoid publicity, Flexner arranged for a tugboat
to meet the ship when it cleared customs at Ellis Island. The tug trans-
ferred the Einstein party to a car for the short drive to Princeton. For the
time being, Einstein was officially a man without a country. He was
among the first of roughly two thousand Jewish scientists, mathemati-
cians, and developers of technology—including fourteen Nobel Prize re-
cipients—who would find themselves dismissed from their jobs, unable
to support their families, and threatened with deportation to the Nazi
death mills that would soon spring up across Europe.
In recalling the many years of strife with his longtime foe, Philipp
Lenard cited Einstein as “the most important example of the dangerous
influence of the Jewish circles on the study of nature.” A month later, any
remaining controversy over Einstein’s resignation from the Prussian
Academy became moot. On the heels of the Third Reich barring Jews
teaching in German universities, it also made any person of Jewish de-
scent ineligible for membership in the Academy. Lenard saw his opportu-
nity to further cement his status with the Nazi hierarchy. Noting, “We
must recognize that it is unworthy of a German to be the intellectual
follower of a Jew,” Lenard partnered with his like-minded colleague,
Johannes Stark, to vigorously enforce a series of laws calling for the
dismissal of Jewish academics from their university employment.
Max Planck tried to head off the carnage by appealing directly to the
Fuehrer, Adolf Hitler. It was to no avail. “Our national policies will not
be revoked or modified, even for scientists,” Hitler told him in no uncer-
tain terms. “If the dismissal of Jewish scientists means the annihilation of
German science, then we shall do without science for a few years.”
While, in hindsight, Hitler’s response to Planck seems maniacally
self-destructive, at the time, it was everything that Lenard could have
hoped for. In every respect, it must have seemed to Lenard that his victo-
ry was complete. Unrecognized at the time were the unintended conse-
quences of Lenard’s successful vendetta against Einstein and the Jewish
academics. He had unwittingly accomplished something of surpassing
significance. Lenard’s actions had shifted the world’s balance of scientif-
ic intellect from Germany to its enemies, most prominently to the United
States. Eventually, there would come a reckoning.
2
THE HEART OF THE MATTER
Near the end of his life, Einstein wrote to his good friend Niels Bohr,
“Not often in life has a human being caused me such joy by his mere
presence as you did.” This assertion was a testimony to their more than
thirty years of friendly disagreement over the laws that govern particle
physics. At times, their conversations grew so contentious that they be-
came completely oblivious to what was going on around them. Famously,
on one occasion, they became so engrossed in their conversation that they
missed their streetcar stop on the way to a conference. Eventually realiz-
ing that they had gone too far, they got off the trolley, crossed the street,
and got on the one going the other way. They missed their stop going
back as well.
Although they disagreed over specifics, Bohr and Einstein were both
convinced that the laws of physics that work for everyday phenomena—
those described by Newton and his successors—didn’t hold up in the
world of atoms and subatomic particles, where things are very small and
often move very fast. This was the purview of theoretical physics. The
abstruse mathematics of theoretical physics was breaking down the cer-
tainties of traditional Newtonian physics, raising questions that the scien-
tific orthodoxy of classically trained natural scientists like Philipp Lenard
was ill prepared to address.
Lenard bridled against the new science, refusing to let go of explana-
tions of physical phenomena that were rooted in centuries-old discoveries
13
and unwilling or unable to grasp mathematically derived theories. It was

inevitable that Lenard and Einstein would clash over their scientific dif-
ferences. However, unlike the sincerely inquiring argumentative relation-
ship that Einstein shared with Niels Bohr, what Lenard and Einstein felt
toward one another was the very opposite of respectful appreciation: a
smoldering, personal cold war that occasionally combusted into a very
public conflagration.
Lenard’s intense hatred for Einstein went far beyond their disagree-
ment over scientific principles. In the plodding, conservative world of
physics, Einstein was a shooting star. The press had gone wild in 1919
with the first experimental proof of Einstein’s theory of general relativity.
Front-page news stories compared him to Newton, Copernicus, and Kep-
ler, revered names in Lenard’s scientific pantheon. While the public
adored the witty, unkempt, down-to-earth theorist, who was turning on its
ear the long-accepted dictums by which classical physicists explained the
functioning of the universe, Lenard was little known beyond the rarified
halls of the academy.
How unseemly for such acclaim to be accorded a scientist, Lenard
thought. And on what grounds? Mathematical derivations that began in
the abstract and were not held to any standard of experimental proof?
Complicity with an all-too-willing and gullible press that welcomed Ein-
stein’s self-promotion? The frivolous book—Einstein the Seeker—that
the sycophantic writer Alexander Moszkowski had published with Ein-
stein’s full participation? Yes! Yes, to all of these sins and to one more.
Einstein was a Jew. He acted like a Jew. Most damning of all, he thought
like a Jew. “It was so typical,” Lenard wrote, “the unquestionably pure-
blooded Jew. . . . His relativity theories attempted to transform and domi-
nate the whole of physics. . . . Apparently, they never were even intended
to be true.”
Lenard felt that Einstein had unjustly led a charmed life. Einstein had
prospered while deserving true Aryans like himself had suffered greatly.
The humiliating Treaty of Versailles and the Weimar government’s mind-
less adherence to the repressive terms of the armistice ending World War
I had brought nothing but suffering to the German people.
T H E H E ART OF T H E M AT TER 15
At the same time, Einstein had grown well-to-do on his renown. Since
1914, when Max Planck had recruited him away from Zurich to a profes-
sorship at Berlin’s Humboldt University and the directorship of the Kai-
ser Wilhelm Institute for Physics, Einstein had enjoyed special privileges.
At Planck’s insistence, Einstein had been elected a member of the prestig-
ious Prussian Academy of Sciences and granted German citizenship.
Over Lenard’s protestations, Sweden’s Nobel Academy had awarded
Einstein the 1921 Nobel Prize for work so derivative of Lenard’s own
discoveries and so prosaic as to be better suited for schoolchildren. While
Lenard’s son Werner had contracted kidney failure and died of wartime
deprivation, Einstein’s Nobel Prize money was said to have secured the
comfort of his two sons, who were living with their mother in Zurich. To
top things off, Planck had acceded to Einstein’s demand that he have few
teaching responsibilities, giving him the time to pursue well-paid oppor-
tunities to lecture abroad. It was rumored that Einstein’s Dutch friend,
Paul Ehrenfest, banked Einstein’s honoraria in the Netherlands, safe-
guarding the moneys from the ravages of the rampant inflation wreaking
ruin on the life savings of many German citizens, Lenard among them.
The contrasts between the anti-Semitic, ultra-nationalistic Lenard and
the tousled-hair, pacifistic Jew, Einstein, could hardly have been more
stark. They were antipodes, complete opposites in their early life experi-
ences, scientific views, and personalities.
Philipp Eduard Anton Lenard was the son of a wine merchant. He
grew up in the small Austro-Hungarian city of Pressburg (now Bratislava
in Slovakia). From childhood on, he evinced a deep disdain for any learn-
ing other than the natural sciences, a bias that only hardened in its inten-
sity as he grew older. Lenard prepared for his career by studying at
Europe’s major research centers with some of the greatest scientific
minds of the 1880s and 1890s—men like Bunsen, Helmholtz, and Hertz.
It was an era of discovery based on real-world experiments, and Lenard
emerged a dedicated experimentalist. His research into the emanations of
high-energy cathode ray tubes earned him the 1905 Nobel Prize for phys-
ics and eventually led to him being named professor at the University of
Heidelberg. At the same time, however, his upbringing, orthodox train-
ing, and conventional life experiences imbued Lenard with a sense of

privilege, a feeling of rectitude in his personal dealings that could be
challenging for others.
Lenard engaged in a succession of lifelong feuds. His envy of other
scientists’ fame and his obsessing over “what might have been, if
only . . .” led Lenard to make claims of primacy for either himself or his
ideological forebears that bore little currency in reality. He squabbled
with Marie Curie and the great British scientist, J. J. Thompson, whose
pioneering work led to Thompson describing the electron. However, Len-
ard’s most egregious claims involved the discovery of the X-ray. Lenard
was among a number of physicists studying the emanations of cathode
ray tubes. Almost certainly, he had witnessed phenomena that could have
led to his recognizing the existence of X-rays. That he failed to do so
before Wilhelm Conrad Roentgen’s startling 1895 publication, “On a
New Type of Ray,” detailing most of what we know today about X-rays,
in no way stopped him from insisting that Roentgen was merely a techni-
cian who had advantaged himself of Lenard’s work and claiming for
himself the title “Mother of the X-ray.”
Ironically, 1905 was not only the year Lenard was awarded the Nobel
Prize but also Einstein’s “miracle year.” In that year, the previously un-
known and relatively untutored Swiss patent clerk published four major
articles, including revolutionary dissertations on the photoelectric effect,
Brownian motion, the equivalence of mass and energy, and one detailing
his theory of special relativity. His mathematically derived insights came
like a torrent, spontaneously and seemingly without precedent.
In contrast to Lenard’s impressively varied educational pedigree, Ein-
stein attended only Zurich’s Swiss Federal Polytechnic University. He
floundered in arriving at an acceptable topic for his doctoral thesis, offer-
ing several that were rejected by the faculty before passing muster. He
finally was granted his doctorate in that same annus mirabilis of 1905 for
what turned out to be a miscalculation of Avogadro’s constant—the num-
ber of molecules in a mole of any substance. Off by a factor of almost
three in underestimating the constant at 2.2×10 23, he later caught his own
algebraic errors and published a correction.
Their personalities also were polar opposites. Lenard could be snarky,

harsh, and controlling in his dealings with others, and especially unpleas-
ant in how he related to his subordinates. One such relationship involving
Lenard and an assistant, Jakob Johann Laub, peripherally involved Ein-
stein early in his career. Laub was an ardent believer in Einstein’s work,
having written his doctoral thesis on the theory of special relativity. Be-
ginning in 1909, Einstein and Laub conducted a correspondence.
At first, Laub was grateful to be in Lenard’s employ, writing Einstein
in May 1909, “As Lenard is concerned, he is indeed known everywhere
as a satrap, who treats the assistants badly. In my opinion, these people
deserve to fall on their bellies. I can only say to them that Lenard strikes
an entirely different note with me, and that I have the utmost freedom.”
However, by August 1910, it was quite a different story. Einstein’s
theories contradicted an important aspect of Lenard’s scientific ethos, the
presence of “ether.” Lenard relied on ether as necessary to the flow
through space of electromagnetic radiation like light and X-rays. Despite
the fact that Laub did not believe in the existence of ether, Lenard re-
quired his assistant to conduct extensive but unsuccessful experiments
aimed at proving that ether really existed at the expense of his own
research. Einstein wrote Laub, “Lenard must, however, in many things,
be wound quite askew. His recent lecture on these fanciful ethers appears
to me almost infantile. Further, the study he commanded of you . . .
borders on the absurd. I am sorry that you must spend your time on such
stupidity.”
By November, things between Lenard and Laub had degenerated to
such an extent that Einstein offered to help Laub find new work. Howev-
er, even when Laub told Lenard he was seeking other employment and
why, Lenard required Laub to continue the ether experiments until he had
the promise of a new job. “This is really a twisted fellow, Lenard,”
Einstein commented after hearing this. “So entirely composed of gall and
intrigue. However, you are considerably better off than him. You can go
away from him, however, he must do business with the monster until he
bites the dust.”
In contrast to Lenard, Einstein’s eccentric clothing, modest approach-

ability, and gentle wit did nothing to discourage the public’s very positive
impression. Einstein’s ability to laugh at himself and even his work en-
deared him to people of all castes and stations. He had an absent-minded
air about him that generated innumerable anecdotes. Early in his career,
his first wife, Mileva Marić, suggested that he dress more professionally
at work. “Why should I?” he asked. “Everyone knows me there.” She
mentioned it again when he was about to present a lecture at one of his
first major conferences. He responded, “Why should I? No one knows me
there.”
Even Einstein’s often embattled theory of relativity was fodder for his
humor. As one famous example, in the wake of experimental data sup-
porting his theory of general relativity, he was asked to explain his theory
in simple fashion. Einstein replied, “When you are courting a nice girl, an
hour seems like a second. When you sit on a red-hot cinder, a second
seems like an hour. That’s relativity.”
On another occasion, when his longtime driver was taking Einstein to
one of his lectures, the driver said to him, “I’ve heard that lecture so many
times, I could deliver it myself.” Einstein took him up on the bet. The
driver did Einstein proud, but afterward, someone in the audience asked a
difficult question. Without missing a beat, the driver pointed to Einstein,
sitting in chauffeur tucker in the back of the room, and said, “That’s such
a simple question, I believe my driver could answer it.” So he did.
In Lenard’s mind, this kind of grandstanding proved his point. Ein-
stein was conducting a referendum on his science in the court of public
opinion. Just because the man could get a laugh didn’t mean there was
anything to his theories. In fact, just the opposite. What Einstein was
doing wasn’t really science at all. His theories were so abstract. Really,
nothing more than mathematical sophistry. An untrustworthy intellectual
temple built from deduction as flimsy as playing cards. A hoax as cynical
as a street corner game of three-card Monty. Einstein was shilling his
ideas, prostituting himself for the sake of fame and money. Having made
friends with complicit Jewish newspapers and others in the German press,
he had duped a guileless citizenry. That was bad enough. Even worse,
many of Lenard’s Aryan colleagues were abandoning their traditional

views to line up behind Einstein and relativity. Fueled by a bitter stew of
contempt, jealousy, and anti-Semitism, Lenard’s attacks became less
about Einstein’s science than about Einstein himself.
Lenard came to his anti-Semitism by both birth and experience.
Though a subliminal hatred of Jews existed throughout eastern Europe in
the early twentieth century, it was especially pronounced among the Hun-
garian nationalists where Lenard spent his childhood and adolescence.
Despite being ethnically German, Lenard counted himself among them
and was influenced by their zeal. In his adulthood, he shifted his alle-
giance to Germany, but his chauvinistic fervor never waned. Even so, the
young Lenard revealed none of the anti-Semitic passion that so character-
ized his writings in later life.
Very likely, it was during his educational pilgrimage that he first had
negative interactions with Jews that helped lay the groundwork for his
prejudice. One of Lenard’s professors, the estimable Heinrich Hertz, was,
as Lenard described him in his book Great Men of Science, “partly of
Jewish blood.” In fact, Hertz’s family had converted to Catholicism, and
he had an Aryan mother to whom Lenard attributed Hertz’s scientific
aptitude. While he and Hertz got along well for the most part, Lenard may
have blamed Hertz’s frugality for Lenard missing out on an important
discovery. Hertz hadn’t exactly rejected Lenard’s request to buy a better
cathode ray tube like the one Wilhelm Roentgen may have been using
when he discovered X-rays. Hertz had simply told him to use his best
judgment as to whether the cost would be worth it. If only Hertz had
given his enthusiastic approval for the new tube, Lenard believed, it
would have been he who would have been hailed as the discoverer of X-
rays.
Following the armistice of World War I, Lenard incurred a series of
financial reversals, which he attributed to Jewish control of international
money markets. Already imbued with strongly nationalistic political
views and confronted daily with prejudicial Nazi rhetoric, Lenard grew
more radical. He fell prey to a popular Nazi shibboleth: the Jews were
responsible for Germany’s ills. Unlike the masses of ordinary Germans
who similarly bought into this lie, many of whom might never have
associated with Jews, Lenard not only knew Jews, but also had worked
closely with Jewish professors in universities. In fact, he had studied the
behavior of one Jew very well. For Lenard, Einstein became “the Jew.”
He personalized his anti-Semitic views, focusing his vitriol on Albert
Einstein.
Lenard espoused that Jews were inherently very different from Aryan
Germans in how they thought about science. Science, indeed any endeav-
or, was subject to unique styles of thinking that were characteristic of
different races. In a series of writings formalizing his views with respect
to the natural sciences, he touted the superiority of experimentally based
German physics and decried theoretical physics as an intentionally fraud-
ulent construct informed by the unwholesome “Jewish spirit.” “The Jew
conspicuously lacks any understanding of truth beyond a merely superfi-
cial agreement with reality, which is independent of human thought,” he
wrote in the introduction to Deutsche Physik, wherein he spelled out the
principals that would guide Nazi scientific thought for a generation. “This
is in contrast to the Aryan scientist’s drive, which is as obstinate as it is
serious in its quest for truth.”
Lenard doubtlessly believed in the ethos of Aryan supremacy, but to
some extent, his rhetoric was calculated to advance his career. As Ein-
stein wrote in 1935, when it came to Hitler’s sycophants, “[Hitler’s]
disjointed personality makes it impossible to know to what degree he
might actually have believed in the nonsense which he kept on dispensing
[but] those, however, who rallied around him or who came to the surface
through the Nazi wave were, for the most part, hardened cynics fully
aware of the falsehood of their unscrupulous methods.”
Lenard makes a curious assertion at the outset of his autobiography:
“My times are not here. . . . The people, as they are around today, prob-
ably would not choose to reinvent someone like me.” In one sense, this is
true. Lenard was a typical outsider throughout his life. He wrote in his
Faelschungs-Buch, a handwritten account of ideas he believed had been
stolen from him,
I was reminded often by my sensation of not having acquired any

friend by my work, which was completely unselfish and which was in
fact of benefit to many, of which they all have made use with joy.
Some, as the sordid [U.S. physicist Robert] Millikan, have acted sys-
tematically as robber-knights with Jewish support. Some even have
been Jews. . . . I could not possibly be interested in their frankly
impossible friendship (which I did not know at the time, but began to
sense gradually).
However, in other ways, Philipp Lenard was a man curiously well

designed to succeed in his place and time. He was a canny opportunist
who capitalized on a political gamble he’d placed on the National Social-
ists and won. He joined the party well before there was a clear political
advantage and was a VIP participant at their 1927 annual convention. He
was a true believer who pledged himself to the Nazi Party and Adolf
Hitler well before the times demanded it. His demonization of Einstein
established his bona fides as a man who Hitler could count on to promote
his agenda. Lenard’s political star rose in concert with Nazi power.
3
FAMILIARITY BREEDS CONTEMPT
Before all the tumult, Einstein and Lenard’s relationship had a respect-
ful, even friendly, beginning. In fact, Einstein’s first impression of Phi-
lipp Lenard was a very positive one. In 1896, at age seventeen, Einstein
passed the entry examination for Zurich Polytechnic and began matricu-
lating in the school’s four-year course of study for a diploma in teaching
math and physics. It was a small program with only six students. One of
them was Mileva Marić. Four years Einstein’s senior, she was the only
woman in the class, among the first to study mathematics and science in
Central Europe. Despite the fact that Mileva walked with a pronounced
limp and was often in pain, a natural attraction developed between the
two students, first as study partners, then as lovers.
During the fall and winter of 1897–1898, perhaps because of her par-
ents’ concern that their Serbian daughter was growing too close to the
Jewish Einstein, Mileva spent a semester studying physics at the Univer-
sity of Heidelberg. A letter she wrote to Einstein described a lecture she
had recently attended:
It really was too enjoyable in the lecture of Prof. Lenard, yesterday;

now he speaks about the kinetic theory of gases. It seems that the
molecules of oxygen move with a speed of 400 m/sec., and after calcu-
lating and calculating, the good professor set up equations, differen-
tiated, integrated, substituted and finally showed that the molecules in
23
fact actually do move with this speed but that they only travel the
distance of 1/100th of a hair’s breadth.
It was months before Einstein responded. When he finally wrote, he

used the formal German “Sie” in addressing Mileva, rather than the fa-
miliar “du” reserved for close friends. He implores Mileva to return,
citing a concern for her academic progress rather than any personal inter-
est:
The desire to write you has finally conquered the guilty conscience
I’ve had about not responding to your letter for such a long time and
which has allowed me to avoid your critical eye. But now, even though
you are understandably angry with me, you must at least give me
credit for not adding to my offense by hiding behind feeble excuses,
and for asking you simply and directly for forgiveness and—for an
answer as soon as possible.
At the time of Mileva’s study abroad, Lenard was serving a temporary

associate professorship in Heidelberg, one of a number of itinerant ap-
pointments he held while seeking permanent employment. It was during
that year at Heidelberg that Lenard decided he had sufficiently advanced
in his career and had acquired the financial and social standing he be-
lieved necessary for him to take a wife. With all the romance of a banking
transaction, he noted in his autobiography that “[I] quickly set up my
laboratory and got my experiments going . . . There was an abundance of
daughters of professors who were waiting to be married, but it soon
became clear how I had to choose.” He chose Katharina Schlehner,
known as Katty, the stepdaughter of the Egyptologist August Elsenlohr.
The marriage would bear two children, Ruth in 1898 and Werner in 1900.
Lenard finally achieved a permanent appointment in 1896 as professor
of physics at the University of Kiel, and he became director of its Institute
of Physics. By that time, he already had a number of scientific accom-
plishments to his credit, including his work with cathode ray tubes that
six years later would earn him a Nobel Prize. Despite his long academic
pilgrimage, Lenard’s success was assured. In 1907, his achievements
FAM I LI ARI T Y B RE E DS C ONTEMP T 25
would lead him back to Heidelberg as a professor and director of the

Institute of Physics.
There was nothing during his initial one-year appointment at Heidel-
berg, nor upon his return, that would signal his later animosity toward
Einstein. Similarly, he did not betray any overt anti-Semitism. In fact, in
his autobiography, Lenard credits the Jewish mathematician Leo Koe-
nigsberger with helping him to cut through the red tape that at first hin-
dered his permanent Heidelberg appointment. “This pure-blooded Jew
has always demonstrated more wit and intelligence than most of the
Aryan members of the faculty,” he wrote, “and since he was smart
enough not to want to seem to be of too Jewish a mind, he often was a
blessing for me in his cause against the narrow-mindedness and bigotry
of the faculty.”
At the same time that Lenard was making headway in academia, the
much younger Einstein was a complete unknown. He graduated with his
teaching diploma in 1900, but Mileva failed her first attempt to pass her
final examinations. She failed again in 1901 with a poor score in math.
By then, Mileva was three months’ pregnant with Einstein’s child. She
returned to her parents’ home in Novi Sad to deliver a girl she named
Lieserl. The birth of the child was kept a secret and only became known
when a letter written by Einstein at the time was discovered long after his
and Mileva’s deaths. What became of Lieserl? Had she died as an infant,
or was she put up for adoption? Mileva returned to Zurich without her in
1903. She and Einstein married soon after, but despite their having two
subsequent children together—Hans Albert in 1904 and Eduard in
1910—the episode with Lieserl, whatever became of her, sowed a seed of
permanent discord in their relationship.
In addition to Einstein’s marital difficulties, an even more significant
problem confronted him. He needed a job to support himself and his wife.
Two years following his graduation, the father of a friend helped him get
hired into a civil service position after he had unsuccessfully searched for
a teaching job. He was appointed a third-class technical expert in the
Office for Intellectual Property in Bern, a patent officer charged with
judging the originality of electrical and magnetic devices. The position

became permanent about the time of his wedding.
Einstein might well have spent a fulfilling life as a patent officer. He
enjoyed what he did and was paid nearly twice the amount he could have
expected to earn as a newly appointed assistant professor. Moreover, the
work was not particularly challenging, so he had time to work on his own
thoughts.
And, as it turned out, he was having many thoughts. Indeed, his brain
was fairly bursting at the seams waiting for some outlet of expression.
While waiting for the patent office job to come through, Einstein orga-
nized a small philosophical club he grandiosely named the Olympic
Academy. As an undergraduate, he had become bored with the prosaic
teaching curriculum and branched off with Mileva into reading science
and philosophy. At this time, he returned to those interests along with two
like-minded Polytechnic students, Maurice Solovine and Conrad Habicht.
The Olympic Academy met regularly, often in Einstein’s apartment, to
drink schnapps and read Plato, John Stuart Mill, David Hume, and others.
Einstein also scoured physics journals to keep au courant and famil-
iarize himself with emerging theoretical concepts in science. Among the
publications Einstein read in 1902 and 1903 were Philipp Lenard’s inves-
tigations of the photoelectric effect. Einstein referenced Lenard when, in
1905, he broached the same subject from the perspective of Max Planck’s
quantum hypothesis. Einstein derived new insights into the nature of
energy emitted when light strikes a metal object. Most gratifying to Len-
ard, Einstein’s publication referenced Lenard’s work with the respect the
elder man felt befitted his station as an accomplished scientist. Having
read the part of Einstein’s article that described his experiments as
“groundbreaking,” Lenard was sufficiently flattered as to have a very
positive impression of Einstein.
Suddenly, in 1905, without having given any earlier sign of what he
had been doing, Einstein revealed in a letter to his fellow Olympic Acade-
my member, Conrad Habicht, that he had been working on some novel
ideas. On first glance, Einstein’s reason for writing the letter was to
express interest in reading Habicht’s doctoral dissertation, but on closer
inspection, it is clear that was something of a ruse. The letter is much

more about the overwhelming excitement he felt concerning his own
frenzy of creativity than his curiosity over what had occupied Habicht.
Einstein adopts a self-congratulatory tone in writing this letter to his
friend:
Such a solemn air of silence has descended between us that I almost

feel as if I am committing a sacrilege when I break it now with some
inconsequential babble. So, what are you up to, you frozen whale, you
smoked, dried, canned piece of soul? Why have you still not sent me
your dissertation? Don’t you know that I am one of the 1.5 fellows
who would read it with interest and pleasure, you wretched man? I
promise you four papers in return. The first deals with radiation and
the energy properties of light and is very revolutionary, as you will see
if you send me your work first. The second paper is a determination of
the true sizes of atoms. The third proves that bodies on the order of
magnitude 1/1000 mm, suspended in liquids, must already perform an
observable random motion that is produced by thermal motion. The
fourth paper is only a rough draft at this point, and is an electrodynam-
ics of moving bodies which employs a modification of the theory of
space and time.
At about the same time as Einstein wrote his letter to Habicht, Lenard
sent Einstein an example of his recent work. What precipitated Lenard to
send this publication to Einstein? Most likely, Lenard was responding to
Einstein’s referencing his earlier publication on the photoelectric effect.
Einstein wrote back, “Esteemed Professor! I thank you very much for the
work you have sent me, which I have studied with the same feeling of
admiration as your earlier works.” In addition, Einstein commented on
the conclusions of Lenard’s investigations, which dealt with the genera-
tion of spectral lines by atoms at different states of energy.
It was four years before Lenard responded to Einstein’s letter, a long
enough duration that Einstein may well have forgotten that he had first
written to Lenard. Indeed, he probably wondered why Lenard had both-
ered writing at all. Perhaps, Einstein’s growing reputation as a scientist
on the rise had piqued Lenard’s interest, and he wished to establish con-
tact. Addressing Einstein as “highly esteemed colleague,” Lenard began

with an apology for having taken so long to reply, then continued,
Let me thank you for your friendly words on the occasion of my last
writing. What could be more exciting for me than when a profound
comprehensive thinker finds favor with some points from my
work. . . . I am having more and more thoughts about our different
opinions on electrical speeds and related things. I think, namely, that
we are in some sense both correct; however, I will not be satisfied until
I see the comprehensive and prodigious connections found by you to
everything remaining, which I imagine fit into the whole picture. . . .
With excellent regard, your loyal P. Lenard.
By the time Einstein received Lenard’s letter, he had attracted the

attention of a number of major academic centers. In 1908, he was ap-
pointed a Privatdozent at the University of Bern. A year later, he became
an associate professor of theoretical physics at the University of Zurich.
Mileva was instrumental in her husband’s advancement. She vetted
his publications, looked up references, checked his computations, and
copied notes, but their romantic relationship had deteriorated. The decline
of Einstein’s marriage was helped along by the incursion of another
woman. A young Basel housewife named Anna Meyer-Schmid had met
Einstein a decade earlier at a resort hotel when she was just seventeen.
Having read about his academic appointment at Zurich, she contacted
him. Einstein sent her a flirtatious letter that included his office address,
suggesting she visit him if she got to Zurich. Meyer-Schmid wrote back
in kind, but Mileva intercepted the letter and reacted vindictively. She
sent Meyer-Schmid’s husband a letter claiming that Einstein had been
offended by the exchange. Einstein had to intercede. He apologized to
Herr Schmid for his wife’s jealousy.
Their relationship suffered another blow in 1911, when Einstein ac-
cepted an appointment in Prague and then, almost immediately, moved
his family back to Switzerland in 1912 for a faculty position at the Uni-
versity of Zurich, where he had done the work for his doctoral degree.
While traveling alone to Berlin that year, Einstein reconnected with his
recently divorced cousin and childhood playmate, Elsa Lowenthal. Elsa

was almost the same age as Mileva but the exact opposite in tempera-
ment. Cheerful, bourgeois, and engaging, she was a breath of freedom
from the dark moods of his bohemian wife. Upon his return home, he
wrote Elsa, “I have to have someone to love, otherwise life is miserable.
And this someone is you.” He had second thoughts and broke off their
secret correspondence for a time, but the romance resumed a year later
and took off in 1914 upon his assuming his professorship in Berlin.
Immediately upon agreeing to the Berlin appointment, he wrote Elsa, “I
already rejoice at the wonderful times we will spend together.”
The Meyer-Schmid episode and the new relationship with Elsa were
symptomatic of the deep rift that had developed between husband and
wife. Einstein’s letters tell the sad tale. In 1900, he’d stopped addressing
Mileva as “Sie” and moved on to the informal “du.” He’d called her
endearing nicknames, like “Dollie” and “sweetheart,” and written her bits
of doggerel like this 1900 quartet:
Oh my! That Johnnie boy!
So crazy with desire,
While thinking of his Dollie,
His pillow catches fire.
In 1914, after he had begun the affair with his cousin that eventually
would lead to his divorce from Mileva and his second marriage, he wrote
down his conditions for continuing their cohabitation:
A. You will see to it (1) that my clothes and linen are kept in order,
(2) that I am served three regular meals a day in my room. B. You will
renounce all personal relations with me, except when these are re-
quired to keep up social appearances. And: You will expect no affec-
tion from me. . . . You must leave my bedroom or study at once
without protesting when I ask you to.
Mileva’s role had regressed from lover to spouse to servant. The cruel
tone of this note speaks volumes and reflects a bitterness that went far
beyond simple alienation of affection. Einstein may have so wearied of
Mileva’s company that he could rationalize even cruelty.
For her part, Mileva hated Berlin. In that most Prussian of German
cities, she bridled at a rigid caste system that viewed Slavs as being on the
same social plane as Jews. She also was much closer than she wanted to
be to Einstein’s mother, who had a trenchant dislike of her daughter-in-
law. Einstein had written to Mileva about the day in 1900 when he had
first intimated his seriousness about her to his mother. Things hadn’t gone
well then, and the relationship between mother- and daughter-in-law had
grown worse with time:
So we arrive home and I go into Mama’s room (only the two of us).
First I must tell her about the [final] exam, and then she asks me quite
innocently, “So what will become of your Dollie now?” “My wife,” I
said, just as innocently, prepared for the proper scene that immediately
followed. Mama threw herself on the bed, buried her head in the pil-
low, and wept like a child. After regaining her composure, she imme-
diately shifted to a desperate attack. “You are ruining your future and
destroying your opportunities. No decent family will have her. If she
gets pregnant, you really will be in a mess.”
Shortly after their arrival in the German capital, Mileva separated

from Einstein and returned to Zurich, taking her sons Hans Albert and
Eduard with her. The loss of his children was a severe blow to Einstein.
Despite his visiting his sons frequently, Hans Albert, in particular, took
his mother’s side. It was only over years that Einstein was able to repair
the rent in their relationship.
Little did Einstein know that his marriage to Mileva would linger well
past their separation. It would cost him five years and a great deal of
misery. To overcome his wife’s reluctance to agree to a divorce, Einstein
made a most unusual contract. Beginning in 1910, he had regularly been
nominated for the Nobel Prize in physics. He promised to give Mileva the
substantial monetary proceeds of the award should he ever actually re-
ceive it. By the terms of the divorce, the money was to be held in trust in
a bank. While Mileva would be entitled to draw freely on the interest, she
could only use the capital by agreement with Einstein. In the event of her
remarriage or death, the money would go to their two sons.
These plans were thrown into disarray by a turn of events. Their

younger son, Eduard, was an excellent student. He had begun to study
medicine with the goal of becoming a psychiatrist when he took ill at age
twenty. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia and intermittently required
hospitalization for the condition until he died at age fifty-five. The ex-
pense of treating his illness combined with the severe economic inflation
that Einstein was experiencing living in Berlin put considerable financial
stress on all parties. Mileva struggled with money, particularly during the
periods when Eduard was out of the hospital and living at home.
Despite the ongoing marital drama, Einstein’s work continued apace.
He began to revise his view of Lenard around 1909–1910, influenced by
his exchange of letters with Lenard’s assistant, Johann Jakob Laub. Laub
originally wrote Einstein that he disagreed with the common view around
the laboratory that Lenard was a tyrant. Nonetheless, from the very begin-
ning of his employment, Laub’s correspondence with Einstein reveals a
tension between Lenard’s scientific beliefs and his own. Laub’s May
1909 letter to Einstein includes the passage, “We have without Lenard a
private colloquium in Pockel’s [another Heidelberg faculty member]
home where we discuss the theory of relativity. In the coming days, we
shall proceed to the light quantum theory. . . . I doubtless anticipate your
visit. It is not so far to Heidelberg.”
The conflict between Lenard and Laub would eventually engage Ein-
stein on Laub’s behalf, but not for some time. A letter from Einstein to
Laub extolling Lenard crossed Laub’s in the mail. “I took great pleasure
in this news [of your working with Lenard],” he wrote. “However, I think
that the opportunity to work together with Lenard is worth far more than
the assistantship and income combined. . . . He is a great master, an
inventive thinker!” Despite the compliments, Einstein may have had a
premonition of disaster. He concluded with a veiled warning: “Perhaps he
will be entirely affable in the face of a man he has learned to respect.”
At this point, Einstein’s esteem for Lenard was reciprocated. Lenard
went so far as to present a paper written by Laub on the theory of special
relativity at the June 1909 meeting of the newly formed Heidelberg Acad-
emy of Science. The next year, with Lenard’s approval, Laub followed up
this initial work by writing a paper entitled, “On the Experimental Funda-
mentals of the Relativity Principle.” The article was included in a volume
edited by the man who was to become Lenard’s close colleague in his
attacks on Einstein, Johannes Stark. Given the symbiotic relationship
between Lenard and Stark, Lenard may well have prevailed on Stark to
publish his assistant’s work. Regardless, the publication makes clear that
Lenard was very familiar with what Einstein had been up to, as the work
includes a complete listing of Einstein’s publications to that time.
Despite the apparent bonhomie between the two men, important dif-
ferences between Lenard’s and Einstein’s scientific philosophies were
beginning to emerge. In particular, the two men disagreed over quantum
theory, of which Einstein was a strong proponent. This was of special
significance because Einstein had followed Lenard in investigating the
photoelectric effect. Specifically, he employed the concept of energy
quanta to develop a new law of physics that would, in time, earn him a
Nobel Prize. Einstein’s position reflected his willingness to give up on the
strictures of classical physics to explain the new phenomena associated
with very small particles. In contrast, Lenard held tight to what he knew,
preferring to adapt, modify, or expand upon the accepted fundamentals
even if very complicated machinations were necessary to make the old
ways work. In his 1910 publication, “On Ether and Matter,” Lenard was
explicit in this regard: “I do not believe the difficulties should keep us
from developing and protecting the existing view because otherwise we
would discard each such view and even the mechanical comprehensibility
of nature.”
Even allowing for their differences over quantum theory, their rela-
tionship at this time remained cordial. It wasn’t long, though, before
Lenard’s tolerance for the new physics reached its limits. Lenard’s regard
for Einstein began to deteriorate around the issue of the ether—the mys-
terious medium that Lenard believed supported the passage of electro-
magnetic radiation through space and was responsible for gravitational
effects. Lenard was very attached to the idea of ether, which had held
sway for nearly two hundred years. Einstein’s theory of special relativity
obviated the need for ether, but for Lenard, the abolition of ether from the
mainstream construct of how the universe worked was unimaginable. He

was prepared to defend ether “even if, in order to make clear the mechan-
ics of the ether, he would have to establish after the ether and its assembly
still another ether.”
The postulates of theoretical physics had put the believers in ether
under the gun to demonstrate its presence. During 1910 and 1911, Lenard
designed new experiments based on equations developed by his collabo-
rator, the Norwegian Vilhelm Bjerknes, and set Laub to work. Lenard
pushed the disbelieving Laub hard to uncover some expression of ether’s
presence. It was to no avail. If ether actually existed, it was proving itself
a worthy quarry for even as dedicated a hunter as Philipp Lenard. Einstein
witnessed the growing tension between Lenard and Laub from afar, his
correspondence with the young scientist a window onto the dark side of a
man he had admired.
Lenard’s disappointment with Laub’s failure to prove the existence of
ether was palpable. Unwilling to consider the possibility that he might be
wrong, Lenard instead blamed the poor outcome of the experiments on
Laub. He wrote a letter to Bjerknes in February 1911, which cited Laub’s
disagreement with the principles of the research he’d been assigned to
conduct. “I have arranged these things for Herr Laub with great zeal. He
is, however, forever so captivated with the principle of relativity that I
always dread that he cannot be correct.”
As they had with Einstein, the events of Lenard’s personal life in-
truded upon his absorption with his work. His son, Werner, had been a
sickly child and continued to incur health problems into adolescence. His
illness excluded Werner from participating in military service during the
Great War, a crushing blow for an arch-nationalist like Lenard. Lenard’s
view of the pathophysiology affecting his son was that he “suffers from
the narrow-minded school teaching that ignores the individual and from
the bad nutrition during the war.” At the same time, his daughter, Ruth,
was maturing and had an academic bent. Against the fierce resistance of
her father, she secretly qualified for university admittance to study history
and languages with the goal of becoming a teacher.
Ultimately, Lenard and Einstein’s relationship was doomed not only

by their scientific differences but also by their personal ones. Lenard’s
initial pleasure at Einstein crediting him as an inspiration for his work on
the photoelectric effect morphed into a much more negative assessment.
Beginning in 1915, with Einstein’s first publications related to what
would become his theory of general relativity, Einstein broadened his
concepts to apply to not only bodies in a steady state, as in his theory of
special relativity, but all physical circumstances. He chose as an experi-
mentally provable example of the power of his theory an explanation of
the perihelion of the planet Mercury, wherein, contrary to Kepler’s law,
the point in the orbit of Mercury closest to the sun changes from orbit to
orbit.
Einstein’s critics went on the attack. In 1917, Ernst Gehrcke, an ardent
anti-relativity scientist—and someone who would be linked to Lenard’s
future efforts to discredit Einstein—republished in the Annalen der Phy-
sik a 1902 work by a physicist named Paul Gerber. Gerber had devised a
formula for explaining the perihelion phenomenon that did not require
reference to relativity. Bringing to light the Gerber publication gave
Gehrcke the chance to raise the possibility that Einstein had plagiarized
Gerber’s ideas. He attacked both Einstein’s primacy and his integrity in a
single blow. It would be the first of a stream of accusations by Einstein’s
critics—including Lenard’s claim that Einstein had cribbed the work of
the obscure Austrian physicist, Friedrich Hasenoehrl—that Einstein was
fundamentally a plagiarist.
As evidenced by a letter that Lenard wrote to Johannes Stark, then the
editor of the omnibus publication Almanac of Radioactivity and Electron-
ics, Lenard was in league with Gehrcke: “I would like to ask whether a
short original post by me . . . on ether and gravitation . . . could be quickly
published in the Almanac,” Lenard wrote following Gehrcke’s republica-
tion of Gerber’s article.
Stark responded, “I will gladly include your study on ether and gravi-
tation in my edited almanac. . . . I find it meritorious that you have co-
contributed to the acceptance of Gerber’s work.” In what was certainly a
direct reference to Einstein’s theory of general relativity, Stark continued,
“The work is physically well thought and is, for me, more likable than so
many of the theoretical works, which, with a sort of dialectical sorcery,
pretend to solve the difficult physical problems.”
Lenard immediately thanked him for agreeing to publish his commen-
tary, which was intended to accomplish several goals: reinforce the ratio-
nale for belief in ether; set to right the infringement by Einstein on Ger-
ber’s ideas; establish the failings of the theory of general relativity; and,
in Lenard’s words, make clear that “the ether explanation of gravitation
[believed at the time to act as a radiomagnetic wave] . . . appears good to
me because it is so simple that by it alone, everything works.”
Unfortunately for Lenard, events conspired to put him on the defen-
sive. The very next issue of the Annalen der Physik contained scathing
reviews of the Gerber article by well-respected astronomers Hugo von
Seeliger and a close friend of Einstein’s, Max von Laue. Lenard had to
choose to either dispute their arguments or withdraw the most serious of
his concerns about Einstein. Because, at the time, he was otherwise occu-
pied with scientific and administrative issues related to the Institute, he
chose the latter approach and provided Stark with a replacement com-
mentary for the Almanac. Interestingly, this revised version was accept-
ing of Einstein’s theory of special relativity and even of much of his
theory of general relativity. However, Lenard believed that “[t]he princi-
ple must give up its universality and no longer claim relativity of all
movements but restrict itself to those movements which proceed under
the influence of mass proportional forces, as is gravitation.”
Given their history of mutual encouragement, Einstein must have
wondered about Lenard’s assault. He retaliated by publishing in Natur-
wissenschaften “Dialog on the Objections against the Theory of Relativ-
ity,” a courtly and creative exchange of views pitting the arguments of a
hypothetical “Critic” against the defense of a “Relativist.” The fictional
debate is stylized and civil, beginning with the apologetic tone of the
Critic, and directly references Gehrcke’s charges of plagiarism:
Critic: So as not to upset you too much, and possibly even make you
undertake this business (which you can’t avoid anyway) with a certain
pleasure, I will say this in comfort. Unlike many of my colleagues, I
am not so full with the status of my guild so as to make me act as a

superior being with superhuman insight and certainty (like newspaper
journalists about scientific literature, or playwright-critics). . . . Also I
have no wish to—as was lately done by one of my colleagues—jump
on you like a district-attorney and accuse you of theft of intellectual
property, or accuse you of equally dishonorable acts.
There follows an extended interchange between the Critic and the Rela-
tivist on such issues as the relationship between very high speeds and the
slowing of the passage of time; the different possible perspectives for
considering the effects of rapid deceleration; and the perihelion of Mercu-
ry. These vignettes afforded Einstein the opportunity to explain certain
misconceptions about relativity. In the special world that Einstein creates,
the Critic concedes the logic of relativity but with some reservations.
Critic: After your last statements it does seem to me that no self-

contradiction of the theory of relativity can be deduced. . . . Indeed, it
now seems not unlikely to me that the theory is free from self-contra-
diction altogether, but it does not in itself mean that the theory should
be considered in earnest.
Particularly with regard to the perihelion of Mercury, Einstein argues for

the plausibility of his theory rather than its correctness and calls out
Lenard’s objections:
Relativist: The secular perihelion motion of the planet Mercury had to

be clarified. This perihelion motion was certainly noticed by astrono-
mers, and they were unsuccessful in finding an explanation on the
basis of the Newtonian theory. . . . In asserting the equality of coordi-
nate systems as a matter of principle it is not said that every coordinate
system is equally convenient for examining a certain physical sys-
tem. . . . However as a matter of principle such a theory of relativity is
equally valid as any other.
The Critic is convinced to the extent of the specific examples that Ein-
stein has discussed. However, he cannot help himself. He must ask one
more question. At this point, it appears that Einstein is speaking for

Lenard as he wishes Lenard might speak:
Critic: After this conversation I have to admit that the refutation of

your point of view is not as easy as it seemed to me earlier. I do have
more objections up my sleeve. But before pestering you with that I
want to think over our present conversation thoroughly. . . . I ask out of
pure curiosity: how does the diseased man of theoretical physics fare,
the ether, that many of you have declared to be definitely dead?
Relativist: If there would be an ether, then in each space-time point
there would have to be a particular state of motion, that would have to
play a part in optics. There is no such privileged state of motion, as has
been taught to us by the special theory of relativity, and that is why
there is no ether in the old sense . . . space without matter and without
electromagnetic field seems to be characterized as absolutely emp-
ty. . . . One can quite well construe this circumstance in such a way
that one speaks of an ether, whose state of being is different from point
to point. Only one must take care not to attribute to this ether proper-
ties similar to properties of matter.
Lenard fought back in 1918, writing a new version of an earlier article,

On the Principle of Relativity, Ether, and Gravitation, as a free-standing
publication. Unlike the compliant hypothetical critic in Einstein’s article,
Lenard is anything but agreeable. There is a hard edge to his writing.
“What Mr. Einstein carried out as ‘a relativist’ . . . was and is not con-
vincing to me. He touches on certain principal points too little or not at
all.”
The fundamental difference between the two men is that Einstein
made the claim for all reference systems being equally plausible (e.g., his
example where the train or the station could serve equally well as the
reference point), while Lenard favored using “simple, sound common
sense” to favor one reference system over another. This complaint—that
the application of Einstein’s theory of relativity lacked common sense—
would become a long-lasting theme for Lenard and other Einstein critics.
This exchange marked the end of Lenard’s and Einstein’s discourse
until their very public confrontations in Berlin and Bad Nauheim of 1920.
Secular events took precedence. World War I concluded hostilities in

November 1918. The Kaiser abdicated, ending centuries of monarchic
rule. The weak republic that filled the ensuing vacuum in governance was
marked from the start. The Allies’ demand for reparations led to rampant
unemployment and poverty across Germany. A deadly struggle devel-
oped between nationalist right-wing extremists and worker-backed, so-
cialist, and communist interests. The days were filled with angst, anger,
and violence, while the nights were devoted to hedonistic gaiety that
signaled a sense of there being no tomorrow.
Meanwhile, Einstein persevered. He cemented growing support
among natural scientists for his theory of relativity. Measurements made
during a 1919 solar eclipse confirmed the accuracy of a prediction of the
theory of general relativity, giving new credence to Einstein’s theory and
making him an unlikely international celebrity. In the same year, soon
after his divorce from Mileva was final, he married Elsa. It was to be-
come a marriage of convenience in which both Elsa and Einstein ac-
cepted their shares of a tacit bargain.
Elsa lived the life of a spouse of a famous man, reveling in the travel,
social status, and comfort her marriage afforded her. Einstein could focus
on his work, secure in the knowledge that Elsa would handle the details
of his daily life while allowing him the freedom to seek romance in
sleeker, more ardent arms. His letters reveal that he took several lovers
during his marriage and that, at least on some occasions, he discussed his
relationships with Elsa. Writing to Elsa of one paramour, socialite Ethel
Michanowski, he noted,
Mrs. M definitely acted according to the best Christian-Jewish ethics:

1) one should do what one enjoys and what won’t harm anyone else;
and 2) one should refrain from doing things one does not take delight
in and which annoy another person. Because of 1) she came with me,
and because of 2) she didn’t tell you a word. Isn’t that irreproachable?
Soon after the end of the war, Lenard further tightened his grip on
every aspect of his institute, becoming more remote in his dealings with
the students and his subordinates. He mourned the death of his only son.
“He was not given the privilege to take part in the war. . . . With him, the
last bearer of my name left the earth.” Lenard grew more radical. He
became a believer in the widespread but outrageous notion that the Ger-
man army had not been defeated in battle but had been “stabbed in the
back” by the pacifists, republicans, and Jews who had sued for peace.
Passages from his autobiography detailing this period provide early evi-
dence of his developing anti-Semitism.
When the army returned after four years, not defeated in combat, they
found a spiritually decimated patrimony. . . . The pseudo-blossoming
that was to be observed soon at center stage of the relativity theory and
the sudden increase in scientific journals could not have been compre-
hended if not even uninitiated people had increasingly understood who
the real victors of the great war had been: the Jews in their now free
unfolding of their own spirit.
In 1920, Lenard was fifty-eight years old, Einstein a comparatively

youthful forty-one. Lenard put aside his dispute with Einstein in 1918 to
address more immediate concerns, but he didn’t forget about it. Their
simmering conflict was about to become a very public conflagration.
4
AN INTERESTING EVENING OUT
In his office at the Institute of Physics in Heidelberg, Philipp Lenard

lifted his eyes from the August 6, 1920, edition of Taegliche Rundschau
and smiled. Under the rubric of the Working Society of German Scien-
tists for the Preservation of Pure Science, he and a group of right-minded
colleagues had launched the first salvo of their efforts to restore sanity to
the physical sciences. The headline jumped from the page: “Einstein’s
Theory of Relativity—A Scientific Mass Hysteria.” The article charged
Albert Einstein and his friends in the Berlin press with purposely pursu-
ing a cynical promotional campaign to delude the public with his fraudu-
lent theory of relativity. The byline attributed the article to Paul Weyland,
the man Lenard had met with just five days earlier in this very office.
The renowned scientist and acknowledged leader of the movement to
debunk relativity had been impressed by Weyland’s fiery Aryan spirit, as
well as his sincerity in wanting to dispel the public adoration of the “un-
German” Einstein. Moreover, his credentials perfectly suited the broader
goals of Lenard’s plans. Weyland was an outspoken member of the ultra-
nationalist German National People’s Party and the editor of the anti-
Semitic periodical, Deutsch-Voelkische Monatshefte. Although he
claimed to have trained as a chemical engineer, he could produce no
documentation to this effect and had been making his living as a publicist
for some of the shadier elements of Germany’s burgeoning radical, right-
wing political groups. His detractors claimed that he possessed a special
41
talent for speaking in half-truths and for arousing the baser passions of
the common man. Lenard saw in Weyland the perfect cat’s paw to attack
Einstein’s self-promotion and the growing popularity of his theories. As
he reread the newspaper article, Lenard felt reassured that Weyland was
the right man, one whose conscience would not prove a barrier to pursu-
ing their plan.
Weyland was a man perfectly made for his times. Berlin had changed
greatly in the aftermath of World War I from a grim, gray city of humor-
less Prussian values to one that was game for almost anything. Liberated
from the stultifying mores that had bound them, the citizenry pursued
novelty in science, culture, and the arts. Cafés, cabarets, and erotic night-
clubs stayed open well into the early morning hours.
At the same time, the political atmosphere was tense. Germany had
signed a punitive armistice, the Treaty of Versailles, which demanded the
equivalent of $33 billion in U.S. dollars in reparations. Inflation was
rampant, for many citizens destroying in weeks the savings of a lifetime.
Before the war, the German mark had traded at roughly four to the dollar.
By July 1923, the exchange rate was eighteen thousand marks to buy a
dollar, slipping five months later to 4 billion.
The deprivation spawned a rabid tangle of radical, reactionary politi-
cal groups that threatened the fragile fiber of the Weimar government. In
1920 alone, nationalistic activists had already fomented considerable dis-
ruption by the time Weyland published his anti-Einstein tirade. An at-
tempted coup by the right-wing Luettwitz–Kapp faction nearly succeeded
in toppling the government. In Goettingen, delegates of the university’s
student government proposed expelling Jewish students from all German
universities. “The Jewish question” was further addressed in the platform
of the German Workers Party (or DAP, for Deutsche Arbeiterpartei). In
February, speaking before a deliriously supportive crowd of two thousand
in the main hall of Munich’s Hofbraeuhaus, Adolf Hitler detailed the
party’s twenty-five-point plan to restore national pride. Among the pro-
posals were the cancellation of the Treaty of Versailles and the withdraw-
al of German citizenship from the country’s Jews, whom he claimed were
responsible for many of Germany’s economic ills.
AN I N T E RE ST I N G E V E N I N G OUT 43
The DAP was new on the scene, having just been founded in 1919 by
a metal worker, Anton Drexler, and a journalist, Karl Harrer. It initially
boasted twenty-four members, mostly friends of Drexler’s from the Mu-
nich railway plant. The meetings of the DAP took place in the back
rooms of small pubs until the party established offices in another of
Munich’s beer halls, the Sterneckerbraue, and then the Gasthaus Corne-
lius. Ironically, Adolf Hitler initially joined the DAP as a government
spy. The German army assigned Corporal Hitler, still on active duty
following the war, to infiltrate the DAP and inform them of party activ-
ities. Hitler got caught up in the politics of the organization and soon
became DAP chairman.
In short order, he changed the DAP from a comedic parody of a
political fringe party to one that could seriously contend in local elec-
tions. Hitler changed the name of the organization to the National Social-
ist German Workers Party (or NSDAP, for Nationalsozialistische Deuts-
che Arbeiterpartei), best known as the Nazis. He brought in new young
members, the precursors of the SA paramilitary “brown shirts,” to guard
the meeting hall against the invasion of rival political parties. Order was
strictly enforced.
Weyland’s Jeremiad against Einstein was directed at members of the
general public, many of whom had already been radicalized by Germa-
ny’s harsh economic conditions. An avowed Jew-baiter who had publicly
chided the DAP for being too soft on the “Jewish question,” Weyland
pandered to the xenophobic paranoia of his audience. He accused Ein-
stein of plagiarizing others’ work and concluded that the theory of relativ-
ity was nothing more than an “enormous bluff.” Without explicitly invok-
ing anti-Semitic language, he nonetheless planted seeds of doubt about
whether the Jewish Einstein could be trusted as a true German. He cited
in his article a “particular press, a particular community,” which he
charged with engaging in a pro-Einstein promotional campaign to build
public currency for Einstein’s theories and popular celebrity for their
progenitor. Lenard knew—indeed, everyone who had spent the least
amount of time in Berlin understood—that Weyland was referring to the
Berliner Tageblatt, called by some the Judenblatt, or “Jew paper.”
In the minds of the Working Society members, the evidence for Wey-
land’s accusations was incontrovertible. There was a widening schism in
physics that separated the theorists from the experimentalists. They were
not just academic differences but cultural as well. Lenard had been in-
censed by a recent Berliner Tageblatt article that had drawn ridiculous
parallels between Einstein’s mathematically deduced theories—so char-
acteristic of Jewish science—and the work of immortal Aryan experimen-
talists like Newton, Copernicus, and Kepler. Waxing eloquent, the author
had likened Einstein’s theories to “an oracular saying from the depths of
the skies.” Stirred by this kind of overblown rhetoric, the public mania
over Einstein was reaching ridiculous proportions. And Einstein himself
was at the bottom of it. It was unworthy of a true scientist to engage in
self-promotion.
The day after meeting with Weyland, Lenard wrote his younger col-
league, Johannes Stark, to inform him of what had transpired during their
conversation. “Mr. Weyland is very enthusiastically in agreement with
our plans to halt the un-German influences. He was here with me yester-
day. We discussed plans for a Working Society of German scientists to
maintain the purity of science. I particularly suggested that he connect
with you to be certain that there won’t be inefficient duplication of efforts
and that no fragmentation adversely affects our plans for Bad Nauheim”
(the site of an important annual German scientific conference scheduled
for the following month).
The convergence of Lenard’s and Weyland’s interests set in motion
plans for an extended anti-relativity campaign. Weyland’s article was
only the beginning. The Jew was still riding high, but he would soon
experience the changing tide of fickle public sentiment. On August 6,
Weyland announced the next phase of their plan. The Working Society
would present a series of lectures on relativity. With Lenard’s guidance,
Weyland had developed a program of twenty public lectures by highly
respected scientists, true German experimentalists, who would put the lie
to Einstein’s mathematical sophistry and false denial of traditional scien-
tific thinking.
Unbeknownst to Lenard, Weyland listed him, as well as several oth-

ers, as having agreed to deliver a lecture, when, in fact, they had not
actually said they would participate. In fact, Lenard had explicitly de-
clined Weyland’s invitation. As a prominent scientist, he already was on
record as disputing essential elements of Einstein’s theories. The appear-
ance of too close a relationship between Weyland—nothing more than a
propagandist, really—and himself was not desirable. The risk that the
public might associate him with such an unsavory character was unneces-
sary. He would stay in the background for now. He would come forward
when the time was ripe.
To Lenard, Einstein was symbolic of a much bigger problem besetting
German academics. His theories were characteristic of how Jews thought
about science: all theory, insufficiently backed by experimentation—the
backbone of Germanic scientific thought. Relativity was nothing more
than mathematical trickery, an untrustworthy intellectual temple as flimsy
as the paper on which Einstein scribbled his nonsense. Eventually, Len-
ard would elaborate at length on his beliefs about the integrity of “Jewish
science” in his four-volume work, Deutsche Physik. For now, Weyland
and Lenard had agreed upon their principal indictment. Einstein had en-
gaged a pandering press to promote his unsupportable theories. It had
gotten to the point that, in the popular mind, they were overtaking the
Aryan-led natural order.
The near-deification of Einstein rankled to such an extent that Lenard
felt it his duty as a true German to rectify the situation. “Then the Jew
came and caused an upheaval,” he wrote at the time, “with his abolition
of the concept of ether, and ridiculously enough, even the oldest author-
ities followed him. They suddenly felt powerless when confronted with
the Jew. This is how the Jewish spirit started to rule over physics.”
It wasn’t just the general public who had been duped but his scientific
colleagues as well. It was time for those natural scientists possessed of the
true Aryan spirit to come forward and join together to terminate the
Jewish influence. Under his leadership, the Working Society would over-
throw this inferior and misanthropic philosophy. The Working Society
would restore Aryan science to its rightful place: the supreme manifesta-
tion of human intellectual accomplishment.
On August 24, a little more than two weeks after Weyland had pub-
lished his indictment of Einstein, he stood at the podium on the stage of
the 1600-seat auditorium of the Berlin Philharmonic. He and his minions
had provided ample public notice of the event. Weyland happily surveyed
the hall; his eyes swept upward past the three sections of orchestra seats
to the mezzanine, and to the layers of loges. Every seat was filled, and
small crowds stood at every available vantage point. Outside the neoclas-
sical, white brick building on Bernburger Street and on the broad steps
leading to the main entry, representatives of right-wing organizations
plied passersby with booklets emphasizing the danger of Jewish interna-
tionalism. In the building’s foyer, vendors sold swastika lapel pins and
copies of the second edition of a booklet Lenard had written—On the
Principle of Relativity, Ether, and Gravitation—disputing the theory of
general relativity. Literally and figuratively, the stage was set for Wey-
land to press forward his challenge to Einstein and his work.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. “Hardly ever in science has a
scientific system been set up with such a display of propaganda as the
general principal of relativity, which on closer inspection turns out to be
in the greatest need of proof.” In this, Weyland was being purposely
ingenuous. Einstein’s theories were, indeed, based on mathematical de-
duction. But by 1920, they were not wholly without supporting empirical
evidence. Indeed, even the least informed observer attending Weyland’s
speech would have been well aware of the observations of the British
explorer Arthur Eddington.
Eddington had organized scientific expeditions to Brazil and the west
coast of Africa to take measurements of phenomena occurring as a result
of the 1919 solar eclipse. Foremost among his interests was to assess the
correctness of a prediction derived from Einstein’s theory of general rela-
tivity that the gravitational field of the sun should appear to bend the light
emitted by distant stars as it passed close by. Having extensively photo-
graphed the position of visible stars positioned near the sun during the
brief period of complete solar eclipse, Eddington confirmed a slight but
undeniable bending in the range of angulation that Einstein had predicted.

Eddington’s November 1919 report of his findings to England’s Royal
Society was the vehicle that had rocketed Einstein to stardom. With Ed-
dington’s confirmation, so the media proclaimed, Einstein had over-
thrown classical physics and established the beginnings of a new scientif-
ic world order.
Weyland not only ignored the Eddington findings but also failed to
mention general relativity’s plausible explanation of a small shift from
orbit to orbit of Mercury’s closest position to the sun, its perihelion. This
allowed him the freedom to skip past the scientific debate, which in any
event he was ill equipped to handle, and move on to his true agenda. In a
dazzling display of demagoguery, gauged to convince the uninformed,
Weyland denounced Einstein as being the mastermind of a pro-relativity
publicity campaign orchestrated by a cabal of Jewish newspapers.
Through their popularization of Einstein’s theory of relativity, they had
convinced a guileless public of the verity of a work of fiction.
Albert Einstein was in the auditorium that evening, sitting in a box
seat alongside his stepdaughter, Margot. To those around him, he ap-
peared in a jocular mood, sometimes laughing and applauding outrageous
indictments. He seemed unruffled even during an uncomfortable fifteen-
minute intermission during which Weyland halted his diatribe to encour-
age attendees to purchase On the Principle of Relativity, Ether, and Grav-
itation at the reduced rate of six marks. Einstein also calmly listened to
the succeeding lecture by Ernst Gehrcke, who charged the theory of rela-
tivity and its progenitor with having performed “scientific mass hypno-
sis.”
Despite his demeanor, however, Einstein was not unaffected. He was
well aware of the rising tide of anti-Semitism. Although there had been
no explicit slurs against Jews, he understood that the evening’s real agen-
da was not scientific, but political. The charge that he was “un-German”
was code for what was really intended. As perhaps the most prominent
Jew in all of Germany, a liberal, an internationalist who had once famous-
ly referred to nationalism as “the measles of humanity,” and an avowed
pacifist and supporter of the Weimar government, he recognized the inev-
itability of his being targeted by reactionary activists. Nonetheless, the

sophistication of planning and organizing the evening’s activities, as well
as the rancor implicit in Weyland’s accusatory tone, must have surprised
him.
On August 27, Einstein fought back by publishing a response in the
Berliner Tageblatt with the ironic title “My Answer to the Anti-Relativis-
tic Corporation, Ltd.” First targeting Weyland and Gehrcke as the princi-
pal participants in the events at the Philharmonic, he wrote,
“A motley group has come together to form a company under the

pretentious name, the Working Society of German Scientists for the
Preservation of Pure Science, with the single purpose of denigrating
the theory of relativity, as well as me, as its originator, in the eyes of
non-scientists. . . . I am fully aware that both speakers are unworthy of
a reply from my pen, for I have good reason to believe that motives
other than striving for the truth are at the bottom of this business. . . . I
only respond because I have received repeated requests from well-
meaning quarters to have my views made known. . . .”
The article further castigated Weyland, “. . . who does not seem to
be a specialist at all (Is he a doctor? Engineer? Politician? . . .),” before
chiding Gehrcke for his naiveté and accusing him of selecting state-
ments made by Einstein out of context in an effort to make him seem
foolish.
Einstein next defended the accuracy of his theories. He named a number

of prominent German scientists who he believed fundamentally supported
him—the great Max Planck and Arnold Sommerfeld among them—be-
fore singling out Philipp Lenard as one of the evening’s conspirators.
“From among physicists of international repute,” he continued, “I can
name only Lenard as an outspoken critic of relativity theory.”
Perhaps if Einstein had stopped there, much of the unpleasantness to
come could have been avoided. However, he could not restrain himself.
“Though I admire Lenard as a master of experimental physics,” Einstein
wrote, “. . . He has yet to accomplish anything in theoretical physics, and
his objections to the theory of general relativity are so superficial that I
had not deemed it necessary until now to reply to them in detail.”
Near the end of his article, he specifically called out Lenard as having
been complicit in the events of that evening: “The personal attack
launched against me by Mssrs. Gehrcke and Lenard, based on these
circumstances, has been generally regarded as unfair by real specialists in
the field. I had considered it beneath my dignity to waste a word on it.”
Responses to the events of August 1920 were heated on both sides. A
letter from Gehrcke, folded around the Einstein rebuttal, welcomed Len-
ard home to Heidelberg from a holiday in the Black Forest. In the same
day’s packet had come a letter from Stark revealing what had transpired:
“Surely you will have read about the Einstein scandal, which has been
replayed recently in Berlin and in the local press. Einstein has thrown out
every theoretical achievement of yours and adjudicated in favor of super-
ficiality.”
Although Einstein’s charge of complicity in the evening’s events was
true enough, Lenard very much resented being accused of involvement
when he painstakingly had sought to conceal his role. In a September 8
letter to Stark, Lenard wrote,
I am astonished by this personal element that Mr. Einstein and Mr. von
Laue [a friend of Einstein and a 1914 Nobel Laureate who also pub-
lished a critique of the Philharmonic events] hold in the matter and that
they believe that they can turn against me. . . . My purely factual
objections are to refute the generalized theory of relativity so that
Einstein must precisely demonstrate it, instead of being naughty. . . . In
short, I do not have the slightest desire to be in the company of Ein-
stein unless. . . . I am a part of the whole that either passes or fails [his
theories].
Beginning shortly after the time Lenard became aware of Einstein’s

newspaper speculations on his role in the Berlin Philharmonic episode, he
became even more hostile toward Einstein, and his words and writings
more openly anti-Semitic. What had been primarily a conflict of scientific
positions had transformed into something pointedly personal.
Among the pro-Einstein faction, there was concern that Einstein had
incautiously let his emotions get the better of him, charging Lenard with
actions he could not substantiate. Many of his friends and admirers wor-
ried that, out of either fear for his safety or a feeling of being unappreciat-
ed, Einstein might emigrate to any number of countries that would wel-
come him with open arms. It was common knowledge that Einstein’s
friend, Paul Ehrenfest of the University of Leiden in the Netherlands, was
particularly interested in bringing Einstein to Holland and had offered the
likelihood of a professorship. Few doubted that there would be other
bidders should Einstein express an interest in emigrating.
It had been no easy matter six years previous to recruit Einstein to
Berlin from his professorship in Zurich, where he had landed after a brief
tenure at the Charles-Ferdinand University in Prague. Einstein’s star was
rising on a meteoric trajectory. He had demanded and received unheard-
of considerations to immigrate to Germany—the directorship of the Kai-
ser Wilhelm Institute of Physics, professorship at Humboldt University,
and agreement that he would have only minimal teaching obligations.
Now those who had invested so much in his recruitment feared the undo-
ing of their efforts. Why, they wondered, should he put up with such grief
when he had so many other choices?
Despite the growing anti-Jewish sentiment in Berlin, Einstein prob-
ably did not seriously consider leaving Germany at this time. However,
this fact may not have been apparent to his contemporaries. In an open
letter to a number of Berlin newspapers, Max von Laue, Heinrich Rubens,
and Walther Nernst implored him to continue in his current posts. Nobel
laureate Max Planck, and president of the German Physical Society Ar-
nold Sommerfeld, wrote personal letters emphasizing their support for
Einstein’s continued presence in the capital. Sommerfeld, in particular,
made an effort at reconciliation between the two scientists as a way of
heading off open conflict at the upcoming Bad Nauheim meeting, to
which Lenard had alluded in his August 2 letter to Stark.
Sommerfeld was encouraged that a truce might be enacted when Ein-
stein’s friend, physicist Max Born, shared a letter he had received from
Einstein. The letter acknowledged, “Everyone needs to offer up his sacri-
fice at the altar of stupidity . . . and I did so in my article.” Sommerfeld
asked Einstein to write a letter of apology to Lenard and to recant his
accusations publicly if Lenard requested it. In return, he promised that he

would ask Friedrich von Mueller, the chairman of the Bad Nauheim
meeting, to feature as part of his opening address a warning against the
kind of polemics in which Weyland had engaged. At the same time,
Sommerfeld wrote a letter to Lenard informing him of the request he had
made of Einstein.
However, any hope of civility between the two scientists became moot
when Lenard wrote back,
The thought of an apology by Mr. Einstein to me, moreover the as-

sumption of a suitable response to him on my part, to remain satisfac-
tory, I must refuse with indignation. The comments by Mr. Einstein
represent the characteristics which must belittle me in the eyes of the
reader. They are a sign of personal contempt for me by Mr. Einstein,
whose transformation into the required esteem based on some assu-
rance by me would be very astonishing.
In his stilted, overly formal style, Lenard revealed the stress imposed
upon him over what he doubtlessly viewed as a public humiliation. De-
spite the fact that he actually did conspire with Weyland and others in
organizing the evening’s events, he apparently felt that Einstein had un-
fairly singled him out:
Mr. Einstein finds his words shameful and probably incorrect, as he

has publicly withdrawn his statements. Otherwise he could not make
up the wrong done to me to the extent that is even possible. The public
release of such value judgments about a colleague, such as those made
by Einstein . . . is, in my feeling, an improper arrogance and reveals an
all time low of nobleness.
Despite Lenard’s harsh assessment of his character and the failure of

Sommerfeld’s efforts to negotiate a détente, Einstein privately celebrated
what seemed to him a settling down of the uproar surrounding a series of
unfortunate events. The embarrassing episode had passed, and with it the
worry it had caused. The promised twenty lectures at the Berlin Philhar-
monic were aborted after the second installment, a lackluster and poorly
attended presentation by the engineer, Ludwig Glaser. The other sched-

uled lecturer for the evening failed to appear. Weyland, a potentially
dangerous antagonist, had lost face with his former allies. Gehrcke wrote
to Lenard that Weyland was simply “one of the many dubious types that
had been generated by the revolutionary, warlike city.” Lenard re-
sponded, “Weyland, unfortunately, has proven to be a fraud.”
Reassured by the outpouring of support by his German colleagues and
the retrenchment of the Working Society, it must have seemed to Einstein
that the storm had passed. Einstein exulted to friends that perhaps the
Working Society did not have the following it claimed. As it turned out,
Einstein reckoned wrong. There was much more to come. What he took
for fair weather was actually the eye of the storm.
5
A DISAGREEMENT
BETWEEN GENTLEMEN
Less than a month after the Working Group lectures at the Berlin Phil-
harmonic, on the morning of September 19, 1920, the eighty-sixth meet-
ing of the German Society of Natural Scientists and Physicians kicked off
an ambitious, weeklong schedule of more than three hundred sessions.
Held jointly with the meetings of the German Mathematical Society, the
German Physical Society, and the Society of Technical Physics, a late
change in venue to Bad Nauheim had presented logistical challenges.
Violent political unrest, rampant at the time in the original choice of
Frankfurt am Main, convinced the organizers to distance their conference
to a more bucolic setting where unsavory elements were less likely to
infringe on the business of science.
Bad Nauheim was a very attractive alternative. The small spa town
lies at the edge of the Taunus Mountains, only thirty-five kilometers from
Frankfurt. Famous for its carbon dioxide–infused effervescent baths,
sworn to be effective in treating heart and nervous conditions, patrons had
enjoyed the restorative powers of the town’s briny waters for centuries.
The red-roofed, “new baroque”–style main building, named the Sprudel-
hof, and eight similarly designed bath houses had been commissioned by
the Grand Duke Ernst Ludwig of Hessen and by Rhine in 1904. Com-
pleted in 1912, the interiors were an art nouveau marvel of sea-themed,
ornamental detail, featuring marine creatures, water nymphs, mermaids,
53
and ocean waves. Numerous fountains and outdoor pools graced exten-
sive parklike grounds. In sum, the facilities promised a positive environ-
ment that offered both sufficient space for formal events and informality
conducive to more intimate conversation.
Because the conference was the first major scientific meeting in Ger-
many after the end of the war, interest was even greater than usual. As
retribution for the war, German scientists were excluded from participa-
tion in scientific congresses throughout the rest of Europe. Many were
concerned that their isolation disadvantaged them in the competition that
exists at the highest levels of science. These fears doubtlessly contributed
to the strong turnout of more than 2600 scientists. Those attending knew
that the eyes of the scientific world would be watching.
In the audience for Chairman Mueller’s opening address were seven-
teen physicists, chemists, and mathematicians who already had been
awarded or would eventually receive a Nobel Prize for their innovative
research. Among them were Philipp Lenard and Johannes Stark, who
applauded vigorously as the chair gave scant nod to his promise of con-
demning demagoguery before exhorting the gathered scientists to prove
their German patriotism in word and deed. As the session progressed, a
series of speakers followed suit. The tone of the conference was going
Lenard’s way. It was time for him to step from the shadows and strike a
second blow against the theory of relativity—one that he had reason to
hope would make a large impact on the direction that German science
might take in the future.
For some time, Einstein had been proposing to the organizers of the
conference that there be a session devoted to a general discussion of his
theory of relativity. In the passion of the moment following the Berlin
Philharmonic lectures, he raised the stakes by proposing a debate with his
antagonists in open session: “Anyone willing to confront a professional
forum can present his objections [to the theory of relativity] there.” The
assembled academics expected Lenard and his supporters to take Einstein
up on his challenge. As Lenard’s objections to relativity were well
known, the expectations were that the critics of relativity would base their
A DI SAGRE E M E N T B E T WEEN GENTLEMEN 55
arguments on several frequently stated concerns, namely that the theory

of relativity:
• Was mathematically deduced but did not actually exist in the physi-
cal realm.
• Was supported by only scant experimental evidence; what evidence
did exist was explainable by error in observer measurements.
• Rejected the idea of there being an ether to explain how electro-
magnetic radiation, like light and X-rays, were propagated through
space; the theory of relativity did not sufficiently address the mech-
anism of how this occurred to replace what its detractors claimed
had worked well for centuries.
• Contradicted conventional notions of space and time; these conven-
tions, dependent on Euclidian geometry, had served science well
and should not be replaced by relativistic artifices.
Moreover, Lenard intended to introduce a new wrinkle to these long-

standing critiques. Specifically, given the abstract nature of the theory of
relativity and the absence of supporting physical evidence, at Bad Nau-
heim and for years afterward, he would attack Einstein’s ideas on the
grounds that they went against the principle of “sound common sense.” In
Lenard’s mind, they lacked believability.
Sessions featuring presentations on relativity occurring on September
23 and early in the morning on September 24 set the stage for the open
discussion that would conclude the conference. Following the lectures on
relativity of September 24, a single door opened to Bath House number 8,
guarded on one side by a burly member of the German Mathematical
Society and on the other by one from the German Physical Society. The
members of these societies were given preferential admission. In all, six
hundred scientists jammed into the capacious, richly decorated bath
house waiting room; proceeded into the Schmuckhof, a monastery-like
ornamental court; and lined the gallery. Afterward, what space remained
was opened to a waiting line of members of the press and interested
onlookers. Paul Weyland was among them. The crowd was restive; a
softly murmured expectancy hung in the air. There was the expectation
there would be blood.
In such a charged atmosphere, it was a given that only one man could
chair the session. Although Max Planck was generally known to be a
supporter of Einstein, he had expressed concerns of his own on the sub-
ject of relativity. Most importantly, his gentility and sense of fairness
were widely respected. On this occasion, the courtly physicist responsible
for quantum theory appeared to onlookers to be unusually agitated.
Planck had encouraged Einstein to stay in Germany in the face of Ein-
stein’s mounting concerns about the bellicose posturing of extremist ele-
ments. So far, Einstein had stayed put, but Planck worried that events
occurring during the session might cause Einstein to reconsider emigra-
tion.
As it turned out, Planck need not have worried. Writing well after the
debate, Einstein made it clear that he had no intention to abandon Germa-
ny at this time, noting, “It also would be an injurious act when in this time
of stress and humiliation I would turn my back on Germany, given the
great kindness that I have constantly experienced from the side of my
German colleagues and authorities.” He concluded, “I therefore consider
it my duty to endure in my position until outside circumstances render it
practically impossible.”
However, Planck was not privy to these sentiments as he prepared to
open the session at Bad Nauheim. His major concern was Lenard, who it
was rumored would take the lead among the reactionaries wishing to
discredit Einstein. The intense dislike of Einstein and Lenard for one
another now embroiled Planck and pushed him into the unwanted role of
mediator.
In principle, the session was to provide a forum for an open discussion
of Einstein’s theories. However, it quickly devolved into a mano y mano
confrontation between Lenard and Einstein. Although the tone was aca-
demic, and only intellectual blows were exchanged, it was apparent to all
that the combatants were bitter foes who each bore a serious grudge
against the other.
Lenard soon got to his main points of disagreement with Einstein.

Einstein’s work disdained the conventional explanation of ether as the
medium of transit for electromagnetic radiation and the supportive ele-
ment for gravitation. Lenard was not alone. Scientific conservatives fre-
quently expressed concern over the abandonment of ether, despite the fact
that two centuries of experimentation had failed to yield any indication of
ether’s mass or energy.
Lenard also disagreed with Einstein’s extension of the principle of
relativity to all movements in space rather than just those in steady state.
Lenard had earlier written that the theory of general relativity “must give
up its universality and no longer claim the ‘relativity of all movements’
but restrict itself to those movements which proceed under the influence
of mass proportional forces, such as gravitation.” Indeed, it was over the
specific issue of gravitation that Lenard grew exercised.
As reported in the journal Physikalische Zeitschrift, the exchange be-
tween the two physicists swung from the serious to the contemptuous to
outright mocking.
Lenard: I was delighted to have heard talks on the theory of gravita-

tion through the ether today. I have to admit, however, that the simple
mind of a natural scientist resents the theory [of relativity] as soon as
one goes from gravitational theory to forces other than the mass pro-
portional ones. I relate the example of a braking train. To make the
relativity principal work, you add gravitational fields in the absence of
mass proportional forces. I would first like to ask you, why is it that it
is not differentiable whether the train itself brakes or the world around
it slows down?
Einstein: It is certain that we observe effects relative to the train, and

we could interpret these as forces of inertia. The relativity theory
could just as well interpret these as effects of the gravitational
field. . . . You are convinced that this is the invention of the relativity
theory people. However, this is no invention as it fulfills the same
differential laws of physics as the effects of masses that we are used to
understanding. It is correct that some parts of the solution remain
arbitrary when one only looks at a limited scope of the world. I would
like to briefly summarize that this field was not arbitrarily invented
since it fulfills the general differential equations and since it can be
deduced from the effects of all masses.
Lenard: Mr. Einstein’s explanations did not reveal anything new to

me. I am convinced that the gravitational fields that are added need to
correspond to occurrences and that these experiences have not been
experienced or observed.
Einstein: I would like to emphasize that what mankind considers clear

or apparently valid has changed. The perspective on clarity and appar-
ent validity is somewhat a function of time. I am convinced that phys-
ics should be conceptual rather than just apparently valid.
Lenard: I have summarized my views in my printed publication, Rel-

ativity Theory, Ether, and Gravitation. I understand the usefulness of
the relativity principle so long as it is only used with respect to gravi-
tational forces. I view it as invalid when all forces are not proportional
to mass.
Einstein: It is in the nature of things that the validity of the relativity

principle can only be postulated if it is valid for all laws of nature.
Lenard: Only when you invent additional fields.
What became known in scientific circles as the “Einsteindebatte” contin-

ued in this vein for some time, surely appearing to many in the audience
as though two infants were bickering over a favorite toy. In the end, each
man bore even greater resentment for his interlocutor than had been the
case before the session began. There was no resolution, no tidy tying up
of loose ends, no common ground to promote a better understanding of
the utility of Einstein’s theories. Sensing the bad feelings, a number of
physicists, including Einstein’s friends Walther Nernst and Max von
Laue, tried to comfort Lenard. Von Laue made an effort at humor, ex-
claiming, “Einstein, after all, is only a child!” To which Lenard re-

sponded, “Children do not write in the Berliner Tageblatt.”
As the crowd dispersed, Einstein attempted to speak with Lenard in
the cloakroom. Lenard would have none of it, saying, “It is now too late,”
while brusquely brushing off Einstein’s advance and leaving quickly.
Gehrcke chased after him but arrived at the train station platform too late.
He reported seeing Einstein through one of the departing train’s windows.
There was no sign of Lenard.
Who knows what Einstein might have intended to say to Lenard fol-
lowing their intense public exchange? Had Lenard been willing to listen,
what outcomes, if any, might have changed for both of them? Perhaps,
none at all. Scientifically speaking, both Lenard and Einstein were set in
their beliefs. But perhaps the bad personal feelings between the two could
have been assuaged to some extent, and the distant repercussions might
not have been so severe.
The confrontation imparted to Einstein a new resolve never again to
allow his opponents to upset him so thoroughly. “I absolutely cannot
understand,” he wrote, “that because of bad company I could lose myself
in such deep humorlessness.” A few weeks later, Einstein made light of
the Bad Nauheim episode in a letter to Paul Ehrenfest: “At Bad Nauheim,
there was a cockfight, of sorts, about relativity. Lenard, in particular,
figured as my opponent. To my knowledge, it didn’t come to any kind of
manifestations of the sort you expected.”
By the phrase “any kind of manifestations of the sort you expected,”
Einstein was specifically referencing anti-Semitism. However, that nei-
ther Einstein nor the lay press nor the Physikalische Zeitschrift, which
covered the proceedings, made any reference to racist remarks does not
mean that Lenard was free of prejudicial thinking. Lenard’s involvement
in right-wing, nationalistic organizations, where such rhetoric was com-
mon, was already far advanced. Much later, in 1938, Lenard recalled his
considerations during the Einsteindebatte:
I treated and judged the Jew as a proper Aryan person in this discus-
sion according to the view of the time, and that was wrong. . . . It
would not have been of use at the meeting of professors [to point out
the flaws in Jewish thinking about science] because the men are also
today still blind. Planck had presided over the discussion, which was
preceded by three tedious presentations in favor of Einstein.
Lenard retreated to lick his wounds. He wrote of his sense of hurt and
isolation in his perception that the majority of scientists in attendance had
sided with Einstein. “The abolition of the ether is again proclaimed as a
result of Nauheim. . . . Not one has laughed at this. I don’t know whether
it would have been different had the abolition of air been proclaimed.”
Among Lenard’s keepsakes commemorating the event was a clipping
from the weekly newspaper Die Umschau, which focused on science and
technology. An article attributed to a Mr. W. Weyl, by whose name
Lenard had written the word “Jew,” reads, “One simply has to state, that
Lenard has not understood the very meaning of the Einsteinian doctrine.
Consequently, the adversaries did not find each other. The fight remained
a fake fight without result.”
Despite what Lenard saw as an abandonment by many of his Aryan
colleagues, the encounter with Einstein bolstered his resolve to persevere
in his efforts to expose the fallacious nature of Einstein’s ideas. Lenard
wrote, “My letters of this summer have brought together twelve gentle-
men who are German enough to tackle the project to turn the miserable
Berlin Institute of Physics [meaning Berlin’s Kaiser Wilhelm Institute of
Physics where Einstein was the director] into a German Institute of Phys-
ics.” Lenard’s meaning was clear. The academic facility that employed,
housed, and protected the hated Einstein had adopted an un-German atti-
tude. That would have to change. Among the twelve scientists listed by
Lenard were Johannes Stark, to whom Lenard would eventually pass the
mantle of Deutsche Physik; Wilhelm Wien; and the spectroscopist Gehrc-
ke, who had followed Weyland on stage at the Philharmonic.
The “twelve gentlemen” had met during the conference and agreed
that Einstein must be forced to revoke the statements he had made in the
Berliner Tageblatt, which had been extremely insulting. They intended to
press their case in public. They would embarrass Einstein in one of two
ways: either by extracting a suitable apology or showing that his failure to
acknowledge his error proved he lacked the breeding and nobility of the
true German scientist.
What Einstein did next threw Lenard’s plans into disarray. On Sep-
tember 25, just a day after the session at Bad Nauheim, he issued an
apology, of sorts, in the Berliner Tageblatt, the same despised “Jew
paper” in which he had published his notorious “My Response.” The
apology was by proxy, authored by Max Planck and Franz Himstedt, a
well-known physicist from the University of Freiburg. Briefly, Planck
recounted the conditions leading up to the stresses Einstein had experi-
enced at the Philharmonic. A misunderstanding caused by Weyland’s
remarks had led Einstein to lash out at Lenard, whom he erroneously
believed to have been involved. The brief article continued, “Through the
occasion of the recent meeting of sciences in Bad Nauheim, we have
found that Mr. Lenard was put on the list of speakers [at the Philharmon-
ic] without his will. Due to this fact, Mr. Einstein has authorized us to
express his active regret that he directed his accusations in his article
against his highly valued colleague, Mr. Lenard.”
Far from satisfying Lenard, the brief statement issued not by Einstein,
himself, but by others on his behalf, only inflamed his resentment. The
business with Einstein wasn’t over. He would bide his time. There would
be other opportunities.
As it turned out, Einstein would provide some of the fodder for Len-
ard’s further attacks on his character. Two years earlier, in 1918, Einstein
had suffered liver disease, manifested as gallstones and jaundice. A gen-
eral deterioration of his health kept him bedridden for several months.
Among his many visitors during his recovery was the well-known author
and satirist, Alexander Moszkowski. Moszkowski convinced Einstein to
collaborate with him in writing a book explaining his theory of relativity
in simple language for a lay audience. Moszkowski was completing the
finishing touches on Conversations with Einstein at the same time as
Lenard and his minions were unleashing their barrage of criticism over
Einstein’s self-promotion in the lay press.
At the insistent urging of his friends—among them, physicist Max
Born and his playwright wife, Hedwig—Einstein considered the reper-
cussions of his collaboration in publishing the book. The Borns worried

that the widespread popular exposure the book might receive would give
credence to Einstein’s critics’ claims that he much too often tooted his
own horn. As the Borns were Jewish, they may also have worried on their
own behalf that publication of the Moszkowski book might further arouse
already rampant anti-Jewish sentiments.
In October 1920, Hedi Born wrote to Einstein,
You must withdraw the permission given to Moszkowski to publish

the book Conversations with Einstein, and to be precise, immediately
and by registered mail. Nor should it be allowed to appear abroad
either. . . . That man doesn’t have the slightest inkling about the es-
sence of your character. . . . If he understood, or even had a glimmer of
respect and love for you, he would neither have written this book nor
wrung this permission out of your good nature. [If you allow this book
to be published], you will be quoted everywhere, your own jokes will
be smirkingly flung back at you . . . couplets will be written, an
entirely new, awful smear campaign will be let loose, not just in Ger-
many, no, everywhere, and your revulsion of it will choke you. . . . If I
did not know you, I would definitely believe it was vanity. For every-
one, except for about four or five of your friends, this book would
constitute your moral death sentence.
Persuaded that publication of Conversations with Einstein might be

injurious at a time when seeking public adulation was considered a per-
sonal failing, Einstein withdrew his permission. Initially, Moszkowski
agreed to halt publication, but the publisher overruled him. Money had
been invested. It was too late to stop what was already well under way.
With the publisher’s permission, Moszkowski and Einstein settled on
cosmetic changes in an effort to distance Einstein from the book’s con-
tents. The book was published with a new, more neutral title, Einstein the
Seeker, and a foreword stating that Einstein had not read its contents. In
addition, Moszkowski and the publisher deleted much of the material
directly attributed to Einstein.
Einstein wrote the Borns a letter minimizing what he believed would
be the consequences of the 1921 publication of Einstein the Seeker:
The whole business is a matter of indifference to me, along with the

clamor and opinion of all persons. . . . By the way, M. [Moszkowski]
really is preferable to me than Lenard and Wien. For the latter cause
problems for the love of making a stink, and the former only in order
to earn money (which really is more reasonable and better). I shall live
through all that awaits me like an uninvolved spectator.
In Heidelberg, Lenard reflected upon the recent events. He would be

neither “uninvolved” nor a “spectator.” The Moszkowski affair was fur-
ther proof of the Working Society’s accusations. There was no doubting
the Jew’s complicity. Nearly a year had passed since Einstein had public-
ly insulted him. He had not forgotten. Einstein remained unrepentant.
Sitting in his office at the University of Heidelberg, Lenard pondered his
next moves. In time, he would know what to do. After all, he had dealt
with a similar situation before.
6
A MISSED OPPORTUNITY
Long before the attack on Einstein at the Berlin Philharmonic and the
debate at Bad Nauheim, Lenard had focused his rancor on Wilhelm Con-
rad Roentgen, the discoverer of X-rays. The conflict between the two
men was based on many of the same elements as Lenard’s feud with
Einstein, and it occurred for many of the same reasons. In Roentgen’s
case, his serendipitous instant of discovery earned him a lifetime of Len-
ard’s envy.
Lenard had begun working with cathode ray tubes by 1893, when he
joined the Karlsruhe laboratory of the famous German physicist, Heinrich
Hertz. “Cathode rays are a phenomenon which occurs when electricity is
discharged in a rarefied gas,” Lenard explained.
If an electric current is led through a glass tube containing rarefied gas,

certain radiation phenomena appear both in the gas and around the
metal wires, or poles, through which the current is carried. These
phenomena change in form and nature if the gas is rarefied even fur-
ther . . . rays are emitted from the negative pole, called the “cathode,”
which are invisible to the naked eye but which can be observed
through certain peculiar effects.
By 1894, when he was completing his scientific apprenticeship, Len-

ard had achieved a great deal, including improving upon the design of
early cathode ray tubes developed by Hittorf and Crookes. Lenard’s inno-
65
vation was to employ a thin plate of aluminum over an opening at the

cathode end of the tube. This modification allowed Lenard to prove the
existence of cathode rays outside the confines of the tube. The opening
also made it easier than with earlier models to observe the properties of
the rays. The self-named “Lenard tube” and Lenard’s investigations
brought considerable recognition to the young scientist; after having
served in a series of temporary positions for nearly a decade, he was
offered a professorship at Breslau in 1894. The next year, he moved to
Aachen; during his tenure there, events conspired to embitter Lenard over
a major missed opportunity.
On the night of November 8, 1895, while others slept soundly in the
university town of Wuerzburg, Germany, Wilhelm Conrad Roentgen
made a revolutionary discovery. Working in the laboratory below his
living quarters, Roentgen set up his tube and prepared to continue a series
of experiments on the properties of cathode rays. Roentgen was working
that evening in Wuerzburg not because he was particularly industrious—
although his subsequent actions show that he was—but because the out-
comes of his investigations were best seen in total darkness. To maximize
his chances of a successful evening of experimentation, Roentgen tightly
drew heavy drapes over the windows and locked his laboratory door
against the intrusion of unsuspecting visitors. He wrapped the cathode ray
tube in heavy, black-painted cardboard so that the light originating from
within the tube itself would not hinder his observations. Once all was
prepared, Roentgen shut off the lights and allowed his eyes to accommo-
date to the darkness.
When Roentgen powered up the tube that evening, he was surprised to
see a faint glimmer of light coming from an object leaning against a
nearby wall. He confirmed the source of the glow: a piece of cardboard
on which he had painted barium platinocyanide, a substance known to
fluoresce when exposed to cathode rays. Given the popularity at the time
of experimenting with vacuum tubes, it is highly likely that others, in-
cluding Lenard, observed a similar effect during their investigations; but
if they did, they must have either ignored it or erroneously attributed what
they had seen to cathode rays. They committed the cardinal sin of sci-
A M I SSE D OPPORT U N I T Y 67
ence: they paid more attention to what they expected to see than what
they actually saw. It was Roentgen who recognized the significance of his
observation. The glowing plate was several feet away from the cathode
ray tube. This was farther than cathode rays were known to travel. Dis-
missing cathode rays as the agent causing the fluorescence, Roentgen
correctly deduced that he was witnessing a previously unreported phe-
nomenon. What Roentgen experienced was the convergence of serendip-
ity and a mind open to new possibilities, arriving at what we might today
call an “aha moment.”
Roentgen must have considered immediately reporting his observa-
tions. However, if he had, he would have risked Lenard and other scien-
tists making the connection and carrying out the critical experiments that
would secure Roentgen’s place in scientific history. Instead, in Roent-
gen’s own words, “I didn’t think, I investigated.” He did so alone, staving
off the very human urge to tell someone —anyone—about what he quick-
ly recognized was a discovery of far-reaching importance. “I had spoken
to no one about my work,” he later wrote. “To my wife [Anna Bertha,
whom he called “Bertha”], I merely mentioned that I was working on
something about which people would say when they found out about it,
‘Roentgen has surely gone crazy.’”
Soon, though, Bertha knew something was up. Several nights after his
initial observation, Roentgen asked her to come to his laboratory, perhaps
the first time he had ever made such an unusual request. From that first
night of discovery, he’d begun to study the properties of the new rays.
Perhaps his most amazing observation, which he now wished to further
investigate, was that when he waved his hand between the tube and the
barium platinocyanide–coated placard, he could see a ghostly image of
what appeared to be the bones of his fingers and wrist.
When Bertha arrived, her husband seated her beside a table. Without
explanation, he affixed his wife’s hand to a photographic plate. He then
exposed her to what we now know to be an unconscionable fifteen min-
utes of unshielded irradiation. The resultant image—the first human
radiograph—has become iconic. Clearly visible are the bones of Bertha’s
hand, her wedding band encircling her marital finger. When her husband
showed her the photograph, she is said to have uttered the words, “I have
seen my death.”
Working alone and in continuing secrecy, Roentgen elicited much of
what we know today about X-rays. His initial, December 28, 1895, publi-
cation, “On a New Kind of Rays,” was a remarkable reflection of the man
himself, modest and reserved to the point of reticence. Without verbal
embroidery, Roentgen let his readers decide for themselves the worth of
his discovery. Some of the principle properties the publication detailed
were that X-rays:
• Are invisible to the naked eye;

• Neither reflect nor refract in the manner of visible light;
• Are unresponsive to magnetic fields;
• Are absorbed in direct relationship to the density and thickness of
the objects they encounter.
Roentgen’s report on the new rays was soon republished in English in

Nature, Science, and Scientific American, but by then the word was out.
On New Year’s Day 1896, Roentgen mailed ninety copies of his article to
well-known scientists and colleagues throughout Europe. In twelve of the
missives, sent to those whom he felt would be the most supportive, he
included a packet of nine photographs. Among them was the image of
Bertha’s hand.
One of the recipients, Franz-Serafin Exner, had been a university
classmate of Roentgen in Zurich and was now a professor of experimen-
tal physics in Vienna. Exner showed the photographs to a friend whose
father was Ernst Lecher, the publisher of Die Presse, Vienna’s leading
daily newspaper. Lecher knew a good story when he saw one. Realizing
that he had a scoop, he literally stopped the presses, made room on the
front page, and published the story of Roentgen’s findings the very next
day under the headline “A Sensational Discovery.” With remarkable pre-
science, Lecher predicted, “If we let our imaginations run freely . . . this
could be of immeasurable help for the diagnosis of countless diseases.”
Viennese correspondents for other newspapers trumpeted the news to
their home publications around the world. The press expanded upon
Lecher’s prediction. London’s Daily Chronicle waxed, “A sensational

discovery, which, if the reports are confirmed, is likely to be attended by
imperial consequences for physical and medical science.” The Standard
assured its readers, “There is no hoax or humbug in this matter.” Despite
Roentgen’s preference for the term “X-rays,” to imply their mysterious
nature, the press dubbed the emanations “Roentgen rays.” As later hap-
pened with Eddington’s verification of Einstein’s prediction about the
bending of light, the public embraced both the discovery and the discov-
erer, seemingly overnight.
The initial response of the scientific community was tepid. However,
skepticism vanished quickly following the events of January 23, 1896.
That evening, the Physical and Medical Society of Wuerzburg held a
symposium on the new rays in the main lecture hall of the University of
Wuerzburg’s Institute for Physics. At the conclusion of a comprehensive
presentation of his observations, Roentgen called forward a well-known
anatomist named Geheimrat Albert von Kolliker. As he had with his wife
Bertha, Roentgen imaged the scientist’s hand. Imagine the amazement of
those attending the evening’s events. They had not simply heard about the
new rays but witnessed a most dramatic exhibition of their potential. On
the platinocyanide plate, the image of von Kolliker’s hand is crisp and
sharp. It appears broad and squat in comparison with Bertha’s. His fourth
digit bears not one ring, as with Bertha’s hand, but two. Von Kolliker
called for three cheers from the crowd and, to unanimous acclaim, imme-
diately suggested that the new rays be named for their discoverer.
There followed an outpouring of professional admiration. The Univer-
sity of Wuerzburg conferred on Roentgen its most exalted honor, naming
him rector of the university. The students held a celebratory torchlight
parade, insisting the notoriously shy professor regale them with a speech.
He received various national medals and opportunities to lecture around
the world. In 1901, Roentgen was awarded the first Nobel Prize for phys-
ics. His discovery spawned the entirely new field of medical imaging, or
diagnostic radiology, with all of its subsequent developments—ultraso-
nography, computed tomography, magnetic resonance imaging, and nu-
clear medicine—traceable to that single instant of recognition in 1895.
Within months of Roentgen’s discovery, X-rays found their principal

application in medicine. In Glasgow, Dr. John McIntyre showed the po-
tential of medical imaging to demonstrate the presence of kidney stones
and swallowed foreign objects. His work was emulated at the Dartmouth
Infirmary in the United States by Dr. Edwin Frost, who showed the ad-
vantages of roentgenographic imaging in diagnosing broken bones. The
Roentgen rays found extensive medical applications during the Boer War
and in World War I. Marie Curie famously spent the money she received
with her second Nobel Prize on a mobile X-ray machine that she drove
along the front lines, exposing radiographs to improve the treatment of
wounded soldiers.
X-ray frenzy extended beyond medical applications. Before it was
recognized that overlong and repetitive exposure to X-radiation was
acutely injurious and, with excessive exposure, might induce cancer in
the long term, entrepreneurs seeking to capitalize on Roentgen’s discov-
ery employed X-rays in new consumer products and even entertainment.
Pitchmen ballyhooed harmless but ineffectual home remedies containing
fluids they said had been exposed to X-rays as curative for everyday ills
like headaches and constipation. Fears developed that the dissemination
of X-ray apparatuses would infringe on personal privacy. There were
rumors that X-rays would allow the unscrupulous to see through wom-
en’s clothing, prompting one company to quite profitably sell a line of X-
ray-proof garments. A bit of doggerel played upon this conceit:
For now-a-days I hear they’ll gaze,
Through cloak and gown and even stays,
Those naughty, naughty Roentgen Rays.
As Roentgen’s popularity grew, Lenard stewed from the sidelines.

Lenard eventually received his Nobel Prize in 1905 for the work he’d
done with high-energy vacuum tubes, but that did not reverse the public
perception. The press glorified Roentgen, while the name “Lenard” hard-
ly bore mention. He had missed the big discovery and received short
shrift. Despite his having done the work that had made possible the dis-
covery of the X-ray, next to Roentgen, he was comparatively an un-
known.
Lenard’s experience with Roentgen presaged his attacks on Einstein

by a quarter of a century. How unfair! It had been his contributions that
underlay everything that Roentgen had described. Roentgen had been
lucky; his discovery was simply the logical next step to the groundwork
Lenard had laid. Lenard didn’t fault a giddy and naïve public. It wasn’t
their fault that they were ignorant of the complete story. It was Roentgen.
Why hadn’t Roentgen set the record straight by giving him credit as a full
partner, for being the one who had enabled his observations?
Lenard’s relationship with Roentgen, as with Einstein, began benign-
ly, even with admiration. In an early letter written by Roentgen to Lenard
in 1894, Roentgen expressed a desire to acquire some of the aluminum
windows that Lenard was using on his eponymous tube. Lenard answered
apologetically that the machinist he was using was having trouble enough
supplying his own needs, but nonetheless, “I permit myself to send you
two sheets from my supply.”
Three years after Roentgen announced his discovery, Lenard wrote
him a letter, declaring, “I was particularly happy to know for sure what I
had never had reason to doubt, that you are friendly toward me. I was
often afraid it could have been otherwise, and I would have been sorry for
that.” Absolving himself from any “polemics” that may have come to
Roentgen’s attention, Lenard continued, “Because your remarkable dis-
covery caused such remarkable attention in the farthest circles, my mod-
est work also has come into the limelight, which was of particular luck to
me, and I am doubly glad to have had your friendly participation, espe-
cially through the presence of the x-ray discovered by you [italics mine].”
He acknowledged that he had erred by presuming the observed effects
were due to cathode rays rather than X-rays. By giving Roentgen credit
for the initial discovery, Lenard provided history with a literal smoking
gun that went against Lenard’s later assertions that he was the discoverer
of X-rays.
For his part, Roentgen portrayed a similar tone of collegiality and
respect. A letter to Lenard written in April 1897 expressed disappoint-
ment at his not being in Wuerzburg to receive Lenard when the younger
man unexpectedly came to visit. “I hope there will soon be another oppor-
tunity,” Roentgen wrote. “For the receipt of prizes and medals we several
times have had reason for mutual congratulations. . . . Be assured that I
am very happy that my work has found such a ready recognition from
you.”
Roentgen further apologized for “untimely newspaper articles” written
by a former assistant and close friend, Ludwig Zehnder, whom he had
known since his days as a student. He had complained in a letter to
Zehnder about rumors to the effect that it was not he, Roentgen, who had
discovered the X-ray but an assistant or diener. He now wrote Lenard that
he had mentioned Lenard’s name only in passing and that he was “inno-
cent as a newborn child and furious about it.”
Curiously, while Roentgen’s will ordered the destruction of his papers
after his death in 1923, he insisted that his correspondence with Lenard be
preserved in a safe at the University of Wuerzburg, presumably over
concerns about the younger man’s claims to the historical provenance of
X-rays. It was well that he did. During the 1930s, the years of Lenard’s
greatest influence with the Nazi hierarchy, fears arose among Roentgen’s
Wuerzburg colleagues that pro-Lenard elements might seek to destroy the
letters. Authorities at the Institute made photocopies and sent them to
sympathetic scientists in other locales for safekeeping.
Their caution was well founded. As Lenard’s political star ascended,
he became more assertive in his claims of primacy regarding the discov-
ery of X-rays. The scientific establishment of the Third Reich sought to
revise the history surrounding the events of 1895. In 1935, an article by
Johannes Stark concluded that Roentgen had done little that was original.
Rather, he had merely followed in the footsteps of Lenard. Assistant
professor Friedrich Schmidt, working under Stark, who by then had be-
come president of Berlin’s powerful Reich Physical and Technical Insti-
tute, also sided with Lenard. He concluded that despite a lack of physical
evidence, Lenard had made notes indicative of his having recognized X-
rays for what they were prior to Roentgen’s first publication.
Roentgen believed that his receiving the Nobel Prize for discovering
X-rays precipitated Lenard’s envy, but there may have been multiple
factors at work. Given his suspicious nature, Lenard may well have held a
grudge over Roentgen’s letter to Zehnder, believing that, despite his dis-
claimer, Roentgen had written negative comments about him that later
found their way into the public sphere. Even more critically, as was
evident with his envy of Einstein’s accolades, he almost certainly made
resentful comparisons between Roentgen’s public acclaim and his own.
Even his own Nobel Prize failed to salve the hurt he felt over the recogni-
tion accorded Roentgen. He belittled Roentgen’s contributions in his No-
bel Lecture and took the position that “anyone who was wide awake and
using a Lenard tube could have discovered the X-rays.”
If Lenard’s claims of primacy depend on Roentgen having used a
Lenard tube that evening in 1895 when he intuited X-rays, then they lack
supporting evidence. The type of tube Roentgen was using when he made
the leap from observation to discovery is unknown. An investigation of
purchasing records shows that the University of Wuerzburg Institute of
Physics bought only one Lenard tube in 1895, but at the same time ac-
quired a number of Hittorf and Crookes tubes. The type of tube Roentgen
employed the night of November 8, 1895, remains a point of contention.
Given Lenard’s statements concerning the inevitability of Roentgen’s
discovery, why didn’t he discover X-rays? According to Lenard’s labora-
tory workbooks, it appears he had, on occasion, observed what he be-
lieved to be cathode rays causing imprints on photographic plates. He
also had witnessed plates fluorescing at distances greater than would be
expected of cathode rays and after traversing objects that would have
been expected to stop their less energetic passage.
Lenard gave four reasons why he missed out on being the discoverer
of X-rays, three of which were parroted by Stark in a 1935 publication
when Stark and Lenard were at the peak of their influence. That the items
are worded nearly identically suggests that Lenard colluded with Stark in
making his own case:
1. During that period when he was serving a sequence of temporary

appointments, he had changed institutions so frequently that he had
not had the time to settle in and conduct his experiments as he
would have liked;
2. At the time, he was using a tube encased in tin to exclude light

emissions, rather than the cardboard used by Roentgen; the tin
might have absorbed more of the X-rays, thus reducing their inten-
sity;
3. He was at the mercy of Professor Hertz. The professor preferred he
use a cheaper substance—keton (pentadecylparatolylketon), rather
than barium platinocyanide—for his investigations. In fact, experi-
ments conducted by Roentgen validated the seriousness of this
shortcoming. Roentgen found that although keton fluoresced re-
markably well under the bombardment of cathode rays, the materi-
al was wholly unresponsive to X-rays;
4. His cathode ray tube was poorly made by the glassblower, Louis
Mueller-Unkel, whereas Roentgen’s tube had been made perfectly.
In this regard, Lenard again blamed Hertz for his stinginess. Len-
ard wrote in his autobiography that he had approached his profes-
sor about purchasing a better tube. While Hertz had not said “no”
outright, he clearly was unconvinced, telling the young man to go
forward with the purchase only if he felt that the new tube would
truly be worth the expense.
These last two explanations require further scrutiny. The half-Jew

Hertz had prevented him from having been the first to observe X-rays and
reap the recognition that had been accorded Roentgen. On the other hand,
despite Hertz’s racial heritage, his story, at least, is included among Len-
ard’s summaries in his book about the lives and scientific works of “great
men.” The biographies of neither Roentgen nor Einstein are among the
sixty-one selected.
As Hitler’s chief scientific advisor, Lenard remained a powerful force
in German academic politics and among the scientists of the Third Reich
long after his 1933 retirement from his directorship of the University of
Heidelberg Institute of Physics. To insinuate doubt about the authenticity
of Roentgen’s claims, he repeatedly raised the question: why had Roent-
gen insisted on his executors burning his research notebooks and other
papers upon his death? Subsequent articles in Nazi periodicals like Voel-
kischer Beobachter and Das Schwarze Korps—the weekly publication of
the SS—beat the drum for official recognition of Lenard as the discoverer
of X-rays until the Reich happily complied.
The Nazis did their best to eradicate the memory of Roentgen’s work
and replace it with an ersatz history that lauded one of their own. In 1944,
the same Physical and Medical Society of Wuerzburg, before whom
Roentgen first presented his discovery, made application to the Minister
of the Reichspost (the German postal service), Wilhelm Ohnesorge, re-
questing that the Reich design a stamp honoring the fiftieth anniversary
of Roentgen’s discovery. Ohnesorge was coincidentally a physicist who
had trained under Lenard. The request was denied.
In 1945, as American troops advanced toward Berlin during the final
days of World War II, Lenard fled Heidelberg. Along with Stark, he had
been one of the point men involved in enforcing laws forbidding the
employment of Jews in German universities. He was certain that those
charged with seeking out and detaining Nazi war criminals would be on
the lookout for him. Surprisingly to Lenard, they either were not looking
for him or were oblivious of his whereabouts. He remained at large for
nearly two months in the tiny Badensian farming village of Messelhausen
before turning himself in to authorities and being placed under house
arrest.
A little more than a month later, Lieutenant Colonel Lewis E. Etter, an
American physician of the U.S. Army Medical Reserve Corps, sat in the
anteroom of Lenard’s cottage. Doctor Etter had requested and been given
permission through military channels to conduct two interviews of Phi-
lipp Lenard about his relationship with Wilhelm Conrad Roentgen, the
man credited everywhere except Nazi Germany with discovering X-rays.
Lenard’s claims to the contrary had come up during a trip to Roentgen’s
laboratory in Wuerzburg, earlier in the year. Etter’s interest in Lenard
was academic. While stationed in England, early in the war, he had made
an extensive study of radiation physics. Later, he served as chief of
radiology at several military medical installations in Europe. He was only
months away from resuming his civilian life as a neuroradiology fellow
and an instructor in radiology at the University of Pittsburgh. In time,
Etter would become a leading expert on the radiographic anatomy of the

skull.
On September 20, 1945, Etter sat enveloped in an overstuffed chair
beside a dark wood table, lamplight reflecting from its oiled sheen. Only
a moment earlier, he had closed the thick volume lying beside him. From
his first interview of Lenard two weeks earlier and after reading parts of
Lenard’s Deutsche Physik, which the aged scientist had suggested he
borrow from a local physician, Etter had learned the essence of the old
man’s dispute with Roentgen. He’d found a handwritten note, signed by
Lenard, on the flyleaf of the book:
To be found in this volume, my reckoning with Roentgen, held back

for almost fifty years. . . . Again, I speak now only because of my
ineradicable desire for truth. For fifty long years one was so dull as
never to care seriously about the actual coming about of a rather much
noticed and practically used discovery.
Having familiarized himself with the history that lay between the two
men, Etter felt that he had prepared himself as much as possible. He’d
read the passages he’d found cited in Lenard’s note and felt that he now
understood Lenard’s point of view. He’d also read and reread a footnote
he’d found well into the text: “A comparison can best make clear to the
neutral observer Roentgen’s role in the discovery,” Lenard wrote. He
went on,
I shall make this striking comparison here because it may throw a light
on the even now widespread historical confusion and untruth! Roent-
gen was the midwife at the birth of the discovery. This helper had the
good fortune to be able to present the child first. She can only be
confused with the mother by the uninformed who knows as little about
the procedure of the discovery and the preceding facts as children of
the stork.
Etter reopened Lenard’s book and took another glance at the flyleaf.
From his first interview of Lenard, it was clear that Lenard’s position on
the discovery of X-rays was unchanged. On that occasion, he had ex-
pressed the same birthing metaphor as he had written but even more
directly. He was the true “mother of the X-rays.” Lenard’s work had
guided Roentgen to the point that “All Roentgen had to do was push a
button, since all the groundwork had been prepared by me. . . . Without
my help, the discovery of X-rays would not have been possible even
today. Without me, the name of Roentgen would be unknown.”
The second interview continued for some time in the same vein. Len-
ard was in high spirits at the interest the American soldier showed in his
life. They were covering well-trod ground when Lenard made an addi-
tional claim. Speaking of the history of cathode ray tubes, he credited
Hittorf with the initial invention, then added, “But nothing of great im-
portance was added to it until my work twenty-five years later. I was
always too modest and did not rush into print. In my letter to Roentgen,
where I praised him for his great discovery [the letter of May 21, 1897], I
thought he would reply that he really owed it all to me and my tube, but I
waited for this acknowledgement from him in vain.”
Etter was stunned. He recognized in that instant that this was the main
source of Lenard’s resentment for Roentgen—not that Roentgen had
scooped him on the discovery but that he felt slighted by not having been
invited to share the glory. Was this all of what had motivated Lenard’s
long crusade to minimize Roentgen’s achievement? Or was there some-
thing even more nefarious? Etter was well aware that Lenard had had a
hand in war crimes against Jewish academics. He had read something of
Lenard’s rambling polemic detailing his beliefs concerning the degenera-
cy of the Jewish race in his introduction to Deutsche Physik. Etter won-
dered if there might also be an element of anti-Semitism involved in his
perception of Roentgen. He asked the question directly, “Was Roentgen a
Jew?”
Lenard replied, “No, but he was a friend of Jews and acted like one.”
There was little more to say. As Etter stood to leave, Lenard asked that
the Lieutenant Colonel wait just a moment and left the room. He returned
a couple of minutes later and formally presented Etter with a photograph-
ic portrait of himself taken three years previously on his eightieth birth-
day. It had been a marvelous day for Lenard, immensely brightened by a
personal congratulatory communication from Adolf Hitler. The portrait

depicted Lenard in formal attire, his chin lifted proudly, his eyes gazing
skyward. On the back of the photograph, Lenard had inscribed, “Dr.
Etter, the representative of the conqueror, with thanks for his scientific
interest. 20 Sept. 45,” and signed it “P. Lenard.”
7
LENARD IN STOCKHOLM
“Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness, Ladies and Gentlemen,” an-

nounced Professor A. Lindstedt. “The Royal Swedish Academy of Sci-
ences has decided to give this year’s Nobel Prize for physics to Dr.
Philipp Lenard, Professor at the University of Kiel, for his important
work on cathode rays.” Lenard stood beside Lindstedt. At the mention of
his name, he bent slightly at the waist and favored the audience with a
thin, tight-lipped smile.
The presentation of the Nobel Prizes on this dark, cold evening of
December 10, 1905, had filled every seat of the main concert hall of
Stockholm’s Academy of Music. Sweden’s King Oscar II and his Queen,
Sophia of Nassau, sat behind Lindstedt and Lenard on the stage, seeming-
ly intent on the distinguished scientist’s every pronouncement. King Os-
car was a patron of science and culture, and was himself an amateur
writer and musician. He had taken a very personal interest in the Nobel
ceremonies since they’d begun five years earlier, when Alfred Nobel’s
heirs had finally exhausted the available legal obstructions to exercising
the dictates of the great man’s will.
Having invented dynamite and holding three hundred fifty-five other
patents at the time of his death in 1896, Nobel had been a very wealthy
man. His last will, signed the previous year at the Swedish-Norwegian
Club in Paris, left the majority of his fortune—roughly 31.6 million
Swedish kronor (equivalent to about USD $255 million in 2013)—for the
79
establishment of a fund. The interest from the fund was to be used to

award significant monetary prizes that Nobel hoped would both incenti-
vize important work and recognize the achievements of men and women
that “shall have conferred the greatest benefit on mankind.” More specifi-
cally, Nobel’s will stipulated that the interest accrued from his bequest,
each year, be divided among persons “who shall have made the most
important discovery or invention” within the fields of physics, chemistry,
and medicine or physiology; “who shall have produced in the field of
literature the most outstanding work in an ideal direction”; and who had
most contributed to activities intended to promote peace among nations.
Lindstedt continued with his introduction of Lenard,
The discovery of the cathode rays forms the first link in the chain of
brilliant discoveries with which the names of Roentgen, Becquerel,
and Curie are connected. The discovery itself was made by Hittorf as
long ago as 1869 and therefore falls in a period before that which the
Nobel Foundation is able to take into account. However, the recogni-
tion which Lenard has earned himself by the further development of
Hittorf’s discovery (which is becoming of increasing importance)
shows that he too deserves the same reward as has already come to
several of his successors for work of a similar nature.
Lindstedt laid out the background of experimentation that preceded

and influenced Lenard’s work, then ticked off the principal contributions
that had brought Lenard to the exalted state of Nobel Prize honoree.
Perhaps foremost, Lenard had, in a sense, reinvented the cathode ray tube
and made its use more efficient by replacing the glass at the cathode end
of the tube with a thin aluminum plate. The plate allowed the rays to pass
through so that “it became possible to study cathode rays under much
simpler and more convenient experimental conditions than before.” He
found no differences in the rays within the tube versus those that had
passed through the aluminum window. Moreover, the cathode rays
“proved to be carriers of negative electricity even in empty space, and
they could be deflected from their path by both magnetic and electrical
fields.” Finally, Lenard found differences among the cathode rays based
LE N ARD I N ST OCK H OLM 81
on the extent to which they were generated in a vacuum and could be

deflected by a magnet.
In wrapping up, Lindstedt projected the future importance of Lenard’s
discoveries. His research raised questions about how cathode rays were
propagated. Were they supported by an ether, as Lenard proposed? Or
perhaps, as the Englishman Crookes had suggested, the rays were com-
prised of electrons moving at very high speeds. “It is clear,” Lindstedt
concluded, “that Lenard’s work on cathode rays has not only enriched our
knowledge of these phenomena, but has also served in many respects as a
basis for the development of the electron theory. Lenard’s discovery that
cathode rays can exist outside the discharge tube, in particular, has
opened up new fields of research in physics.”
As Lindstedt completed his remarks, he turned to Lenard, shook his
hand, and spoke a few personal congratulatory words. The Swede crossed
the stage to hand King Oscar the ornate certificate and gold medal sym-
bolizing the award, and the King, in turn, presented them to Lenard.
Lenard smiled broadly to receive the applause of the crowd.
As he returned to his seat, he thought he should feel more exhilarated,
but it was all over so quickly, his moment in the sun. The papers would
carry the story of the ceremony in the morning, but nothing would really
change for him. A few days hence, the general public will already have
forgotten the name Lenard. Still, how many men in their lifetime received
such an honor? And there was the prize money to consider—one hun-
dred-thirty eight thousand Swedish kronor—which, with the expense of
having a family, was sorely needed. He forced a smile, but it didn’t feel
quite right. In all fairness, he really should have received the very first
Nobel Prize, the one Roentgen had stolen from him in 1901. At the very
least, he had deserved to share it with Roentgen.
Lenard had heard what he knew to be more than a rumor. The commit-
tee responsible for vetting the nominations for the physics prize had
recommended that he and Roentgen share the 1901 award, but the com-
mittee had been voted down by the main assembly on a technicality. A
faction of the assembly had argued that, at least for the first prize, there
should be only a single honoree. Roentgen might have stepped forward
and voiced his support for Lenard; he’d had every opportunity to give the
proper credit. Instead, Roentgen had been greedy and showed his true
colors. He had been so wrapped up in the public acclaim for his discovery
that he’d forgotten it was purely an accident. No one would ever have
heard of Roentgen except that Lenard’s work had led him by his nose to
the obvious. Apparently, rightfully sharing the responsibility for the dis-
covery of X-rays never occurred to him. Worse. Perhaps it did.
He felt a small thrill of pride over the Nobel Prizes awarded to his
countrymen who followed him onto the stage—Adolf von Baeyer for his
work in organic chemistry and Robert Koch, who received the Nobel
Prize in Medicine or Physiology for his research into the pathogenesis of
tuberculosis. Germans had swept the prizes in the sciences, the only ones
that mattered.
A Pole had won the Prize for literature. Lenard looked again at his
program to remind himself of the man’s name. Henryk Sienkiewicz. The
presenter, this time a man introduced as the Permanent Secretary of the
Swedish Academy, had prattled on inanely about what really was nothing
more than inconsequential scribbling. The way the presenter was gushing
over the new laureate was embarrassing: “in every nation there are some
rare geniuses who concentrate in themselves the spirit of the nation.”
Rubbish! And then, “Their inspiration is deeply rooted in the past, like
the oak tree of Baublis in the desert of Lithuania.” What effete babble! He
had known since childhood that mathematics and the natural sciences
were all that really mattered. He had written that these subjects were the
“oases within the desert. . . . All the getting up at four in the morning and
going to bed at midnight was of no use—history and geography did not
enter my head.”
There had been more speeches that night, but Lenard hardly paid them
any attention. It was amazing, the unexpected twists that had brought him
to such grand heights. His father had wanted him to take over the family
wine business. Lenard had hated the very idea of it. There had been quite
a few arguments over his resistance. To appease the old man, he’d given
it a try after his initial scientific training. He’d read some biographies of
famous scientists whose investigations were sidelights to other careers.
Perhaps he could emulate them. In the end, he couldn’t do it. Working in

a business had been beneath him, so bourgeois, so Jewish. Jews were said
to be good at business. He wasn’t so sure. His father’s partner had been a
Jew, a man named Leban, but still the business had failed.
Science had been his first and only love. As a boy, he had routinely
saved some of the small allowance his parents gave him. When he had
saved enough, he wandered down to the Krapp brothers’ bookshop at the
edge of Pressburg’s Jewish quarter and spent his money on whatever
science book caught his attention. It was an awful shame when the store
went under. He’d gone to Steiner’s after that. By then, his interest in
science was in full flight. He had built a chemistry laboratory in his
parents’ garden and conducted experiments. Years later, when he was in
high school, his teacher, Virgil Klatt, had taken him under his wing.
During school and even on holidays, they had performed hundreds of
experiments together, reproducing Becquerel’s work with phosphores-
cent stones.
He’d tried to take his doctoral degree at the University of Budapest but
wasn’t admitted. Bunsen accepted him at Heidelberg, where he received
his degree with high honors in 1886. By then, he’d already established a
reputation as a man who bore watching. Still, it hadn’t been easy finding
a permanent position until Kiel had taken a chance on him. He’d spent a
year or two in each of a number of temporary positions—Berlin with
Helmholtz, then Budapest, Aachen, and Breslau, before his temporary
appointment at Heidelberg in 1896. By this point in his career, he’d
already been credited with what was called the “waterfall effect” by some
and the “Lenard effect” by others. He had to admit that the latter had a
nice ring to it. His experiments had revealed the separation of positive
and negative electrical charges as water droplets broke up while falling
through the atmosphere, and described the differing shapes of water drop-
lets depending on their size.
He’d begun his work with cathode ray tubes when he was with Helm-
holtz, in Berlin, during 1888. His invention of the “Lenard window,”
while he was still in his twenties, had made his career. The window was
simply an opening in the cathode end of the glass tube covered by a thin
aluminum foil that allowed better egress of the cathode rays outside the
tube for improved study. It was only a short step from this point to his
discovery of the photoelectric effect. He’d found that the interaction of
ultraviolet light and a metal plate caused the release of energy according
to the frequency of the light. The result surprised him, as he had expected
there to be a much stronger correlation with the intensity of the light; the
exact nature of the relationship remained obscure. Had he heard that there
was a young man in Zurich who had worked on this exact problem? It
seemed to him that he had.
His path to success had been a long road with many false turns and
disappointments, but he had persevered. The universities that had not
kept him on the faculty, that had encouraged him to try elsewhere, had
made a grave mistake. The Nobel Prize was proof of that.
Lenard was roused from his thoughts by people standing and moving
around him. The presentation ceremony was over. Lindstedt was hover-
ing, greeting the sycophants wishing to have a word with him as though
he had been the one awarded the prize. He saw in the distance the royals,
Oscar and Sophia, leaving with their retinue for the banquet. The crowd
trailed, looking wolfish, as though they had not eaten in days.
Lenard followed the crowd outside to the dining room of a nearby
hotel and found his assigned place among the hundreds of dinner guests.
Despite his mood, he couldn’t help but marvel at the surrounding finery.
The women wore long gowns of every imaginable color and design,
many purchased at the best Parisian shops. Adding to their elegance, they
had donned their finest wool and fur stoles, white gloves that ascended
their arms to their elbows and beyond, and glittering gems retrieved earli-
er that day from household vaults and secret hiding places scattered
among the best neighborhoods in Stockholm.
In contrast, the men were nearly uniformly attired, each wearing, as he
was, a long-tailed, black cutaway jacket paired with matching slacks
featuring black cords up the outside of the legs, a stiff white shirt with a
white wing collar, and either white or silver cuff links and shirt studs. The
more rakish sported a white pocket square conservatively extruding just
the slightest amount from their left breast pocket.
Lenard seated himself and greeted the guests beside and across from
him. The ballroom was dazzling. Long rectangular tables were lined up
end to end in long, straight rows and covered with expensive linens.
Arrangements of exotic flowers, imported from warmer climes, soared
upward at regular intervals. Each guest’s place had been set with fine
china, an array of silverware, organized from the periphery inward to
receive each course in order, and a selection of leaded Orrefors crystal,
gleaming in candlelight. Less than a decade old, the company had de-
signed special glassware to commemorate the event. Each style was spe-
cifically shaped to maximize the enjoyment of the wine that would ac-
company each serving.
Suddenly, from the kitchen, came a burst of activity. Gaggles of wait-
ers, dressed in dinner jackets and carrying decorative bowls of beef con-
sommé, circled behind the diners to reach over their left shoulders and
deposit their burdens. The same choreography brought forth, at intervals,
a sequence of filet of sole, saddle of lamb, hot and cold partridge, and
hearts of artichoke, followed by ice cream, pastry and fruit. Each course
was paired with a carefully selected wine—Golden Sherry, Chateau Dou-
tor, a Hochheimer white wine, champagne by Mumm, Romanee from
Burgundy, Apollonaris with dessert, and Sandeman port with cigars. The
remarkable display of excess emphasized the day’s theme: these were
extraordinary men who had earned this evening’s special culinary tribute.
Lord knows, he had done the work—and then he had waited. Only a
very select group of scientists had the right to make Nobel nominations:
members of the Nobel physics committee or of the Royal Swedish Acad-
emy of Sciences; past Nobel laureates; professors of physics in Scandina-
vian countries; and holders of chairs in a selected cadre of Scandinavian
institutions. Lenard’s name had been bruited around the assembly as a
candidate from the start. In 1901, all five members of the physics com-
mittee had suggested both his name and Roentgen’s. He had received
additional support from the British physicist and mathematician Sylvanus
Thompson, a foreign member of the Swedish Academy, but it had not
been enough to carry the day. For the next four years, a man who would
become his collaborator in his quest to prove the existence of ether,
Vilhelm Bjerknes, nominated him for the prize. In 1904, two other scien-
tists—Wiener and Hallwachs—had placed his name in nomination, al-
though they both proffered additional nominations at the same time.
This year, it had been Bjerknes again, but also Jacobus van’t Hoff, the
Dutch professor who had won the very first prize for chemistry. It must
have been van’t Hoff who had done the trick. It galled Lenard that it had
taken so long for the Nobel committee to recognize him. Professor Lind-
stedt had unwittingly made the case in his introduction, saying Lenard
was responsible for providing the foundation from which Roentgen’s and
the Curies’ research had sprung. His work had come first; he had led the
way. Then he had looked on from the sidelines as each of those who had
followed and benefited from his discoveries had been selected before
him. Yet, despite Lenard’s work lying at the root of so much of modern
physics, there had been no mass acclaim for him as there had been for
Roentgen, and for Becquerel and the Curies too, for that matter.
What initially had been an almost inconsequential slight had inadver-
tently been imprinted on his consciousness by Professor Lindstedt. Now,
he could not let it go. That the others had prospered by feeding off his
ideas rankled to such an extent that by May 28 of the following year,
when Lenard returned to Stockholm to deliver the traditional Nobel Lec-
ture, “On Cathode Rays,” he was ready to set the record straight. He had
stood by and watched Roentgen take the credit for what was rightfully his
for long enough.
“I shall now speak not only of the fruits but also of the trees which
have borne them, and of those who planted these trees,” Lenard began.
“This approach is the more suitable in my case, as I have by no means
always been numbered among those who pluck the fruit; I have been
repeatedly only one of those who planted or cared for the trees, or who
helped to do this.”
The lecture progressed historically through his research, addressing
how cathode rays varied according to different combinations of metals
and tube designs until he reached this particularly salient passage: “It is
barely worth mentioning, but not unimportant for the further development
of our subject, that even before this interruption [the death of his mentor,
Heinrich Hertz], I had designed a new and far more convenient type of
discharge tube. I had tested it as far as possible and had recommended its
use and made it generally available.”
Lenard’s tube employed platinum as the cathode target, which he
claimed was the material that produced the greatest number of X-rays.
Between the efficiency of the platinum plate and his tube design, which
allowed the X-rays generated by the high-energy electrons striking the
plate to freely exit the tube, he dismissively concluded, “The discovery
soon after this of X-rays by Roentgen, the first investigator to use the type
of tube described above, is generally considered to be a good example of
a lucky discovery. But, given the tube, the fact that the attention of the
observer was already turned from the interior to the outside of the tube,
and the presence of phosphorescent screens outside the tube, because of
the purpose of the tube, it appeared to me that this discovery had of
necessity to be made at this stage of development.” In plain language,
Lenard was claiming that it was his work had led Roentgen to his discov-
ery. Any fool could have done it. It just so happened that Roentgen was
the fool who did.
This indictment of Roentgen as merely “lucky” and beholden to Len-
ard for his good fortune was a typical one for Lenard. In time, Lenard
would come to have similar complaints about Einstein and his law of the
photoelectric effect. Ironically, in 1905, the same year that Lenard sat on
the Nobel stage, the scientific world would read Albert Einstein’s article
in Annalen der Physik on the law of the photoelectric effect. It had been
Lenard who had first written about the curious effect several years earlier,
but he had not been able to elucidate the physical laws that governed it.
Using the constant derived by Max Planck, it was left to Einstein to bring
forth the relationship between the wavelength, or frequency, of ultraviolet
light striking a metal plate and the kinetic energy of the electrons released
as a result.
Given that he was widely celebrated as one of the great scientists of
his era, it seems surprising that Philipp Lenard so begrudged the recogni-
tion accorded the contributions of his contemporaries. However, this was
his character. Toward the end of his career, Lenard kept a Faelschungs-
Buch, a cataloging of what he believed were the ideas stolen from him by
his colleagues. A handwritten note found within the covers of the book
states,
They who could have understood my works most easily have obvious-
ly never appreciated [what I have done]. This was astonishing to me;
however, I understood it soon enough by their and their students’
statements in their publications. They aggressively tried as much to
conceal me as to tacitly rob me! How do they come to behave like
that? . . . They probably have all been that way, these “colleagues.”
Thus they could not be delighted by my works, their methods and
results; but they were anxious for their pleasant positions, and so a
counter fight seemed to be the best for them in the first place! So they
behaved in any case.
Despite the stilted, archaic style of writing, Lenard’s disappointment,

even anger, over the behavior of his fellow academics is palpable. He
appears to have given up on them. He is writing for posterity.
The here preserved publications show it. I have preserved them and
continue to do so, because they are tangible proof of a behavior (which
one probably has to have at hand) which seemed so alien to me that I
even sometimes had to (being forgetful) consider as incredible. . . .
There are some publications, which only followed the recent widely
employed trend to bypass me. One, even a pupil of mine, deceived me
from behind, because he deemed it beneficial for himself. . . . That
they have been able to behave in the way they did, these poor minds
owe to the Jewish influence, which became effective just in time and
by which their petty-minded thinking became as strong, as they could
ever wish for.
On the occasion of his Nobel Lecture, he felt it necessary to give voice

to his resentment over the acclaim Roentgen enjoyed for his discovery.
One can only imagine the embarrassed response of his audience: Philipp
Lenard, the great scientist, a Nobel laureate, denigrating the contributions
of another Nobel Prize recipient in an effort to bolster his own legacy.
Lenard’s behavior toward Roentgen and, later, Einstein would follow

him through history. Indeed, instead of being remembered for the genius
of his science, his legacy is his misbegotten racial theories and how they
negatively impacted the future of German science. His modern-day Nobel
biography notes, “Some of his discoveries were great ones and others
were very important, but he claimed for them more than their true value.
Although he was given many honours . . . he believed that he was disre-
garded and this probably explains why he attacked other physicists in
many countries.”
8
EINSTEIN VERSUS THE

SMALL POPES IN UPPSALA
Seventeen years following Lenard’s Nobel Lecture, on the afternoon of

July 11, 1923, Albert Einstein looked out from the elevated podium front-
ing Jubileum Hall, prepared to deliver his own Nobel Lecture. The newly
finished building was an architectural marvel, completely walled in glass,
and one of the focal points of Gothenburg’s Liseberg Congress Center,
which, along with the neighboring amusement park, had been constructed
to celebrate the city’s three hundredth anniversary. For the next hour,
those fortunate or persistent enough to have gotten a ticket forsook the
park’s funicular and slides to listen to the 1921 Nobel laureate for phys-
ics.
The day was an unusually hot one for central Sweden, hot enough that
Einstein’s neck must have prickled under his stiff, white collar. The
freshly lacquered benches on which the audience sat stuck to the trousers
of their expensive wool suits. Even so, roughly one thousand scientists,
dignitaries, and guests sat mesmerized through the roughly hour-long
presentation. Among them was Sweden’s King Gustav V, who occupied
a special chair in the central aisle separating the left and right sections.
Beyond the unseasonable warmth, there were several interesting odd-
ities about the circumstances of Einstein’s celebratory lecture. First, Ein-
stein had known about his being awarded the Nobel Prize for nearly a
year, but only now was he getting around to delivering his lecture. Sec-
91
ond, the award Einstein received was the 1921 Nobel Prize for physics, a
year already fogged by distant memory. Stalemated discussions among
the Nobel physics committee members over who should be the recipient
of the 1921 physics award resulted in the prize being held in reserve until
a decision was made during the committee’s usual deliberations held in
1922. Third, Einstein’s host in Gothenburg, Svante Arrhenius, had on
several occasions in his capacity as a member of the Nobel physics com-
mittee assessed Einstein’s dossier as unworthy of a Nobel Prize. Arrhen-
ius had arranged for Einstein’s lecture to be the sole event of a special
plenary session of the meeting of the Nordic Assembly of Naturalists.
Finally, the topic of Einstein’s lecture, entitled “Fundamental Ideas and
Problems of the Theory of Relativity,” was unrelated to the scientific
contribution for which Einstein was awarded the Nobel Prize.
Indeed, the official announcement of Einstein’s prize went out of its
way to disavow any consideration of relativity in the Swedish Academy’s
decision to reward Einstein’s work. The cover letter that had accompa-
nied his Nobel certificate specifically noted that he was being recognized
for discovering the law of the photoelectric effect “without taking into
account the value which will be accorded your relativity and gravitation
theories after these are confirmed in the future.”
Einstein received word that he had been awarded the Nobel Prize in
October 1922, while his steamer was chugging toward a lecture tour in
Japan. He had accepted the Japanese invitation to allow time for things to
cool off back home in Berlin, where his friend Walther Rathenau recently
had been assassinated and he had received death threats. Perhaps because
he resented how long it had taken the Nobel assembly to recognize his
contributions and because the members of the assembly appeared to be
going out of their way to ignore his most important work, Einstein re-
fused the invitation to backtrack to Sweden for the December 10 Nobel
ceremony and dinner. He even stopped to lecture in Jerusalem and Spain
on his way back to Berlin. Einstein’s absence spoke volumes. However,
just as the prophet Elijah seats himself in an unfilled chair for the Jewish
Passover Seder, the spirit of the seer of theoretical physics inhabited the
Nobel stage.
E I N ST E I N V E RSU S T H E SMA LL P OP ES IN UP P SA LA 93
Had he been present in Stockholm that evening, he would have heard

Professor Arrhenius declare at the outset of his introduction, “There is no
physicist living today whose name has become so widely known as that
of Albert Einstein.” Arrhenius cited the theory of relativity and its philo-
sophical ramifications as the main reason for Einstein’s renown. Next, he
gave due attention to Einstein’s 1905 paper on Brownian motion, which
he noted had given rise to the burgeoning field of colloid chemistry.
Finally, he addressed the reason the physics committee had chosen Ein-
stein to receive the prize: Einstein’s discovery of the law of the photo-
electric effect. In a feat of linguistic gymnastics, the committee had rec-
ommended Einstein—and the full Nobel assembly had approved him—
not for the photoelectric effect itself, which Philipp Lenard showed to be
the result of ultraviolet light striking a metal surface; and not for the
finding that the energy of the electrons emitted was related to the frequen-
cy of the incident light; Lenard had described this as well. Einstein was
being honored specifically for his law employing Planck’s constant,
which explicitly defined the relationship between the wavelength of the
incident light and the energy released.
In the law of the photoelectric effect, Einstein had drawn together two
important lines of inquiry in early-twentieth-century physics: quantum
theory and photodynamics. Citing American Robert Millikan’s elegant
experimental proof of Einstein’s theoretical triumph, Arrhenius con-
cluded his introduction by noting, “Einstein’s law has become the basis of
quantitative photochemistry in the same way as Faraday’s law is the basis
of electrochemistry.”
At the same time as Einstein was out to sea, Philipp Lenard was
attending the 1922 meeting of the German Society of Natural Scientists
and Physicians, the same society that had hosted his 1920 debate with
Einstein. His face must have registered shock at the announcement made
during an interlude in the scientific sessions. After all, he was the 1905
laureate. It is likely that he’d had some interchanges with certain physics
committee members wherein there had been agreement that Einstein’s
theoretical ravings were inappropriate for Nobel Prize consideration. He
had heard that committee member Allvar Gullstrand had privately told a
mathematician friend that “Einstein must never receive a Prize even if the
whole world demands it.” Surely, the announcement had been in error.
The awarding of a prize to Einstein was unacceptable, if only because it
cheapened his own distinction.
Although he must have realized that any attempt to reverse the deci-
sion was hopeless, Lenard nonetheless whipped off a four-page letter to
the Swedish Academy, datelined Heidelberg, January 23, 1923.
Highly esteemed sirs,

As a member of your academy and previous recipient of the Nobel
Prize, I believe I should communicate the following thoughts regard-
ing the awarding of the Nobel Prize to Mr. Einstein. It would seem a
mistake to me to remain silent toward you as the relevant center.
Experts in the field would consider this mistake to weigh even more
heavily as they know that this award had vividly occupied me for a
long time.
Lenard acknowledged that the Prize had rightly not been given for Ein-
stein’s well-known theories of gravitation or relativity but for “less con-
tentious thoughts.” He also conceded that Einstein’s law of the photoelec-
tric effect had been “at least partially verified.” Still, he continued,
I can, however, not appreciate the communication of thoughts without

empiric testing—of thoughts that could just as well be right or wrong,
of sheer hypotheses, as achievements of the natural sciences, even less
so as there was no discovery or progress whatsoever, for which this
prize originally had been meant . . . what could render these thoughts
valuable would be their diligent examination based on empirical test-
ing.
The last complaint ignored the work of Robert Millikan, cited by

Professor Arrhenius in his Nobel introduction of Einstein, which anyone
conversant in the field would find odd. Citing Einstein’s 1905 article in
Annalen der Physik, “On a Heuristic Point of View Concerning the Pro-
duction and Transformation of Light,” in which Einstein laid out his law,
Lenard wrote,
[E]xperts in the fields and persons acquainted with the historical facts
know that there is nothing new which is proven in this work and there
is nothing proven which is new, either. In fact, they know that there is
nothing new at all in it other than the assumption that the energy
quanta of Mr. Planck are not so much energy elements but rather light
quanta. . . . The hypothesis [of Einstein] is based on (1) Mr. Planck’s
observation of energy elements in 1901 . . . as well as (2) my own
work on the nature of the photoelectric effect performed in 1899-1902
and a unique property of this effect observed at that time . . . (3)
Stoke’s rule, which had been known for longer, and (4) my discovery
based on detailed studies of phosphorescence in 1904 that the induc-
tion of phosphorescence also constitutes a photoelectric effect.
Lenard concluded, “Mr. Einstein’s work does not contain more than a
summary of these previous works with a few hypothetical additions.”
Copying a page from his Nobel Lecture’s dismissal of Roentgen’s contri-
butions to the discovery of X-rays as trivial, Lenard noted that “with the
methods developed by myself, [Einstein] was able to demonstrate that
Planck’s energy quanta, in fact, play a role in the transformation of light
energy—which was to be expected, as these elements mean something in
reality . . . [Einstein’s 1905] publication of a specific hypothesis had been
unnecessary, as it had been clear from Planck’s work that the role of
energy elements had to follow this rule.”
Having presented his case, Lenard then asked the key rhetorical ques-
tions, ones that echoed his long-term gripes about theoretical physics
more generally: “Where is the scientific achievement in Mr. Einstein’s
publication? Is the uttering of thoughts that do not even need a mathemat-
ical work to create them, that create such dismal contradictions . . . really
a deed of science? Or does it become one by the superfluous addition of
mathematical equations?”
Lenard believed that he grasped the situation. The Nobel Prize given
Einstein for his law of the photoelectric effect was “nothing more than a
subterfuge that was taken to avoid too great a disgrace” by recognizing
his relativity theory. He closed with the following:
I deeply and utterly regret that the Swedish Academy and the Nobel
Committee have not summoned enough clear German spirit to evade a
fraud like this. My regret is all the deeper as the public attention that is
rightfully stirred by the granting of a Nobel Prize will lead to a further
acceptance of these fraudulent theories. To do my part against this, I
wish that my concerns be publicly known. May—after all the history
of science—this erroneous notion not be further nourished, that the
striving for human recognition and the lack of reverence for still undis-
covered truths be an indicator of scientific spirit.
To the Academy and the Committees
Yours faithfully,
P. Lenard
The press caught wind of Lenard’s letter. The conservative Swedish

newspaper, Nya Dagligt Allehande, gave vent to Lenard’s views, includ-
ing his charge that Einstein was nothing more than a “publicity-seeking
Jew.” The rival Svenska Dagbladet condemned the explicit racism and
ran an article on Lenard’s anti-Einstein connections to the 1920 Working
Society of German Scientists for the Preservation of Pure Science. In an
ironic turnaround, an article published in Svenska Dagbladet chided Len-
ard for his failure to use “clear Germanic intellect.”
Lenard’s indignation was to be expected. Despite a clamor from scien-
tists around the world, the traditionalists on the physics committee had
prevented Einstein from receiving a Nobel Prize for a dozen years. His
recognition for the law of the photoelectric effect came only after the
deaths of two conservative physics committee members and the appoint-
ment to the committee of a politically savvy new member who was much
more inclined toward—and knowledgeable about—the theoretical phys-
ics typified by Einstein’s work. The Academy’s resistance to Einstein
made it look silly in the eyes of both scientists and the general public.
Things had reached such a state that by the time Einstein received his
Nobel Prize, the Nobel assembly more needed Einstein’s acceptance of
the prize to salvage its leaky reputation than Einstein required the Acade-
my’s benediction of his work.
Einstein had first been nominated for the Nobel Prize for physics in
1910. However, the same battle that raged in Germany between the old
science of experimental physics and the new theoretical physics also
consumed the attentions of Swedish scientists. Three of the five members
of the Nobel physics committee were drawn from among the strongly
conservative, experimental physicists of Uppsala University, an ancient
and renowned seat of learning located in nearby Stockholm. Sometimes
referred to as the “Small Popes in Uppsala” for the power they wielded
and their certainty in their own views, Professors Per Gustaf David
Granqvist, Allvar Gullstrand, and Clas Bernhard Hasselberg, often with
the complicity of committee members Svante Arrhenius and Vilhelm
Carlheim-Gyllensköld, managed to quash any award to Albert Einstein.
During 1910–1922, the only Nobel Prizes awarded to theoretical physi-
cists were the 1914 award to Max von Laue for his work on X-ray
diffraction by crystals, and the 1918 award to Max Planck for quantum
theory.
Nominations for Einstein came as regularly as the ticking of the clock
in the Bern City Hall tower that had helped inspire his theory of relativity.
Except for 1911 and 1915, he received nominations every year between
1910, when only a single German nominator submitted his name, and
1922, when seventeen esteemed scientists from around the world nomi-
nated him for the prize. His combined total of sixty-three nominations for
1910–1922 was far more than any other candidate ever received.
However, Einstein’s candidacy presented several unique problems. An
initial hurdle was that some committee members held that the theory of
relativity was not actually physics at all, but that it fell into the realm of
the theory of knowledge, or epistemology. Another was the argument that
the theory of relativity had too little relevance to the real world of the
senses. His critics on the committee adopted Philipp Lenard’s argument
that the theory did not conform to common sense. It was unclear how
Einstein’s theories stacked up against the importance of other contenders’
work and whether, in accordance with Alfred Nobel’s will, Einstein’s
theories actually benefited mankind.
However, the main objection of relativity naysayers was that the theo-
ry of relativity had insufficient empirical support. Although the theory
had shown itself accurate in a small number of circumstances, it lacked
proof of more general applicability.
In 1910, when the physics committee considered seventeen nominees,
Einstein’s name was put forward for the first time by the winner of the
1909 Nobel Prize for Chemistry, Wilhelm Ostwald, to whom Einstein
had unsuccessfully applied for a job in 1905, when he had just received
his doctoral degree. He and Ostwald had recently become personally
acquainted during the granting of honorary degrees to both men in Gene-
va. Ostwald cited the far-reaching consequences of Einstein’s theory of
relativity as his rationale for nominating the young physicist, then only
thirty-one years of age. “With this new principle’s help,” the committee
acknowledged, “A number of previously difficult to understand phenom-
ena obtain a simple interpretation. . . . Einstein has pointed to a whole lot
of phenomena against which the principle may be tested. This is an indi-
cation of its radical significance.” However, in concluding that there was
insufficient empirical evidence to support Einstein’s theory, the commit-
tee decided that “it is justified to wait for the result of such tests in some
important cases before the principle is accepted and especially before it is
rewarded with a Nobel Prize.”
No nominations came for Einstein during 1911, when the Wuerzburg
physicist Wilhelm Wien won the Nobel for physics, but there were four in
1912, three in 1913, and two in 1914. In these years, the committee
routinely categorized nominations by their perceived type:
• New discoveries that help further understand or apply existing knowl-

edge;
• New explanations of phenomena that help the evolution of theories;
• New methods or instruments that have the potential to improve quanti-
tation;
• New measurements that helped to determine the accuracy of theories;
• New theories
Einstein’s nominations most often fell within the last of these categories,
which was terra incognita for the committee members. Like Lenard, the
committee members saw relativity as alien to the world of sensory experi-
ence and, therefore, more of an intellectual exercise than meaningful
science with practical applications. Because Alfred Nobel’s will explicit-
ly stated that the prize should be given for tangible benefits, Einstein had
an uphill climb from the outset. In fact, by the end of the committee’s
deliberations for 1914, it was clear that it would be some time before
Einstein would be seriously considered, if he would be at all. That year,
they had dismissed his accomplishments with a single frigid sentence:
“For the time being, there is no reason to take into account his candida-
cy.”
The war years of 1914–1918 did little to improve Einstein’s chances
for a Nobel Prize. In addition to the prejudices of the physics committee,
he now had to fight the Allies’ perceptions of German scientists. He
might be an atypical German, but in many eyes, he still was a German.
Einstein kept busy, putting the finishing touches on his theory of gen-
eral relativity and extending his considerations to gravitation. In 1915, he
conceived a series of lectures on relativity that he presented before the
Prussian Academy of Sciences during November. The lectures provided a
framework for him to organize his work and publish his new theory of
general relativity comprehensively in an extensive article in the March
1916 issue of Annalen der Physik. He quickly followed up that publica-
tion with a short book entitled Relativity—the Special and General Theo-
ry, designed to explain his ideas to an educated general audience in plain
language, with little math. Between 1915 and 1919, Einstein received
fifteen nominations. Given the strong anti-German bias of most Euro-
peans, these mostly originated from German scientists and physicists liv-
ing in neutral countries. Among those nominating Einstein in 1919, sur-
prisingly, was physics committee member Svante Arrhenius, the winner
of the 1903 Prize.
Following his completion and publication of the theory of general
relativity, Einstein published several articles intimating the cosmological
ramifications of his theories that included the predictions that eventually
secured his fame. There were three main cosmological events that Ein-
stein addressed. The first was a relativity-based explanation of the shift-
ing of the perihelion, or the closest point of Mercury’s orbit relative to the
sun. The Nobel committee acknowledged the workability of Einstein’s
solution but, in once again denying Einstein the Nobel Prize, their report
noted that, so far, there had been no validation of the correctness of the
other two proofs: Einstein’s prediction that the sun’s gravity would bend
the light of closely aligned stars, and his assertion that the sun’s gravity
would cause a small shift in the red spectrum of the sun relative to the
same part of the light spectrum on earth. The committee concluded,
“There are also hitherto unobserved phenomena that have been derived
from the theory [meaning the two predictions], and it seems obvious that
it must be of fundamental significance when ascribing a value to it [the
theory of relativity] whether or not the derived consequences agree with
reality.”
Thus, a prize for relativity was rejected in 1918, and again in 1919, at
least in part on the grounds of insufficient empirical data in support of his
theories. Ironically, when nominators proposed a prize for one or another
of his accomplishments other than relativity, the committee found a new
argument for why an award for anything other than relativity simply
wouldn’t do:
[It] would appear peculiar to the learned world if Einstein were to

receive the Prize precisely for the work just reviewed [meaning his
contributions to science other than relativity], regardless of its obvious
great value and utility for the development of science, and not for his
other major papers which much more than the ones at hand have
attracted the attention of those who have proposed him.
Even as scientific investigation chipped away at the objections to his

candidacy, like a celestial body in Einstein’s expanding universe, it
seemed that the Nobel Prize was receding ever farther from his grasp.
Soon, however, events in warmer locales would change the Nobel
equation. Early in November 1919, preliminary results of the British solar
eclipse expedition leaked to Einstein’s friends in Zurich. Another of Ein-
stein’s three key predictions was confirmed as accurate. The gravitational

field of the sun did indeed bend starlight as it passed closely by its
considerable mass. His friend, Edgar Meyer, sent Einstein a congratulato-
ry poem on the back of a postcard:
All doubt removed
Finally, it is found
That light bends naturally
To Einstein’s greater glory
In the event that the British results were upheld through their final analy-
sis, Einstein would have ticked off yet another necessary criterion of what
was proving to be a very demanding Nobel committee.
How things had arrived at this state was as much due to good fortune
as detailed planning. Einstein’s Dutch friend Willem de Sitter had passed
to Arthur Eddington at Cambridge the cosmological articles published by
Einstein during the war. Even before he was aware of Einstein’s celestial
predictions, Eddington had been considering an expedition to conduct
experiments during the May 29, 1919, total solar eclipse. The Einstein
papers increased his enthusiasm for the venture.
To improve his chances of success, Eddington planned on conducting
his work at two sites. Along with his assistant, E. T. Cottingham, he
traveled to Principe Island in the Bay of Guinea, off the coast of West
Africa. The other party was led by Andrew Crommelin and Charles Dav-
idson, who set up shop near Fortaleza, Brazil. Both locations would have
a few minutes when the eclipse was complete to photograph the position
of nearby stars in the darkened sky.
On November 6, 1919, in a joint meeting of the Royal Society of
London and the Royal Astronomical Society, the retired Cambridge pro-
fessor and Nobel laureate, J. J. Thompson, announced the salient result.
The photographic data obtained during the eclipse showed a deflection of
1.7 degrees in the position of relevant stars relative to where they were
positioned in the night sky when the sun was not adjacent to them. It was
exactly what Einstein had predicted and double the deflection expected
on the basis of classical Newtonian physics. The positive outcome was
run in the Times of London and then throughout the world. Einstein was
the new Newton! The new Copernicus! Surely, the press speculated, the
Nobel physics committee would see a way to vote Einstein a Nobel Prize.
Einstein’s new celebrity put him in something of a bind. One outcome
of World War I was the isolation of German scientists, who were not
welcome at meetings held elsewhere in Europe, a situation that did not
begin to officially change until 1926. Einstein, however, was treated dif-
ferently. Perhaps because he had spurned German nationalism, he became
a favored nominee for the physics prize even for scientists from such
countries as France, England, and the United States. In Germany, howev-
er, he became a lightning rod for right-wing extremists, who regarded his
wartime behavior as un-German. This was the period that gave rise to
Weyland’s Working Group for the Preservation of Pure Science and its
anti-relativity lecture series, the attacks of Ernst Gehrcke, and Lenard’s
radicalization. Communist factions, on the other hand, viewed Einstein’s
ideas of non-absolute time and relativistic motion as degenerate Western
idealism, inappropriate for the reigning Soviet dialectic.
Einstein’s international fame translated into more travel and more lec-
tures, which he undertook not only as a scientist but also as an emissary
of pacifism. During 1921, Einstein made his first trip to the United States
in the company of Chaim Weitzmann, who had arranged a lecture tour to
raise money for a Jewish university in Palestine. In New York, Einstein
was feted with a ticker tape parade. He received the Barnard Medal for
Meritorious Service to Science from the National Academy of Sciences
and Columbia University. Americans loved the quirky European, and he
lectured before huge crowds. At one particularly overcrowded event at
Princeton University, Einstein is said to have turned to his host and mar-
veled, “I never realized that so many Americans were interested in tensor
analysis.”
Einstein’s participation in the Zionist-sponsored lecture tour con-
flicted with his ethos of anti-nationalism. However, Einstein was con-
vinced of the rightness of his participation by Europe’s increasingly viru-
lent anti-Semitism and his burgeoning consciousness of his own ethnic
heritage. Einstein, who, to this point in time had described himself as “the
child of Jewish parents” and shown little affinity for any form of relig-
ion—he who had vocally eschewed nationalism—became a Zionist. All

of this made him much more a man of the world than a man of Germany.
A beleaguered postwar Germany took notice. He became a prominent
target for reactionary critics, who referred to Einstein as “un-German” or
“internationalist,” a code word meant to brand Einstein with communist
leanings.
Einstein received eight Nobel nominations in 1920, fourteen in 1921.
Despite continuing hard feelings over the war, many of the nominations
came from countries that had been Germany’s enemies. The large number
of nominations reflected the general excitement over Eddington’s find-
ings. In his 1921 nomination, Eddington called Einstein’s theory of gen-
eral relativity “one of the greatest landmarks in the history of scientific
thought.” His theory provided the first fresh insights on gravitation since
Newton, conjoined into a single theory an explanation for the workings of
numerous important natural phenomena, reconciled science and philoso-
phy, and enabled further development by other scientists.
In light of the Eddington results, the Nobel physics committee charged
Svante Arrhenius with drafting a special report on Einstein and relativity
in 1920 and Allvar Gullstrand with drafting one in 1921. Neither man had
the background or worldview to understand the mathematics of Einstein’s
theories and the ramifications of his vision. As a result, both reports
clearly favored the views of the experimentalists in expressing skepticism
about particulars of Einstein’s theories. Arrhenius swallowed whole
Gehrcke’s charges of plagiarism regarding Einstein’s explanation of the
shift in the perihelion of Mercury. He seized upon uncertainties in Ed-
dington’s measurements.
If possible, Gullstrand was even harder on Einstein than Arrhenius.
His evaluation determined that relativity theory “has the character of an
article of faith rather than a scientific hypothesis. . . . The effects [pre-
dicted by relativity theory] are so small that they lay under the margin of
observational error.” He dismissed Einstein’s explanation of the perihe-
lion of Mercury as circular reasoning. He leapt upon irregularities in
Eddington’s processes and data, declaring the work completely unreli-
able.
Chief among the Small Popes, Gullstrand was the individual who most
firmly stood between Einstein and a Nobel Prize, though other committee
members were also resistant. Hasselberg, who had taken ill during the
1921 proceedings, concurred with Gullstrand in saying, “It is highly im-
probable that Nobel considered speculations such as these [meaning the
theory of relativity] to be the object of his prizes.”
If not for the deaths of two of the Small Popes, it is unlikely that
anything would have changed. The demise of Hasselberg and Granqvist
paved the way for the appointment of Carl Wilhelm Oseen, first as a
temporary consulting committee member and later as a permanent mem-
ber. Oseen was a mathematician and theoretical physicist whose principle
interest was hydrodynamics. A member of the faculty at Uppsala, his
worldview was nonetheless contrary to the pre-relativistic experimental-
ism of the other Uppsala professors on the committee. Gullstrand had
frequently sought Oseen’s advice while working on his 1921 evaluation
of Einstein, but each time Oseen allayed one of Gullstrand’s concerns, the
elder scientist seized upon another. In the end, Gullstrand’s report echoed
the chief concern expressed by Philipp Lenard: Einstein’s theories were
abstractions, ungrounded in reality. On that basis, the theory of relativity
was belief, not science.
Oseen’s election to the Swedish Academy of Sciences and his subse-
quent appointment to the Nobel physics committee changed everything.
He was a new and demanding force. Oseen had nominated Einstein for
the prize in 1920 and 1921. Seeing that a prize for relativity was impos-
sible, he struck upon the idea of proposing an award for Einstein’s dis-
covery of the law of the photoelectric effect. Now a member of the
physics committee, Oseen managed in the November 1921 committee
meeting to fight off a comment in the Arrhenius evaluation that it would
seem odd to ignore Einstein’s theory of relativity by awarding him a prize
for lesser known work. Oseen forced a stalemate in the discussion; the
committee recommended that the 1921 prize be reserved for future deter-
mination. Although the full Nobel assembly upheld this result, a number
of voices raised the issue of Einstein. When would the committee get
around to nominating the most popular scientist of this, or perhaps any,

era?
Seventeen nominators supported Einstein in the committee’s Novem-
ber 1922 deliberations. Although most of the nominations were for rela-
tivity theory, there was a fair sampling of letters backing Einstein’s work
on Brownian motion and the photoelectric effect. Oseen wrote an in-
depth report citing why he felt Einstein’s law of the photoelectric effect
was a significant enough contribution to warrant a Nobel Prize. In his
report, he linked Einstein’s law to Niels Bohr’s atomic model. Oseen was
a close friend of the young Dane. He admired Bohr’s model of electrons
whizzing at different energy levels around a central nucleus, calling it
“the most beautiful of all the beautiful” concepts in contemporary theo-
retical physics. Oseen showed how Einstein’s law underpinned under-
standing of Bohr’s model and how drawing both together sustained
Planck’s quantum theory, which previously had stood apart in physics.
Toward the end of his report, Oseen summarized his argument for Ein-
stein:
Einstein, with his daring law, had hit the nail on the head. . . . Almost
all confirmation of Bohr’s theory, and with it, all spectroscopic confir-
mations, are at the same time confirmations of Einstein’s law. . . . The
Einsteinian proposition and Bohr’s contentwise identical frequency
conditions are currently one of the most certain laws that obtain in
physics. . . . The greatest significance, and equally the most convincing
confirmation Einstein’s proposition has received is by virtue of it be-
ing one of the prerequisite conditions on which Bohr built his atomic
theory. Almost all confirmations of Bohr’s atomic theory are equally
confirmations of Einstein’s proposition. . . . The discovery of Ein-
stein’s law is without any doubt one of the most significant events in
the history of physics.
Finally, at the very end, so there would be no doubt where he stood,

Oseen gilded the lily. “Its discovery to me appears to fully deserve a
Nobel Prize in physics.”
Oseen’s mastery of mathematics and theoretical physics silenced Gull-
strand, who most vigorously opposed Einstein receiving the prize. Ar-
rhenius was won over by the idea that choosing Einstein might not only
address the public mockery of the Academy but also aid the process of
renewing international scientific relations. Oseen capitalized on the situa-
tion by proposing that the committee support Einstein for the reserved
1921 Prize and Bohr for 1922.
Gullstrand’s consolation was the 1923 Prize for the experimentalist
Robert Millikan, whose exhaustive investigations had proven the accura-
cy of Einstein’s law. Admonishing the Lenard-led reactionaries who per-
sisted in their senseless attacks on theoretical physics, Millikan acknowl-
edged the reciprocal debt that theory and experiment owed, each to the
other:
The fact [is] that science walks forward on two feet, namely theory and
experiment. . . . Sometimes it is one foot that is put forward first,
sometimes the other, but continuous progress is only made by the use
of both—by theorizing and then testing, or by finding new relations in
the process of experimenting and then bringing the theoretical foot up
and pushing it on beyond, and so on in unending alterations.
The physics committee’s nomination of Einstein to the Nobel assem-

bly was a welcome one, allaying, as it did, broader concerns about what
effect the failure to recognize Einstein with a Nobel Prize was having on
the reputation of the award. The announcement of Einstein’s award was
well received in many quarters. Worldwide, Einstein was a popular figure
whose frequent appearances on the international lecture circuit were help-
ing normalize scientific relationships among the countries that had op-
posed Germany in the Great War.
Lenard seethed, as did other reactionaries who promoted the notion
that, despite his birth in Ulm, Einstein was not truly German. Paul Wey-
land, the demagogue who had conspired with Lenard and others to bring
down Einstein at the Berlin Philharmonic lectures two years previously,
traveled to Sweden just prior to Einstein’s Nobel Lecture in an unsuccess-
ful effort to mobilize dissent.
The machinations of the Nobel physics committee lay in the past that
warm day in Gothenburg in 1923 when, before an engaged audience,
Einstein launched into his Nobel Lecture. It was a day that bore witness
to the accomplishments of a unique life. There would be many such days
during the next ten years. Yet all the while, the potential for trouble was
mounting. Back home in Berlin, a backlash was brewing against Ein-
stein’s activities during the war, his opposition to German nationalism,
and his support of the Weimar government. Germany was experiencing a
rise in reactionary fervor. At the root of it all were the Nazi Party and its
“Fuehrer,” Adolf Hitler. The Lenards and Weylands, the Goebbels, the
Speers, and the Himmlers would soon have their day. Fingers were being
pointed. Einstein would not escape their notice.
9
DANGEROUS CHOICES
At 8:30 on the evening of November 8, 1923, a pistol shot rang out in

Munich’s Buegerbrauekeller beer hall, followed closely by a shout of
“Silence!” The overflow crowd of more than three thousand anxiously
complied. They had been listening to Commissioner Gustav von Kahr,
the chief official representing Germany’s Weimar government in Bavar-
ia. He had been in the midst of outlining his plans to implement his newly
conferred state-of-emergency powers to quell the violent civil unrest
plaguing the city. As Kahr stepped away from the podium, the throng
turned as one to the source of the interruption. Backed by six hundred
armed SA storm troopers filing into the main hall, Adolf Hitler, Erich
Ludendorff, and Hermann Goering pushed their way through the throng.
“The national revolution has begun,” Hitler announced. “No one may
leave the hall. . . . The Bavarian and Reich governments have been
replaced and a provisional national government has been formed. The
barracks of the Reichswehr [the army] and police are occupied. The army
and the police are marching on the city under the Swastika banner.”
None of this was true, but the stunned crowd was in no position to
doubt or to argue. Hitler spirited von Kahr and two of his lieutenants,
Lieutenant General Otto Herrmann von Lossow and Police Chief Hans
Ritter von Seisser, into a back room, where he threatened the men with
his pistol in an effort to get them to agree to join his revolution. When the
Weimar officials declined, as a compromise, Hitler accepted their oath
109
that the three men would not actively oppose the NSDAP. Immediately
following their release, they all reneged.
Hitler then returned to the main hall. Giving the impression that von
Kahr had agreed to switch sides, he announced, “The [Weimar] govern-
ment of the November criminals and the Reich President are declared to
be removed. A new national government will be named this very day in
Munich. A new German National Army will be formed immediately. . . .
The task of the provisional German National Government is to organize
the march on that sinful Babel, Berlin, and save the German people!
Tomorrow will find either a National Government in Germany or us
dead!”
In fact, neither event occurred. The ensuing comedy of errors, reminis-
cent of a Keystone Cops film, ended ignominiously. During an effort to
take over the Bavarian Defense Ministry the following morning, Hitler’s
attempt to oust the government and name himself “Fuehrer” failed. Goer-
ing was shot in the groin. Hitler suffered a dislocated shoulder when the
man with whom he had linked arms in solidarity dropped to the ground
and pulled Hitler down with him. Hitler’s life was saved by his body-
guard, who threw himself upon Germany’s future leader and absorbed
several fatal bullets. In all, sixteen Putschists, four police officers, and a
bystander were killed during the brief revolt.
Afterward, the Nazis scattered. Some of the leaders of the Putsch were
arrested, while others, including Rudolf Hess, Hermann Goering, and
Ernst Hanfstaengl, escaped to Austria. Hitler hid in the attic of Hanf-
staengl’s country house on the Staffelsee for two nights before being
arrested the morning of the third day following the debacle. Hitler blamed
the failure of the Putsch on von Kahr, and while he was in no position to
retaliate then, he certainly did not forget. Eleven years later, on June 30,
1934—the “Night of the Long Knives”—the Nazis eliminated their polit-
ical competition, and Hitler settled his score with von Kahr. Two SS
officers arrested von Kahr in his Munich apartment. They severely
abused and beat him on his way to the concentration camp in Dachau,
where, on the order of the camp commandant, Theodor Eicke, he was
shot to death.
DAN GE ROU S C H OI CE S 111
Following Hitler’s arrest, he spent a fretful night in jail, certain he

would be summarily executed before daybreak. His spirits improved
when he was told he would receive a public trial in the People’s Court.
He would use the opportunity—and this stage—to good advantage. By
turning the proceedings into an indictment of the Weimar government, he
secured a notorious living martyrdom that would serve him well when he
sought to revive his political career. Politically sympathetic judges gave
him a sentence of five years of imprisonment in Landsberg Fortress—the
least onerous among the possible punishments for high treason. The court
later commuted his sentence after he had served just nine months with the
proviso that he refrain from speechmaking for at least several years.
During his time in prison, Hitler wrote his autobiography, Mein Kampf, a
rambling anti-Semitic, anti-Marxist diatribe that detailed his strategy for
the ascent of the Nazis to ultimate political power.
For Philipp Lenard, Hitler’s beer hall Putsch was galvanizing. He felt
impelled to express his boundless admiration for the man who he be-
lieved had sacrificed so much for the cause of the German people. In his
1924 publication, “The Hitler Spirit and Science,” Lenard managed to
combine his hero worship for Hitler with his antipathy for the Jewish
physicists who had come to dominate German science. Written with Jo-
hannes Stark, the article was formatted as an open letter to Germany’s
newspapers and received wide distribution. Comparing Hitler’s integrity
and dedication to the great scientists of the past, the authors wrote,
That spirit of total clarity, of honesty towards the outer world and at
the same time inner uniformity, that spirit which hates any compromis-
ing activity because it is insincere. But we have already recognized . . .
this spirit in the great scientists of the past: in Galileo, Kepler, Newton,
and Faraday. We admire and revere it in the same way also in Hitler,
Ludendorff, Poehner (the leaders of the Munich revolt) and their com-
rades. . . . Consider what it means to be privileged to have this kind of
genius living among us in the flesh. . . . Experience reveals that the
incarnations of this spirit are only of Aryan-German blood. . . . But it is
also much better that the “man of the people” is doing it. He is here.
He has revealed himself as the Fuehrer of the sincere. We shall follow

him.
The publication of “The Hitler Spirit and Science” was a watershed in

Lenard’s public expression of explicit anti-Semitic views. Lenard had, for
the most part, kept his peace in reacting to Einstein’s response to the
lectures at the Berlin Philharmonic and at the Einsteindebatte at Bad
Nauheim. Even for several years thereafter, Lenard had been cautious
about openly engaging in anti-Semitic remarks. However, with the de-
cline in his financial circumstances and embittered by the death of his son
from kidney failure, Lenard assumed a more aggressive stance against
Jewish involvement in German science. Comparing the existential Jewish
threat to the essential German-Aryan character with the terminal events
of the Greek and Roman civilizations, Lenard and Stark went on to warn
their readers,
But blood can also die out. . . . The exact same force is at work, always
with the same Asian people behind it that brought Christ to the cross,
Jordanus Brunus to the stake, and that shoots at Hitler and Ludendorff
with machine guns and confines them within fortress walls. It is the
fight of the dark spirits against the torchbearers. . . . Universities and
their students have failed most of all precisely in those subjects for
which they should have set the pace long ago.
Lenard’s devolution toward open anti-Semitism advanced dramatical-

ly in response to two related incidents that occurred in June 1922. On
June 24, a car pulled up to the vehicle carrying the German foreign
minister, Walther Rathenau, and men opened fire, killing the car’s occu-
pants. The Weimar leadership ordered German flags to be flown at half-
mast on June 27 and declared a national holiday of mourning. Lenard
refused to obey the government edict. Rathenau was a liberal, a Jew, and
a friend of Einstein, as well as a member of the despised Weimar govern-
ment. The German flag atop the Heidelberg Institute of Physics flew
proudly at full salute.
What happened next is a matter of perspective. Lodging a grievance
with Lenard, a group of students from the university’s socialist league
and a number of the Institute’s workers sought to discuss with Lenard

what they viewed as his dishonoring of one of their heroes. Lenard’s
refusal to enter into a discourse with the group led to what Lenard later
referred to as “the dangerous raid.” There are several versions of what
transpired; however, all accounts agree that Lenard suffered considerable
psychic trauma. The June 30, 1922, edition of Neue Zurcher Zeitung
offered the following lighthearted account of a dangerous situation that
could easily have become violent:
Most amusing was the scene that caused both terror and laughter for
the people of Heidelberg. Professor Lenard [is] one of the finest physi-
cists of Germany, famous for his political squibs that he distributes
among his most excellent colleagues. Born as a Hungarian (many say
as a Jew), he is all the more a German nationalist. . . . A deployment of
workers came across the New Bridge [of Heidelberg University]
around 6 PM. They noticed what they had already expected [that the
flag was not at half mast and that physics seminars had not been
canceled]. At the same time, the Free Union of Students complained to
the Rector of the University. . . . Four policemen climbed the stairs to
request [compliance with the Ministry of Culture recommendations,
but Lenard] shut the door in their face.
Then, the workers united [in front of the institute] and intended to
use force. At the same time, nationalist students [in support of Lenard]
aimed four water cannons at the crowd from above, and—unfortunate-
ly—large rocks also were thrown, which had obviously had been pre-
pared beforehand. Only now did the workers seize the laboratory. The
female students took flight. The men grabbed the professor and forced
the police to lead him in a jeering deployment across the bridge to the
student union house.
A large crowd formed and debated the issues. The district attorney
arrived and tried to deescalate the situation. . . . After an hour, a police
officer announced from the balcony that the professor would be taken
into custody for his own protection. . . . “There will be a car in a
moment. . . .” The crowd objected. There were cries of “He shall walk!
We also need to walk to the jail! No car!” [An ombudsman announced]
“The man will walk, but you shall do nothing to him. I have vouched
my life for this!” [There was] thundering laughter. After a while an

alleyway formed through the crowd. . . . [One could see] the plaintive-
ness of this stumbling man in more detail, how he was brought to
safety trembling. All held true to their promise: . . . the police did
everything to keep the peace; the workers were full of discipline.
When their prisoner walked through the crowd, they laughed.
Resentful of his treatment at the hands of the mob and chastened by

near death, he immersed himself in the speeches of Adolf Hitler and the
writings of Houston Stewart Chamberlain exalting the Aryan race. Len-
ard was fully radicalized. He expressed his new worldview in a 1922
address at the University of Heidelberg, wherein he likened the activities
of the Weimar government to the superstitious practices of the Middle
Ages:
What is not consistent with reality can never affect people other than
negatively. We should not be fooled to think that back then was the
dark Middle Ages and now we live in enlightened, bright modern
times. Today it is exactly as dark and dangerous, in fact darker and
more dangerous, to announce a new knowledge and again precisely
that knowledge, which is most important for men to know, as this
knowledge provides the highest enlightenment in regard to the things
around us and how these affect us. Today there are other powers,
which prevent us from saying what is good for men and what not;
however, it is exactly as dark as at the time of the witch trials or witch
belief. Or is it more reasonable than witch processes, if you govern a
people from a perspective, that this people bears the guilt for a war,
which it has not caused? That is even darker than any witch belief;
thus, there is no great difference between those times and today.
Professionally, Lenard became further entrenched in the science of the

past. In his opposition to theoretical physics, he gave no quarter to any
aspect of relativity. He gave no more credence to special relativity, the
tenets of which he formerly had accepted, than he did general relativity.
All that was needed was a proper venue for him to publicly express his
philosophy. A perfectly suitable one was fast approaching. He began his
preparations for the hundredth anniversary meeting of the same Society

of German Scientists and Physicians that had met in Bad Nauheim two
years earlier. The upcoming conference was scheduled for Leipzig in the
fall of 1922. The meeting was an especially important one because Ger-
man scientists were still not welcomed at conferences elsewhere in Eu-
rope and some were actively dissuaded from attending.
Still hoping to sway his colleagues away from Einstein’s theories,
Lenard reconsidered his thoughts on ether, setting down his views in his
1922 edition of Ether and Urether. He proposed the existence of two
ethers, both derived from previous models, to explain the observed physi-
cal phenomena. In this construct, every atom had its own ether, the
amount of which varied according to the state of the atom. Lenard re-
ferred to this ether as “the ether of matter,” because each particle of
matter could emit or absorb portions of its surrounding ether. The other
ether, which Lenard termed “the urether,” he considered “the ether of
space.” The urether was the medium that facilitated the passage of
electromagnetic radiation at the speed of light, free of the burden of
matter.
In the introduction to this revised edition of Ether and Urether, enti-
tled “Exhortation to German Naturalists,” Lenard revisited a gripe he had
leveled at Einstein in the past. He claimed that Einstein’s false promotion
of his unproven theories was indicative of his poor character, and he
charged the Society of German Scientists and Physicians with complicity.
“It makes a difference,” he wrote, “whether mischief carries on only in
the newspapers, or whether the Society, from which one expects a clear,
elegantly balanced opinion, participated in this nonsense. . . . Much more
disastrous still . . . [is] the concealed conceptual confusion which floats
about Einstein as a ‘German’ scientist.”
In a remarkable demonstration of psychological projection, Lenard
continued,
It is a well-known Jewish feature to quite immediately bring factual

matters into the realm of personal disputes. . . .” The healthy German
spirit . . . must deflect from itself the foreign spirit [of Judaism] which
arises as a dark power everywhere and which is so clearly designated
in everything that belongs to the theory of relativity. We live in no less

a dark age than the Inquisition. . . . I want the German naturalists to
make clearer sense, proving their worth to me by bringing the enlight-
enment to break the power of the dark spirit everywhere possible.
In this regard, Lenard was perpetually disappointed. Not only did his
colleagues ignore the looming threat but also they objected strongly to his
racial references. Years later, he wrote in the margins of the introduction
to his copy of Ether and Urether, “The German naturalists of that time,
indeed all of the university professors, were not of assistance. Only Adolf
Hitler gave a basis eleven years later for breaking the power of the dark
spirit even in science through his Third Reich.”
Leading up to the conference, Lenard and others attempted to provide
experimental proof of ether, with its new duality, but their efforts were in
vain. Regardless, Lenard was not dissuaded. His Heidelberg speech fore-
shadowed the arguments he planned for Einstein at Leipzig:
Now, Einstein says: I assume, that ether does not exist at all. If we
don’t wish to see ether, space and heaven must be empty. Nothing
should be between heaven and earth, only sordid matter, nothing else
for natural scientists to encounter. This is assumed by the very same
man [Einstein]. I have to present him here as a whole, because I con-
sider it not right that one can and should distinguish between the man
and the researcher, as both are coming from the same depth.
Lenard’s tone here is mocking. How is it even remotely possible that

the universe could operate in the absence of at least one ether? Ridicu-
lous, but especially so coming from a man who lives on the edge of
sedition.
Thus I talk of this Mr. Einstein, who brings us [his concern for] East-
ern Jews in the tens of thousands . . . while the same man, who has a
very special relationship with those people who had been recognized
in war times as traitors of the patrimony and who had been thrown out
of the country or had been hanged. So, with this man the spaces of the
sky are empty.
In the same presentation, Lenard reestablished one of his earlier objec-

tions to Einstein’s theories:
I am a friend of simple thinking, which has led to the greatest success-

es of natural scientists at all times. From the most simple thoughts
have always arisen the greatest successes, in the most varied areas. Has
Bismarck’s thinking been any different from simple? . . . The simple
mind is a great German characteristic.
Thus, as he had asserted two years earlier at Bad Nauheim, the theory
of relativity had an “exaggerated nature.” It failed the test of common
sense. It was nothing more than a “hypothesis heap.”
Lenard expected to confront Einstein directly at Leipzig, as he had at
Bad Nauheim during the 1920 conference. In this, he was disappointed.
Einstein had been scheduled to present his latest considerations on rela-
tivity, but anxious colleagues convinced him to withdraw. The spread of
open anti-Semitism among elements of the gathering, the threat that Len-
ard might be distributing his anti-relativity pamphlets, and that Einstein’s
name had recently begun to appear on “death lists” offering a bounty for
his assassination all spoke to the wisdom of canceling. It was too bad, in a
way. Had he been there, he would have had the satisfaction of seeing
Lenard’s consternation upon the announcement of Einstein having been
selected to receive the 1921 Nobel Prize, which the Nobel Academy had
reserved from the previous year. Instead, Einstein was on a steamship
making its way toward a lecture tour he had hastily arranged in Japan.
For Lenard, Einstein’s Nobel Prize was the final straw. Sixty years of
age, seemingly outmaneuvered by Einstein at every turn, and feeling
increasingly isolated, with his most creative years as a scientist behind
him and his colleagues deserting experimental physics for the empty
promise of relativity, there was nothing for him to do but to support the
National Socialist German Workers Party. Nazi rhetoric promised a new
world order, one that would not tolerate the dark ravings of the relativity
Jew.
Following the Leipzig conference, Lenard mostly stepped away from
serious science, dedicating himself to reactionary politics. He further per-
sonalized his anti-Jewish fervor. Einstein was the living personification

of the depraved Jewish spirit that had insinuated itself into German sci-
ence. At his Heidelberg presentation in the spring of 1922, Lenard had
declaimed, “At the end I want to tell you that I hope that you will not
think of me as an adversary of Einstein, as sometimes is stated. I am far
from it, as this would be much too little. It would be too low a goal.”
What Lenard wished for was not simply the defeat of his old foe but
the complete erasure of Einstein’s ideas, writings, and pronouncements—
a blank slate, as though Einstein had never been born.
10
LENARD AND HITLER
On the afternoon of March 23, 1933, less than two months after Presi-
dent Paul von Hindenberg had appointed him Chancellor of the Weimar
Republic, Adolf Hitler sat amid the members of Germany’s parliament,
the Reichstag. He appeared to listen thoughtfully as the Social Democrat
leader Otto Wel implored the Reichstag to vote down the Enabling Act
proposed by Hitler’s right-wing coalition.
Hitler realized that being in this place, at this time, put him on the cusp
of a historic moment. He had begun his political ascent as the head of
propaganda of the ultra-nationalist German Workers Party. In 1920, he
assumed leadership and renamed the organization the National Socialist
German Workers Party. For much of the next decade, the party’s fortunes
rose and fell inversely with the economy. But as the icy grip of the
worldwide depression took hold in 1929, and unemployment became
epidemic, the Nazis’ scapegoating of socialists, communists, and Jews for
the general misery gained currency among the populace. Party member-
ship soared.
Despite his apparent calm, Hitler’s brain was racing ahead to when he
would take the podium. He had thoroughly prepared himself for what he
expected would be the defining speech of his political career. In effect,
the passage of the Enabling Act would give Chancellor Hitler and his
cabinet absolute dictatorial powers to pass decrees without Reichstag
approval or the meddling of the aged president.
119
Wel finished with an impassioned plea for German honor. German

honor! If only the Social Democrats had thought about German honor
during the past fifteen years of kowtowing to the crippling demands of
the armistice. If only they had rejected the myth foisted upon the public
that Germany had been responsible for the Great War. They’d had their
day, one that had lasted far too long. The time was ripe for revolution.
Hitler was confident that he had just listened to the last embarrassingly
mewling Reichstag speech he would ever have to hear.
When the crowd quieted, Hitler rose and made his way to the podium.
Attired in a dark khaki combat uniform, a white armband bearing the
Nazi swastika prominently encircling his left arm, he paused for a mo-
ment to collect his thoughts. Germany’s parliament had assembled that
day in the main chamber of Berlin’s Kroll Opera House, because a month
earlier the Reichstag building had mysteriously burned to the ground. It
had clearly been arson, but the persons who set the fire remained at large.
For the Nazis, the crime had been a godsend. The razing of the Reichstag
had provided Chancellor Hitler with a pretext for his subsequent actions.
Characterizing the fire as a communist plot, Hitler declared emergency
powers, suspending individual rights in the name of public safety. To
many, it all seemed too neat, as though it had been the Nazis who actually
had ignited the blaze.
With new elections scheduled for March 5, Hitler unleashed his SA
storm troopers into the streets to disrupt the activities of competing politi-
cal factions. The brief campaign was among the most brutal in history.
Nationalist reactionary factions, communists, and centrists battled openly
in the streets while police looked the other way. Despite the rampant
violence and unprecedented voter intimidation, the elections left the Na-
zis and their coalition of like-minded parties just short of a clear majority.
Hitler was not concerned about the electoral shortfall. He had
thoroughly prepared for this moment. Nothing had been left to chance.
Surveying the members of the Reichstag who were present that afternoon,
he felt good about the Enabling Act’s chances for success. There was
more than the usual number of empty seats. His storm troopers, who now
surrounded the Opera to ensure there would be no interruptions, had
LE N ARD AN D H I T LE R 121
rounded up the worker-backed communist members and many of the

more outspoken Social Democrats. Many of these individuals would soon
become guests of the Reich. They were destined to experience the grim
hospitality of the newly built Dachau concentration camp. It would be the
first of a number of such facilities intended to silence Nazi opposition.
Starting slowly and calmly, Hitler began his address:
Ladies and Gentlemen of the German Reichstag! By agreement with

the Reich Government, today the National Socialist German Workers
Party and the German National Peoples Party have presented to you
for resolution a notice of motion concerning a “Law for Removing the
Distress of Volk and Reich (the Enabling Act).” The reasons for this
extraordinary measure are as follows: In November 1918, the Marxist
organizations seized the executive power by means of a Revolution.
Thus a breach of the Constitution was committed. . . . They sought
moral justification by asserting that Germany or its government bore
the guilt for the outbreak of the War.
His voice grew stronger and more emphatic as he denied Germany’s

culpability for the Great War. He reeled off the crimes of the Weimar
government, which he noted had caused “the severest oppression of the
entire German Volk.” Spittle flew from his lips. His hands ticked off the
reasons why the Reichstag must pass the Enabling Act, among them the
mistreatment of ethnically German peoples living beyond Germany’s ar-
mistice-constricted borders and the impact of the egregious reparations
demanded by the Allies as part of the Treaty of Versailles. Near the end,
Hitler got to his “ask”:
It would be inconsistent with the aim of the [Nazi-led] national upris-

ing, and it would fail to suffice for the intended goal if the Government
were to negotiate with and request the approval of the Reichstag for its
measures in each given case.
The Reich Government views a further session of the Reichstag as
an impossibility under the present condition of a far-reaching state of
excitation in the nation.
The outcome was never in doubt. The Reichstag, in essence, voted to

relinquish authority and disband itself by the count of 491 to 94 in favor
of the Enabling Act. The act, followed by the death of Hindenberg the
next year, left Hitler with a clear path to cementing his victory by doing
away with those he saw as his enemies, primarily Jews and communists.
By the end of 1933, thirty thousand German citizens would be in govern-
ment custody for “political crimes.”
Hitler’s ascent to Fuehrer of the Third Reich provided Philipp Lenard
entrée into the most powerful halls of government. The Nazi party recog-
nized Lenard to be an “Old Fighter,” among those who had joined the
party prior to Hitler assuming power. Lenard’s speeches and writings
evidenced his adoption of a reactionary philosophy that drove him toward
the Nazi party as early as 1922. Beginning around that time, he’d begun
to establish friendly personal relationships with a number of party lead-
ers, including Hitler himself. Over the next several years, he became a
familiar of Goebbels, Hess, and others among the Nazi leadership. Hitler
wrote Lenard several very deferential personal letters, courting Lenard’s
involvement in party activities. On October 23, 1926, Hitler wrote,
Highly esteemed professor!

Your amiable letter reached me late as I was away from Munich.
Thank you very much indeed. On October 2nd or 3rd I was unable to
be in Karlsruhe, because the government of Baden prevented me from
participating in any form [as part of the deal that released Hitler from
serving his full sentence in prison]. I do sincerely hope that a conversa-
tion may be possible at another opportunity.
Hitler concluded the letter “With German Greetings,” which Lenard

would certainly have recognized as a point of collegiality based on racial
distinction.
After a 1927 donation of 100 marks, Lenard received a letter from
Hitler, who was “grateful [for the] donation for the family of the killed in
action Hirschmann and for the wounded. I want to thank you in their
name as well as in the name of the movement.” Hitler’s reference to
Georg Hirschmann confirms Lenard’s sympathies with and perhaps, by
that time, membership in the party. Hirschmann was a shoemaker and a

member of the Munich SA. He had led a group of fellow brown shirts in
attacking a small street gathering of a rival political faction and had been
clubbed in the head by a teenager named Karl Schott. He died the follow-
ing day. At Hirschmann’s funeral, Hitler martyred the dead man as the
fifth Nazi to die in action in 1927. He then employed the “us versus
them” tactic that would become a staple of his popular speeches, promis-
ing that the political violence against the Nazi movement ensured Hirsch-
mann’s would not be the last death they would mourn. To be a Nazi was
to be oppressed but in the right. Despite the danger, the party would fight
on.
By the time Hitler wrote Lenard in April 1929, he had become very
direct in his efforts to recruit Lenard to the cause. “Much to my regret, I
have heard that you visited the office and did not meet me,” Hitler wrote.
“I would be delighted to welcome you personally another time, soon.
Maybe it would be possible for you to come to Nuremberg for the party
convention.”
What Hitler saw in Lenard were several qualities that he must have
coveted. Despite the fact that his National Socialist German Workers
Party had grown enormously in popular support since he had joined the
party in 1920, it was still viewed by many potential voters as too extreme.
Hitler would have perceived Lenard’s reputation as a Nobel
Prize–winning scientist as attractive in improving the Nazis’ image and
helping to convert more moderate Germans to his cause. Moreover, Hitler
recognized in Lenard’s feud with Einstein evidence that Lenard was a
true believer. They saw eye-to-eye on the dangers of Jewish encroach-
ment into German culture.
Finally, it wasn’t just Lenard whom Hitler was recruiting. Along with
Lenard came Einstein. Very early in his political development, Hitler hit
upon the Jews as a scapegoat for what ailed the German people. Howev-
er, he recognized he had a problem. It was hard to demonize an entire
race in the abstract. He needed concrete examples. The liberal, interna-
tionalist, and, most importantly, Jewish Einstein was exactly the right
whipping boy to further his party’s popularity among an increasingly

angry and xenophobic German electorate.
Lenard was sixty-one years old in 1933, when Hitler consolidated his
power. Despite his age, he had lost little of his passion for his concerns
about the threat to German culture posed by Einstein and the Jewish
spirit. Nonetheless, he recognized that time would eventually slow him
down. He increasingly involved his younger acolyte, Johannes Stark, in
collaborations designed to achieve his ends. Lenard and Stark were well
matched. If it were possible, Stark held even more extreme reactionary
scientific and anti-Semitic views.
Born in a remote part of Bavaria to well-to-do parents, Stark was an
academic wunderkind, achieving his doctoral degree at age twenty-three
from the University of Munich. After six years as an assistant at Goetting-
en and a brief stint at the University of Hanover, he was appointed profes-
sor at the University of Aachen in 1909. At this time, he was considered,
along with Einstein, to be a leading proponent of quantum theory. By
1912, however, his quarrelsome nature began to get him into trouble. A
former colleague at Goettingen, Nobelist James Franck, said of Stark,
“He was a pain in the neck in every aspect. However, I have to admit he
had good ideas. And early on, he had this idea that photochemistry was a
quantum process. Not as clearly as Einstein, but nevertheless, he had it.”
Beginning in 1912, Stark engaged in a series of quarrels with Einstein
over his perception that Einstein was usurping credit for discoveries that
was rightfully his. Over similar concerns, he also alienated the politically
powerful Arnold Sommerfeld, who had supported him for the Aachen
position.
Stark’s dispute with Sommerfeld cost him dearly and set him on the
path to radicalization. In 1914, he had hoped to be named the professor at
Goettingen. He lost that opportunity in a humiliating battle with Sommer-
feld, who arranged for a favorite student, Peter Derbye, to be appointed to
the post. Gaining nothing for his effort, Stark claimed that the unfortunate
outcome was attributable to a “Jewish and pro-Semitic circle and its
enterprising business manager [Sommerfeld].” He had to settle for a pro-
fessorship at the less well-regarded University of Greifswald in 1917.
Following the war, Stark took up conservative politics in earnest. He

eventually became the professor of physics in Wuerzburg, where one of
Lenard’s lifelong adversaries, Wilhelm Conrad Roentgen, had long been
the chair. Stark and the University of Wuerzburg were a poor match
nearly from the start. Unlike Greifswald, where the faculty was quite
conservative, the political atmosphere at the University of Wuerzburg
was mostly liberal. Stark’s disappointment with the views of his Wuerz-
burg colleagues and nationally among the members of the German Physi-
cal Society led to him organizing the reactionary German Professional
Community of University Physicists. In doing so, he unnecessarily alien-
ated any number of natural scientists whose support might have stood
him in good stead during his later years of struggle.
Stark might have weathered the philosophical disputes, but the scien-
tific differences between Stark and the Wuerzburg faculty were consider-
able and, ultimately, unbridgeable. Many of the natural scientists had
fully embraced the new theoretical physics. As such, they could be dis-
dainful of the simplistic notions held by classical, experimental physi-
cists. When Stark accepted the thesis of his student Ludwig Glazer on the
optical properties of porcelain, his colleagues cried foul on several
grounds. Foremost, they questioned whether the topic really represented a
sufficient advance to warrant granting an advanced university degree.
They charged the topic was too applied, too simplistically practical. They
mocked Stark for conferring a “doctorate of porcelain.”
They also had qualms about Stark’s motivations, charging that it was
Glazer’s right-wing politics, so akin to Stark’s own, that had led to
Stark’s acceptance of Glazer’s work. Lastly, it was discovered that sever-
al years earlier, Stark had invested heavily in a porcelain-manufacturing
concern. Even though the rules concerning conflicts of interest were lax
in those times, this revelation earned him considerable criticism. Some-
thing of a hothead, and holding little sway with his faculty, Stark con-
cluded that the University of Wuerzburg was a nest of “Einstein-lovers”
and resigned his chair.
Shortly after leaving his position in Wuerzburg in 1923 and entering
the commercial sector, Stark published a book that would dog him for its
intemperance and help to ensure that, despite applying for six different
university appointments over the next decade, he would not receive seri-
ous consideration for another academic post until Hitler came to power in
1933. The Current Crisis in German Physics heavily criticized theoretical
physics and its practitioners. He had earlier reversed his support for quan-
tum theory, and he now attacked it with a vengeance, citing it along with
relativity theory as topics that should be banned from the educational
curriculum throughout Germany.
Stark also drew unflattering parallels between the theory of relativity
and certain social, moral, and political changes occurring at the time,
referred to as “relativism.” This was a common theme among relativity
naysayers. At the core of relativism is the absence of absolutes in moral-
ity, acceptable behavior, and philosophy, a fearful thought for many stol-
id German Protestants.
Stark doubtlessly understood that relativity had nothing to do with
relativism, but he exploited the homonymic similarity of the two words as
one more reason to be suspicious of Einstein’s work. He resurrected
Lenard’s now familiar complaint that Einstein had unduly promoted the
theory of relativity in the “un-German” popular press. While the text fell
short of outright anti-Semitic statements, the message came through
clearly: the Jews were at the heart of what Stark considered the “crisis.”
Because of the stir it caused, many more scientists likely read Max
von Laue’s review of Stark’s book in the journal Die Nurwissenshaften
than actually read the book itself. Von Laue, a well-respected professor of
physics at the University of Berlin, had received the 1914 Nobel Prize for
demonstrating that X-rays were diffracted by crystals. Von Laue’s assess-
ment of the book dismissed the attacks on his friend Einstein as unworthy
of comment. However, he took Stark to task for making unfavorable
comments about physics and physicists:
But Mr. Stark should really have preserved enough respect for his own
former activity to not debase it publicly. . . . This severance [his resign-
ing at Wuerzburg] surely did not take place without some conflict. . . .
All in all, we would have wished that this book had remained unwrit-
ten, that is, in the interest of science, in general, of German science, in

particular, and not least of all in the interest of the author, himself.
During the 1920s and into the next decade, as the frequency and
stridency of their attacks intensified, Lenard and Stark recruited junior
scientists who were aligned with their philosophy or whom they could
bully into joining them in writing articles reflecting their personal point
of view. One example is an article by a student of Stark’s, Willi Menzel,
following the publication of Lenard’s Deutsche Physik. In the January 29,
1936, edition of Volkischer Beobachter, Menzel virtually parroted sec-
tions of Lenard’s introduction to his book, making assertions identical to
Lenard’s but framing them as his own. Ambitious and venal, Menzel
proved a willing accomplice to Lenard and Stark’s attacks:
In the wake of the revolution in physics came theoreticians like Ein-

stein who then strove to make physics into a purely mathematical
system of concepts. They propagated their ideas in the manner charac-
teristic of Jews and forced them upon physicists. They tried to ridicule
men who criticized their new type of science with the argument that
their intellect just could not aspire to the lofty spheres of the Einstein-
ian intellect—an intellect which says that Lenard does not consciously
seek after the truth.
The recruitment of Lenard’s colleagues to his call to arms is most

evident in Lenard’s 1929 diatribe, One Hundred Authors against Ein-
stein, an omnibus of naysayers’ views of Einstein’s theories. The hundred
“authors” of the title were a mixed bag, at best. Many of the contributors
had little or no experience with high-energy physics. As noted by review-
er Albert von Braun, the inclusion of many of the authors was absurd:
Since zero always yields zero when multiplied by any finite number,
the compilers might just as well have presented one thousand rather
than one hundred of such authors without even the quintessence of
their remarks being able to yield any weight other than zero.
Exuding the palpable disdain of a practiced wit, von Braun continued

with a withering analogy:
They should have realized that just as it is true that a majority of votes
at a ladies’ tea party can scarcely confirm Einstein’s theories, in the
same way, the accumulation of verdicts by authors who command a
little phraseology of Kant’s critical philosophy but who have not felt
even a whisper of his genius can hardly present a case against relativity
theory.
More laconically, Einstein rejoined, “If I were wrong, one would have
been enough.”
Over more than a decade of harassing Einstein and condemning the
Jewish influence in science, Lenard and Stark built a résumé that ingra-
tiated them to the Nazi Party hierarchy. They had stationed themselves
where they needed to be to take advantage should Adolf Hitler ever
ascend to power. There were long odds against this happening when
Lenard and Stark wrote their 1924 honorific, “The Hitler Spirit and Sci-
ence.” Nonetheless, history eventually proved their faith to be well
founded.
The Nazi takeover of government provided Lenard and Stark with an
unprecedented platform to express their concerns about the undue influ-
ence of Jews in Germany’s universities. They escalated their vitriolic
rants about the threat to German culture by the intrusion of Jewish sci-
ence. Lenard wrote in the popular right-wing daily Volkischer Beobach-
ter:
It had grown dark in physics. . . . Einstein has provided the most

outstanding example of the damaging influence on natural science
from the Jewish side. . . . One cannot even spare splendid researchers
with solid accomplishments the reproach that they have allowed the
relativity Jew to gain a foothold in Germany. . . . Theoreticians active
in leading positions should have watched over this development more
carefully. Now Hitler is watching over it. The ghost has collapsed; the
foreign element is already voluntarily leaving the universities, yes
even the country.
Within a week of Hitler declaring himself Fuehrer, Stark wrote Lenard

that it was time that they press home their new advantage. They should
proceed with their plans to make science more German. Lenard visited
Hitler soon after he became Fuehrer. They told him that the German
universities had decayed badly. There was a need to develop talented new
faculty and expel those who were unworthy. They lobbied for the Reich’s
adoption of the principles of Deutsche Physik, Lenard’s pseudo-scientific
philosophical construct touting the superiority of the Aryan race and den-
igrating Jewish scientific thought, which Lenard would publish in four
volumes during the following year of 1934.
Hitler welcomed the conversation. He had an interest in science, at
least on a philosophical level. He believed that science and religion were
locked in an unceasing confrontation. There can be no doubt about which
side of the struggle he favored. “If, in the course of a thousand or two
thousand years,” he asserted in Mein Kampf, “Science arrives at the ne-
cessity of renewing its points of view, it will not mean that science is a
liar. Science cannot lie, for it is always striving, according to the momen-
tary state of knowledge, to deduce what is true. When it makes a mistake,
it does so in good faith. It’s Christianity that’s the liar. It’s in perpetual
conflict with itself.”
Hitler agreed with Lenard’s concept of Deutsche Physik. Indeed, well
before Lenard’s vision had fully developed, Hitler had independently
written in Mein Kampf,
All human culture, all the results of art, science and technology that we
see before us today, are almost exclusively the creative product of the
Aryan. This very fact admits of the not unfounded inference that he
alone was the founder of all higher humanity, representing the proto-
type of all that we understand by the word “man.”
Hitler took every opportunity to connect his philosophy with the

mythological past and fancied himself something of a romantic. In the
following passage, he laid it on thickly:
He is the Prometheus of mankind from whose shining brow the divine

spark of genius has sprung at all times, forever kindling anew that fire
of knowledge which illuminated the night of silent mysteries and thus
caused man to climb the path to mastery over the other beings of the
earth. It was he who laid the foundations and erected the walls of every
great structure in human culture.
Lenard and Stark struck a respondent chord in their conversations with

the Fuehrer and his top leadership throughout the 1930s, as the Nazi
hierarchy sought to conduct scientific policy at the behest of racial ideol-
ogy. As late as July 1937, Stark collaborated with Gunter d’Alquen, the
editor of the SS weekly Das Schwarze Korps, in writing for that publica-
tion an article entitled “White Jews in Science.” The article proclaimed
that it was not enough to simply exclude Jews from German cultural life.
Rather, the threat was severe enough that the Reich must extinguish the
Jewish spirit as represented by Albert Einstein.
“There is one sphere, in particular,” the authors said, “where we meet
the spirit of the white Jew” (meaning a non-Jew who thought like a Jew
and was supportive of Jewish thinking) “in its most intensive form . . .
namely in science. To purge science from this Jewish spirit is our most
urgent task. For science represents the key position from which intellectu-
al Judaism can always regain a significant influence on all spheres of
national life.” They named Planck and Sommerfeld, among others, as
white Jews and concluded, “They must be got rid of as much as the Jews
themselves.”
In what must surely rank as one of the most bizarre editorial decisions
ever made by a scientific journal editor, Sir Richard Gregory, then the
editor of Nature, one of the world’s most respected and most read medi-
cal and scientific journals, followed up on Stark’s article in Das Schwarze
Korps by asking him if he wouldn’t care to expand on his views in
Nature’s commentary section. Specifically, he asked Stark to write on the
topic of “the Jewish influence on science in Germany or elsewhere.”
Stark took him up on it. His article, “The Pragmatic and Dogmatic Spirit
in Physics” asserted that “the manner in which physical research is car-
ried out and described depends on the spirit and character of the men of
science engaged upon it, and this spirit and character differ individually,
as do men, nations, and races.”
Stark described two “mentalities” in science. The pragmatic mentality
began and ended in reality. As representatives of the pragmatic mentality,
he named Philipp Lenard and Ernest Rutherford, the New Zealand–born
English physicist who detailed the principles of nuclear decay and pro-
vided insights into the structure of the atom. He then described the antipo-
dal mentality, which he dubbed “the dogmatic.” Here, he named Einstein
and Erwin Schroedinger as exemplars.
Stark’s choice of Schroedinger is an interesting one. Schroedinger was
awarded the 1933 Nobel Prize in physics just after he had left Germany in
protest of Hitler’s policies in general and the dismissal of physicist Max
Born from his university position in particular. The Nazis did not forget
this slight. After brief stays at Oxford and Princeton, in 1936, he unwisely
accepted an appointment as professor of physics at the University of Graz
in Austria. His life was endangered by Hitler’s 1938 Anschluss uniting
Austria and Germany. Schroedinger managed to escape with his family
via Italy and ultimately finished out his career in the newly created Insti-
tute for Advanced Studies in Dublin.
In Nature, Stark wrote,
[The dogmatic scientist] starts out from ideas that have arisen primari-
ly in his own brain or from arbitrary relationships among symbols to
which a general and so also a physical significance can be ascribed. . . .
The pragmatic spirit advances continuously to new discoveries and
new knowledge; the dogmatic leads to crippling of experimental re-
search and to a literature which is as effusive as it is unfruitful and
tedious, intrinsically akin to the theological dogmatism of the Middle
Ages.
Making direct reference to one of Lenard’s frequent complaints about

Einstein, Stark asserted, “The pragmatic spirit does not conduct propa-
ganda for the results of his research. . . . He finds his satisfaction in
obtaining new knowledge.” Stark argued that the opposite held true for
dogmatic scientists, who, “almost before they have published, a flood of

propaganda is started.”
Stark had taken it upon himself to save German culture from Einstein
and his dogmatic imitators. “I also have directed my efforts against the
damaging influence of Jews in German science, because I regard them as
the chief exponents and propagandists of the dogmatic spirit.” One might
imagine that these lines would have set off Nature’s publication of a
firestorm of correspondence from those who wished to take issue with
such an extreme view, including the many Jewish scientists who had by
then immigrated to the United States, Great Britain, and elsewhere in
Europe. However, that was not the case. Nature published only a single
letter, and that one appeared six months after the appearance of Stark’s
article.
Given Hitler’s mandate, Lenard and Stark continued the drumbeat
against Einstein and, by proxy, all Jewish scientists. Despite his having
emigrated weeks before the passage of the Enabling Law, Einstein re-
mained the principal target of Lenard’s and Stark’s attacks as the living
embodiment of Jewish scientific depravity. He would remain so until
their influence declined nearly two decades after Einstein and Lenard first
confronted each other at Bad Nauheim.
Lenard’s resentment of Einstein’s success and his rabid anti-Semitism
underlay his purge of Jewish academics that began soon after Einstein
fled to America. His assertion of Aryan scientific supremacy, couched in
the principles of Deutsche Physik, gained currency among the Nazi lead-
ership. The resultant policies proved popular among many of Germany’s
natural scientists, who, in the short term, prospered in the absence of
competition with the Jewish scientists they replaced. In the bizarre world
of Aryan science, lesser talents could succeed without having to confront
the mathematical intricacies of theoretical physics or the probing ques-
tions of talented Jewish theorists.
Lenard, however, viewed the transition from Jewish to Aryan scien-
tists from a very different perspective. Despite the fact that he was dis-
dainful of the talents of most Aryan physicists to the point of being
unable to recommend them for the numerous vacant university positions,
the triumph of the Aryan physicist was inevitable. The Jewish mind suf-
fered an important inherent deficiency. In 1940, he wrote in the margins
of his 1922 edition of Ether and Urether,
How artificial as scientists those physicists must indeed be who still

today hold a “theory” with such sappy jests about space and time to be
important. Sappy, I say, because it in the essence underlies the Jewish
inability with space and time. . . . Just as the cubists had an inability to
paint decently, so here lies together the audacity and the inability they
want to impose on others.
Upon Einstein’s departure, Lenard wrote a letter to Reichsminister for

Public Enlightenment and Propaganda Joseph Goebbels, calling for the
enforced abolition of all relics of Einstein and his theory of relativity, as
well as the dismissal of any supporter of Einstein from his academic
post—Jew or non-Jew. To do otherwise, he argued, would be politically
dangerous.
Lenard and Stark would get their way. They would live to see German
science performed as they had hoped, by Aryan Germans, at least for a
while.
11
DEUTSCHE PHYSIK
“‘German Physics?’ You will ask. I could also have said Aryan physics or
physics of the Nordic type of peoples, physics of the probers of reality, of
truth seekers, the physics of those who have founded scientific research,”
wrote Philipp Lenard at the outset of his four-volume master work,
Deutsche Physik.
To those unfamiliar with the history of science, Lenard’s opening
thrust must seem an odd assertion. As opposed to pursuits like literature,
philosophy, and history, where cultural imprints are inevitable, shouldn’t
science be blind to the national origins of the research that defines its
progress? How could it be otherwise? Some new bit of knowledge dis-
covered in Germany is published in an English language journal and read
in Korea, where researchers use the new information to redesign what had
been to that point futile investigations. The German discovery makes all
the difference in the Korean experiments, and mans’ understanding of his
universe advances another small step forward.
Predicting this response, Lenard assumed responsibility for both sides
of the debate:
“Science is international, and it will always remain so,” you will want
to protest. But this is inevitably based on a fallacy. In reality, as with
everything that man creates, science is determined by race or by blood.
It can seem to be international when universally valid scientific results
are wrongly traced to a common origin or when it is not acknowledged
135
that science supplied by peoples of different countries is identical or

similar to German science, and that science could only have been
produced because and to the extent that other peoples are or were
likewise of a predominantly Nordic racial mix. Nations of different
racial mixes practice science differently.
The roots of Deutsche Physik can be traced to a particularly shocking

episode that occurred during World War I. The ensuing disagreement as
to whom was at fault advanced nationalistic fervor among Europe’s lead-
ing scientists and set the foundations for the internecine scientific strug-
gles that occurred in the postwar period. The 1839 Treaty of London
guaranteed Belgium neutral status in continental wars. However, Germa-
ny’s military brain trust recognized that, by going through Belgium, it
might outflank the French army, which was concentrated in eastern
France. Calling the treaty “a scrap of paper,” German Chancellor Theo-
bold von Beckmann Hollweg sent his armies into Belgium. What fol-
lowed has become known as the “rape of Belgium.” One and a half
million Belgians fled from the invading German army. Six thousand Bel-
gian civilians died. The onslaught destroyed twenty-five thousand build-
ings.
The Germans had overrun Leuven in Belgium but were having trouble
controlling an unruly populace. Belgian guerrilla fighters attacked with-
out warning, exacted their damage, and disappeared into the narrow al-
leyways of the ancient city. Casualties mounted among the German
troops at an alarming rate. The German army adopted a harsh policy of
reprisals toward Belgian civilians that, on the night of August 25, 1914,
culminated in the commission of wholesale atrocities. The invaders
evicted as many as ten thousand Belgians from their homes, looted the
Leuven food supplies, and set fire to two thousand houses. They also set
fire to the library of the Katholieke Universiteit Leuven, the repository of
hundreds of thousands of rare books and irreplaceable medieval manu-
scripts.
The torching of Leuven set off a worldwide outcry. In the wake of
England having declared war on Germany just three weeks earlier, a
number of well-known British academics published a brief note in the
DE UTS CHE P HY S IK 137
Times of London protesting the destruction. Among the scientists signing

the letter were William Crookes, who had briefly hosted Lenard in his
laboratory during Lenard’s years of peripatetic training, and J. J. Thomp-
son, a Nobel laureate for his work on elucidating the electron.
The German backlash was immediate and vigorous. England was re-
sponsible for the war. The English were trying to shift the blame for the
war onto the shoulders of their most effective economic competitor. Writ-
ers Ludwig Fulda, Hermann Sudermann, and Georg Reicke drafted the
“Manifesto of the Ninety-three German Intellectuals.” The Manifesto,
which received wide publication in newspapers throughout Europe, de-
nied that the destruction of the Leuven library had been purposeful. In-
deed, it was inconceivable that German soldiers could be responsible for
wartime atrocities:
As representatives of German Science and Art, we hereby protest to

the civilized world against the lies and calumnies with which our ene-
mies are endeavoring to stain the honor of Germany in her hard strug-
gle for existence—in a struggle that has been forced on her. . . . As
heralds of truth we raise our voices against these.
Among the denials that followed were that Germany did not cause the
current conflict, had not injured or killed a single Belgian citizen “without
the bitterest defense having made it necessary,” and had not “without
aching hearts” set fire to a portion of the city. The document concludes,
We cannot wrest the poisonous weapon—the lie—out of the hands of

our enemies. All we can do is to proclaim to the world that our ene-
mies are giving false witness against us. Have faith in us! Believe that
we shall carry on this war to the end as a civilized nation to whom the
legacy of a Goethe, a Beethoven, and a Kant is just as sacred as its own
hearth and home.
Among those signing the Manifesto were the flower of German phys-
ics, including Nobel Prize recipients Wilhelm Wien, Max Planck, Wil-
helm Conrad Roentgen, and Philipp Lenard. The Manifesto reflected a
compromise among widely divergent viewpoints. There were those who
feared that a too strongly worded document would incite a permanent

backlash that would hinder relationships between scientists of different
nationalities beyond the end of the war. In this camp was Max Planck. He
was away from Berlin at the time but decided to lend his name to the
Manifesto based on what Wien had told him; he asked his children to sign
in his absence. Several years later, he regretted this decision and publicly
reneged on his signature. A 1921 New York Times survey revealed that a
number of other signatories felt the same way. Sixty of seventy-six intel-
lectuals who survived the war either regretted their participation or
claimed they had not so much as seen what they had signed.
Others felt that the document fell short of the necessary measures.
Wien advocated a boycott of English journals and establishing rules pro-
hibiting the use of English words in German scientific papers. Lenard,
who donated the money he’d received with the Royal Society’s Rumford
Medal to the families of fallen soldiers, favored a more strongly worded
document. Lenard had by this time severed old ties with J. J. Thompson,
believing that the Cambridge don had given him insufficient credit for his
work on the electron. Lenard’s 1914 booklet, “England and Germany in
the Time of the Great War,” attacked German scientists for too often
crediting English investigators for discoveries made in Germany.
Equating the veracity of Englishmen with that of Jews, Lenard warned
that should the enemy perceive any sign of weakness,
The English gentlemen will smile internally with pleasure over our
timidity when they see the Proclamation. Externally, they will natural-
ly pull some sort of swindle. Should something really forcefully be
done, I will be happy to participate. I think these liars are not worth the
waste of time, except with cannons.
The actions of the “ninety-three” were amplified when, on October 16,

1914, four thousand university teachers, nearly all of the faculty members
of the fifty-three German universities, signed “The Declaration of Uni-
versity Teachers of the German Empire.” The intent of the Declaration
was to remove any doubt in the minds of Germany’s enemies: German
academics stood foursquare with their national army; there was no philo-
sophical division between the thinking of German professors and that of

the German military.
Perhaps because of his Swiss citizenship, or possibly because his
contrary views were well known, Einstein was not asked to sign either the
“Manifesto” or the “Declaration.” He was the antithesis of a patriotic
nationalist, an internationalist who believed that overweening national-
ism—especially as practiced in his native Germany—led to unchecked
militarism. An armed German military bolstered by universal military
conscription was a threat to European stability.
Shocked by the destruction of the Leuven library, angry about the anti-
British sentiments expressed by some of the signers, and outraged by the
chauvinistic attitudes of many of his colleagues, Einstein joined with a
physician friend, Georg Friedrich Nicolai, to write a countermanifesto,
“An Appeal to the Europeans.” The purpose of the “Appeal” was to
advocate for peace in Europe and the honoring of existing borders among
countries; it drew only four signatures. The document was never pub-
lished in Germany. Its publication outside of Germany was delayed until
1917, and it quickly disappeared from public consciousness.
The Leuven matter and the prolonged deprivations of the Great War
polarized Germany’s scientists into opposing camps. As Einstein became
more active as an internationalist and pacifist, Lenard grew more reac-
tionary. Amid Germany’s postwar economic deterioration and the conse-
quent decline in his own finances, Lenard embraced the popular notion
that it was the socialists and Jews who were pulling the strings of govern-
ment and laying waste to the German economy. In the aftermath of World
War I and over the next fifteen years, Lenard developed his beliefs about
the distinctions between the Aryan scientific mind and that of the alien
“other.”
The 1934 publication of the first volume of Deutsche Physik must
have been a tremendous catharsis for the seventy-two-year-old scientist.
Although Lenard’s expressed purpose in writing Deutsche Physik was to
summarize a lifetime of lectures on experimental physics—which by all
accounts were virtuoso performances—he wrote the foreword to the first
volume as a crystallization of his philosophy of Aryan scientific suprema-
cy. Headed by an unattributed epigram—“The foreword stems from to-

day’s conflict / The work seeks value infinite”—the author, more expli-
citly than ever before, communicated his alarm about the threat the “Jew-
ish spirit” posed to the purity of the natural sciences and, hence, all of
German culture. Deutsche Physik was based on several principles that
Lenard took to be inviolable.
First, all worthy scientific discoveries were attributable to Aryans.
Non-Aryan science might initially be based on the successes of Aryans,
but over time, each non-Aryan culture or ethnicity developed distinctive
hallmarks of inferiority:
[No] people ever embarked on scientific research without basing them-

selves on the fertile ground of already existing Aryan achieve-
ments. . . . The racial characteristics of these foreign forms only be-
come recognizable after they have developed over a longer period.
Based on the available literature, one could, perhaps, already talk
about Japanese physics. Arabian physics existed in the past. Nothing
has yet emerged about Negro physics. Jewish physics has developed
and become prevalent, which has only rarely been recognized until
now.
Second, meaningful science was based on experimentation. Aryan re-

search began and ended with observation and measurement. Simplicity,
grounded in nature, was a hallmark of Deutsche Physik. In contrast, sci-
entific theories based on mathematical representations were antithetical to
Aryan science in that they failed Lenard’s test of “common sense.” They
resided only in the abstract. They contributed nothing new. They baffled
rather than illuminated.
All the well-verified knowledge of inorganic nature can be found here

[in Deutsche Physik] in a uniform and totally coherent text. . . . The
unspoiled German national spirit [Volksgeist] seeks depth; it seeks
theoretical foundations consistent with nature and irrefutable knowl-
edge of the cosmos. . . . Thinking along with nature—following its
processes systematically—is very seldom done correctly. Usually you
are confronted with formulae instead. It is peculiar to see physics texts
filled with mathematical derivations that offer absolutely nothing

about the origin, value, and significance of the topic.
A third tenet was that it was the encroachment of Jews, who secretly
and maliciously had hidden their physics, which now posed a threat to
German culture. “At the end of the Great War,” Lenard wrote, “when
Jews in Germany began to dominate and set the tone, the full force of its
[Jewish physics] characteristics suddenly burst forth like a flood. It then
promptly found avid supporters even among many authors of non-Jewish
or not really pure Jewish blood.”
In the world of Deutsche Physik, Aryan scientists’ sole motivation for
their research was the elucidation of truth. Others, particularly Jews, had
more nefarious motives and were not above lying and self-promotion:
The characteristic haste of the Jewish mentality to come up with un-

tested ideas was actually contagious; though it provides personal ad-
vantages (Jewish applause, primarily), it has a negative effect on the
whole. In Jewish physics, every assumption that proves not to be com-
pletely false is celebrated as a milestone.
Explaining how the Jews cunningly gained ascendency in physics,

Lenard revived past complaints about Einstein, who, despite his having
immigrated to the United States, was still “the unquestionably full-
blooded Jew.” He wrote,
[The Jew’s science] is only an illusion and a degenerate manifestation

of fundamental Aryan science [that treats truth and lies as] equivalent
to any one of the many different theoretical options available. . . . This
fact was concealed through computational tricks. . . . The characteristic
audacity of the uninhibited Jew, together with the deft collaboration of
his fellow Jews, [which] enabled the construction of Jewish physics.
Finally, Lenard concluded that, even allowing for the sorry state of the
natural sciences, Aryan science would inevitably prevail:
But a people that has produced the likes of [among others] Copernicus,
Kepler . . . Leibnitz, Mendel, and [one of his own mentors] Bunsen
will know how to find itself again, just as it has found a Fuehrer of its
own blood in politics as heir to Frederick the Great and Bismarck, who
saved it from the chaos of Marxism, which is equally alien, racially.
Deutsche Physik was a crystallization of Lenard’s thoughts and expe-

riences during two decades of rising nationalism among German scien-
tists during and following World War I. He had, for more than a decade,
included bits and pieces of similar content in his speeches and writings of
what he now comprehensively published in Deutsche Physik. Despite
having done so, he had managed to convince only a handful of acolytes,
while many Aryans had flocked to the theoretical physics of Einstein.
Now, however, Deutsche Physik was an idea whose time had come.
The publication of the foreword to Deutsche Physik coincided nearly
perfectly with Hitler becoming Fuehrer, and its content was convergent
with the beliefs of Germany’s new leadership. Suddenly, there were re-
ceptive ears at the highest level of government. Born out of envy, bitter-
ness, and prejudice, Deutsche Physik appeared at exactly the right time to
provide the philosophical underpinnings for the self-destructive scientific
policies of the Third Reich.
Immediately upon Hitler’s appointment as Chancellor, Lenard and
Stark sought to impress their views upon the Nazi hierarchy. The biggest
problem in their minds was that the Jews had gained ascendancy in the
German universities and, for years, had been fostering the careers of their
own kind. There was a paucity of capable, well-trained Aryans who could
reasonably fill the openings that would develop under Deutsche Physik.
Even so, Lenard would do his best to ensure the start of what would
become a renewal of Aryan leadership in German universities.
At seventy-one, Lenard was not particularly interested in new titles or
responsibilities. His goal was to see completed what he had imagined—
the complete vanquishing of Einstein and the extinction of his work,
followed by a renewal of German academe along the lines of Deutsche
Physik. This was not the case for his younger protégé, Johannes Stark.
Stark sought more concrete authority from a personal acquaintance, Min-
ister of the Interior Wilhelm Frick. His goal was to be appointed to
several high positions where he could control virtually all appointments
to university professorships and government research funding throughout

Germany.
As his opening gambit, Stark petitioned Frick to appoint him president
of Germany’s Reich Physical and Technical Institute, a title he had long
coveted. However, his troubles in Wuerzburg and the long memory of his
ill-advised 1922 publication of The Current Crisis in German Physics
had caused him to be passed over for the position on two occasions
during the preceding decade. The institute was a central resource for all of
German science, doling out equipment, personnel, and money for re-
search throughout the German university system. Despite the unanimous
opposition of every scientist consulted, Minister Frick appointed Stark as
president in May 1933.
Lenard celebrated Stark’s appointment by writing an opinion article
for the politically sympathetic newspaper Voelkischer Beobachter enti-
tled, “A Big Day for Science: Johannes Stark Appointed President of the
Reich Physical and Technical Institute.” Noting that the appointment rep-
resented a political reversal from the norm during the Weimar Republic,
he wrote that Stark becoming president
signifies a renunciation of the apparently already inescapable predomi-

nance of what briefly might be called Einsteinian thinking in physics,
and it is a move towards reaffirming the scientist’s old prerogatives: to
think independently, guided only by nature. . . . Stark, one of the
remaining untouched examples of this thinking is himself at the top in
such an important post. . . . Not only science may rejoice in this way.
Technology also is done a great service in now having Stark at the
head of the Reich Physical and Technical Institute. For he is not only
an outstanding scholar and accomplished researcher but also, at the
same time, a practitioner. . . . In all likelihood, never before has such a
suitable choice been made for president.
The institute’s interim administration had presaged the new presi-

dent’s expected actions by firing all Jewish employees, which freed Stark
to take immediate steps toward further Aryanization of its faculty. He
reduced the institute’s investment in theoretical physics, instituted a rigid
hierarchical organizational structure with himself as the chief of the natu-
ral sciences, and fired the Jewish members of the institute’s advisory
committee. The subsequent dissolution of the committee gave Stark abso-
lute authority. He developed plans for a massive expansion to further
accrue power for his domain.
By the time the German Physical Society met in Wuerzburg in Sep-
tember 1933, Lenard and Stark had leveraged their relationships with the
National Socialists so they could effectively control access to all univer-
sity appointments, as well as the share of governmental research funding
distributed through Stark’s institute. A presentation by Stark at the meet-
ing introduced his idea for organizing research in the natural sciences.
Noting that his Reich Physical and Technical Institute already was
charged with communicating with and servicing the needs of all of the
other physics departments in Germany, he proposed that—for the good of
the country—the institute extend its responsibilities:
It is from this central, comprehensive, and leading position that its

responsibility arises to organize physical research for the benefit of
both science and industry. Some of my listeners may well immediately
object to the term “organization of scientific research.” The question
might be raised: Can scientific research be organized at all? Surely,
scientific progress is always the independent achievement of individu-
als. . . . These statements are certainly correct. But they misinterpret
the purpose of scientific organization.
Stark wished to reorganize science in the Reich by adopting the

“Fuehrer principle,” Already implemented in a number of spheres, the
Fuehrer principle emulated the steeply vertical hierarchy of the highest
level of the German government. Stark proposed that the Reich Physical
and Technical Institute be greatly expanded to centralize and manage
resources across the expanse of Germany. Among a long list of respon-
sibilities he felt the institute should assume were to unite the various
institutes and academic departments of physics throughout Germany;
serve as the necessary mediator between them and as the intended source
of ideas or support; greatly increase its size and scope, with a goal of
quadrupling its capacity in order to “exercise its duty to science and the
economy”; serve as a central resource for equipment and manpower for

investigations that were beyond the capabilities of individual depart-
ments; and “act as an agent between physical research and industry.”
He saved the best for nearly the end. Much to the chagrin of his
audience, in the last few minutes of his address to Germany’s physicists,
Stark suggested the following:
Furthermore, the Reich Physical and Technical Institute will be in-

volved in the monitoring of physical literature, since changes must be
made to protect German physics within Germany, as well as to main-
tain its influence abroad.
After once more invoking the beneficence of Minister Frick and his
hope for the support of Fuehrer Hitler, he asked for his audience’s under-
standing and assistance:
But I also need your support, gentlemen. You, my colleagues also can
assist directly or indirectly in the organization [and funding decisions]
of the German Research Foundation and in the reorganization of publi-
cation in physics. I ask for your cooperation in the projected organiza-
tion of physical research for the benefit and honor of the German
people.
Somewhat obtusely, Stark was proposing a central clearinghouse for

all research manuscripts seeking publication in German journals. This
was very much along the lines of what Goebbels had established for the
lay press, where the Fuehrer principle was firmly entrenched. In the end,
Stark was not so much asking for his audience’s assent as informing them
of his plans. He quoted a verse of Goethe’s “Erlkoenig”: “. . . and if you
are not willing, I will use force.” To further clarify his intent, he stated,
“The Fuehrer now takes over the responsibility for the Fatherland, I will
now take over the responsibility for physics.”
Although Stark assured those attending that the purpose of his plan
was to ensure freedom of research and publication, his speech provoked
considerable unease, especially on the part of the theoretical physicists.
Max von Laue challenged Stark, comparing his crusade against Einstein
and relativity to the Catholic Church’s efforts to silence Galileo and to

ban Copernicus’ view that the earth revolved around the sun. Regardless
of Deutsche Physik, and as hard as Stark might try to suppress them,
Einstein’s theories were still correct. An angered Lenard attributed the
supportive applause for von Laue to “Jews and their fellow travelers
present.”
While the disrespect of his peers doubtlessly offended him, Stark per-
sisted in his ambitions. He had further developed his relationships with
individuals at the top levels of government. Like Lenard, he had direct
access to Hitler. Hitler gave his preliminary approval to Stark’s grandiose
plans for expanding the Reich Institute. However, academic infighting
and a lack of available moneys eventually proved to be insuperable bar-
riers, and Stark’s plans never were actualized.
In the spring of 1934, Stark realized the second of his major goals. He
was appointed chair of the German Research Foundation, which had suc-
ceeded the Emergency Foundation as the principal national funding agen-
cy for research grants in the natural sciences. Hitler himself gave the
order for the dismissal of Friedrich Schmidt-Ott from the post, “because
the Fuehrer wishes it,” and Schmidt-Ott’s replacement by Stark.
Lenard rejoiced at the news. For all practical purposes, Stark now
controlled both faculty hiring and access to the funds necessary for Ger-
man faculty to conduct research. Lenard had Hitler’s ear and was to
become the “kingmaker,” the one to decide which professors were suit-
able for employment and where they should be assigned. Together, he
and Stark could continue to develop the natural sciences in German uni-
versities according to the principles of Deutsche Physik.
Stark used his new power without restraint. As his first action, Stark
ceased research funding for all theoretical work and even restricted what
experimental work got funded to “Aryan” topics. He frequently reversed
committee recommendations to fund a project with a terse “President
Stark requests rejection,” with no further explanation.
For the next several years, as Deutsche Physik held sway, Lenard and
Stark were riding high. In December 1935, when the two colleagues were
enjoying their greatest influence, Stark was offered the chance to speak
about how far the tenets of Deutsche Physik had taken Germany. On the
occasion of the University of Heidelberg renaming its Institute of Physics
the Philipp Lenard Institute, Stark revived the face of villainy that had
weathered so many of his speeches to personalize his fears for German
society. Stark took the opportunity to revile Albert Einstein and, by
proxy, Jewish science:
A large group of people, primarily in physics, believe that to be able to

arrive at results, or at least to come up with impressive articles . . . they
must produce a mathematically lavishly dressed theory. . . . This type
of approach is consistent with the Jewish peculiarity of making their
own opinion, their own desires and advantage into the measure of all
things and thus of scientific knowledge, as well.
Stark’s remarks to this point were covering familiar ground. Well into
his address, Stark decided to take a chance by naming possible new
targets for his future attentions:
Jewish physics . . . has been practiced and propagated by Jews, as well

as their non-Jewish students and emulators, which logically have also
found its high priest in a Jew, Einstein. Jewish propaganda has tried to
portray him as the greatest scientist of all time. However, Einstein’s
relativity theories were basically nothing more than an accumulation
of artificial formulas based on arbitrary definitions. . . The sensation
and propaganda of the Einsteinian relativity theory was followed by
Heisenberg’s matrix theory and Schroedinger’s so-called wave me-
chanics, one as impenetrable and formalistic as the next . . . however, it
has contributed no important new knowledge. This could not have
been otherwise, since its point of departure, formalistic human opin-
ion, was false.
Except for the younger timbre to his voice, an observer listening with
eyes closed would be forgiven for mistaking Stark for Lenard. The day
fairly bristled with the rhetoric of Deutsche Physik. There was a self-
congratulatory air that must have given Stark a special level of confi-
dence. He lauded Lenard for publicly facing down Einstein in the Ein-
steindebatte at Bad Nauheim and spoke of Einstein’s flight from his

homeland. He spoke out against several respected scientists whom he
called Einstein’s “German friends and supporters” and won encouraging
cheers from his sympathetic audience by accusing them of continuing to
act “in his spirit.”
Stark pointed out that Einstein’s main supporter, Planck, was still at
the head of the Kaiser Wilhelm Society; his expounder and friend, Max
von Laue, was still permitted to act as referee in physics at the Berlin
Academy of Sciences; and the theoretical formalist, Heisenberg, whom
he depicted as the essence of Einstein’s spirit, was supposed to be hon-
ored with a professorship. In view of these regrettable circumstances,
which contradicted the National Socialist spirit, Lenard’s struggle against
Einsteinianism should have been a warning. The responsible official ad-
visors at the Culture Ministry had erred. It would have been much better
if they had consulted with Philipp Lenard before filling professorial
chairs in physics, including those in theoretical physics.
By this time, Planck and von Laue were so well established as to be
untouchable, but Heisenberg was not. In designating Heisenberg the es-
sence of Einstein’s spirit, and later calling him a “white Jew,” Stark was
telegraphing a battle that had already begun. In choosing Heisenberg as
his foe, Stark unknowingly had imperiled both his own standing among
the National Socialists and the continued influence of Deutsche Physik.
12
ACADEMIC IMPURITIES
At 10:45 on the morning of May 16, 1933, Max Planck’s driver helped
the dean of German physicists from the backseat of his car. Planck
stepped onto the curb of Berlin’s Wilhelmstrasse, running alongside the
Chancellery. Despite a cold, gusting wind tickling his memory of what
had been a harsh winter, Planck stood motionless for a brief moment,
surveying his surroundings. The Chancellery was an impressive Rococo
palace that had served as the seat of German government since 1875.
Planck once thought its graceful symmetry a harmonious example of
Prussian architecture. That was no longer the case, not since the Weimar
government had erected the crass, modern south wing in 1930. It was a
stain that was impossible to ignore. For better or worse, change was
inevitable.
As president of the Kaiser Wilhelm Society, Germany’s most prestig-
ious scientific organization, Planck had sought the opportunity to speak
with Adolf Hitler, the newly appointed Chancellor, “on the current situa-
tion and future plans of the Society.” He had made certain to arrive at the
Chancellor’s offices a few minutes early so he could settle his nerves and
think about several issues that had arisen since Hitler had taken office.
Chief among his concerns was a new law that mandated the dismissal of
“non-Aryan civil servants.” The word “non-Aryan” was a euphemism for
“Jewish.” Since all faculty and staff of German universities were clas-
sified as “civil servants,” the law threatened the continued employment of
149
all Jewish professors. Indiscriminate enforcement of the new law would

result in the dismissal of many of Germany’s elite physicists, chemists,
and mathematicians and irreparably hinder the progress of German sci-
ence for years to come. This would be Planck’s only chance to reason
with Hitler. He would need to keep his wits about him if he were to have
any chance of getting through to him.
As a secretary ushered him into Hitler’s office, Planck considered how
he might most effectively address his concerns in a way that Hitler would
understand. He decided to use as an example his Jewish colleague, Fritz
Haber. The Nobel laureate had recently resigned his university position in
protest of the new law. Haber was a national hero for his invention of
processes for producing poisonous gases during the Great War, without
which Germany would have lost from the start. Planck broached the
subject delicately, but Hitler was immediately on the alert. “I have noth-
ing against Jews as such,” Hitler said, “But Jews are all communists, and
it is the latter who are my enemies; it is against them that my fight is
directed.”
“There are different types of Jews,” Planck said, “Both worthy and
worthless ones to humanity, with old families of the highest German
culture among the former.” He suggested that a distinction should be
made between the various sorts.
“That’s not right. A Jew is a Jew,” Hitler objected. “All Jews stick
together like burrs. When there is one Jew, all kinds of other Jews gather
right away. It should have been the duty of the Jews themselves to draw a
dividing line between the various types. They did not do this, and that is
why I must act against all Jews equally.”
Planck said, “Forcing worthy Jews to emigrate would be equivalent to
mutilating ourselves outright, because we direly need their scientific
work, and their efforts would otherwise accrue primarily to the benefit of
foreign countries,”
The Chancellor ignored the comment. After an uncomfortable minute,
Hitler said, “People say I suffer occasionally from nervous disability.
This is slander. I have nerves of steel.” As if to prove how sturdy he was,
he began to bang his fist on his knee. He spoke extremely fast, beating
AC ADE M I C I M PU RI T I E S 151
himself into a great fury. Planck was left with no other choice than to
remain silent and to take his leave.
Enacted a month earlier, on April 7, 1933, the Law for the Restoration
of the Professional Civil Service had been the brainchild of the Reichs-
minister of the Interior, Wilhelm Frick. He was the same man to whom
Johannes Stark had turned for his appointment to the presidency of the
Reich Physical and Technical Institute. The law called for mass dismis-
sals from the civil service of several classes of individuals, without either
benefits or pensions. Chief among those scheduled for dismissal were
“civil servants who were not of Aryan descent” unless they had already
been employed by the civil service prior to August 1, 1914, or “who had
fought in the World War at the front for the German Reich or its allies, or
whose fathers or sons had been casualties in the World War.” Also named
were “Civil servants who, based upon their previous political activities,
cannot guarantee that they have always unreservedly supported the na-
tional state.” Finally, the law provided for transfers of individuals to
lesser posts—at lower pay—at the discretion of the Reich. These dismis-
sals and transfers were to be carried out no later than September 30, 1933,
just months after the law went into effect.
There would be no mistaking the intent of the legislation. A series of
“ordinances,” representing definitions or amplifications of the law, were
issued over the next several months. The first ordinance was issued on
April 11, 1933. Its goals were to clarify that “All civil servants who
belonged to the communist party or to communist support organizations
or substitute organizations are unqualified [for civil service]. They are
therefore to be dismissed.” The law also grew more precise with regard to
defining the term “non-Aryan” as “anyone descended from non-Aryan,
and in particular Jewish, parents or grandparents, is considered non-Ar-
yan. It is sufficient [to disqualify a person for service] that one parent or
one grandparent be non-Aryan. This is to be assumed especially when
one parent or one grandparent has practiced the Jewish Faith.”
All officials were to prove their ancestry by presenting certified docu-
ments like a birth certificate, the marriage certificate of their parents, or
military papers. Finally, if there were some question concerning a civil
servant’s ancestry, an opinion had to be requested of a “specialist on race

research.”
The 1933 civil service law was the initial thrust of a comprehensive,
long-term Nazi plan to restrict Jews from participation in public life,
particularly in highly visible fields like academics, medicine, and law.
The 1935 Nuremberg Laws further defined who was considered a Jew,
prohibited sexual relations between Aryans and Jews, set quotas for Jew-
ish students’ enrollment in universities, and prohibited the granting of
doctoral degrees to Jewish students unless they had already completed
writing their thesis. Laws passed in 1938 and 1939 completed the isola-
tion of German Jews by forbidding most professional and financial inter-
actions between Jews and non-Jews. For example, Jewish physicians
could no longer treat Aryan patients. Loopholes were abolished that had
allowed small numbers of Jewish professors to continue in their univer-
sity positions for past meritorious service during the Great War.
One of the immediate casualties of the new law was Planck’s friend
Fritz Haber, though his dismissal was self-inflicted. The sixty-five-year-
old, 1918 Nobel laureate had revolutionized the production of fertilizer
with his reaction of nitrogen and air to produce ammonia. In addition, he
had been of great service to the Fatherland, though less so to humanity,
with his invention of chlorine and other weaponizable gases, which Ger-
many had used to great effect in World War I.
Haber noted in his April 30, 1933, letter of resignation addressed to
the head of the Ministry of Culture, Bernhard Rust, that by dint of his
employment as a professor at Berlin University having begun in 1898, he
was entitled to remain in office despite having Jewish parents and grand-
parents. “But I do not wish to make use of this privilege for longer than is
necessary to properly dispose of the academic and administrative func-
tions vested in me through my offices,” he wrote.
Haber further explained,
My decision to request my discharge stems from the contrast between

the tradition to which I have adhered up to now concerning scientific
research and the changed attitudes which you, Mister Minister, and
your Ministry represent as the vanguards of the great modern national
movement. My tradition demands that in my choice of colleagues I

take into account the professional and personal attributes of applicants
to an academic position without inquiring after their racial characteris-
tics.
Haber closed by reminding the minister of his contributions to Germa-

ny. Speaking of himself in the third person, he wrote, “You will under-
stand that the pride with which he has served his German native country
throughout his life now compels him to make this request for retirement.”
The remainder of Fritz Haber’s story is short and sad. Soon after he
resigned his faculty position, Haber moved to a temporary lectureship in
Cambridge, at least in part to escape the backlash over his resignation
among his German colleagues. Soon after his arrival in England, Zionist
Chaim Weizmann recruited Haber to the faculty of a new science and
technology campus being built south of Tel Aviv, in Israel, that eventual-
ly would bear Weizmann’s name. Haber had been in ill health and died of
heart failure en route to his new home.
Many of Fritz Haber’s extended family members would die in German
concentration camps. However, his son by his first wife Clara managed to
immigrate to the United States. In 1946, Hermann Haber committed sui-
cide over the shame of his father having invented an early version of
Zyclon B, the gas the Nazis had used to murder millions of Jews during
the Holocaust. His death reprised his mother’s, who thirty-one years ear-
lier had shot herself to death after the first combat deployment of Haber’s
chlorine gas, near Ypern, during the Great War.
In writing his obituary of Haber, Max von Laue drew a parallel be-
tween the last years of his friend’s complex life and those of Themisto-
cles, who “went down in history not as the pariah at the Court of the
Persian king but as the victor of Salamis . . . [Haber] will be remembered
as the man who had made bread out of thin air and who triumphed in the
service of his country and of the whole of humanity.”
Another voluntary resignation drew even greater attention. The April
19, 1933, edition of the Goettinger Tageblatt carried the story of Profes-
sor James Franck’s resignation from Goettingen University. Franck had
shared the 1925 Nobel Prize in physics with Gustav Hertz for his work on
the interactions of atomic particles. Having once proclaimed that his god
was science and nature his religion, Franck saw himself not as a Jew, but
as an assimilated German citizen. Nonetheless, under Nazi law he was
Jewish. Since he was a World War I veteran who had been decorated with
the Iron Cross, First Class, and seriously injured in a gas attack, he was
exempt from prosecution under the civil service law.
A number of friends advised Franck to continue in his professorship,
arguing that the current situation was only temporary and that it would
resolve itself. As one colleague said to him, “Nothing is eaten as hot as it
is cooked.” Regardless, Franck was determined to resign in protest. He
met with several friends to draft his letter of resignation and write a press
release the evening before the newspapers broke the story:
I have requested of my superior that I be released from my office. I

will try to continue to work in science in Germany. We Germans of
Jewish descent are being treated as foreigners and enemies of the
Fatherland. It is expected that our children grow up knowing that they
are not permitted ever to prove themselves worthy Germans. Whoever
has been in the war is permitted to continue to serve the state. I decline
to take advantage of this privilege, even though I understand the posi-
tion of those who today see it as their duty to stay resolutely at their
posts.
The reaction to Franck’s resignation was vigorous and immediate.

Forty-two of Goettingen’s faculty denounced Franck’s public withdraw-
al. Specifically citing Franck’s passage about Jews being treated as
foreigners and enemies of the Fatherland, their statement read,
[Franck’s resignation] could seriously impede the domestic and

foreign political activities of our government of the national renewal.
We are in agreement that the form of the above tender of resignation is
tantamount to an act of sabotage; and we therefore hope that the
Government will carry out the necessary purging measures expedi-
tiously.
The professors responsible for the document went on to explain that “due
to the holidays, it was not possible to obtain the signatures of all the
professors, but it can be relatively assumed that they approve of the above
declaration.” The signatories further commented that Franck’s resigna-
tion had “even irritated his fellow Jews at the Berliner Tageblatt, which
immediately recognized that Professor Franck had made a fatal step that
the Government cannot overlook idly.”
Perhaps surprisingly, the Goettinger Tageblatt sided with Franck, con-
cluding its coverage as follows: “The decision of Professor Franck is to
be rated largely, yes even solely, as a moral one. We hope and wish that
this step, by which Franck destroys his life’s work and his life’s content,
will have the effect that other scientists who would be forced to resign by
the current regulations are kept for our scientific life.”
Franck received numerous private letters of support, but there was no
open display of public protest. When fellow physicist Otto Hahn sug-
gested to Planck that the two of them organize a demonstration of solidar-
ity on Franck’s behalf, Planck saw only futility: “If you bring together
thirty such men today, then tomorrow one hundred-fifty will come to
denounce them, because they want to take their places.”
Within days, the university dismissed six other Jewish faculty mem-
bers. It was only the beginning of the initial purge. Despite Franck’s
desire to continue working in Germany, even if it meant working in
industry, no company stepped forward to hire him. Things quickly degen-
erated for Franck and his family. They faced increasing harassment by
brown shirts and neighbors to the point of fearing for their safety. In
November 1933, James Franck moved with his wife and daughters to
become a professor of physical chemistry at Johns Hopkins University in
Baltimore, Maryland. In 1938, Franck moved his family to Chicago,
where he could more actively participate in the Manhattan Project. While
contributing to the scientific underpinnings of bomb development, he
simultaneously chaired the Committee on Political and Social Problems
related to the atomic bomb. The committee generated what became
known as the Franck Report, recommending that the United States ab-
stain from dropping the atomic bomb on Japanese cities. Franck personal-
ly handed the committee’s report to Arthur Compton, an assistant to the

U.S. Secretary of War Henry Stimson, on June 11, 1945. It is uncertain
whether Stimson ever reviewed the report or whether it even was consid-
ered in arriving at the decision to drop atomic bombs, without warning,
on Japanese population centers.
Franck was appalled by the government’s disregard of his commit-
tee’s report and at the resultant destruction of human life. He spent much
of the remainder of his long life arguing for restraint in punishing the
vanquished enemy. “The feeling of revenge is, of course, strong in Jewish
circles,” Franck wrote to his friend, Albert Einstein, after the war. “If that
goes on, the Nazis will have won in their battle for demoralization of the
whole world. . . . I will have no part in the punishment and gradual
elimination of the innocent.”
Despite his reputation for pacifism, Einstein would have none of this.
Einstein responded, “The Germans slaughtered millions of civilian’s ac-
cording to a carefully conceived plan. . . . They would do it again if they
could. The few white ravens among them changes absolutely nothing. . . .
Dear Franck! Keep your hands off this foul affair!”
As the resignations of Haber and Franck and the mounting dismissals
of Jewish professors began to attract worldwide attention, Johannes Stark,
by this time ensconced in the presidency of the Reich Physical and Tech-
nical Institute, went on the offensive. It infuriated him that although Jews
accounted for less than 1 percent of Germany’s population, they held over
an eighth of professorial chairs in German universities and a quarter of
the Nobel Prizes awarded to German citizens.
In a letter to the journal Nature, Stark argued that Germany’s fight was
not against its scientists, but rather against the Jews, who, in his view, had
gained an inappropriate level of influence in the sciences during the Wei-
mar years. The reform of the German civil service was not to intervene in
the freedom of scientific inquiry but to restore the level of academic
freedom that had existed in the past, before the establishment of the
“Jewish tyranny.” The Jewish scientists who had been dismissed or
forced to immigrate had simply been caught up in what was really an
effort to restore proper order to science in the Reich.
The Nazi campaign to eliminate Jewish professors from German uni-

versities drew a strong negative response from Jews around the world. In
Stark’s mind, this reaction was still further evidence of the Jewish cabal
that had taken over science and that he and Lenard felt so desperately
required a correction—not just in Germany but also elsewhere in Europe.
For the most part, Stark aggressively enforced the law, but there were
idiosyncratic exceptions where Stark personally interceded on behalf of
affected Jews.
One example of Stark’s unpredictable interventions was the case of
Gustav Hertz. The impending dismissal was brought to Stark’s attention
by the German University Lecturers Association in November 1934,
along with the case of Richard Gans. On Hertz’s behalf, Stark ruled,
There is nothing Jewish in Professor Hertz’s outward appearance, be-

havior, and scientific activity. . . . He is one of our few first class
German physicists and is also a Nobel Laureate. He is, in addition, the
nephew of the great physicist Heinrich Hertz [with whom Lenard had
studied and for whom he bore a fondness] and is thus the bearer of this
famous name. It would be a blunder without parallel to deny this man
the right to examine students because his grandfather was a Jew. I am
convinced that he would not possibly accept such a personal insult but
would resign from his office, leave the country, and be welcomed
everywhere with open arms.
On the matter of Gans, Stark argued that while he “cannot boast of any
accomplishments as important as those of Hertz, nevertheless, his scien-
tific papers are of value. He also has steered clear of the Einstein circle.”
It seemed at times like these that Stark was making up his own defini-
tion of who was and who was not subject to penalties under the 1933 law.
At least on this particular day and for these particular supplicants, Stark
saw the risk in dismissing a pair of valuable Jewish scientists. As re-
flected in the Gans case, an important criterion in his decision making
was where a scientist stood with respect to his views of Einstein’s theo-
ries. However, the dismissal of most Jewish professors did not receive
this level of attention. Two years later, the Nuremburg Laws relieved
both Hertz and Gans of their responsibilities to examine students, effec-

tively removing both men from their university posts. Hertz and Gans
found positions in industry. Although they were threatened by deporta-
tion to concentration camps, they ultimately were protected by their com-
panies as essential to the war effort. Both remained in Germany through-
out the war.
Relatively few German scientists truly agreed with Stark and Lenard’s
extreme ideological position, but it was suicidal for even the most accom-
plished German academics to disagree and risk drawing their predatory
attention.
One example of how Stark and Lenard could place a scientist in a
dangerously awkward position occurred early in Stark’s administration.
Stark was asked by the Ministry of Propaganda to organize a demonstra-
tion of support for Hitler by having a dozen Nobel laureates sign a brief
declaration, which read, “In Adolf Hitler, we German natural researchers
perceive and admire the savior and leader of the German people. Under
his protection and encouragement, our scientific work will serve the Ger-
man people and increase German esteem in the world.” The University of
Goettingen’s Werner Heisenberg diplomatically responded that while he
had no problem with the document itself, he felt it inappropriate for
scientists to involve themselves in political affairs. The remainder of the
laureates followed suit. Stark personally reported the outcome of the fias-
co to Reichsminister Goebbels. Stark would not forget the embarrass-
ment. Eventually, he would center his crosshairs directly on Heisenberg.
The behavior of the less well-known, rank-and-file, university profes-
sors proved more reliable. By removing ambitious and talented Jews from
the competition, the law effectively made the path to a university job
much easier for the “true Germans” who remained. Even so, Lenard’s
1934 publication of Deutsche Physik met with general consternation in
the scientific community, particularly among younger physicists who had
developed the mathematical skills necessary to understand Einstein’s the-
ories.
Writing at a later time, one doctoral student wrote, “When Lenard’s
book, Deutsche Physik, was published, it met with headshaking and
amazement among colleagues. We young physicists read a few pages out

of curiosity, and then put it aside.” The student recalled admiring one of
his professors for having the courage to say, “‘This is all very strange.
One cannot do away with the facts of physics just like that.’ We students
got the message. I remember that I was glad to have this assurance and
confirmation of my own thoughts.”
Nevertheless, Deutsche Physik attracted a small but dedicated coterie
of adherents whose speeches and writings proved valuable to Stark and
Lenard. The 1933 civil service law had provided the leverage they needed
to effectively rid German universities of Jewish professors. About twelve
hundred professors from all disciplines lost their jobs in the immediate
aftermath of the law’s implementation. Among these were one hundred
six physicists, eighty-six chemists, and eighty-five others involved in
scientific investigation or the development of technology. Hundreds of
others considered insufficiently supportive of the new regime were trans-
ferred to lesser positions.
All told, about sixteen hundred natural scientists summarily lost their
jobs as a result of the institution of the 1933 civil service law. In the
absence of any means of supporting themselves and their families, the
only option for many was to leave Germany. Among them were a sam-
pling of elite physicists, mathematicians, and chemists who eventually
would assist the Allies in developing technologies that would help tip the
balance of World War II against Hitler’s Germany.
The scientists were part of a much larger movement. Between 1933
and 1935, enforcement of the Law for the Restoration of the Professional
Civil Service caused 65,000 Jews to leave Germany. Of the remaining
562,000 Jews residing in Germany following this first wave of depar-
tures, another 300,000 emigrated because of racial or ideological discrim-
ination. The fate of those who stayed mirrored the horrors enacted by the
German armies in their sweep through Europe: 227,000 German Jews
perished in concentration camps. Only a tiny enclave of 25,000 Jews
remained in Germany after the war.
The emigration of German scholars did not come easily. Virtually all
of the countries that might have provided safe haven had restrictive immi-
gration policies toward Jews. In response, a number of organizations

sprung up to provide money, legal assistance, and bureaucratic support
for displaced German academics. Founded in London in 1933, the Aca-
demic Assistance Council had, by the end of 1935, placed sixty-two
professors in tenured positions and helped one hundred forty-eight others
to find at least temporary employment outside of Germany.
In 1933, the German anatomist Philipp Schwartz founded the Switzer-
land-based Notgemeinschaft Deutscher Wissenschaftler, an emergency
services organization that ultimately relocated two thousand displaced
German and Austrian university teachers, mostly in Great Britain and the
United States. The board of the Notgemeinschaft was a “Who’s who” of
Jewish German physicists, including, at one time or another, Max Born,
James Franck, and Fritz Haber. Aid societies sprung up in France and the
United States as well. The American Emergency Committee in Aid of
Displaced Scholars compiled lists of dismissed Jewish academics and
guided as many of them as it could through often-complex processes to
positions in U.S. universities. The trickle of would-be refugees quickly
became a torrent, overwhelming the capacity of relief organizations to
respond to the crisis.
The events in Germany, and especially his own banishment from Eu-
rope, strengthened Einstein’s self-identification as a Jew. Referring back
to the tumult of those times, Einstein wrote in a 1952 letter to Israeli
prime minister David Ben Gurion, “My relationship to the Jewish people
has become my strongest human bond ever since I became fully aware of
our precarious situation among the nations of the world.” Einstein had
learned the hard way that his lifelong disavowal of biblical Judaism in no
way exempted him from the genetic, cultural, and ethical qualities that
identified him as a Jew.
Einstein gave a lecture to help raise funds for the work of the Academ-
ic Assistance Council that drew ten thousand people to London’s Albert
Hall. He continued his quest with Chaim Weitzmann to build what is now
Hebrew University in Jerusalem and referred potential immigrant schol-
ars to Palestine. He became personally involved in the immigration cases
of his many friends and colleagues. However, over time, even Einstein’s
reputation could not address the demands of such a large number of

dismissed German scholars. He received and responded to so many re-
quests and wrote so many affidavits on behalf of stranded Jewish scien-
tists that, by the late 1930s, his overused signature had lost much of its
influence.
In a 1933 letter to his friend Max Born, Einstein despaired,
Two years ago I tried to appeal to Rockefeller’s conscience about the

absurd method of allocating grants [to displaced scientists], unfortu-
nately without success. Bohr has now gone to see him in an attempt to
persuade him to take some action. . . . I am firmly convinced that all
those who have made a name already will be taken care of. But the
others, the young ones, will not have the chance to develop.
Max Born and his wife Hedi were among Einstein’s closest friends,
and he had conducted a regular correspondence with both of them since
1916. Like James Franck, the Borns were well-assimilated, secular Jews
who had no thoughts of leaving Germany prior to the rise of Adolf Hitler.
In the end, they had no choice. Stark and Lenard knew of Born’s relation-
ship with Einstein. They begrudged his support for Einstein during the
events surrounding the 1920 anti-Einstein lectures at the Philharmonic
and the debate at Bad Nauheim. As a friend of Einstein and a theoretical
physicist to boot, Born could expect no quarter.
Born had considered following Franck’s example in resigning from
his post at Goettingen. However, the matter was taken out of his hands
when he received a telegram on April 25, 1933, dismissing him from the
faculty. Like Franck, Born had been advised that little would come of the
new laws. A much-belated June 1933 letter from Werner Heisenberg,
also a member of the Goettingen faculty, suggested that he and Max
Planck could intervene on Born’s behalf. The letter mischaracterized
Planck’s visit with Hitler as having been reassuring that the “Government
will not undertake anything that might impede our science” and that “the
political changes could take place without any damage to physics at
Goettingen.” Heisenberg reassured Born that “only a very few are af-
fected by the law—certainly not you and Franck.” In time, Heisenberg
would personally suffer from Lenard and Stark’s malevolence, but at this
point he provided nothing but encouragement. He concluded, “Therefore,
I entreat you not to make any decisions now but to wait to see how our
country looks in the autumn.”
Heisenberg had misread the tea leaves. With Stark at the helm and
Lenard pulling strings with Hitler, the Nazis pursued the elimination of
Jews from academic life with ever-increasing vigor. Hordes of brown
shirts roamed the streets and grew more aggressive. Born became desper-
ate about the increasing threat of violence to himself and his family.
“After I had been given ‘leave of absence,’ we decided to leave Germany
at once. We had rented an apartment for the summer vacation in Wolken-
stein in the Groedner valley [of Northern Italy] . . . from a farmer by the
name of Peratoner. He was willing to take us immediately. Thus, we left
for the South Tyrol at the beginning of May [1933].”
The Borns and their three children became academic nomads. They
first settled temporarily in Cambridge, where Born had obtained a visiting
lectureship. From there, he sought Einstein’s assistance in securing a
permanent position while becoming involved in the quest to place other
scientists who were even less fortunate than he. In June 1933, he wrote
Einstein,
Almost every week some unfortunate wretch approaches me personal-

ly, and every day I receive letters from people left stranded. And I am
completely helpless, as I am myself a guest of the English and my
name is not widely known;
I can do nothing except advise the Academic Assistance Council in
London and the Notgemeinschaft in Zurich. But neither of these insti-
tutions has any money.
For a while, Born held out hope that his return to Germany might be
possible, but by 1934 he became convinced that he would have to find a
new home and a place to work. They spent the winter of 1935–1936 in
Bangalore, India, where Born was a visiting lecturer. He then spent sever-
al months lecturing in Moscow. “We were, of course, not very keen on
going to Russia,” he wrote, “Which would mean learning a new, very
complicated language, uprooting the children a second time, and starting

an entirely new life.” Unable or unwilling to continue their peripatetic
existence, and with no other choices available to them, the Borns applied
for Russian visas and began the long process of officially becoming Rus-
sian émigrés.
In the end, Born’s perseverance, his diligence in pursuing every pos-
sible opportunity, paid off. The family’s wanderings ended with his re-
cruitment to the University of Edinburgh, where Born assumed the Tait
Chair of Natural Philosophy. While the post had an impressive ring to its
title, there was little going on in Edinburgh in the world of theoretical
physics. With little equipment and few colleagues, Born’s involvement at
the top level of theoretical physics came to an abrupt halt. Given the
opportunities for innovative research proffered by the war effort, it was
the least propitious possible time to be stuck in Edinburgh.
Seeing no way forward with his chosen career, Born reinvented him-
self as a scientific philosopher, an epistomologist. He cut a fresh path
through the morass of conflicting arguments that had long sustained the
vicious battles between Lenard’s experimentalism and Einstein’s theory.
“A single-crystal can be clear. Nevertheless a mass of fragments of this
crystal is opaque,” Born noted on one occasion. “Even the theoretical
physicist must be guided by the ideal of the closest possible contact with
the world of facts. Only then do the formulas live and beget new life.”
Once stolidly aligned in the theoretical camp, Born now tried to square up
the relationship between theory and observation, writing, “My advice to
those who wish to learn the art of scientific prophesy is not to rely on
abstract reasoning, but to decipher the secret language of Nature from
Nature’s documents, the facts of experience.”
Born became a British citizen in 1939, the day before England entered
the war against Germany. He retired to Germany in 1952. Surprisingly,
his colleagues had never stopped nominating Born for a Nobel Prize,
which he was awarded in 1954. The Swedish Academy of Sciences cited
Born’s early work on quantum mechanics, and especially his mathemati-
cal expression of the wave function. For his Nobel lecture, Born turned to
the echoes of the conflict between experimental and theoretical physics.
After all, he had been in the thick of it. In his view, it was time for
détente:
I believe that ideas such as absolute certitude, absolute exactness, final

truth, etc. are figments of the imagination which should not be admis-
sible in any field of science. On the other hand, any assertion of prob-
ability is either right or wrong from the standpoint of the theory on
which it is based. This loosening of thinking seems to me to be the
greatest blessing which modern science has given to us. For the belief
in a single truth and in being the possessor thereof is the root cause of
all evil in the world.
Although Born personally did not contribute importantly to the Allies’

war effort, some of the students and assistants he trained at Goettingen
resided in the front rank of wartime scientists. Among his doctoral stu-
dents and research assistants who immigrated to the United States and
participated in the Manhattan Project were Robert Oppenheimer, Enrico
Fermi, Edward Teller, and Eugene Wigner. Perhaps his most brilliant
assistant, Werner Heisenberg, led the grossly underfunded and unsuccess-
ful German effort to develop a nuclear weapon for the Third Reich.
Historian Nancy Thorndike Greenspan noted that Born “let his superstars
stretch past him; to those less gifted, he patiently handed out respectable
but doable assignments.”
The passing down of knowledge imprints something on the lineage of
scholars that is as unique as the genetic imprint of families. A philosophy.
A construct. A way of looking at things. Now and again, though, muta-
tions occur. As mentioned, Born’s student, Edward Teller, remains
shrouded in controversy to this day. Raised in Budapest by a wealthy
lawyer father and a talented pianist mother, the family was only nominal-
ly Jewish and well assimilated into Hungarian life. Teller’s desire to
become a mathematician clashed with his father’s wish that he become an
engineer. In 1926, Teller left Hungary for Karlsruhe to begin his educa-
tion as a chemist. There, however, he received his first exposure to theo-
retical physics, a watershed in Teller’s life. He loved the purity of the
mathematics and the large palette of the cosmos, the backdrop on which
the theorists worked. He sought and received his father’s blessing to

pursue his interest, but only after the elder Teller had traveled to Karls-
ruhe and was assured by his son’s professors that Edward had the talent to
succeed.
Shortly thereafter, Teller moved to Munich to work with Sommerfeld.
It was in Munich that Teller was involved in a streetcar accident that
severed his left foot. The accident would require him to wear a brace and
walk with a pronounced limp for the rest of his life. After Munich, he was
on to Leipzig and finally to Goettingen, where he attached himself to the
exceptional group gathered around James Franck and Max Born.
Even though his status as a foreigner exempted Teller from the 1933
civil service law, the young man foresaw where things were headed.
Germany would become a poor place for a deformed, ambitious Hungar-
ian Jew wishing to build a career in theoretical physics. His education,
training, and apprenticeships took him to London, then to Copenhagen to
work for a year with Niels Bohr. By 1935, he had moved to the United
States, to Washington, D.C. In 1939, he learned of experiments in Germa-
ny that showed the feasibility of a nuclear chain reaction that, if it could
be controlled, would release enough energy to power a city or destroy
one.
By this time, it was quite clear to all that Teller was an exceptional
talent. Fermi and Szilárd brought him on to work with them on the con-
struction of a nuclear reactor for purposes of peacetime energy. The em-
phasis of their work changed, however, as it began to look more likely
that the United States might have to enter the war in Europe. Teller
became involved in the Manhattan Project, participating at the highest
level in developing a nuclear weapon.
It was when he joined the Manhattan Project that Teller became em-
broiled in controversy. While most of his colleagues backed the develop-
ment of a fission, or so-called atomic, bomb that would make use of the
German experiments, Teller felt strongly that there was an advantage in
pursuing a potentially much more powerful fusion weapon, what would
become better known as a hydrogen bomb. The debate brought out the
darker side of Edward Teller’s personality, which began to dominate his
relationships with other Manhattan Project scientists. In a passive-aggres-

sive mood, Teller was frequently late in fulfilling his responsibilities.
Worse, in some cases, he simply refused to perform his assigned tasks.
Teller’s actions led to tensions with the other scientists, who already were
irritated by his disruptive habit of playing the piano late into the night.
Teller might well have become just a footnote to the history of the
development of the atomic bomb. However, in 1950, when the Soviet
Union exploded its first atomic device, President Harry Truman an-
nounced that the United States would respond with an even more power-
ful weapon. The Cold War was on. The United States would embark on
the development of a fusion bomb. The work of designing a successful
hydrogen bomb fell to Edward Teller and Stanislaw Ulam. Again, contro-
versy erupted around Teller’s role in the project, in particular his calcula-
tions concerning the amount of hard-to-get tritium needed to conduct the
chain reaction. Some of the scientists involved in the project believed that
Teller intentionally misled supervisors by underestimating the amount of
tritium needed for fear that a true assessment of the expense would termi-
nate the project in its early stages.
Further disagreement occurred when it was time to parcel out the
credit for success. “I contributed. Ulam did not,” the ninety-one-year-old
Teller claimed in a 1999 interview. “I’m sorry I had to answer you in this
abrupt way. Ulam was rightly dissatisfied with the old approach. He came
to me with a part of an idea which I already had worked out and had
difficulty getting people to listen to. . . . When it then came to defending
that paper and really putting work into it, he refused. He said, ‘I don’t
believe in it.’”
Teller was not present for the detonation of “Ivy Mike,” the first
successful hydrogen bomb, on November 1, 1952. He told the press that
he felt unwelcome. Nonetheless, he took much of the credit for the proj-
ect’s success. To correct what his colleagues felt was a serious public
misapprehension, Fermi convinced Teller to write an article for the jour-
nal Science about the development of the hydrogen bomb, entitled “The
Work of Many People,” which appeared in February 1955. Teller later
claimed that the article had been “a white lie.”
Teller was a conservative “hawk” who believed the communist threat

could best be addressed by the continued development of advanced weap-
onry. He was suspicious of colleagues who he felt were soft on Commu-
nism or who held more liberal political views. Perhaps most telling, he
provoked the outrage of his colleagues by testifying against Robert Op-
penheimer during the McCarthy hearings of 1954 that ultimately denied
Oppenheimer further security clearance to work on government projects:
In a great number of cases I have seen Dr. Oppenheimer act—I under-

stood that Dr. Oppenheimer acted—in a way which for me was ex-
ceedingly hard to understand. I thoroughly disagreed with him on nu-
merous issues and his actions frankly appeared to me confused and
complicated. To this extent, I feel that I would like to see the vital
interests of this country in hands which I understand better, and there-
fore trust more. In this very limited sense I would like to express the
feeling that I would feel personally more secure if public matters
would rest in other hands. . . . If it is a question of wisdom and
judgment, as demonstrated by actions since 1945, then I would say one
would be wiser not to grant clearance.
Enrico Fermi said of Teller that he was the only monomaniac ever to
have several manias. In the end, Teller’s difficulties in getting along with
his colleagues, his quirks, and his rants led to him becoming something of
a caricature of a mad scientist. Many believe that Teller was Stanley
Kubrick’s model for the crazed nuclear scientist portrayed in his 1964
satirical film, Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and
Love the Bomb. In naming Teller the 1979 “honoree” of the Ig-Nobel
Prizes, the sponsors of the award cited Teller’s “lifelong efforts to change
the meaning of peace as we know it.”
Edward Teller was a brilliant mind who doubtlessly believed whole-
heartedly in the strength-through-power philosophy of Ronald Reagan,
whom he greatly admired. Nonetheless, his relationships with colleagues
suffered through innumerable incidents, and many did not forget. Upon
his death in 2003, a fellow Manhattan Project scientist and Nobel lau-
reate, Isidor Rabi, whose family had immigrated to the United States
when he was a child, said, “I do really feel it would have been a better
world without Teller.”
13
SOME SAY BY FIRE, OTHERS ICE
The secretary knocked softly and waited until he heard a response before
opening the door. He leaned forward just enough to insert his head past
the jam to tell SS Reichsfuehrer Heinrich Himmler that his mother was in
the outer office. Should he escort her in? Himmler’s impatience sent the
young man scurrying back to his desk. But by the time Himmler greeted
his “Mutti,” his attitude had changed dramatically. In less than a minute,
he had regressed forty years, back to his childhood when pleasing “Mutti”
had dominated his thoughts.
Growing up in Bavaria, Himmler’s nondescript, nebbish appearance,
social awkwardness, lack of athletic ability, and rigid obedience had
earned him plaudits from his teachers and the scorn of his schoolmates.
As an adult, these same qualities had brought him political power far
beyond even his mother’s fevered imaginings. At home in the Munich
headquarters of the SS, he was admired for his cool efficiency and feared
for the absence of any hint of human compassion. In the presence of his
staunchly devout Roman Catholic mother, though, he was a different
man. With a desperation he’d never managed to resolve in childhood, an
empty place in his heart still sought her approval of his accomplishments
and attention to her desires.
Despite how close he was to his mother, it was unusual for Mutti to
visit him at work. He considered asking her outright why she had stopped
by but thought better of it. There was a ritual order to their conversations
169
as inalterable as High Mass. He listened as she fussed over his health.

Was he getting enough sleep? Eating properly? Even the state of his
bowels was a matter of motherly interest. He was used to this. He cour-
teously submitted to her interrogation and waited.
Quite nonchalantly, several minutes into their conversation, his moth-
er mentioned that she had received an unexpected visit from a distant
friend of the family. Did he remember Annie Heisenberg. No? Well, she
wasn’t sure. Perhaps they had never met. Annie was the wife of August
Heisenberg. Mr. Heisenberg and Mutti’s father, Grandpapa Heyder, had
both been teachers, rectors of their schools, and knew each other from
their hiking club. Annie’s son, Werner, was in some kind of trouble. She
wouldn’t ordinarily have bothered her Heinrich except that, as a mother,
she could identify with her friend’s concerns.
Annie had told her that poor Werner had been the subject of a very
unfavorable article in the SS weekly publication, Das Schwarze Korps.
At first, Annie had dismissed it as nothing, but the more she thought
about it, the more afraid she became. After all, there had been an earlier
attack. She thought it had been written by a man named Menzel. Yes. She
was almost certain that his name was Menzel. Would Heinrich please
humor her and see what he could do to help her friend’s son?
Himmler was well aware that Werner Heisenberg was under fire. He
had met the Nobel Prize–winning physicist on several occasions and
found him to be a typical academic with his head in the clouds. Still, he
was considered to be the most prominent scientist remaining in Germany
now that the law reforming the civil service and the Nuremberg laws had
flushed the Jews from the universities. With the Jews out of the way,
Lenard and Stark had turned their attention to the “white Jews,” theoreti-
cal physicists like Heisenberg whom they viewed as improperly influ-
enced by Albert Einstein.
Himmler refocused his attention on his mother’s voice. She had
moved on to other topics, but it was this visit by Heisenberg’s mother that
had been the reason for her decision to stop by and speak with her son.
Several minutes later, after once again admonishing her Heinrich to take
SOM E SAY B Y FI RE , OT H E RS ICE 171
care of his health, she voiced the traditional Bavarian benediction, Gruess
Gott, and left.
Himmler had his secretary bring him the SS’s files on Werner Heisen-
berg. What a mess this fellow had gotten himself into. For someone
generally acknowledged to be a genius, he was not very smart at all. He
had been swimming against the tide for years, flaunting his admiration of
Einstein, Bohr, and other discredited theoreticians in the face of the Na-
zis’ new dialectic.
Himmler opened a packet of newspaper clippings. Johannes Stark had
set his cat’s paw, a student named Willi Menzel, to author a propaganda
piece for a January 1936 edition of Voelkischer Beobachter. Skimming
quickly, several items caught Himmler’s attention: “theoreticians like
Einstein . . . propagated their ideas in the manner characteristic of Jews
and forced them upon physicists . . . ridicule men who criticized this new
type of ‘science’ . . . the lofty spheres of the Einsteinian intellect.”
Further down, Menzel cited Lenard’s Deutsche Physik and lauded
Lenard for “single-handedly” having held the proper name “German”
above the adjective “Jewish.” The article closed with a battle cry: “We,
the younger generation want to continue the fight today for German phys-
ics; and we will succeed in elevating its name to the same heights that
German technology and science has already been enjoying for a long
time.”
It was the usual propaganda, Himmler thought. Acceptance of the
principles of Deutsche Physik had been a good litmus test for scientists’
allegiance to the Reich. Although Stark had proven a terrible administra-
tor, full of grandiose plans that he would never be able to implement,
Himmler couldn’t fault either Lenard or Stark for their enthusiasm. None-
theless, watching the two scientists buffalo their colleagues into their way
of thinking had made him cynical of their actual motives.
Heisenberg had played the fool. He should have known better than to
respond to this pap. Publishing Menzel’s article had been an obvious trap,
baited by Lenard and Stark to irk Heisenberg into publicly airing his
impolitic views. Amazingly, Heisenberg had failed to recognize the dan-
ger. Just look at what he had written!
Ignoring Menzel, whom he considered merely a ghost writer, Heisen-

berg directed his readers to the true perpetrators: “On the authority of Ph.
Lenard and J. Stark, two of the most senior and meritorious German
physicists, W. Menzel offers arguments against theoretical physics . . .
that appear erroneous and misleading to the majority of younger scien-
tists.” Heisenberg adopted a paternalistic style, writing, “A serious analy-
sis of this changed situation leads the exact sciences away from the naïve
materialistic conception of the world.” In concluding, Heisenberg re-
sponded to Menzel’s challenge with one of his own. “The continuation of
this research, which may well exert the greatest influence on the structure
of our intellectual life as a whole, is one of the noblest missions of
German youth in science.”
The newspaper had preceded Heisenberg’s words with a disclaimer:
“Since we can by no means agree with the views expressed in this [Hei-
senberg’s] reply, we have turned to Professor Stark as an authority in the
field of physics, asking him his opinion, which is printed subsequently.”
Doubtlessly, this had been the plan all along. Once Heisenberg had
displayed his true stripes, Stark would get the last word. Himmler knew
without looking what Stark must have written. He knew what he
would’ve done; he wasn’t disappointed.
“For clarity’s sake,” Stark began, “It is essential that the preceding
article by Heisenberg be rectified immediately. It is designed to give the
impression to readers who are not physics experts that the great discover-
ies in physics of recent decades were an achievement of theory, and
wherever possible even of Jewish theory.”
Stark depicted the whole of theoretical physics as a Jewish lie. It had
not been theory but “careful observation and measurement by experimen-
tal physicists” that had led Germany to supremacy in the natural sciences.
True Germans had discovered, for example, X-rays, radioactivity, and the
effect of magnetic fields on spectral lines. “No productive experimental
physicist,” he wrote, “uses Einstein’s relativity theories as a point of
departure for research.” In the end, Stark took advantage of the opportu-
nity Heisenberg had afforded him to paint the talented young physicist
with the tarred brush of Judaism:
In his article, Heisenberg continues to advocate the fundamental atti-

tude of Jewish physics even today. Indeed, he even expects that young
Germans should adopt this basic attitude and take Einstein and his
comrades as their models in science. . . . The article by the student
Menzel is a welcome sign that young Germans are shunning the influ-
ence of Jewish physics and that they want to study physics in the same
spirit that pervades Lenard’s recently published textbook, Deutsche
Physik, which reflects physical reality without “the new systems of
concepts.”
If only Heisenberg hadn’t stuck his neck out, Himmler thought as he

turned to the last newspaper article in the file, the recent article in Das
Schwarze Korps that Mutti had mentioned, the one entitled “White Jews
in Science.” He noticed immediately that there was no byline; Stark had
hidden behind a cloak of anonymity. No matter. Stark’s rhetoric was
unmistakable. Again, he skimmed the text, retaining snapshots of the
content:
. . . primitive type of anti-Semitism that limits itself to fighting against

Jews alone. . . .
. . . not dealing with Jews per se, but rather with the mentality, or rather
bad mentality, they spread. . . .
When the carrier of this mentality is not a Jew but a German. . . .
. . . could also speak of Jews in spirit, of Jews by mentality.
. . . intellectual ties of white Jews to Jewish role models and masters.
All of this was well-worn, vintage Lenard. Stark in full rant. The pair
of them had an insatiable appetite for Jew-baiting. But there was some-
thing new. This article named names. He slowed down and read more
carefully:
The Jews Einstein, Haber, and their mind mates, Sommerfeld and
Planck. Had they been allowed to have their way, in a few decades, the
type of scientist that is productive and close to reality would have died
out. National Socialism’s seizure of power has staved off this danger.
Himmler knew as well as Stark that Sommerfeld and Planck were both
old and revered. They were untouchable. Their mention was merely
Stark’s way of getting to his true target, Heisenberg.
How secure ‘white Jews’ feel in their positions is evidenced by the

actions of the professor for theoretical physics in Leipzig, Professor
Werner Heisenberg, who . . . declared Einstein’s relativity theory to be
the obvious ‘basis for further research’ and saw ‘one of the noblest
missions of German youth in science as the continued development of
theoretical systems of concepts.
Nor had Stark forgotten an old slight that had made him look impotent
to the Nazi leadership:
Heisenberg returned his thanks in August 1934 by refusing to sign a

proclamation by the German Nobel Laureates for his support of the
Fuehrer and Chancellor. His response then was, ‘Although I personally
vote ‘yes,’ political declarations by scientists seem to me improper,
since this was never a normal practice even formerly. Therefore, I do
not sign’. . . . This response exemplifies the Jewish mentality of its
author. . . . Heisenberg is only one example among several others. All
of them are puppets of Jewry in German intellectual life and must
disappear, just as the Jews themselves.
The last paragraph called upon Johannes Stark to comment on its

contents, as though he’d had nothing to do with instigating the article to
begin with. In his commentary, Stark acknowledged the wisdom of the
Das Schwarze Korps article in his opening sentences: “The preceding
article is basically so appropriate and complete that further additions
would really be superfluous.” However, his approval did not stop him
from inscribing another five hundred words on his favorite themes.
Himmler had read enough to know that things had gotten out of hand.
Left to their own devices, Lenard and Stark’s rhetoric might get Heisen-
berg killed by some crazed storm trooper or, worse, run him out of Ger-
many where another country might pick him up. He would have to call
off Stark and his aged mentor, Philipp Lenard, at least until he decided
how to handle this affair. He would be in a bind no matter how things

turned out. War was coming, and they would need Heisenberg’s brain,
but if his office simply ignored the situation, he’d have Stark at his door.
Not to mention Mutti. As though he didn’t already have enough to do
without inserting himself into the petty squabbles of scientists!
The heat on Himmler turned up a notch when, just five days after the
original article was published in Das Schwarze Korps, a letter dated July
20, 1937, from a University of Leipzig colleague of Heisenberg’s, Frie-
drich Hund, turned up at the offices of Reichminister for Science, Educa-
tion, and National Culture Bernhard Rust. The letter complained of
Stark’s “abusive statements” about Heisenberg “that exceeded all bounds
of decency.” The author closed his letter with “I have confidence that
you, Mister Reichminister, will prevent the President of the Reich Physi-
cal and Technical Institute from injuring the honor of our science any
further in this matter.”
Luckily, much of the decision concerning what to do about Heisen-
berg was taken out of Himmler’s hands by Heisenberg himself. On July
21, 1937, Heisenberg wrote directly to Himmler demanding either
Himmler’s approval of Stark’s attacks or that he lodge an objection with
Stark and warn him not to engage in future attacks. He further requested
that he undergo a formal investigation of the charges made in the se-
quence of articles appearing in Das Schwarze Korps.
Himmler thought Heisenberg’s suggestion an excellent idea and con-
ducted his investigation with a vengeance. He had three members of his
personal staff—all former students of physics—install microphones in
Heisenberg’s home and attend his lectures at Leipzig University. On sev-
eral occasions, Heisenberg was brought to Gestapo headquarters to
undergo daylong interrogations that left him shaken. The investigators
spent an inordinate amount of time on Heisenberg’s sexuality. It was
rumored that the married scientist was a homosexual, a crime under Nazi
law, punishable by imprisonment in a concentration camp.
Exactly one year to the day, July 21, 1938, Himmler wrote two letters
that settled the issue. One letter he sent to SS Gruppenfuehrer Reinhard
Heydrich, essentially saying that Germany could not afford to lose or
silence Heisenberg, as he was necessary to the education of a generation

of scientists. The other letter was a personal note to Heisenberg:
I have had your case examined with particular care and scrutiny, since
you are recommended to me by my family. I am happy to be able to
inform you today that I do not approve of the offensive article by Das
Schwarze Korps and that I have put a stop to any further attacks on
you. I hope that I can see you at my office in Berlin someday in the
autumn—though only very late, in November or December—so that
we can have a man-to-man talk about this.
Himmler signed the letter “With friendly greetings and Heil Hitler!” and
added a postscript: “I do find it appropriate, though, that in the future you
separate clearly for your students acknowledgment of scientific research
results from the scientist’s personal and political views.” Going forward,
Heisenberg was to make a point about the source of the information he’d
imparted and advise his students of the source’s standing from the per-
spective of the Third Reich.
It was ironic that Stark had gone after Heisenberg based on the young-
er man’s relationship with Einstein. Although Heisenberg’s work owed
much to Einstein’s, the two were somewhat distant with each other and
never resolved fundamental differences in key conceptions of theoretical
physics. Heisenberg later recalled a conversation he’d had with Einstein
concerning the role that theory played in the progress of science. In a
conversation about the structure of the atom following Einstein’s atten-
dance at a lecture that Heisenberg delivered in 1926 at the University of
Berlin, Einstein invited Heisenberg to walk with him. Years later, Heisen-
berg remembered what they’d discussed:
Heisenberg: Since a good theory must be based on directly observ-

able magnitudes, I thought it more fitting to restrict myself to these
[observations of emitted radiation], treating them, as it were, as repre-
sentatives of electron orbits.
Einstein: But you don’t seriously believe that none but observable
magnitudes must go into a physical theory?
Heisenberg: Isn’t that precisely what you have done with relativity?
Einstein: Possibly I did use this kind of reasoning, but it is nonsense

all the same. . . . It is quite wrong to try founding a theory on observ-
able magnitudes alone. . . . It is the theory which decides what we can
observe.
In essence, Heisenberg was drawing his arguments from the experimen-

talists, albeit in a much more civilized manner than Lenard or Stark,
neither of whom was prone to mannerly subtleties.
In taking stock of what had transpired between Stark and Heisenberg,
it was clear to Himmler that Stark had not progressed with the times.
Stark presented several specific liabilities that he could no longer abide.
First, he was an unrepentant ideologue who unfailingly seemed to make
enemies. An internal SS report commissioned by Himmler found that
although Stark was philosophically aligned with the National Socialist
movement, he was politically inept. His insistence on fostering only re-
search that met his own tightly circumscribed criteria too often ran afoul
of the pragmatic needs of the state. To Himmler, good research was
research that served the interests of the Reich.
Moreover, Stark failed to recognize the importance to Himmler of his
own special interest in research. Himmler was a devotee of the occult. He
had been pursuing evidence in support of the “world ice theory,” which
hypothesized that modern-day Aryans were descendants of an ancient
Aryan culture that had ruled the world. Himmler had incorporated into
the SS a research division known as Forschungsgemeinschaft Deutsches
Ahnenerbe, which had commissioned several expeditions to Germany,
Finland, and Sweden to conduct archeological and anthropological inves-
tigations that Himmler felt would support his contentions.
Karl Weigel, a member of Himmler’s Ahnenerbe research group, re-
quested funding from Stark’s German Research Fund for an Ahnenerbe
project. Stark rejected the proposal, arguing that Ahnenerbe was “unsci-
entific.” The ensuing SS report was forwarded to Himmler. Himmler
interpreted Stark’s failure to demonstrate any understanding of, take an
interest in, or have his research fund sponsor projects dealing with Himm-
ler’s theories as a rejection of Himmler’s beliefs.
Stark also had other failings that now made him a target. He had never
enjoyed the support of German scientists, to whom he appeared power
hungry and overbearing. Several years previously, the responsibility for
overseeing scientific research had been transferred from the highly sup-
portive Reichminister Wilhelm Frick to Bernhard Rust, with whom Stark
had previously scuffled. Perhaps for some inadvertent slight or simply for
the thrill of the intrigue at the highest levels of German government, Rust
claimed that Stark had made derogatory comments about the Reich’s
scientific policies to outsiders, and as punishment halved his research
budget.
Perhaps most significantly, Stark had a way of sticking his nose where
it didn’t belong. He had gotten himself into considerable trouble by call-
ing for the punishment of a local National Socialist official who had been
convicted of embezzlement, which ran afoul of a powerful regional party
official. Unwittingly, Stark had violated a party rule concerning jurisdic-
tion. The Nazi Party took him to court, calling for his dismissal. Although
ultimately an appeals court refused to progress to trial in recognition of
Stark’s early support of Adolf Hitler, Stark was humiliated.
In the end, even his friends in the party turned on him. Alfred Rosen-
berg no longer published his articles in Voelkischer Beobachter, nor were
his opinions welcome in Das Schwarze Korps. A major pet project failed
miserably. He had invested a great deal of the Reich’s money in a mis-
guided scheme to alchemically turn peat hewn from the swamps of south-
ern Germany into gold. To avoid this chicanery coming to light, he was
required to “voluntarily” step down from his post with the German Re-
search Fund. In Stark’s mind, the concatenation of events proved what he
had known all along: there was a conspiracy against him.
Most of Germany’s natural scientists watched the demise of Stark and
Lenard’s influence with satisfaction. The pair had made few friends dur-
ing their time lording over the natural sciences, and Stark’s interpretation
of the Fuehrer Principle had quashed debate. Deutsche Physik became a
terminal footnote to what, before the civil service law, had been a remark-
able flowering of German science. The few remaining advocates of

Deutsche Physik were silenced. In 1940, National Socialist leadership
called for the recognition of relativity theory and quantum mechanics as
acceptable bases for scientific work. Lenard’s twenty-year fight against
Einstein, the man, and his far-reaching theories finally was over. His
influence at an end, the long-retired professor faded into obscurity. War
was coming. War demanded a more pragmatic approach to scientific
investigation.
Stark returned to his family estate in rural Bavaria, where he suffered
the aftereffects of his disillusionment with the Nazi bureaucracy. Still a
target of retribution for his many enemies, Stark’s son Hans was arrested
by the Gestapo on a trumped-up charge of being too kind to a Polish slave
laborer and was sent to the Eastern front. When Stark tried to resign from
the National Socialist Party, local officials forced him to remain a Nazi by
making further threats upon his son’s life. Toward the end of the war,
Stark’s rural estate was taken over by an SS officer who eventually gave
way to the occupation of the American military.
In 1945, Stark was arrested by the Allied authorities. He faced trial for
war crimes. In court, old enmities came home to roost. Max von Laue,
Werner Heisenberg, and Arnold Sommerfeld all testified against him.
From the other side of the Atlantic, Einstein submitted written testimony
that Stark had been “a highly egocentric person with an unusually high
craving for recognition . . . [and a] paranoid personality.” On June 20,
1947, a tribunal found Johannes Stark guilty, and classified him as bear-
ing major guilt (Hauptschuldiger). Despite being over seventy years old,
he was sentenced to four years at hard labor.
The appeals process reversed the initial verdict, downgrading his of-
fenses to those of a “follower.” According to the appeals court, Stark had
“never acted unilaterally to cause damage to non-National Socialists
among his colleagues” and that “his ideological advocacy for National
Socialism had never led to condemnable actions.” He paid a fine of 1,000
marks and was freed.
In their prime, Philipp Lenard and Johannes Stark had experienced
something close to absolute power over the German scientific commu-
nity. They had held in their hands the lives of tens of thousands and
almost without exception had used their authority for ill. Their decline
was abrupt and painful, all the more so because they failed to see their
own complicity in the factors that had led to their fall. They had been
active participants in the era of Nazism. By their mindless adherence to a
philosophical belief in the superiority of one race over another, they
caused irreparable harm to countless lives and, ultimately, had much to
do with the decimation of their own country.
EPILOGUE: UNAPOLOGETIC LIVES
Gingerly grasping the nail between his right thumb and forefinger, Phi-
lipp Lenard tapped his hammer tentatively at first, then with a bit more
vigor. He tested the nail to be certain that it held firmly in the white-
washed plaster. Bent with age, his arms restricted by the tight-fitting dark
suit he had donned for his birthday portrait earlier in the day, he turned to
lift from his desk a framed photograph. His hands shook as he raised it
high and looped the frame’s braided wire hanger over the nail. He took a
step backward to improve his perspective before alternately sliding the
dark wood frame left and right until it was perfectly aligned, top and
bottom parallel with the ceiling.
Lenard gazed at the image, soaking in every detail as though he feared
it might vanish. The portrait depicted a powerful visage caught, seeming-
ly unaware, in a serious contemplative moment. The Fuehrer’s eyes
stared intently from the base of a high, smooth brow. Lenard knew,
firsthand, the eyes to be a brilliant piercing blue and how unnerving it
could be to stare into their unblinking intensity. Beneath the distinctive
nose sat the small swath of hair that had become so recognizable as to
become fodder for caricature. The professor smiled his old man’s smile,
further deepening the furrows that lined his face. He was eighty years old
that day. What a remarkable surprise. He could not have imagined a
better gift.
181
Lenard seated himself at his desk, but only for an instant. Unable to
contain his excitement, he grasped his cane and pushed himself halfway
out of his chair to scrutinize once more the signature in the lower corner
of the portrait. The Fuehrer, himself, had signed it. He glanced again at
the image. To Lenard, the pathos in the Fuehrer’s expression expressed
all that need be said. He had sacrificed everything, even gone to prison, to
restore the Fatherland to its rightful place, chief among nations. Lenard
experienced a frisson of pleasure, imagining that at this very moment,
perhaps, the Fuehrer’s armies were exacting harsh retribution upon those
who had unfairly humbled the German people following the Great War.
Lenard turned his attention to the large, khaki-colored envelope that
had arrived by courier earlier in the day. If the Fuehrer had sent only the
photograph, that would have been ecstasy. But, in fact, there had been a
letter too. A personal letter from the Fuehrer. He wiped his fingers on his
fine wool trousers before laying his hands on the letter. Skimming the
contents, Lenard came quickly to the words that, despite his having read
them several times, still dizzied him with their praise. “With you, the
National Socialists’ thoughts have had a courageous supporter and brave
fighter since the beginning, who effectively curtailed the Jewish influence
on science and who always has been my faithful and appreciated col-
league. This shall never be forgotten.”
Lenard nodded. He had supported the National Socialist’s cause long
before the politics of the times demanded it. In retrospect, he had been
impetuous. But when the Nazis came to power, the gamble paid off. The
party awarded Lenard its highest honors. After his retirement in 1932, the
Reich had immortalized him by naming for him the Institute of Physics at
the University of Heidelberg, where he had been the director for most of
his career. The Philipp Lenard Institute, he thought, and nearly spoke the
words aloud.
Grand as these accolades were, the professor felt there had been some-
thing lacking. The public had not loved him in the same way it had
favored other scientists, even those of lesser accomplishment. He had
never escaped his deep disappointment in the scant public recognition his
discoveries had garnered. Receiving the Nobel Prize for his work describ-
E PI LOGU E 183
ing the emanations of cathode ray tubes had been the zenith. But even
then, neither his colleagues nor the masses had properly acknowledged
the importance of his contributions. He had been in the thick of so many
discoveries. Without so much as a nod in his direction, covetous charla-
tans and fame seekers had stolen the credit that rightfully was his.
He picked up his pen, writing on the inner leaf of the 1935 program
for the inauguration of the Philipp Lenard Institute of Physics in Heidel-
berg, “I was repeatedly honored; my thinking, however, was not ob-
served. I have rebelled against such nonsense for six years. Now, as I am
eighty years old, I have become too old to further come into action, as has
already been the case with my writings.”
How had he become so old? Even the exertion of writing discomfited
him. He stretched his neck against the constricting dark tie and starch-
stiff collar that bit into his thin, old man’s skin. The Fuehrer had put his
finger on the problem—“the Jewish influence.” The Jews had duped his
Aryan colleagues into believing their degenerate theories. Together, they
had cheated him of his proper place in the pantheon of great scientists.
The misplaced public fuss over the white Jew, Roentgen, had been a
prime example. Roentgen, the famous Wuerzburg professor. Lenard well
knew that Roentgen was not a Jew, but it was as though he were. He had
been a friend of Jews, and he had thought like one. Roentgen had some-
how blundered into perceiving the existence of X-rays. He had blithely
accepted the credit as though his discovery had leapt from some well-
spring of scientific sorcery, as though Lenard had not spent years laying
out the fundamental groundwork. The world was so unfair. Without Len-
ard’s signal contributions, the world would never have heard the name of
Wilhelm Conrad Roentgen. It still rankled that Roentgen died never hav-
ing acknowledged Lenard’s role as the true “mother of the X-ray.” The
Reich corrected that oversight, belatedly crediting Lenard with the dis-
covery, but it had held little meaning. It came too late. Consumed by war,
the world took little notice.
Lenard returned his attention to the letter. The business with Roentgen
had been largely a private matter. Hitler was thinking of something en-
tirely different when he penned his reference to “the Jewish influence.”
Einstein. The charlatan and his great Jewish fraud, the theory of relativity.
Einstein had posed a much greater threat. The Jew and his claims for his
theories of relativity stood in opposition to the essence of Lenard’s Deuts-
che Physik, to the superiority of Aryan physics. The ludicrous public
comparisons of Einstein’s theories to the works of the greatest scientific
thinkers of the past mocked the Aryan spirit. Lenard’s dealings with
Einstein had been his greatest trial. In testament, he had written, “If I had
known that mankind would run itself down so badly during my lifetime,
that man would degrade from Friedrich the Great to Friedrich Ebert, from
Newton to Einstein, I would have never resolved in my youth to serve the
best men of my time.”
Absorbed in his memories, Lenard fumed over how little credit he had
received for his courageous stance. Had he not stood up to Einstein and
called him to account, who can say what might have happened? He had
exposed the Jew to his colleagues for the sham that he was. He had risked
his own career and, given the power the Jew commanded, perhaps even
his life. But he had put the Jew on the defensive.
Although it was not until 1933 that the Jew fled Germany with a price
on his head, Lenard had been in the vanguard. Einstein had been fortunate
to get out when he did. His flight to England, then on to America, had
almost certainly saved him from an early death. With Einstein gone, he’d
led the purge that, in short order, eliminated the duplicitous Jewish race
from German academic life.
That Hitler had remembered Lenard’s contributions and so fulsomely
expressed his gratitude gave renewed meaning to the aged professor’s
constricted life. The Fuehrer knew more than anyone about sacrifice, yet
here he was acknowledging the hardships Lenard had suffered. The strug-
gle had been worthwhile.
While Lenard’s grudges would dog him until his death five years later
in Messelhausen, Germany, the good feelings of that day in 1942 never
completely left him. Unrepentant of the harm he had caused to so many
people and certain that his assessment of Einstein and his theories had
been correct, he sat alone in his room, Hitler’s visage watching over him,
and reflected with satisfaction on the experiences that had brought him to
E PI LOGU E 185
his place in the world. Waxing philosophical, Lenard lifted his pen and
wrote in the stilted style of one born in a distant province who, from
childhood, had scorned all learning but science, “To have Adolf Hitler
and to know him close to me should be enough to have lived for.”
***
“I have done my share.” Einstein said. Lying in his hospital bed, he

painfully turned toward his longtime secretary, Helen Dukas. “It is time
to go. I will do it elegantly.”
Einstein had been admitted to Princeton Hospital several hours earlier,
on April 17, 1955, complaining of chest pain that had worsened over the
last several days. Einstein’s premonition of his death was well founded.
Seven years earlier, in 1948, doctors discovered that he had developed a
“grapefruit-size” aneurysm of the aorta, the body’s largest artery. Nowa-
days, localized vascular balloonings like Einstein’s are routinely treated
by surgery or radiological procedures. At that time, however, surgical
methods for treating aneurysms were more rudimentary. Einstein’s physi-
cians felt that there was too much risk for them to operate. Now the
aneurysm was leaking, causing pain, signaling it would soon burst.
Having refused emergency surgery, the seventy-six-year-old made
himself as comfortable as he could. He reminded Dukas that he wished to
be cremated the day he died. She and his older son, Hans Albert, were to
spread his ashes on the waters of the Delaware River, just to the west of
where he had lived and worked for the past twenty-two years. There
should be no memorial service and no marker to commemorate his pass-
ing.
Between his admission to the hospital and his death early the next
morning, Einstein had several hours to contemplate the cosmic questions
that had occupied him during his remarkably fruitful life. Einstein had
been born to Jewish parents. He bore no illusions, however, concerning
the meaning of being a Jew. Recent history had made it clear to him that
“A Jew who sheds his faith along the way, or who even picks up a
different one, is still a Jew.” The Nazi’s near extermination of European
Jewry and his efforts to establish a Jewish university in Jerusalem had

strengthened his identification with Judaism as he’d aged. His beliefs,
however, were his own:
I cannot imagine a God who rewards and punishes the objects of his
creation, whose purposes are modeled after our own—a God, in short,
who is but a reflection of human frailty. Neither can I believe that the
individual survives the death of his body. . . . It is enough for me to
contemplate the mystery of conscious life perpetuating itself through
all eternity, to reflect upon the marvelous structure of the universe
which we can dimly perceive, and to try humbly to comprehend even
an infinitesimal part of the intelligence manifested in nature. My relig-
ion consists of a humble admiration of the illimitable superior spirit
who reveals himself in the slight details we are able to perceive with
our frail and feeble minds.
Einstein died early in the morning on April 18, 1955. He was seventy-
six years old. There was no deathbed conversion. He remained true to his
convictions in death, as he had in life.
Throughout the United States and around the world, people whom
Einstein had never met mourned his passing. The loss was particularly
heartfelt in Princeton. The locals had grown accustomed to seeing Ein-
stein, dressed in baggy trousers, a rumpled sweater, and sandals, on his
daily walks around the town. Despite his once having voiced the opinion
that Princeton was a “quaint and ceremonial village of puny demigods,
strutting on stiff legs,” he loved the small college town’s deep, green
leafiness and the stone spires of its renowned university from the moment
he arrived. He quickly renegotiated his position with the Institute for
Advanced Studies from being a five-or-six months a year visiting scholar
to a year-round member of its faculty. In 1934, he and Elsa bought an
ordinary-looking house at 112 Mercer Street and moved in along with
Helen Dukas and, later, after Elsa’s untimely death in 1936, Elsa’s daugh-
ter Margot.
Local anecdotes are legion and almost always sympathetic. Among
them is a story about two undergraduates who saw Einstein walking
ahead of them on campus one day and conspired to get his attention.
E PI LOGU E 187
“One plus one equals two!” one of them said in a voice loud enough for
Einstein to hear. “You’re an idiot . . . you know that?” said the other.
“One plus one equals three!” The argument grew more voluble until, after
a minute or so, Einstein stopped abruptly and turned to face them. “Boys,
boys,” he admonished them. “There is no need to fight. You are both
right!”
Other stories describe him as an eccentric, seemingly so deeply ab-
sorbed in the enormity of his thoughts that he was incapable of managing
the mundane aspects of normal life. One such story was told by an under-
graduate returning to campus in late summer, just before the beginning of
the academic year. The young man decided to spend his otherwise unen-
cumbered afternoon canoeing on Lake Carnegie at the foot of the campus.
Only one other boat was on the water, a becalmed sailboat that at first
glance seemed to be unmanned. As the young man approached the boat, a
man and a woman raised themselves above the gunwales and waved him
over. The man’s disarrayed shock of white hair left no doubt to his iden-
tity. Einstein had forgotten to put a paddle in the boat. They had been
dead in the water for over an hour. Would the young man tow them to
port?
The woman in the boat almost certainly was Polish-born Johanna
Fantiva, Einstein’s last lover, whom he had convinced to immigrate to
Princeton in 1939. Twenty-two years younger than Einstein, she left a
diary in which much is written about a man quite different than the
muddle-headed genius of township lore. Johanna characterized Einstein
as an extremely alert and keen-witted critic of his time, angered by Sena-
tor McCarthy’s anti-communist campaign, the U.S.-supported rearming
of Germany, and the American buildup of atomic weapons. In Johanna’s
diary, Einstein comes alive as an amiable maverick who compared him-
self to an old car, rife with mechanical problems. Despite his ills, Fantiva
asserted that he not only retained his own good humor but also cheered up
his chronically depressed parrot, Bibo, by telling him jokes.
By the time Einstein reached Princeton, he was fifty-four years old.
His best science was behind him, but he remained among the most re-
spected men on the planet. He had lived his life according to a consistent
moral code. While many disagreed with his message of pacifistic interna-
tionalism, even his critics had to grant that Einstein had stayed true to his
credo. He had seen enough of prejudice and ostracism that he would not
stand for it in any form. He developed a particular empathy for the plight
of black people in America. He was a longtime friend of the actor Paul
Robeson, who had grown up in Princeton. When the great African-
American opera singer Marian Anderson was denied lodging at Prince-
ton’s Nassau Inn following a 1937 performance, he invited her into his
home. From then on, she stayed with Einstein whenever she was in the
area.
Unfortunately, Einstein’s comfort with his pacifist beliefs was chal-
lenged by events happening overseas. He fearfully monitored the increas-
ingly bellicose speeches of Adolf Hitler and recognized that Europe once
again was heading toward war. During the summer of 1939, while Ein-
stein was vacationing in Peconic, on the northern tip of Long Island, he
welcomed to his rental cottage two old friends. Eugene Wigner and Leó
Szilárd were Hungarian refugees and physicists, who had managed to
escape Europe before Hitler had tightened the noose around that coun-
try’s scientists.
Greeting the two men in an undershirt and rolled-up trousers, he led
them to the screened-in porch where he listened to their story. Their visit
was not a social one. Wigner and Szilárd had received word that German
physicists had learned how to split the uranium atom. As Einstein had
predicted in his 1905 work on the equivalence of mass and energy—
represented by his iconic formula, energy (E) equals mass (m) multiplied
by the speed of light (c) squared, or E = mc²—the reaction released an
enormous amount of energy. Werner Heisenberg was said to be leading a
German effort to build an atomic bomb. Time was short. Einstein must
use his influence to prevail on his friend Elisabeth, Belgium’s former
Queen—now Queen Mother following the death of her husband—to have
her country deny Germany access to the great stores of uranium in the
Belgian Congo.
Einstein agreed, but before he could write the letter, Szilárd was con-
vinced by a friend of President Roosevelt that any international effort
E PI LOGU E 189
would be advantaged by their going through government channels.

Szilárd returned to Long Island, this time with another Hungarian refu-
gee, the eventual father of the hydrogen bomb, Edward Teller, in tow.
Einstein knew Roosevelt personally, having been invited with Elsa to
have dinner with the president and Mrs. Roosevelt and spend the night at
the White House in 1934. At Szilárd and Teller’s urging, he dictated a
letter to Roosevelt dated August 2, 1939. Because of the demands of the
presidency, however, Roosevelt didn’t learn of Einstein’s concerns until
early October, when his friend and economic advisor Alexander Sachs
finally read Einstein’s letter aloud to the president.
In barebones fashion, Einstein’s missive provided Roosevelt with the
background he felt the president needed to understand the magnitude of
the crisis and how researchers had come to unleash the power of the
atom. He went on to express his concern that “[t]his new phenomenon
would also lead to the construction of bombs [and] . . . that extremely
powerful bombs of a new type may thus be constructed.” He warned, “A
single bomb of this type, carried by a boat and exploded in a port might
very well destroy the whole port, together with some of the surrounding
territory.”
In light of the fact that the United States then had very sparse known
stores of uranium, and that German scientists might be well on their way
to weaponizing this new threat, Einstein suggested that the president
“have some permanent contact maintained between the Administration
and the group of physicists working on chain reactions in America.”
Einstein envisioned that this unnamed individual would keep government
departments informed and facilitate special attention to the availability of
uranium, as well as advise the government on increasing funding to uni-
versities and institutes so as to accelerate research on nuclear fission.
It took some time, but Roosevelt eventually treated Einstein’s warning
seriously. He established a board that included members of his military
command, as well as Szilárd, Wigner, Teller, and the physicist Enrico
Fermi, who had escaped Mussolini’s fascist Italy. Einstein was invited to
join the following year, but declined and later was excluded for reasons of
national security.
When, in 1933, Einstein first determined he would immigrate, his

entry into the United States was opposed by an organization billing itself
as the Women’s Patriot Corporation. This group had charged that Ein-
stein’s associations with a number of European pacifist organizations
identified him as a communist. The memoranda of that episode of back
and forth with the U.S. government had been retained in what, over the
years, had grown to become a fourteen-hundred-page FBI file. FBI Direc-
tor J. Edgar Hoover claimed that Einstein was an “extreme radical.”
Hoover’s judgment effectively ruled out Einstein’s participation in the
Manhattan Project.
In warning Roosevelt of the German threat and advocating work on
nuclear fission weaponry, Einstein had envisioned nuclear weapons as a
deterrent or, at worst, weapons that would only be used defensively. He
was devastated by the catastrophic loss of life that resulted at Hiroshima
and Nagasaki. At the urging of Szilárd, who was similarly troubled, he
assumed the presidency of a new organization, the Emergency Commit-
tee of Atomic Scientists, dedicated to nuclear arms control, and rededicat-
ed himself to the impossible chimera of a unified world government.
Einstein spent most of his last years in Princeton working on a “uni-
fied field theory”—a scientific and mathematical construct that would
comprehensively explain the interrelationships among all natural phe-
nomena. In the end, the conquest of this last great challenge eluded him.
Nonetheless, Einstein died believing that such an understanding was
achievable. “The most incomprehensible thing about the world,” he
wrote, “is that it is comprehensible.”
BIBLIOGRAPHY
All Web sites were last accessed September 5, 2014.
A NOTE ON THE DIFFERENCES BETWEEN

LENARD’S AND EINSTEIN’S SCIENCE
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Lacayo, R., & Editors of Time. (2014). Albert Einstein: The enduring legacy of a modern
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CHAPTER 2: THE HEART OF THE MATTER
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CHAPTER 4: AN INTERESTING EVENING OUT
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CHAPTER 5: A DISAGREEMENT BETWEEN GENTLEMEN
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CHAPTER 7: LENARD IN STOCKHOLM
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CHAPTER 8: EINSTEIN VERSUS THE SMALL POPES OF

UPPSALA
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CHAPTER 9: DANGEROUS CHOICES

AND CHAPTER 10: LENARD AND HITLER
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CHAPTER 11: DEUTSCHE PHYSIK
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CHAPTER 12: ACADEMIC IMPURITIES
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Edward Teller. Retrieved from http://education.llnl.gov/archives/edward-teller#1

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CHAPTER 13: SOME SAY BY FIRE, OTHERS ICE
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www.princeton.edu/paw/web_exclusives/more/more_letters/letters_einstein
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The authors are pleased to thank a number of individuals who made

important contributions to The Man Who Stalked Einstein.
Foremost among these is Pam Wexler Hillman, who listened to her
husband read the entire book aloud, chapter by chapter, sometimes more
than once, before turning out the lights at night. Her comments helped
identify ambiguous and hard-to-understand passages and improved the
quality of the writing.
None of us had ever had an agent for anything, but serendipity led us
to a great one. Claire Gerus believed in the project from the beginning,
encouraged us, advised us through the writing process, and continues to
serve our interests in this and future projects.
We were assigned a wonderful editor, lost him following a buyout of
our initial publisher, and found him again. Jon Sternfeld’s vision matched
our own. Perhaps more important, he has a remarkable knack for simulta-
neously encouraging our best work while pointing out how something
could be improved. Absent Jon’s efforts, this book would be a lesser
work.
We are grateful for the efforts on our behalf of Ronald Coleman and
his colleagues at the library of the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum for
their assistance in getting us started on the research that eventually led to
this book.
201
202 A CKNOW LEDGMENTS
Professors Hans Ringertz and Per Carlson helped us to connect with

Professor Karl Grandin, director of the Royal Swedish Academy of Sci-
ence Center for the History of Science, who provided us with background
on Philipp Lenard’s Nobel Prize and shared Lenard’s letter to the Acade-
my disputing Einstein’s selection for the 1921 Nobel Prize.
Dr. Alan Matsumoto, chair of the Department of Radiology and Medi-
cal Imaging at the University of Virginia, encouraged the writing of this
book and supported the endeavor.
Dr. Wilhelm Fuessl, head of the archives of the Deutsches Museum in
Munich, granted us access to archived boxes of Lenard’s personal docu-
ments and laboratory books. Some of this material found its way into
these pages. Brian Stamm translated into English a critical journal article
by Charlotte Schoenbeck, “Albert Einstein und Philipp Lenard: Antipo-
den im Spannungsfeld von Physik und Zeitgeschichte.”
Finally, we thank the Charlottesville, Virginia, writing critique group
to which Bruce belonged for a number of years—Sharon Hostler, Susan
Guerrant, Gerry Kruger, Marian Dewalt, Peggy Brown, Sharon Davies,
and Linn Harrison—who did their best to help him learn to write.
INDEX
Academic Assistance Council, 159, 160 atomic bomb, 155, 188–189

aid societies, 159–160 atomic model, 105
Albert I, 5 Avogadro’s constant, 16
Almanac of Radioactivity and Electronics,
34–35 Bad Nauheim, 53
American Emergency Committee in Aid of Bad Nauheim scientific meeting, 3, 44–45,
Displaced Scholars, 160 50, 54, 117; debate between Einstein
Anderson, Marian, 187 and Lenard, 57–60, 112
Annalen der Physik, 35, 87, 94, 99 Bamberger, Louis, 8
Anschluss (1938), 131 Belgium, 136–139, 188
anti-relativity campaigns, 1, 34, 34–35, 44, Ben Gurion, David, 160
46, 48, 54–55, 57, 102, 117 Berlin, 42
anti-Semitism, x, 3, 4, 19, 47; among Berlin Philharmonic auditorium lectures, 3,
scientists, 6; “death lists”, 117; 46–49, 51, 112; Einstein’s apology, 61
Einsteindebatte and, 59; Law for the Berliner Tageblatt, 43, 44, 48, 60, 61, 155
Restoration of the Professional Civil Bjerknes, Vilhelm, 33, 85–86
Service, 151–153, 159; Lenard’s, Bohr, Niels, 13, 105, 165
origins of, 19–20, 38–39; Lenard’s book burning, Opera Square, 1–3
radicalization of, 111–114; in Lenard’s Born, Hedwig, 61–62, 161
writings and speeches, 115–116; Nobel Born, Max, 50, 61, 131, 160, 161–164;
Prize and, 96; “un-German” as code Nobel Prize recipient, 163–164
word, 47, 60, 102, 126 Braun, Albert von, 127–128
“An Appeal to the Europeans” (Einstein Brownian motion, 93
and Nicolai), 139 Bunsen, Robert, 83, 141
armistice, 14, 19, 42, 120, 121
Arrhenius, Svante, 91, 93, 94, 99, 103 Cal Tech, 3, 8
Aryan science, 45, 132–133; clearinghouse Carlheim-Gyllensköld, Vilhelm, 97
for research manuscripts, 145; cathode ray tubes, 15, 19, 24, 65, 80–81,
experimentation as German, 140; as 182
root of all discoveries, 140; Stark and censorship in science, 145
Lenard gain control, 142 Chamberlain, Houston Stewart, 114
203
204 INDEX
civil service, removal of Jews from, 149, 25–26; confrontations with Lenard, 3;
151–153, 159 death threats to, 6, 9, 92; educational
classical mechanics, xiii, xiv, 13 background, 16; final moments,
colloid chemistry, 93 185–186; Heisenberg, conversation
“common sense,” 37, 55, 97, 117, 140 with, 176–177; on Hitler, 3–4, 20;
concentration camps, 120, 153, 159 Hitler views as scapegoat, 123; humor,
Conversations with Einstein (Einstein the sense of, 18; international fame,
Seeker) (Moszkowski), 61–63 101–102; as internationalist, 139;
cosmological events, 99 leaves Germany, 3, 4–5, 133, 184, 190;
Crookes, William, 65, 81, 136 Lenard, early relationship with, 23, 26,
Curie, Marie, 16, 70 27–28; marriage to Elsa Lowenthal,
The Current Crisis in German Physics 10–11, 28–29, 38; marriage to Mileva
(Stark), 125–126, 143 Marić, 25, 28–30; miracle year, 16;
curved universe, xv Nobel Lecture, 91, 106; Nobel Prize
nominations, 97, 98, 99, 99–100, 103,
d’Alquen, Gunter, 130 105; Nobel Prize recipient, 15, 32, 91;
Das Schwarze Korps, 130, 170, 178; pacifism, 7, 156, 187–188; plagiarism,
Heisenberg article, 173–175 accusations of, 34–35, 35, 43, 103;
de Sitter, Willem, 101 possessions ransacked, 4–5; public
death lists, 117 impression of, 18, 44, 45, 106;
“The Declaration of University Teachers of recruitment by other countries, 49–50;
the German Empire”, 138 self-identification as a Jew, 160; Stark
deduction, xiii reviles, 146–148; support for, 50;
depression, 1929, 119 travels and lectures, 3; Zionism and,
Derbye, Peter, 124 102; Writings: “An Appeal to the
Deutsche Physik (Lenard), x, 20, 45, 76, Europeans” (with Nicolai), 139;
127, 129, 135–148; German science as “Dialog on the Objections against the
origin of all discoveries, 135, 140; Theory of Relativity,” 35–37;
principles of, 139–141; scientific “Fundamental Ideas and Problems of
response to, 158; Treaty of London as the Theory of Relativity”, 91; “My
root of, 136 Answer to the Anti-Relativistic
Deutsche Physik principles and policy, x, Corporation, Ltd.”, 48–49, 61; “On a
60, 129, 132, 140–142; demise of, 178 Heuristic Point of View Concerning the
Deutsch-Voelkische Monatshefte, 41 Production and Transformation of
Die Nurwissenshaften, 126 Light,” 94–95; Relativity—the Special
Die Presse, 68 and General Theory, 99. See also
Die Umschau, 60 general relativity, theory of; relativity
dogmatic mentality, 131–132 Einstein, Eduard, 31
Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Einstein, Elsa Lowenthal, 3, 4, 10–11,
Worrying and Love the Bomb, 167 28–29, 38, 186
Drexler, Anton, 43 Einstein, Hans Albert, 185
Dukas, Helen, 185, 186 Einstein, Ilse, 4
Einstein, Margot, 4, 47
Eddington, Arthur, xv, 46–47, 101, 103 Einstein, Mileva Marić, 10–11, 18, 23, 25,
Ehrenfest, Paul, 8, 15, 49, 59 28
Eicke, Theodor, 110 Einstein the Seeker (Moszkowski), 14
Einstein, Albert: academic appointments, “Einstein’s Theory of Relativity—A
1900s, 28; anecdotes about, 186–187; Scientific Mass Hysteria”, 41
character, 18; civil service position, electron theory, 81
I N DE X 205
Elizabeth, Queen, 5–6 German Workers Party (DAP, Deutsche

Emergency Committee of Atomic Arbeiterpartei), 42–43, 119
Scientists, 190 Glazer, Ludwig, 51, 125
Enabling Act, 119, 120, 121–122, 132 Goebbels, Joseph, 2, 122, 133, 158
energy quanta, 32 Goering, Hermann, 109, 110
England, response to torching of Leuven, Goettinger Tageblatt, 153, 155
136–137, 138 Granqvist, Per Gustaf David, 97, 104
ether, xvi, 17, 32–33, 57, 81; Einstein on, gravitation, 57, 57–58
37; urether, 115–116 gravity, universal law of, xiv
Etter, Lewis E., x, 75–77 Great Men of Science (Lenard), 19, 74
Exner, Franz-Serafin, 68 Greenspan, Thorndike, 164
experimental physics, xiii, xiv, xvi, 15, 44, Gregory, Richard, 130
103, 125 Gullstrand, Allvar, 93, 97, 103–104
experimentation, as German, 140 Gustav V, 91
Faelschungs-Buch (Lenard), 20–21 Haber, Fritz, 150, 152–153, 160

Fantiva, Johanna, 187 Haber, Hermann, 153
Fermi, Enrico, 164, 165, 166, 167, 189 Habicht, Conrad, 26–27
Flexner, Abraham, 8–9, 10 Hahn, Otto, 155
Forschungsgemeinschaft Deutsches Hanfstaengl, Ernst, 110
Ahnenerbe, 177 Harrer, Karl, 43
Franck, James, 124, 153–156, 156, 160; Hasenoehrl, Friedrich, 34
Manhattan Project, 155–156 Hasselberg, Clas Bernhard, 97, 104
Franck Report, 155–156 Hebrew University, 160
Frick, Wilhelm, 142–143, 145, 151 Heisenberg, Werner, 147, 148, 158,
Frost, Edwin, 70 161–162, 179; Einstein, conversation
Fuehrer principle, 144, 145, 178 with, 176–177; Himmler’s response to,
Fulda, Ludwig, 137 170–177; investigation of, 175–176;
leads Third Reich nuclear effort, 164
Gans, Richard, 157 Helmholtz, Hermann von, 83
Gehrcke, Ernst, 34, 60, 102; at Berlin Hertz, Gustav, 157
Philharmonic meeting, 47, 48, 51 Hertz, Heinrich, 19, 65, 74, 86, 157
general relativity, theory of, xiv–xv, 14, Hess, Rudolf, 110, 122
18, 38, 99; solar eclipse, 1919, xv, 38, Heydrich, Reinhard, 175
46–47, 100–101, 103 Himmler, Heinrich, 169–171
Gerber, Paul, 34, 34–35 Himstedt, Franz, 61
German National People’s Party, 41 Hindenberg, Paul von, 119
German Physical Society, 50, 125, 144 Hirschmann, Georg, 122
German Professional Community of Hitler, Adolf, 3, 21, 77; appointed
University Physicists, 125 Chancellor, 119; backlash against
German Research Foundation, 146, 177, Einstein and, 106; beer hall putsch,
178 109–111; Einstein on, 3–4, 20;
German scientists: emigration, 159–160; elections and, 120; gives signed photo
post World War I isolation of, 54, 99, to Lenard, 181–182; Hofbraeuhaus
102, 106, 114. See also Jewish speech, 42; letters to Lenard, 122–123,
scientists 182–184; on loss of scientists, 12; Mein
German Society of Natural Scientists and Kampf, 111, 129–130; Riechstag
Physicians, 53, 93, 114. See also Bad address, 121; Stark’s access to, 146
Nauheim scientific meeting Hittorf, Johann Wilhelm, 65, 77, 80
206 INDEX
Hollweg, Theobold von Beckmann, 136 16, 19, 20–21, 87–88; character, ix, x,
Hoover, J. Edgar, 190 17, 34; contrasts with Einstein, 14–15;
Hund, Friedrich, 175 early years, 15; Einstein, early
Hungarian nationalists, 19 relationship with, 23, 26, 27–28; on
hydrogen bomb, 165, 166 Einstein as dangerous, 12; Einstein calls
out on Berlin Philharmonic episode,
induction, xiii 48–49; Einstein’s Nobel Prize and,
Institute for Physics, University of 94–96, 117; as employer, 17; ether,
Wuerzburg, 69 belief in, xvi, 32–33, 115–116; feuds,
Institute of Physics, University of 16, 31; Heidelberg speech, 116–117;
Heidelberg, 2, 24–25, 112; as Philipp Hitler, access to, 129, 130, 146; Hitler’s
Lenard Institute, 146, 182, 183 chief scientific advisor, 74; under house
Institute of Physics, University of Kiel, 24 arrest, 75; jealousy of Einstein, xvi, 6,
14; Jews in universities, opposition to,
Jewish scientists, 1, 20; aid societies for, x, 12, 75, 128; letter to Einstein, 27–28;
159–160; emigration, 159; expulsion letter to Swedish Academy, 94–96;
from universities, x, 12, 42, 75, 128, Nobel Prize recipient, 2, 15, 16, 24, 72,
132, 143, 155, 156–157, 159; 79–84, 182; as “Old Fighter”, 122; as
resignations after civil service law, outsider, 20, 60; photoelectric effect,
152–156; shift away from Germany, 12; 26; reactionary politics, involvement in,
threats to, 162. See also German 117–118; refuses to reconcile with
scientists Einstein, 51; Roentgen and, 71–72;
“Jewish spirit,” 3, 20, 45, 117, 124, 130, sacrifices scientific integrity, ix–x;
139 signs Manifesto, 137; stalks Einstein,
xvi, 2–3; steps away from science, 117;
Kahr, Gustav von, 109, 109–110, 110 Writings: “A Big Day for Science:
Kaiser Wilhelm Institute for Physics, 15, Johannes Stark Appointed President of
60 the Reich Physical and Technical
Kaiser Wilhelm Society, 148 Institute,” 143; Deutsche Physik, x, 20,
Kant, Immanuel, xv 45, 76, 127, 129, 135–148; Ether and
Kepler’s law, xiv, 34 Urether, 115–116, 132–133;
Koenigsberger, Leo, 25 “Exhortation to German Naturalists,”
Kolliker, Geheimrat Albert von, 69 115; Faelschungs-Buch, 20–21, 87–88;
Great Men of Science (Lenard), 19, 74;
Laub, Jakob Johann, 17, 31–32; ether “The Hitler Spirit and Science” (with
experiments, 17, 33 Stark), 111–112, 128; “On Cathode
Laue, Max von, 35, 49, 50, 58, 145, 179; at Rays” (Nobel Lecture), 86–87, 88, 95;
Berlin Academy of Sciences, 148; on “On Ether and Matter”, 32; One
Haber, 153; review of Stark’s book, 126 Hundred Authors against Einstein,
Law for the Restoration of the Professional 127–128; On the Principle of Relativity,
Civil Service, 151–153, 159 Ether, and Gravitation, 37, 46, 47, 58
Lecher, Ernst, 68 Lenard, Ruth, 33
Leibus, Alfred, 6 Lenard, Werner, 15, 33, 38, 112
Lenard, Katharina Schlehner, 24 Lenard effect, 83
Lenard, Philipp: anti-Semitism, Lenard tube, 65, 71, 72–73, 86–87
Einsteindebatte and, 59; anti-Semitism, Lenard window, 83
origins of, 19–20, 38–39; anti- Leuven, Belgium, 136–139
Semitism, radicalization of, 111–114; Lindstedt, A., 79, 80–81, 86
ascent to power, 122; blames others, x, Locker-Lampson, Oliver, 10
I N DE X 207
Lossow, Otto Herrmann von, 109 Notgemeinschaft Deutscher

Ludendorff, Erich, 109 Wissenschaftler, 160
Luettwitz–Kapp faction, 42 Nuremberg Laws, 152, 157, 170
Nya Dagligt Allehande, 96
Manhattan Project, 155–156, 164,
165–166, 190 observations, xiv, xv
“Manifesto of the Ninety-three German Ohnesorge, Wilhelm, 75
Intellectuals” (Fulda, Sudermann, and Olympic Academy, 26
Reicke), 137–139 “On a New Kind of Rays” (Roentgen), 68
Mayer, Walther, 11 “On the Experimental Fundamentals of the
McCarthy hearings, 167 Relativity Principle” (Laub), 31
McIntyre, John, 70 On the Principle of Relativity, Ether, and
Mein Kampf (Hitler), 111, 129–130 Gravitation (Lenard), 37, 46, 47, 58
Menzel, Willi, 127, 170, 171–172 Oppenheimer, Robert, 164, 167
Mercury’s orbit, xiv, 34, 36, 99 Oscar II, 79, 81, 84
Meyer, Edgar, 100–101 Oseen, Carl Wilhelm, 104–105
Milliken, Robert, 8, 21, 93, 94, 106 Ostwald, Wilhelm, 98
Moszkowski, Alexander, 14, 61–63
Mueller, Friedrich von, 50, 54 pacifism, 7, 156, 187–188
particle physics, 13
National Socialist German Workers Party perihelion, xiv, 34, 36, 99
(NSDAP, Nationalsozialistische photodynamics, 93
Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, Nazis), 43, photoelectric effect, 26, 32, 83, 87;
119; beer hall putsch, 109–111; Lenard Einstein’s Nobel Prize, 92–93, 95,
and Stark ingratiated with, 128; Stark’s 104–105
appointments, 142–143 Physical and Medical Society of
Nature, 130–132, 156 Wuerzburg, 69, 75
Naturwissenschaften, 35 Physikalische Zeitschrift, 57, 59
Nernst, Walther, 50, 58 Planck, Max, 4, 6, 12, 15, 48; called “white
Neue Zurcher Zeitung, 112–113 Jew,” 130, 173–174; chairs Bad
Newton, Isaac, xiv Nauheim debate, 56; Einstein’s apology
Newtonian physics, xiv, 13, 36, 101 and, 61; Hitler, meeting with, 149–150,
Nicolai, Georg Friedrich, 139 161; photoelectric effect, 87, 93;
Night of the Long Knives, 110 president of Kaiser Wilhelm Society,
Nobel, Alfred, 79, 97, 99 148, 149; quantum hypothesis, 26;
Nobel Prize: Einstein’s nominations, 97, quantum theory, 95, 97, 105; signs
98, 99, 99–100, 103, 105; experimental Manifesto, 137
vs. theoretical physics, 96–97; selection Planck’s constant, 93
process, 85, 98–99; special reports on pragmatic mentality, 131
Einstein and relativity, 103, 104, 105 “The Pragmatic and Dogmatic Spirit in
Nobel Prize recipients, 11, 54; Born, Physics” (Stark), 130–132
163–164; Curie, 70; Einstein, 15, 32, Princeton University, 8–9
91; Franck, 153; Haber, 150; Prussian Academy of Sciences, 6–8, 12,
Heisenberg, 170; Hertz, 153; Lenard, 2, 15, 99
15, 24, 79–84, 182; Planck, 97;
Roentgen, 69, 72, 81; Schroedinger, quantum theory, 31, 32, 56, 93, 105, 124,
131; van Laue, 97, 126; Wien, 98 125
“non-Aryan,” as euphemism for Jews, 149,
151 Rabi, Isidor, 167
208 INDEX
Rathenau, Walther, 92, 112 Stark, Hans, 179

Reagan, Ronald, 167 Stark, Johannes, x, 12, 31, 34–35, 60,
reference systems, 37 124–125; anti-Einstein activity,
Reich Physical and Technical Institute, 72, 124–129; appointments under Nazis,
143–146, 151 142–143; arrested by Allies, 179; at
Reichstag fire, 120 Bad Nauheim, 54; disrespect of peers,
Reicke, Georg, 137 146; Heisenberg, attacks on, 173–175;
relativism, 126 Hitler, access to, 146; Jews in
relativity: anti-relativity campaigns, 1, 34, universities, opposition to, x, 12, 75,
34–35, 44, 46, 48, 54–55, 57, 102, 117; 128; letter to Nature, 156–157; quarrels
Einstein’s humor about, 18; Nobel Prize with colleagues, 124; reactionary
special reports on, 103, 104, 105; politics, 124, 125; reviles Einstein,
relativism equated with, 126; special 146–148; Roentgen and, 72, 73; as
relativity, theory of, xvi, 16, 17, 31, 32, target of Himmler, 177–179; Weyland
34, 35. See also general relativity, and, 44; Writings: The Current Crisis in
theory of German Physics, 125–126, 143; “The
Relativity Theory, Ether, and Gravitation Hitler Spirit and Science” (with
(Lenard), 58 Lenard), 111–112, 128; “The Pragmatic
Relativity—the Special and General and Dogmatic Spirit in Physics,”
Theory (Einstein), 99 130–132; “White Jews in Science,” 130
Robeson, Paul, 187 Stimson, Henry, 155
Roentgen, Wilhelm Conrad, x, 16, 19, 65, Sudermann, Hermann, 137
66–75, 76–77; correspondence with Svenska Dagbladet, 96
Lenard, 71–72; Nazis dismiss work of, Swedish Academy, 94; conservative
74–75; signs Manifesto, 137; as “white politics, 96–97; Lenard’s letter to,
Jew”, 183 94–96. See also Nobel Prize; Nobel
Roosevelt, Franklin Delano, 188–189 Prize recipients
Rosenberg, Alfred, 178
Rubens, Heinrich, 50 Taegliche Rundschau, 41
Rust, Bernhard, 178 Teller, Edward, 164, 164–167, 189
Rutherford, Ernest, 131 theoretical physics, xiii, xiv–xvi, 44, 95,
125; censorship of, 145–146; as
SA (storm troopers), 43, 120, 122; book “Jewish lie,” 20, 44, 141, 172, 183;
burning, 1–3 Nobel Prize and, 96–98
Sachs, Alexander, 189 Third Reich, self-destructive scientific
Schmidt, Friedrich, 72 policies, 12, 142
Schmidt-Ott, Friedrich, 146 Thompson, J. J., 16, 101, 136, 138
Schroedinger, Erwin, 131, 147 Thompson, Sylvanus, 85
Schwartz, Philipp, 160 thought experiments, xiii, xv
Seeliger, Hugo von, 35 Treaty of London, 136
Seisser, Hans Ritter von, 109 Treaty of Versailles, 14, 42, 121
Social Democrats, 119, 120 Truman, Harry, 166
solar eclipse expedition, 1919, xv, 38,
46–47, 100–101, 103 Ulam, Stanislaw, 166
Sommerfeld, Arnold, 48, 50, 124, 179; unified construct of space and time, xv
called “white Jew,” 130, 173–174 unified field theory, xv, 8, 190
Sophia of Nassau, 79 University of Heidelberg, 2, 15; Lenard at,
special relativity, theory of, xvi, 16, 17, 31, 23, 24, 112–113
32, 34, 35 University of Kiel, 24
I N DE X 209
University of Wuerzburg, 69, 125 Wien, Wilhelm, 60, 98, 137, 138
urether, 115–116 Wigner, Eugene, 164, 188, 189
Women’s Patriot Corporation, 190
van’t Hoff, Jacobus, 86 Working Society of German Scientists for
Volkischer Beobachter, 127, 128, 178 the Preservation of Pure Science, 41,
44, 45, 48, 52, 63, 96, 102
Weimar government, 14, 42, 109, 112; world ice theory, 177
Lenard’s address on, 114 World War I, 19, 37, 70; Hitler’s view of,
Weitzmann, Chaim, 102, 153, 160 120, 121; Leuven, torching of,
Wel, Otto, 119, 120 136–139; Nobel Prize and, 99; Social
Weyl, Hermann, 9 Democrat view, 120
Weyland, Paul, 41–42, 43–45, 51; Berlin
Philharmonic auditorium event, 45–46, X-rays, x, 16; public response, 68, 70;
47, 51; Einstein on, 48; Nobel Prize Roentgen’s discovery of, 66–68;
and, 106 scientific community response, 69
“white Jew,” 130, 148, 170, 173–174
“White Jews in Science,” 130, 173 Zehnder, Ludwig, 72
Wiegel, Karl, 177
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Bruce J. Hillman, MD, has distinguished himself as a health services

researcher, clinical trialist, and author of both medical articles and short
stories published in elite magazines and journals. He is professor and
former chair of radiology at the University of Virginia School of Medi-
cine. He has published over 300 medical articles, book chapters, and
editorials, including his 2010 book for the lay public, The Sorcerer’s
Apprentice: How Medical Imaging Is Changing Health Care (Oxford
University Press). Dr. Hillman has served as editor-in-chief of three med-
ical journals, including his current position with the Journal of the
American College of Radiology. He was deputy editor of the online liter-
ary and humanities journal Hospital Drive, and has published eight short
stories in such journals as The Connecticut Review, Compass Rose, and
Aethlon, the Journal of Sports Literature.
Birgit Ertl-Wagner, MD, MHBA, is professor of magnetic resonance

imaging at the Ludwig-Maximilian University and a neuroradiologist at
the Grosshadern university hospital in Munich, Germany. Her research
focus lies in the realm of neuroscience with an emphasis on functional
neuroimaging. She has authored or coauthored over 130 original articles,
review articles, and book chapters. She has also written five textbooks in
German (four on radiological topics and one on quality management), all
of which are in their second editions. Dr. Ertl-Wagner is married to the
211
212 A BOUT THE A UTHORS
historian Bernd C. Wagner. They live in Munich, Germany, with their

three children. Their family conversations often focus on the intersections
of medicine, technology, and the humanities.
Bernd C. Wagner, PhD, is a senior manager in the IT service industry

following a successful career in consulting and corporate strategy. He
studied history and philosophy in Munich, Germany, and Edinburgh, UK,
and the University of Bochum, Germany, where he wrote his thesis on the
topic “IG Auschwitz.” He authored a book based on his thesis detailing
the involvement of German industry in the genocide conducted at Ausch-
witz, and he was coeditor of two books on related topics.

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THE MAN WHO

How Nazi Scientist Philipp Lenard

Bruce J. Hillman, Birgit Ertl-Wagner,

Copyright © 2015 by Bruce J. Hillman, Birgit Ertl-Wagner, and Bernd C. Wag-

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available

For Sophie, Hannah, and Clara—we love you

The Man Who Stalked Einstein is the product of a partnership among

the delegation of credit for scientific discoveries extended to the British

theories awaited experimental observations to ultimately determine their

Another example of how theoretical physics gained acceptance was

As we describe later in this book, Lenard mocked this critical aspect of

The experimentalists also disputed the theorists’ penchant for express-

The age of an overly refined Jewish intellectualism has come to an

He paused to give the crowd space to roar its disapproval.

You do well, in these midnight hours, to consign the unclean spirit of

Goebbels shot the Nazi straight-arm salute, fingers extended, palm

Prize recipient for physics, director of the Institute of Physics at the

at Cal Tech, in Pasadena, California. But he probably knew this was

Then Hitler appeared, a man with limited intellectual capabilities and

In early 1931, Einstein had written a letter of resignation to Max

Having concluded his dispute with the Prussian Academy, Einstein

would be located in Princeton, New Jersey, it would have no formal

THE HEART OF THE MATTER

and unwilling or unable to grasp mathematically derived theories. It was

ing, and conventional life experiences imbued Lenard with a sense of

Their personalities also were polar opposites. Lenard could be snarky,

In contrast to Lenard, Einstein’s eccentric clothing, modest approach-

many of Lenard’s Aryan colleagues were abandoning their traditional

I was reminded often by my sensation of not having acquired any

However, in other ways, Philipp Lenard was a man curiously well

FAMILIARITY BREEDS CONTEMPT

It really was too enjoyable in the lecture of Prof. Lenard, yesterday;

It was months before Einstein responded. When he finally wrote, he

At the time of Mileva’s study abroad, Lenard was serving a temporary

would lead him back to Heidelberg as a professor and director of the

judging the originality of electrical and magnetic devices. The position

inspection, it is clear that was something of a ruse. The letter is much

Such a solemn air of silence has descended between us that I almost

tact. Addressing Einstein as “highly esteemed colleague,” Lenard began

By the time Einstein received Lenard’s letter, he had attracted the

recently divorced cousin and childhood playmate, Elsa Lowenthal. Elsa

Shortly after their arrival in the German capital, Mileva separated

These plans were thrown into disarray by a turn of events. Their

mainstream construct of how the universe worked was unimaginable. He

Ultimately, Lenard and Einstein’s relationship was doomed not only

am not so full with the status of my guild so as to make me act as a

Critic: After your last statements it does seem to me that no self-

Particularly with regard to the perihelion of Mercury, Einstein argues for

Relativist: The secular perihelion motion of the planet Mercury had to

more question. At this point, it appears that Einstein is speaking for

Critic: After this conversation I have to admit that the refutation of

Lenard fought back in 1918, writing a new version of an earlier article,

Secular events took precedence. World War I concluded hostilities in

Mrs. M definitely acted according to the best Christian-Jewish ethics: