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Authors: Libby Fischer Hellmann
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within minutes, sweat ringed Lena’s neck. She wiped a handkerchief across her brow.
“Stay here,” Irving said and ducked inside.
Lena gazed at the field’s brick exterior, much of it covered by ivy. At each corner, a turret rose above the structure like a well-guarded castle. Windows above the first floor were shaded with awnings, while bars covered the windows at ground level. If she walked through the gate, she would eventually find herself in the middle of the field, the seats in the open like the bleachers at Wrigley.
The lack of protection made for icy football games, and she’d never attended one. She never understood why Americans thought a group of burly young men attacking each other and hurling them to the ground was sporting. It was barbaric, not at all like the civilized football—or soccer, as they called it in the US—she’d known in Europe.
Irving came back out, jogged across the street, and reached for her hand. “Come quickly.” He sounded out of breath.
“Are you sure?”
He reached down and kissed her.
She returned it. “You will not get into trouble?”
“If I do,” he smiled, “it will have been worth it.”
They walked through the entrance, down a flight of stairs, and around a corner to a closed door. There was no one outside.
“Where’s the guard?”
Irving raised his palm in a gesture that said to keep quiet and fished a key out of his pocket. Unlocking the door with one hand, he ushered her inside with the other.
Lena wasn’t sure what she’d expected. From her memos and letters, she knew the Pile contained 771,000 pounds of graphite, 80,590 pounds of uranium oxide and 12,400 pounds of uranium metal. It cost one million dollars to build. The Pile was described as a flattened ellipsoid, constructed on the lattice principle with graphite as a moderator and lumps of metal or oxide. They were the reacting units and were spaced through the graphite to form the lattice. Instruments situated at various points in the Pile or near it indicated the neutron intensity, and movable strips of absorbing material served as controls.
But that was the abstract definition. What she saw was a room, once a squash court, about twenty-five feet wide, its ceiling twenty feet high. At one end was a contraption that rose from floor to ceiling. Most of it was built out of bricks, with a brick wall in the center and what looked like terraced “piles” of bricks above it, each recessed more than the pile below. The ceiling above the Pile looked like it was made out of cushions, although Lena knew that wasn’t the case. Behind the bricks, she knew from the letters she’d typed, were the tons of graphite, uranium oxide, and uranium metal.
Something resembling a long faucet protruded from the lowest pile, but again, Lena didn’t know if water came out from it. A ladder leaned against the brick wall. To the right of the contraption was a set of stairs; on the other side, a thick curtain that might have been lead, which separated the Pile from the rest of the room. Adjacent to that was a series of cubicles about twelve feet high, each containing odd looking pieces of equipment, none of which she could identify.
Irving watched her gaze at the contraption with wide-eyed amazement. “So what do you think?”
“I—I don’t know. I didn’t know what to expect. It looks rather benign, actually. What do you call it? I mean, besides Pile Number 1? Is it going to be a bomb?”
“This is a nuclear reactor. It’s very different from a bomb,” he said with a touch of pride.
Lena furrowed her brow. “Then why build it? I mean, what does it do?”
“It would take a semester to explain it to you,” he said, “but basically, a bomb requires a huge amount of fissionable material. So that’s what we’re trying to do—create a lot of fissionable material quickly.”
“How do you do that?” She asked, becoming interested in spite of herself.
“That’s what we’re working out. We think
“Stay here,” Irving said and ducked inside.
Lena gazed at the field’s brick exterior, much of it covered by ivy. At each corner, a turret rose above the structure like a well-guarded castle. Windows above the first floor were shaded with awnings, while bars covered the windows at ground level. If she walked through the gate, she would eventually find herself in the middle of the field, the seats in the open like the bleachers at Wrigley.
The lack of protection made for icy football games, and she’d never attended one. She never understood why Americans thought a group of burly young men attacking each other and hurling them to the ground was sporting. It was barbaric, not at all like the civilized football—or soccer, as they called it in the US—she’d known in Europe.
Irving came back out, jogged across the street, and reached for her hand. “Come quickly.” He sounded out of breath.
“Are you sure?”
He reached down and kissed her.
She returned it. “You will not get into trouble?”
“If I do,” he smiled, “it will have been worth it.”
They walked through the entrance, down a flight of stairs, and around a corner to a closed door. There was no one outside.
“Where’s the guard?”
Irving raised his palm in a gesture that said to keep quiet and fished a key out of his pocket. Unlocking the door with one hand, he ushered her inside with the other.
Lena wasn’t sure what she’d expected. From her memos and letters, she knew the Pile contained 771,000 pounds of graphite, 80,590 pounds of uranium oxide and 12,400 pounds of uranium metal. It cost one million dollars to build. The Pile was described as a flattened ellipsoid, constructed on the lattice principle with graphite as a moderator and lumps of metal or oxide. They were the reacting units and were spaced through the graphite to form the lattice. Instruments situated at various points in the Pile or near it indicated the neutron intensity, and movable strips of absorbing material served as controls.
But that was the abstract definition. What she saw was a room, once a squash court, about twenty-five feet wide, its ceiling twenty feet high. At one end was a contraption that rose from floor to ceiling. Most of it was built out of bricks, with a brick wall in the center and what looked like terraced “piles” of bricks above it, each recessed more than the pile below. The ceiling above the Pile looked like it was made out of cushions, although Lena knew that wasn’t the case. Behind the bricks, she knew from the letters she’d typed, were the tons of graphite, uranium oxide, and uranium metal.
Something resembling a long faucet protruded from the lowest pile, but again, Lena didn’t know if water came out from it. A ladder leaned against the brick wall. To the right of the contraption was a set of stairs; on the other side, a thick curtain that might have been lead, which separated the Pile from the rest of the room. Adjacent to that was a series of cubicles about twelve feet high, each containing odd looking pieces of equipment, none of which she could identify.
Irving watched her gaze at the contraption with wide-eyed amazement. “So what do you think?”
“I—I don’t know. I didn’t know what to expect. It looks rather benign, actually. What do you call it? I mean, besides Pile Number 1? Is it going to be a bomb?”
“This is a nuclear reactor. It’s very different from a bomb,” he said with a touch of pride.
Lena furrowed her brow. “Then why build it? I mean, what does it do?”
“It would take a semester to explain it to you,” he said, “but basically, a bomb requires a huge amount of fissionable material. So that’s what we’re trying to do—create a lot of fissionable material quickly.”
“How do you do that?” She asked, becoming interested in spite of herself.
“That’s what we’re working out. We think
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