Ruth Marshak at Los Alamos, and: Rose Bethe at Los Alamos, and: Appolonia Chalee, Los Alamos, 1944, and: Joan Hinton at Trinity

Ruth Marshak at Los Alamos

Tech was a pit that swallowed upmy husband, day and night, and lefthis better half, an untrained soldier, fightingheartache. Finally I gave upwaiting dinner. Often he came homeat three or four a.m. Or not at all.He said since all we had were Army cots,he might as well sleep in the lab.I think the Army knew what it was doingwhen it only gave us single beds.What made it worse was that this sacrificewas not a sacrifice for him. He lovedhis work. It overcame all scruples,all familial feeling. Few of us knewthe thing our husbands sought,its magnitude, or why it had arousedsuch passion. "There's a war on, love," Bob saideach time I asked, until I learnedto shut my mouth, and wait, and spend my energyon the mechanics of my daily life.The alternation of the seasons: mudto dust and back to mud. Teachingthird grade prima donna kids.Learning to cook at 7,000 feetwith vegetables and fruits long pasttheir prime. A total absenceof fresh eggs. I chose my battles. This was onethat I could win. I howled for monthsuntil the Army veterinarian agreedto candle every egg before it hitthe commissary shelves. I'd had enoughof finding grim remindersof what they wanted to become, and failed.

Rose Bethe at Los Alamos

We beat the Nazis on a Tuesdayand the lab boys threw a party that same nightas only they knew how.The theorists were good company, of course,but lived too much inside their headsto organize a party on the scale the day deserved.And yet I didn't want a drink that night.Not that I wasn't gladthe Nazis had been crushed—their souls belong in hell—and not that I was sadto see my birthplace brought to ruin,though I was.My mood was hardly personal.I felt—how can I say it?—not outside myself exactly,but outside us all.The Nazis forced us here, Gentiles and Jews,Americans and Russians, Germans, Dutch.They made us all commit ourselvesto evil. Grant this once there is a God,so God may grant we chose the lesser evil.After the party, we went back to work.

Appolonia Chalee, Los Alamos, 1944

Mrs. Fisher's superstitious. Shebelieves machines clean better thanhuman hands. She scolds me whenI miss an opportunityto haul her caterwauling vacuumroom to room, as if my broommight dirty her linoleum.

Mrs. Fisher still insists her newelectric washer's quicker thana tub and mangle, though I moppedall day last Tuesday when it choseto spew soap suds and dirty waterdown the stairs. I tell her discontentedspirits live in these machines, but

Mrs. Fisher twists her husband's armto buy more gadgets from the catalogsSears sends her. Mr. Fisher isa scientist. A scientistI think should know a little betterthan to let his wife invitedevils in metal skins into his home.

Joan Hinton at Trinity

The silence lingers longest. Though a new sunboils above the desert, lifting tonsof dirt and rock-dust miles into the sky,the burning earth-plume rises without sound.Even the wind, which had been gusting, stills.Even the rain that came in quick showersthrough the night. Even the lightningstriking the Oscura Mountains.Even our hearts. Everything stops.I sit on the cold sand, holding my breath.