Of all the uncertainties in this world, the most surprising is our account of our own motives. “At the time, I thought...”, “I've evolved...”, “I regret....” These seem like excuses invented in hindsight to obscure layers of self-deception. What combination of primal desire and shrewd calculation led to that particular past choice? Concede this uncertainty about what is knowable and what becomes of trust? These are questions author Louisa Hall wrestles with in Trinity.
Her seven fictional characters glimpse J. Robert Oppenheimer between 1943 and 1966. Each narrative is in first person past tense voice. Framed as “testimonies” they are meant to echo the confused stories witnesses told during House Unamerican Activities Committee hearings that ended in Oppenheimer's security clearance being revoked.
The book opens on a noirish note. FBI agent Sam Casal reports his surveillance the night Oppenheimer secretly meets with his former lover Jean Tatlock. That tryst will later be weaponized by Oppenheimer's security overseers to insure their control over him. They will leverage that report to persuade him to lie to and betray his colleagues. Casals will contemplate the import of his report when he chooses later to suppress a private secret. His estranged brother questions the veracity of things his wife May has told him during a brief visit before joining his unit. He dies in combat so there is no opportunity to confront his insinuations. Casals reflects: “These little lies she'd told at first: they'd come to stay with us like pets who require little in the way of attention.” (p.45) It's a perfect expression of the way we deal with the contradictions in our own private lives, and one version of the complacency Oppenheimer might have felt about his own private deceptions.
The voices of women permeate the book. Grace Goodman, part of the military support staff at Los Alamos, has a clandestine affair with a senior scientist. After an abortion, desire and guilt fester in a penumbra of military secrecy and alcoholic haze. This sense of incapacitation is reflected as she admits: “Lying there in the darkness, I felt like an abandoned house, wandered into by a man.” (p.77)
By 1949 Oppenheimer is a renowned celebrity. In his testimony, Andries van den Berg eagerly recounts a visit by Oppenheimer and his wife Kitty. Van den Berg was part of the Berkely millieu that worked and partied with Oppenheimer before the war. However, his communist affiliations have relegated him to academic obscurity in Paris where he lives with a young woman named Jacqueline. His memories are distorted by time and by Oppenheimer's still incandescent charm. Replying to his letter which reminisces about the “good old days,” his ex-wife Barb replies with chilly lucidity. Jean and not Kitty was at the riotous party he “recalls.” Oppenheimer has betrayed many of the students and colleagues at those parties by naming them as communists. How can Oppenheimer not feel responsible for the horrific deaths caused by two atomic bomb blasts? With icy anger she concludes: “I can't force you to remember what you don't want to. Regardless, I wish you well and hope life with the most recent graduate student is everything impossible you've always allowed yourself to believe in.” (p.126) Barb gets the last word in, a punch to the gut.
By 1963 Oppenheimer's reputation had been resurrected. His publicly assigned role is the victim of a vicious paranoid McCarthyism. A ghostly Oppenheimer occupies Tom Schmidt's testimony of Oppenheimer's appearance at his preparatory school during his senior year. That ghostly impression is supported by the memory of long-decimated elm trees and a cryptic statement Oppenheimer made: “He said — and I remember this well — that responsibility comes only with power.” (p.229) Did he mean only the powerful are responsible? Did he mean great responsibility bestows power? Or was he confused and meant the conventional phrase 'with power comes responsibility'?
My favorite chapter was “Sally Connelly, Princeton, 1954.” Again, there is the theme of impotence. She describes her mother as part of that “long line of women whose bodies were fed to their children.” (p.131) She joins that line, abandoning her ambitions of a career as a novelist to the conventionality of marriage. Her contact with Oppenheimer is complicated. As his secretary she chronicles his meltdown under the pressure of the hearings which will end in cancellation of his security clearance. The effects of the bomb are clearly imprinted in her mind. Her twin sister obsessively collected photographs of the bomb's effects and starved herself to death while Sally became obese from insatiable hunger. She imagines a turgid interpretation of their lives as re-enactments of Greek myth. Her description of her eating disorder, on the other hand, is self-deprecatingly hilarious as well as horrific.
Trinity contemplates behavior as the result of systemic forces; the random consequence of a single sequence of molecular chaos. The narrative, however, pits the intense introspection of the narrators against the unanswerable mysteries of Robert Oppenheimer. The two strands compete for attention and Oppenheimer's story is far more riveting. Hall has approached biography from an unconventional direction in order to sustain a theme of moral ambiguity. However, the approach felt lugubrious and singularly uncompelling despite some brilliant bits of prose. My reaction to this book was also influenced by Kai Bird's exhaustive biography of Oppenheimer, American Prometheus. I loved Bird's book. I loved Hall's earlier book, Speak. I simply didn't love Trinity