FIFTEEN

Stellar Collapse

The burnt-baby incident permanently injured Ettore and his brother Salvatore. They were both naïve intellectuals who had led very sheltered lives. As the story unfolded and became more sordid, it shook the foundations of their worldviews. That the affair was eventually solved by the Majoranas by descending to the same level as their detractors (and by the men of the world in the family, rather than either of them) only made matters worse. The family publicly cleared its name, but in their eyes only dirtied itself even more. It did not remove their need for exculpation.

It’s been said that Ettore lost faith in science; that he became sensitive to the alleged contradictions between science and religion; that his tragedy reflected that of Pascal, the French philosopher who rejected science for religion. But Ettore may have lost faith in more than just science. He may have lost faith in rationality altogether. In 1933 he descended into madness for numerous reasons, but it is indisputable that the baby incident contributed a crucial spice to the curry. We’re all shocked by the story; but for Ettore and Salvatore—ivory-tower bookworms who believed in logic as the universal weapon—the burnt-baby affair symbolized the breakdown of rationalism. And neither fully recovered. Sending all to hell may, then, have felt like an adequate response: “Well, if you’re going to be that base, then take this, motherfuckers.” And they retreated into their shells. In Ettore’s case it only took writing a letter.

Here’s what Ettore did to the Boys that was “downright inexcusable,” thus ensuring they’d leave him alone. On May 22, 1933, he sent a certain type of letter to Emilio Segrè—the Basilisk—knowing damn well how touchy and insecure he was. This letter would be the subject of much public scrutiny many years later. An Italian newspaper titled an article about it: “The Surprising Letter Revealed by Nobel Laureate Segrè: Majorana Liked Hitler.” Yet for anyone who examined the letter even superficially, it would be obvious that its point wasn’t political. It was a personal assault. This letter would cut Ettore off from Fermi and the Panisperna Boys; that was conspicuously its intended purpose.

“Caro Segrè,” begins Ettore, before adding a couple of formulaic greetings. He then complains about Dirac’s theory becoming the flavor of the day in Leipzig and the world. He reports on the apparent tranquility of the political situation in Germany, quickly moving on to the core of the letter: a lengthy discussion of the “Judaic question” in Germany. It’s May of 1933.

Five long, dry paragraphs begin with “The question of anti-Semitism [here] should be seen in the context of the [Nazi] revolution which eliminated wherever it could all opponents, among which were almost without exception the Jews. This is not to say that there isn’t in Germany a grave Judaic question in itself and by itself. . . . The Hebraic question in Germany is quite different from that in Italy, be it by the spirit or number of the local Jews.”

The tone is objective and emotionless, and if I didn’t know the context I’d say it was uncharacteristically dull, considering Ettore’s lively writing style. He quotes a profusion of statistics explaining how German Jews had come to dominate certain areas of public life; he explains the extent to which this led to social resentment. He states the facts underlying racism and the persecution of German Jews without comment. He never expresses an opinion. He details the philosophy of racism developing in Germany with minimal use of adjectives. Paragraph after paragraph drones on without much color or emotion unless one can read between the lines.

With one dramatic exception. Halfway through his letter, out of the blue and against the grain, Ettore announces that “it’s been stated that the Judaic question wouldn’t exist if the Jews were acquainted with the art of keeping their mouths shut.”

Now, Segrè was Jewish, and he most certainly hadn’t mastered that helpful art. We know about this letter because Segrè had it published in 1988, just before he died. He could hardly conceal how much it irritated him: “It’s strange that [Majorana] wrote this letter to me, who certainly didn’t appreciate it. . . . I like to think that if Ettore Majorana had lived longer, he’d have seen things differently and would have repudiated this letter.”

The views Ettore expressed are undoubtedly indefensible: There is an undertow of tacit approval of German anti-Semitism throughout. But it’s important to put this letter in its historical context, even before examining the personal background. This is 1933, and expressions already in use regarding the German Jews—such as “surgical intervention” or “final solution”—didn’t yet have the meaning they’d acquire after the holocaust.⁴⁵ Ettore’s letter to Segrè also contradicts the rest of his correspondence. A week earlier, in a letter to his mother, he stresses the disingenuous opportunism of the Aryan majority in their dealings with the Jews. In a letter to Gentile, dated June 6, 1933, he ridicules German racism: “Germany, not finding in her culture and history sufficient elements to establish a unifying feeling among German speaking peoples, is constrained to appeal to the silly ideology of race, which seemingly doesn’t find an echo in Austria. Also the anti-Semitic fight, partly justified by instinct, isn’t well supported by the arguments usually invoked, among which sadly dominates the eternal theme of race, and it’s likely that it will die down quickly.”

In other words, Ettore plays anti-German to his Fascist friend Gentile, and pro-German to his Jewish correspondent. If it weren’t for the other events taking place in his life, we might think this was an intellectual game of “devil’s advocate.” But in the context of “retreating into a shell” and “leaving the world,” it’s obvious how to interpret Ettore’s letter: It’s anti-Segrè rather than anti-Semitic. And it would be almost funny, all these years on, were it not for the fact that Segrè lost his whole family in the holocaust.

Ettore’s letter achieved its intended effect—he was duly severed from further interactions with the Boys. On his last official report, composed just before he returned from his working spell in Germany, he provided his home address for correspondence, not the Via Panisperna Institute. But why did he want to break with the Boys?

It’s true that he was bypassed for promotion (a fact he must have learned around May 1933). After Heisenberg’s blessing and his 1932 masterpiece (despite its flaws, real or perceived), it’s possible that Ettore expected recognition—an official position, perhaps. He didn’t get it. But he’d never shown any interest in career academia and so wasn’t really slighted. It’s also true that in 1933 Fermi and Amaldi were happily publishing Ettore’s 1928 work without even acknowledging him. But Ettore had never cared about such things.

The fact is that he wanted to break with the world, not just with the Boys. His mood towards his family wasn’t any better. When his family drove to visit him in Germany in July 1933, he dispatched them rather forcefully, refusing to join their European tour. Later he shook off his mother’s insistence that he rejoin them in the resort of Abbazia in August. And when she threatened to travel to Rome to be at home when he returned from Leipzig, he replied in a letter, “Your concerns with my intention to go directly to Rome seem to me exaggerated. . . . You’d give me unnecessary displeasure by undertaking such a long trip without a good reason or purpose. But I don’t intend to change my plans for fear that you’ll put into action such an irrational threat.”

On a hot Sunday in August 1933, Ettore returned to Rome from Leipzig. He found the enormous house in Viale Regina Margherita empty. He was completely by himself, as he wished. And thus began his silent years. From that day until 1937, he barely left his bedroom. Even after his family returned, he’d take in food—usually just milk—leave out a chamber pot, and keep ablutions to a minimum. He shared his room with Luciano, but his brother was hardly ever at home during this period. When Luciano was home, he saw Ettore always at his desk, working away. Whatever he was doing has since been lost.

Despite his strange behavior, the family let him be. He grew his hair and beard to proportions that wouldn’t be socially acceptable until well into the 1960s. His friends sometimes sent a barber to tame his hippie looks despite his protestations. Those who visited him said that he acted like a terrified man. But he didn’t tell them much: His heart became intangible.

Amaldi, the most self-effacing of the Mark I Boys, tried to keep in touch. Against Ettore’s wishes, he visited on a regular basis. He reported on the developments taking place at Via Panisperna: how Fermi had finally come to believe in the “neutral proton,” as Ettore had called it; how he was now becoming a world authority in the matter; how they were experimenting with slow neutrons. This is allegedly when Ettore uttered his infamous statement: “Physics is on the wrong path; we are all on the wrong path.” A chilling statement given that the Boys were about to bombard uranium with slow neutrons, not realizing what they were doing.

Ettore’s only expressions of warmth were reserved for Giovanni Gentile, who sent him a book with the dedication, “To a dear friend, of whom I no longer know anything.” Ettore wrote back, with a pale shade of his earlier sarcasm. Over the next four years, Gentile continued to send books. Ettore always acknowledged them, albeit in letters that became briefer and briefer. He also kept up a skeletal correspondence with his uncle Quirino.

Ettore’s overall behavior has been catalogued as a “nervous breakdown.” It wasn’t: He could go in and out of this “mad” state at will, as is well attested by the surviving documents of the period. It is also clear that while he carried on with his science, his interests diversified. He became intrigued by medicine (the physiology of the brain) and by what would now be called game theory (he used real navy data in mathematical war games, lending fuel to conspiracy theorists). He wrote a paper on sociology, which Gentile had published after Ettore’s disappearance. He worked hard on theology, rejecting the “vulgar materialism of science.” He became an expert on the pessimist philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer.

Strangely, in 1935 and 1936, Ettore even proposed to give a course at Via Panisperna. We know this because the paperwork has survived. Page 1 contained the syllabus (his 1932 article plus the second quantization of the electromagnetic field). Page 2 was meant to be filled out by Corbino, assigning credits to the course and making a lecture room available. But Corbino never followed through. Was Corbino’s lack of action malicious? Either way, Ettore’s proposed course would definitely have been too hard for the students.

The lines of the “obscure spiral” were now combined: a failed theory, a disastrous personal and family life, wrecked health, alienation from the scientific community. . . . Do we need more?

Just to make matters worse, in 1934 Ettore’s father died, hammering the final nail into his coffin of despondency. How badly did he suffer from this? In my research I often found that my interviewees used Ettore as a mirror onto themselves. But in this particular case I found someone who may instead mirror Ettore’s soul. The self-styled “last wheel of the Majorana cart”: Luciano’s third son Pietro, Fabio and Ettore Jr.’s younger brother. His father died before Pietro had a chance to get to know him properly. And it’s precisely in these waters that I found a reflection of Ettore’s soul.