Rosalind Franklin (5 page)

 

‘All her life Rosalind knew exactly where she was going,' according to her mother, ‘and at the age of sixteen, she took science for her subject.' After the first four (pre-matriculation) years and achieving the General School Certificate, Rosalind entered the sixth form and was free to work towards the Higher School Certificate, thus concentrating at last on what really interested her: chemistry, physics and mathematics, pure and applied. She avoided the biology and botany courses taken by girls intending to go to medical school.

That she should have been so clear in her intention suggests that by the age of sixteen, if not sooner, Rosalind had realised what Albert Einstein had gradually learned about himself: that a scientist makes science ‘the pivot of his emotional life, in order to find in this way the peace and security which he cannot find in the narrow whirlpool of personal experience'.

Einstein offered this self-analysis in 1918 at a celebration in Berlin for the award of a Nobel prize to Max Planck. He went on to describe the scientist's research as ‘akin to that of the religious worshiper or the lover; the daily effort comes from no deliberate intention or program, but straight from the heart'.

Rosalind's science always came straight from the heart. St Paul's prided itself on its modern new science facilities, where Rosalind now spent much of her time. But was she well-prepared? When the Matriculation and School Examinations Council of the University of London paid a visit of inspection in 1935, it gave high praise to the ‘magnificent new block of buildings given to science'. So too it admired the three ‘highly-qualified mistresses' responsible for physics, chemistry and biology, and pronounced the mathematical teaching ‘thoroughly sound and vigorous'. The committee nonetheless regretted that the older girls were not allowed greater access to laboratories in their free periods in order to get more experimental work done. The school's defence was that the extensive syllabus to be covered left the girls few free periods.

The examiners' report, combined with other observations including Rosalind's own, suggests that science was taught to girls in a different way than to boys: an intellectual endeavour calling for neatness, thoroughness and repetition rather than excitement and daring. The ‘science' staff at St Paul's School for Girls included a ‘gardening Mistress', for ‘Nature Study and Gardening' which were parts of botany. Even at the higher levels of science, there was a great emphasis on order and the clear labelling of notes, diagrams and files. Anne Crawford had the impression that Rosalind did a lot of work on her own in order to get ahead more quickly.

 

One thing Rosalind did not learn in science or any other class at St Paul's were the facts of life. For those girls who did not do biology, the school offered the option of eight illustrated talks on general physiology and development, beginning with the amoeba, moving on to fish but stopping short of mammals. Rosalind did not take this course, nor did she get basic information at home. The Franklins simply did not talk about such things. In the wider family circle, it was joked that two of the three days of the Ellis Franklins' weekend honeymoon in 1917 were spent with Ellis trying to explain to his bride ‘the meaning of marriage'.

An uncomfortable occasion in Rosalind's adolescence was the rare event, a dance with the St Paul's Boys' School. She and Jean Kerslake went together, with a boy summoned to share their taxi, an uncomfortable ride during which the trio sat in silence. To Rosalind's and Jean's dismay, they saw that all the other girls were wearing floor-length evening dresses. The two of them, in short taffeta party frocks, looked like children. No one asked either of them to dance the whole evening. Rosalind was sufficiently upset by the experience to report to her mother that her cousin Ursula had been wearing lipstick at the dance. Muriel, shocked, rebuked her sister-in-law, who retorted that she was delighted that Ursula should try make-up.

Rosalind had, Ursula felt, an ‘incredible innocence' even for those prudish times, but an innocence shielded by a sharp tongue. When her school friends began to have crushes on their skating instructors or film stars, they would never talk about these with her. It was an inhibition she shared with her mother. Muriel was a highly intelligent, pretty woman, totally subservient to her genial, domineering husband. Mother and daughter got on well when they were alone together, as on a walking weekend when they explored the countryside around Chichester.

 

An object lesson in the messiness of affairs of the heart was delivered in December 1936 when King Edward VIII gave up his throne to marry the woman he loved. In January Ellis Franklin, an ardent monarchist, was heartily glad to see him go. Ellis had shepherded his family a few months earlier to watch the funeral procession of George V. Now he was scathing on the subject of the playboy king and Mrs Simpson. His wife had the benefit of his tirades: ‘The weakness and lack of moral fibre of a member of the Royal Family who had not only broken up the second marriage of a dubious and unsavoury woman but was prepared to set her as his consort upon the throne of England!' Ellis was as relieved as any British subject when the uncrowned king abdicated in favour of his brother, a family man of irreproachable morals.

The whole Franklin family turned out for the Coronation on 12 May 1937. From Chartridge, Rosalind's grandfather arranged for all his family to have good seats along the procession route. In her thank-you letter, written on behalf of her brothers and sister and with her powers of verbal description at their best, Rosalind drew a vivid picture of an historic occasion and one of the happiest days of her life:

 

Dear Grandpa,

We have just arrived home, after a really wonderful day.

We arrived at the club at 5.30 a.m., the trains were full but we got there quite easily. We went straight to our seats, and were both amazed at the wonderful view we had. We were in the front row, and had a clear view of the whole length of St James's Street, from St James's Palace to Piccadilly, while sitting in our seats. The windows have been taken right out, and the stands built slightly out into the roads, so, being on the left of the route, were just as near as we could be to the procession, and saw the whole thing perfectly, including the insides of the coaches.

We had an excellent buffet breakfast at 7.30 and a six- course champaign lunch at 1 o'clock! We listened to the Abbey broadcast in the morning, and heard it very well indeed.

By 6.30 a.m. the streets were as full as they could be. It was a very jolly crowd, and passed most of the time in community singing.

At about mid-day, army lorries came round with rations for the men, each man being given his lunch in a paper bag. It was most amusing to watch them all feeding out of their bags, and to see the excitement of those who were served last when the final lorry appeared.

It was fine the whole day until the procession was passing, and it was a great deal better that the rain should come then than earlier, drenching the crowds.

After the procession we were provided with an entertainment which I had certainly not anticipated — saw on a television set the whole procession passing Hyde Park Corner.

Owing to the procession starting earlier than was expected, we missed, while finishing lunch, the contingents of the Dominions and Colonies, and afterwards had cause to be very pleased that we had missed them, for being anxious to see them, we set off to look for them afterwards, and this led to our seeing a great deal more besides. As soon as we had seen the end of the television, and the crowds in St James's Street had cleared a reasonable amount, we set off towards the Mall. We were not allowed straight through, so we raced along Pall Mall, by Trafalgar Square, and through the mud in St James's Park, and arrived just in time to catch a glimpse over the heads of the crowd, of the royal coach arriving, and some of the guards.

We then went round behind the barracks, where we had been told we might find the colonial and dominion contingents. However, we saw nothing more than masses of guards and police, and gave up the search. Just as we were getting back to Buckingham Palace we saw the whole lot coming towards us, and they passed just in front of us. By that time a tremendous cheering crowd had assembled outside the Palace, so we decided to join them. We managed to obtain a very good central position on the steps of the Victoria Memorial and joined in the cheers and cries of ‘We want the King' and ‘For he's a jolly good fellow.' At last the door of the balcony opened — the crowd surged forward, waving handkerchiefs, gloves and hats, and a terrific cheer went up. It was a wonderful moment the King, Queen, 2 princesses, Queen Mary, Dukes and Duchesses of Gloucester and Kent, all came out. The crowd was solid right across the Mall and as far back as you could see. They stayed out for quite a time wearing crowns, etc., and immediately they went in the crowd sang God Save the King, and then dispersed.

We walked home, among huge crowds as there were impossible queues at all the stations.

If it does not rain too much more, we are going out to see the flood-lighting and the crowds tonight.

I really cannot remember a day that I have enjoyed more. Thank you very much for the marvellous opportunity you gave us.

Love from

   Rosalind.

 

That she should have expended such effort at the end of an exhausting day that began at dawn is a testimony to her stamina and her sense of family obligation.

Uncle Herbert Samuel had an even better seat at the Coronation. He and his wife (Ellis Franklin's aunt Beatrice) sat robed in Westminster Abbey. Samuel had been awarded a viscountcy in the Coronation Honours List. Rejecting his first thought for his title — Lord Paddington — he chose instead the title of ‘Samuel of Mount Carmel and of Toxteth in the City of Liverpool' with the motto ‘Turn not aside', from
I
Samuel 6:12. It was a motto Rosalind might well have adopted for herself.

 

That summer Ellis and Muriel took their four oldest children to the mountains of western Norway. Roped together, all six followed a guide over the Josterdal glacier. Once again Rosalind served as family
rapporteuse:
sending precise descriptions to her grandfather of the twelfth-century cathedral of Bergen, the wooden houses, Ellis in his knickerbockers drawing sniggers in the streets; then, in glowing but precise terms, the glory of sunsets in deep purple mountains.

Her love of walking was acquired from her parents. So were the value of an arduous hike, the exhilaration of rocky peaks and the importance of scrupulous advance planning. The Franklins as a family were utterly undemonstrative — Rosalind may have kissed her mother on occasion, never her father or her brothers — yet to a rare degree, they spent their free time together, the children uncomplaining even as they got older. In Colin's recollection, ‘we enjoyed plenty of fun and nonsense in family holidays, expeditions, country walks; my father was witty, with a fine sense of the ridiculous though that would never have applied to any aspect of his own life'.

 

Rosalind's last years at school were darkened by Hitler's rise to power, and its reverberations in London. In October 1936 Oswald Mosley was inspired to lead the black-shirted British Union of Fascists on a march through the Jewish neighbourhoods in the East End of London. The resulting Battle of Cable Street forced Mosley to abandon the march as police could not clear a way through the crowd.

After the Anschluss in March 1938, when the Austrian National Socialists invited the Germans into their country, the trickle of Jewish refugees turned into a flood. The
Jewish Chronicle
and the personal columns of
The Times
were full of pleading messages from desperate Jews seeking jobs as domestics, private secretaries or dressmakers so that they could get visas to enter Britain. In June 1938 after a visit from the Gestapo, Sigmund Freud and much of his family arrived in London. Freud was allowed into Britain easily as a distinguished person of international repute. However, for ordinary middle-class European Jews, at a time of British mass unemployment, entry permits were not readily granted. Rosalind now witnessed the total unanimity of purpose between her parents as they threw themselves into refugee relief work. Ellis reduced his time at Keyser's bank and the Working Men's College in order to help the Home Office organise the allocation of entry permits. He worked with Wilfred Eady (whose name was later attached to the levy imposed on cinema tickets to subsidise British films), then in charge of the Aliens Department.

Applicants were divided into those who could look to relatives or friends in Britain to support them and those who arrived entirely without support. Ellis was in charge of the ‘guarantee department' of the German/Jewish Refugee Committee, with an office in Woburn Square. Ellis and his sister Mamie also set up an organisation to find homes for orphaned and homeless German Jewish children.

School friends of Rosalind's who previously had been enlisted to make sandwiches for the Working Men's College sports day now found themselves drawn into refugee work as the High Mistress of St Paul's released girls every day to help at Woburn House with the filing.

The Franklins offered more than administrative help. With 10,000 Austrian children arriving in London, many unaccompanied on the Kindertransport, they took two to live in their home as part of their family. Evi Eisenstadter, a young girl whose father was in Buchenwald, arrived in the summer of 1938 and shared a room with Jenifer on the top floor. ‘Father Franklin', as she soon came to call Ellis, spoke to her in German.

A nine-year-old who had crossed half of Europe to get to London, Evi arrived on a Friday evening to be greeted with the information that she was being taken to the country for the weekend. The train was late, and when Wilson the chauffeur delivered her to the Franklin estate at Chartridge, the first sight she saw was two men coming down a grand staircase in evening clothes. They were so elegant, she recalled (giggling at the memory), ‘I thought it was the King.' But it was only Grandpa Franklin and Viscount Samuel on their way to dinner.