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by Kostas Gavroglu

Novels and plays based on historical events have, obviously, a lot in common with history. One such similarity in particular, is of interest here. Both the historian and the playwright depend crucially on extant documentary material. But they also have to deal with what does not exist, they have to deal with absences and they both have to decide about what to do with such absences. And though to a historian the non-extant material is almost always a liability, to a dramatist lack of evidence becomes an asset. It is, indeed, the case that both the historian as well as the dramatist use their imagination extensively and proceed to speculations which are often not strictly warranted by the extant material. The historian formulates new questions, puts forth hypotheses to test, and reinterprets known events. This process by which true facts turn into historical events is, in effect, what the historian continuously does. The dramatist functions within a totally different framework of constraints determined by the relationship between the extant material and what is not extant. In fact, one could claim that while the historian tries to imagine what the content of at least some of the non-extant material might have been within the framework determined by the constraints of what is extant, the dramatist does the exact opposite. For the playwright, the extant material is a stimulus to imagine not what the non-extant material could have been, but to articulate the range of possibilities which could be imagined and which would not disagreeably contradict the extant material. Michael Frayn's play displays a dramatically intriguing plot, exactly because the author has been able to move masterfully within the world of absences and suggest a fascinating and provocative range of possibilities. Though for a historian any lost material is a source of constant irritation, it may, perhaps, be consoling to know that there are those very rare instances - as is the case with Copenhagen - that it is because of the lost material that we are able to get such insights of two people in particular, about whom we thought we knew quite a lot.

When we discuss the play, we talk almost exclusively about Heisenberg. Should we not also concentrate on Bohr? Margrethe's role is indeed very crucial and there have been interesting discussions about it. What about Bohr, though? I have a feeling that the play can also be read as a play about Bohr's total inability to deal with the problem and the situation. What, however, is the problem and the situation? Heisenberg comes to Copenhagen with something to say. This much we are, historically, sure about. And we are also sure that whatever it was that Bohr said or thought that he would say, it was was something he could not deal with. In a way, we really do not know much else. But dramatically, Heisenberg's initiative is on the same par as Bohr's reaction to that initiative. And what we have from Bohr is anger, more anger. We have Bohr's ineptitude. We have Bohr's sense of helplessness. And we have Bohr trying to transform his inability to deal with the situation into a moral stand. Somehow, we have the presumption that Bohr is the virtuous one and we keep on considering him as a kind of catalyst for all the things Heisenberg says. This is fair enough. But there is another aspect to Bohr. What is also portrayed is the giant of physics par excellence, and his total inability to deal with a situation either at a personal level or at a political level. His only reaction is anger and disgust. The play, through such a stand of Bohr's, brings forth an interesting moral issue: is such a reaction a justifiable reaction by a physicist who is the unquestionable leader among the physicists? How free is a person with such a public role as Bohr had willingly assumed and his colleagues had consensually acknowledged, to behave as a private individual when encountered with a such a problem? Can one relinquish one's public responsibilities, even if they may not be defined in the more traditional manners? And what makes these questions even more dramatic, is that we, and certainly Michael Frayn, know that there are many and convincing instances of his being a person of unflinching virtue. And, here then, there may be a not so nuanced implication of something we frequently witness and something which, at times, has been taken advantage of in the hands of politicians: the naivete of the scientists, their rationality which at times is at variance with the discourse of politics or even with the social problems. What I am trying to say is no reflection of my own views on Bohr's stand as a dignified and virtuous human being. I am trying to underline an additional aspect of what I think can be read in the play: that there are no bad and good guys, but there are persons with deeply contradictory feelings and deeds and that, perhaps, scientists are not only such contradictory characters, but also very much unable to deal with situations when the stakes are so high.