In March 1926, four students from Cambridge University took a vacation in Corsica, an island

off of France.

For ten days, they biked around and hiked the craggy hills and stuffed themselves with

seafood slathered in decadent sauces and washed it down with wine.

One night they got caught in a storm.

The friends ducked into an inn and huddled around the fire.

And like many young people, aching to assert themselves, they had a pretentious chat

about literature.

One of them declared that Tolstoy was the writer he most admired.

But another one, Robert Oppenheim, future father of the atomic bomb, just shook his head.

Dostoevsky is superior Oppenheimer insisted.

He gets to the soul and torment of man.

Uncomfortablely, the friends soon saw a bit of that torment.

Over dinner a few nights later, Oppenheimer seemed agitated.

Now he was always restless, both mentally and physically, a fidgety fellow whose quick

mind leapt from topic to topic.

But that night he seemed especially agitated.

He would not say why.

Then a waiter interrupted to tell Oppenheimer when the next ferry was returning to the mainland.

His friends were surprised.

Why was Robert leaving early?

Oppenheimer said he could not bear to tell them.

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