conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about German, Jewish, Germany's with the genre: Science & Math?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Hitler's Gift'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first three paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Hitler's Gift
  Dr Paul Eisler fled from Nazi Austria in 1936, settling in north-west London. Trained as an engineer but also an experienced printer, he was full of ideas. He changed the untidy bird's nest of hand-connected wires in an electronic circuit into a tidy two-dimensional pattern of conductors, producing the pattern for the circuit by a printing process which could be mass produced. This combination was to revolutionize the whole of the electrical industry. At first there was little interest and the war and internment brought a temporary stop to his work. After release and a short spell in the Pioneer Corps, he joined a firm of specialized printers and naively assigned to its owners all future patents of his printed circuit. He worked hard on its development and demonstrated the results to many engineers and Allied military personnel. No one, except the Americans, even offered him a trial. The Americans had recognized its value and used a printed circuit in the development of a proximity fuse for anti-aircraft shells. Eisler's invention played a major role in bringing down some 4000 of Germany's flying bombs, the 'doodlebugs' launched against Britain towards the end of the war.
  Recognition of Eisler's work took years. In late 1957 Lord Hailsham told the Royal Society that he rated the printed electric circuit as important an invention as penicillin or atomic fission. France gave him a high award, the Pour le Mérite for invention, and the Institute of Electrical Engineers honoured him with the Nuffield Silver Medal
  On the morning he died, in October 1991, he was still inventing. He rang a friend to tell him of his new idea: how to make a microscopic electric motor.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Despite Planck's apparent acquiescence with the regime the Nazis were aware of his real feelings. Years later Goebbels wrote: It was a great mistake that we failed to win science over to support the new state' and blamed their failure on Rust, the Prussian Minister of Education. For all Planck's inherent 'piety and unbreakable attachment to the State' (his own expression) it was inconceivable that he would join Hitler and his henchmen in their assault on reason and humanity.
  As the war continued, under intensified Allied bombing and the invasion of Germany itself, Planck's world collapsed physically as it disintegrated personally. His house in Berlin was bombed and his library and possessions destroyed while he was away on a lecture tour. Then his son Erwin, his last surviving offspring, who was a senior official in the German foreign office, was implicated in the 1944 plot to assassinate Hitler. The Nazis' ruthless hunt for all those who could possibly have been involved in the affair included Erwin, who certainly knew some of the instigators although he was probably not one of them. That was enough for him to be condemned to death. Planck set 'Heaven and Hell in motion' to have the sentence commuted, and believed he had succeeded; but on 18 February 1945, seven months after the assassination attempt, Erwin "was executed, probably on the orders of an underling. Planck was shattered.
  As the war reached its end his wartime home near Magdeburg was caught between the German and Allied lines and Planck, by now a sick man, and his wife had to hide in the -woods nearby. A physicist in Göttingen, hearing of their plight, persuaded an American officer to send a car to collect them and take them to safety and hospital treatment in Göttingen. Through all his troubles Planck bore his 'Job-like fate' with fortitude, resigning himself to the will of God, his only consolation, which enabled him to endure until 'this insanity in which we are forced to live reaches its end.'
  Planck's reputation remained untarnished atter the war, and m 1946 he was the only German to be invited to London for the belated celebration at the Royal Society of the three-hundredth anniversary of Newton's birth. He died in 1947, six months short of his ninetieth birthday. His name was subsequently attached to the Kaiser Wilhelm Society so that today research institutes in science and the humanities all over Germany are known as Max Planck Institutes.
  In 1933 Werner Heisenberg was at his peak, one of Germany's youngest and most brilliant physicists and with aspirations to be at the helm of German science. That year, at the age of 31, he received both the Max Planck Medal from the German Physical Society and the Nobel Prize. The great days of Planck and von Laue as research scientists were well past; Heisenberg's were still ahead, and his dilemma was all the greater because he could have easily found a position abroad.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The great days of Planck and von Laue as research scientists were well past; Heisenberg's were still ahead, and his dilemma was all the greater because he could have easily found a position abroad.. That year, at the age of 31, he received both the Max Planck Medal from the German Physical Society and the Nobel Prize.
  In 1933 Werner Heisenberg was at his peak, one of Germany's youngest and most brilliant physicists and with aspirations to be at the helm of German science. His name was subsequently attached to the Kaiser Wilhelm Society so that today research institutes in science and the humanities all over Germany are known as Max Planck Institutes. He died in 1947, six months short of his ninetieth birthday.'
  Planck's reputation remained untarnished atter the war, and m 1946 he was the only German to be invited to London for the belated celebration at the Royal Society of the three-hundredth anniversary of Newton's birth. Through all his troubles Planck bore his 'Job-like fate' with fortitude, resigning himself to the will of God, his only consolation, which enabled him to endure until 'this insanity in which we are forced to live reaches its end. A physicist in Göttingen, hearing of their plight, persuaded an American officer to send a car to collect them and take them to safety and hospital treatment in Göttingen.
  As the war reached its end his wartime home near Magdeburg was caught between the German and Allied lines and Planck, by now a sick man, and his wife had to hide in the -woods nearby. Planck was shattered. Planck set 'Heaven and Hell in motion' to have the sentence commuted, and believed he had succeeded; but on 18 February 1945, seven months after the assassination attempt, Erwin "was executed, probably on the orders of an underling. That was enough for him to be condemned to death. The Nazis' ruthless hunt for all those who could possibly have been involved in the affair included Erwin, who certainly knew some of the instigators although he was probably not one of them. Then his son Erwin, his last surviving offspring, who was a senior official in the German foreign office, was implicated in the 1944 plot to assassinate Hitler. His house in Berlin was bombed and his library and possessions destroyed while he was away on a lecture tour.
  As the war continued, under intensified Allied bombing and the invasion of Germany itself, Planck's world collapsed physically as it disintegrated personally. For all Planck's inherent 'piety and unbreakable attachment to the State' (his own expression) it was inconceivable that he would join Hitler and his henchmen in their assault on reason and humanity. Years later Goebbels wrote: It was a great mistake that we failed to win science over to support the new state' and blamed their failure on Rust, the Prussian Minister of Education.Despite Planck's apparent acquiescence with the regime the Nazis were aware of his real feelings
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The curfew was at nine-thirty. The windows of our hut were crossed with barbed -wire. Its doors were locked, and buckets were put out. Stacked into double bunks, about a hundred of us tried to sleep in one room where the air could be cut with a knife. In the bunk above me was my closest friend from student days in Vienna. We had roughed it together in the mosquito-ridden swamps of northern Lapland and had almost suffered shipwreck on a small sealer in the stormy Arctic Ocean. These adventures had inured us to the physical hardships of internment, but the exhilarating sense of freedom that they had instilled in us made our captivity even harder to bear. Lacking other forms of exercise, we made a sport of reading our jailers' regulation-ridden minds. One day, the prisoners were told that each could send a postcard to his next of kin in England, but two weeks later all the postcards were returned — without explanation, at first. The camp seethed with frustration and angry rumors, but my friend and I guessed that after leaving the postcards lying around for a couple of weeks the Army censor returned them all because not every card carried its sender's full name. It took a month more before my card reached Cambridge, with the laconic message that Prisoner of War Max Perutz was safe and well.
  Back in the Sherbrooke camp, where my spirits sagged at the prospect of wasted years, the camp commander summoned me again — this time to tell me that my release had been ordered by the British Home Office and that I had also been offered a professorship by the New School for Social Research, in New York City. He then asked me if I wanted to return to England or remain in the camp until my release to the United States could be arranged. I replied that I wanted to return to England, and this drew the admiring comment that I would make a fine soldier. I have never heard that said by anyone else, before or since, but what led me to my decision was that my parents and my research were in England, and from the safe distance of Sherbrooke the U-boats and the blitz did not frighten me. My American professorship had been arranged by the Rockefeller Foundation as part of a rescue campaign for the scholars whom the foundation had supported before the war broke out, and in principle it would have qualified me for an American immigration visa, but I was sure that as a prisoner of war without a passport I would never get it. The camp commander raised my hopes that I would be sent home soon.
  At Christmas, we were finally taken to Halifax, where we were met by one of Britain's prison commissioners — the shrewd and humane Alexander Paterson, sent out by the Home Office to interview any of the internees who wanted to return to Britain. His mission was stimulated by public criticism — 'Why not lock up General de Gaulle?' was one of the sarcastic headlines in a London paper that helped to make the War Cabinet change its policy. Paterson explained that it had been impossible to ship any of us home earlier, because the Canadians had insisted that prisoners of war must not be moved without a military escort, yet had refused either to release us in Canada or to escort us to England, on the ground that our internment was Britain's affair. The British War Office had now fulfilled the letter of the regulation by detailing a single Army captain to take us home.
  Early in the voyage, I stood at the rail imagining a torpedo in every breaker. Like the Ancient Mariner,
  But time soon blunted my fears, and I began to enjoy the play of wind and waves. I slept in a warm cabin between clean sheets, took a hot bath, brimful each morning, ate my meals from white table linen in my friends company, walked in the bracing air on deck or retired to read in a quiet saloon. Toward the end of the third week, we were cheered by the sight of large black flying boats of the Coastal Command circling over us, like sheepdogs running around their flock, to keep the U-boats at bay. One gray winter morning, the entire convoy anchored safely in Liverpool Harbor. On landing, I was formally released from internment and handed a railway ticket to Cambridge, and I was told to register with the police there as an enemy alien. When I presented myself at a friend's house near London that night, she found me looking so fit that she thought I must have returned from a holiday cruise, but then she admired the elaborate needlework by which I had kept my tweed jacket in one piece for all those months, so as not to have to wear the prisoners' blue jacket with the large red circle on the back. Next morning, at the Cambridge station, our faithful lab mechanic greeted me not as an enemy alien but as a long-lost friend; he brought me the good news that my father had been released from the Isle of Man a few weeks earlier and that both he and my mother were safe in Cambridge. That was in January of 1941.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The windows of our hut were crossed with barbed -wire. Its doors were locked, and buckets were put out. Stacked into double bunks, about a hundred of us tried to sleep in one room where the air could be cut with a knife. In the bunk above me was my closest friend from student days in Vienna. We had roughed it together in the mosquito-ridden swamps of northern Lapland and had almost suffered shipwreck on a small sealer in the stormy Arctic Ocean. These adventures had inured us to the physical hardships of internment, but the exhilarating sense of freedom that they had instilled in us made our captivity even harder to bear. Lacking other forms of exercise, we made a sport of reading our jailers' regulation-ridden minds. One day, the prisoners were told that each could send a postcard to his next of kin in England, but two weeks later all the postcards were returned — without explanation, at first. The camp seethed with frustration and angry rumors, but my friend and I guessed that after leaving the postcards lying around for a couple of weeks the Army censor returned them all because not every card carried its sender's full name. It took a month more before my card reached Cambridge, with the laconic message that Prisoner of War Max Perutz was safe and well.
  Back in the Sherbrooke camp, where my spirits sagged at the prospect of wasted years, the camp commander summoned me again — this time to tell me that my release had been ordered by the British Home Office and that I had also been offered a professorship by the New School for Social Research, in New York City. He then asked me if I wanted to return to England or remain in the camp until my release to the United States could be arranged. I replied that I wanted to return to England, and this drew the admiring comment that I would make a fine soldier. I have never heard that said by anyone else, before or since, but what led me to my decision was that my parents and my research were in England, and from the safe distance of Sherbrooke the U-boats and the blitz did not frighten me. My American professorship had been arranged by the Rockefeller Foundation as part of a rescue campaign for the scholars whom the foundation had supported before the war broke out, and in principle it would have qualified me for an American immigration visa, but I was sure that as a prisoner of war without a passport I would never get it. The camp commander raised my hopes that I would be sent home soon.
  At Christmas, we were finally taken to Halifax, where we were met by one of Britain's prison commissioners — the shrewd and humane Alexander Paterson, sent out by the Home Office to interview any of the internees who wanted to return to Britain. His mission was stimulated by public criticism — 'Why not lock up General de Gaulle?' was one of the sarcastic headlines in a London paper that helped to make the War Cabinet change its policy. Paterson explained that it had been impossible to ship any of us home earlier, because the Canadians had insisted that prisoners of war must not be moved without a military escort, yet had refused either to release us in Canada or to escort us to England, on the ground that our internment was Britain's affair. The British War Office had now fulfilled the letter of the regulation by detailing a single Army captain to take us home.
  Early in the voyage, I stood at the rail imagining a torpedo in every breaker. Like the Ancient Mariner,
  But time soon blunted my fears, and I began to enjoy the play of wind and waves. I slept in a warm cabin between clean sheets, took a hot bath, brimful each morning, ate my meals from white table linen in my friends company, walked in the bracing air on deck or retired to read in a quiet saloon. Toward the end of the third week, we were cheered by the sight of large black flying boats of the Coastal Command circling over us, like sheepdogs running around their flock, to keep the U-boats at bay. One gray winter morning, the entire convoy anchored safely in Liverpool Harbor. On landing, I was formally released from internment and handed a railway ticket to Cambridge, and I was told to register with the police there as an enemy alien. When I presented myself at a friend's house near London that night, she found me looking so fit that she thought I must have returned from a holiday cruise, but then she admired the elaborate needlework by which I had kept my tweed jacket in one piece for all those months, so as not to have to wear the prisoners' blue jacket with the large red circle on the back. Next morning, at the Cambridge station, our faithful lab mechanic greeted me not as an enemy alien but as a long-lost friend; he brought me the good news that my father had been released from the Isle of Man a few weeks earlier and that both he and my mother were safe in Cambridge. That was in January of 1941.