The Creation & Restoration of Notre-Dame Cathedral, Animated

With The Hunch­back of Notre-Dame, Vic­tor Hugo intend­ed less to tell a sto­ry than to mount a defense of Goth­ic archi­tec­ture, which in the ear­ly 19th cen­tu­ry was being demol­ished in cities all across France. The book’s orig­i­nal pur­pose is more clear­ly reflect­ed by its orig­i­nal title, Notre-Dame de Paris. 1482, and the tit­u­lar medieval cathe­dral’s impor­tance to the cap­i­tal for near­ly two cen­turies now owes a great deal to the nov­el­ist’s advo­ca­cy. Hugo would no doubt be pleased by the effort that has gone into pre­serv­ing Notre-Dame into the 21st cen­tu­ry, share in the feel­ings of dev­as­ta­tion that fol­lowed the fire of April 2019, and admire the spir­it that moti­vat­ed com­mence­ment of the restora­tion work imme­di­ate­ly there­after.

Or rather, the com­mence­ment of the sta­bi­liza­tion work imme­di­ate­ly there­after: giv­en the extent of the dam­age, the then-674-year-old struc­ture had first to be made safe to restore. The AFP News Agency video above explains and visu­al­izes that process, a com­plex and dif­fi­cult one in itself. The first pri­or­i­ty was to pro­tect the exposed areas of the cathe­dral from the ele­ments and shore up their fly­ing but­tress­es (a sig­na­ture struc­tur­al ele­ment of Goth­ic archi­tec­ture) to pre­vent col­lapse.

Melt­ed togeth­er by the fire, sec­tions of scaf­fold­ing that had been set up for pre­vi­ous restora­tion work also posed con­sid­er­able dif­fi­cul­ties to remove with­out harm­ing the build­ing. As for the rub­ble heaped inside, sort­ing through it required con­duct­ing a 3D scan, then bring­ing in remote-con­trolled robots and a team of archae­ol­o­gists.

“I saw the dis­as­ter unfold­ing before me,” says one such archae­ol­o­gist, Olivi­er Puaux, in the Radio France Inter­na­tionale video just above. “It was so sad that I went home before the spire fell.” But just a month lat­er he returned to work on the ambi­tious restora­tion project, sev­er­al of whose work­ers appear to share their expe­ri­ence with its chal­lenges, dan­gers, and per­haps unex­pect­ed learn­ing oppor­tu­ni­ties. Remov­ing and sort­ing through all the fall­en wood, stone, and oth­er mate­ri­als — some of which came through the blaze in re-usable con­di­tion — has pro­vid­ed new insights into the cathe­dral’s con­struc­tion. Even its very nails, says Puaux, turn out on close inspec­tion to be “very large, very well forged.” As dis­tressed as Vic­tor Hugo may have felt about Notre-Dame’s future, its orig­i­nal builders were sure­ly con­fi­dent that they were cre­at­ing a sur­vivor.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

How Dig­i­tal Scans of Notre Dame Can Help Archi­tects Rebuild the Burned Cathe­dral

A Vir­tu­al Time-Lapse Recre­ation of the Build­ing of Notre Dame (1160)

Paris in Beau­ti­ful Col­or Images from 1890: The Eif­fel Tow­er, Notre Dame, The Pan­théon, and More (1890)

Notre Dame Cap­tured in an Ear­ly Pho­to­graph, 1838

Take an Aer­i­al Tour of Medieval Paris

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Real D‑Day Landing Footage, Enhanced & Colorized with Artificial Intelligence (June 6, 1944)


Steven Spiel­berg’s Sav­ing Pri­vate Ryan drew great acclaim for its har­row­ing depic­tion of “D‑Day,” the 1944 Allied land­ing oper­a­tion that proved a deci­sive blow against Nazi Ger­many. More specif­i­cal­ly, Spiel­berg and his cre­ators recre­at­ed the land­ing on Oma­ha Beach, one of five code-named stretch­es of the Nor­mandy coast. The video above depicts the land­ing on anoth­er, Juno Beach. This, its uploader stress­es, “is not the famous movie D‑day the Sixth of June but actu­al and real footage.” No won­der it feels more real­is­tic than that 1956 Hen­ry Koster spec­ta­cle — and, in anoth­er way, more so than Spiel­berg’s pic­ture, whose use of not just col­or and widescreen dimen­sions but advanced visu­al effects made World War II vis­cer­al in a way even those who’d nev­er seen com­bat could feel.

The tak­ing of Oma­ha Beach was assigned to the Unit­ed States Army, with sup­port from the U.S. Coast Guard as well as the U.S., British, Cana­di­an and Free French navies. As such, it made a suit­able inclu­sion indeed for an Amer­i­can war sto­ry like Sav­ing Pri­vate Ryan. Juno Beach, how­ev­er, was pri­mar­i­ly a Cana­di­an job: that coun­try’s army land­ed there under sup­port from the Roy­al Cana­di­an Navy (with addi­tion­al help from sev­er­al oth­er Allied navies).

As on Oma­ha Beach, the troops who first land­ed on Juno Beach came under heavy Ger­man fire and sus­tained seri­ous casu­al­ties. But with­in two hours the Allied forced man­aged to over­come these coastal defens­es and began mak­ing their way inland — a direc­tion in which the 3rd Cana­di­an Infantry Divi­sion man­aged to push far­ther than any of D‑Day’s oth­er land­ing forces.

These Juno Beach D‑Day clips ben­e­fit from a tech­nol­o­gy unavail­able even in Sav­ing Pri­vate Ryan’s day: arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence-based enhance­ment and col­oriza­tion process­es. Orig­i­nal­ly shot in black-and-white like most (but not all) Army footage of the 1940s, it’s been “motion-sta­bi­lized, con­trast- and bright­ness-enhanced, de-noised, upscaled, restored to full HD and arti­fi­cial­ly col­orized.” The result looks crisp enough that any­one with­out first-hand mem­o­ries of the West­ern Front — a gen­er­a­tion, alas, now fast leav­ing the stage — may well for­get that it isn’t a war film but a film of war. None of the par­tic­i­pants are re-enac­tors: not the Allied troops board­ing their boats by the hun­dreds, not Gen­er­al Dwight D. Eisen­how­er, not the Ger­man pris­on­ers of war, and cer­tain­ly not the wound­ed and dead. What’s more, none of their actions are rehearsed: as the 77th anniver­sary of D‑Day approach­es, we should remem­ber that, what­ev­er the brav­ery on their faces, not one of these men could have felt assured of vic­to­ry.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Nor­mandy Inva­sion Cap­tured on 16 mm Kodachrome Film (1944)

Pho­to Archive Lets You Down­load 4,300 High-Res Pho­tographs of the His­toric Nor­mandy Inva­sion

Watch Col­orized 1940s Footage of Lon­don after the Blitz: Scenes from Trafal­gar Square, Pic­cadil­ly Cir­cus, Buck­ing­ham Palace & More

Dra­mat­ic Col­or Footage Shows a Bombed-Out Berlin a Month After Germany’s WWII Defeat (1945)

Bryan Cranston Nar­rates the Land­ing on Oma­ha Beach on the 75th Anniver­sary of the D‑Day Inva­sion

David Lynch Recounts His Sur­re­al Dream of Being a Ger­man Solid­er Dying on D‑Day

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Learn to Play Senet, the 5,000-Year Old Ancient Egyptian Game Beloved by Queens & Pharaohs

Senet gam­ing board inscribed for Amen­hotep III with sep­a­rate slid­ing draw­er, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Games don’t just pass the time, they enact bat­tles of wits, proxy wars, train­ing exer­cis­es…. And his­tor­i­cal­ly, games are cor­re­lat­ed with, if not insep­a­ra­ble from, forms of div­ina­tion and occult knowl­edge. We might point to the ancient prac­tice of “astra­ga­lo­man­cy,” for exam­ple: read­ing one’s fate in ran­dom throws of knuck­le­bones, which were the orig­i­nal dice. Games played with bones or dice date back thou­sands of years. One of the most pop­u­lar of the ancient world, the Egypt­ian Senet, may not be the old­est known, but it could be “the orig­i­nal board game of death,” Col­in Bar­ras writes at Sci­ence, pre­dat­ing the Oui­ja board by mil­len­nia.

Begin­ning as “a mere pas­time,” Senet evolved “over near­ly 2 mil­len­nia… into a game with deep links to the after­life, played on a board that rep­re­sent­ed the under­world.” There’s no evi­dence the Egyp­tians who played around 5000 years ago believed the game’s dice rolls meant any­thing in par­tic­u­lar.

Over the course of a few hun­dred years, how­ev­er, images of Senet began appear­ing in tombs, show­ing the dead play­ing against sur­viv­ing friends and fam­i­ly. “Texts from the time sug­gest the game had begun to be seen as a con­duit through which the dead could com­mu­ni­cate with the liv­ing” through moves over a grid of 30 squares arranged in three rows of ten.

Fac­sim­i­le copy of ca. 1279–1213 B.C. paint­ing of Queen Nefer­ti­ti play­ing Senet, via the Met­ro­pol­i­tan Muse­um of Art

“Beloved by such lumi­nar­ies as the boy pharaoh Tutankhamun and Queen Nefer­tari, wife of Ramess­es II,” Meilan Sol­ly notes at Smith­son­ian, Senet was played on “ornate game boards, exam­ples of which still sur­vive today.” (Four boards were found in Tut’s tomb.) “Those with few­er resources at their dis­pos­al made do with grids scratched on stone sur­faces, tables or the floor.” As the game became a tool for glimps­ing one’s fate, its last five spaces acquired hiero­glyph­ics sym­bol­iz­ing “spe­cial play­ing cir­cum­stances. Pieces that land­ed in square 27’s ‘waters of chaos,’ for exam­ple, were sent all the way back to square 15 — or removed from the board entire­ly,” sort of like hit­ting the wrong square in Chutes and Lad­ders.

Senet game­play was com­pli­cat­ed. “Two play­ers deter­mined their moves by throw­ing cast­ing sticks or bones,” notes the Met. The object was to get all of one’s pieces across square 30 — each move rep­re­sent­ed an obsta­cle to the after­life, tri­als Egyp­tians believed the dead had to endure and pass or fail (the game’s name itself means “pass­ing”). “Because of this con­nec­tion, senet was not just a game; it was also a sym­bol for the strug­gle to obtain immor­tal­i­ty, or end­less life,” as well as a means of under­stand­ing what might get in the way of that goal.

The game’s rules like­ly changed with its evolv­ing pur­pose, and might have been played sev­er­al dif­fer­ent ways over the course 2500 years or so. As Bran­deis Uni­ver­si­ty pro­fes­sor Jim Stor­er notes in an expla­na­tion of pos­si­ble game­play, “the exact rules are not known; schol­ars have stud­ied old draw­ings to spec­u­late on the rules” — hard­ly the most reli­able guide. If you’re inter­est­ed, how­ev­er, in play­ing Senet your­self, res­ur­rect­ing, so to speak, the ancient tra­di­tion for fun or oth­er­wise, you can eas­i­ly make your own board. Storer’s pre­sen­ta­tion of what are known as Jequier’s Rules can be found here. For anoth­er ver­sion of Senet play, see the video above from Egyp­tol­ogy Lessons.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Watch a Playthrough of the Old­est Board Game in the World, the Sumer­ian Roy­al Game of Ur, Cir­ca 2500 BC

A Brief His­to­ry of Chess: An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to the 1,500-Year-Old Game

A 3,000-Year-Old Painter’s Palette from Ancient Egypt, with Traces of the Orig­i­nal Col­ors Still In It

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

How the Survivors of Pompeii Escaped Mount Vesuvius’ Deadly Eruption: A TED-Ed Animation Tells the Story

We tend to imag­ine Pom­peii as a city frozen in time by the erup­tion of Mount Vesu­vius, inhab­i­tants and all, but most Pom­pei­ians actu­al­ly sur­vived the dis­as­ter. “The vol­cano’s molten rock, scorch­ing debris and poi­so­nous gas­es killed near­ly 2,000 peo­ple” in Pom­peii and near­by Her­cu­la­neum, writes Live Sci­ence’s Lau­ra Geggel. Of the 15,000 and 20,000 peo­ple in total who’d lived there, “most stayed along the south­ern Ital­ian coast, reset­tling in the com­mu­ni­ties of Cumae, Naples, Ostia and Pute­oli,” accord­ing to the lat­est archae­o­log­i­cal research. Vesu­vius may have made refugees of them, but his­to­ry has revealed that they made the right choice.

Pom­pei­ians in par­tic­u­lar, as the TED-Ed les­son above depicts it, faced three choic­es: “seek shel­ter, escape to the south on foot, or flee to the west by sea,” the lat­ter made a viable propo­si­tion by the town’s loca­tion near the coast.

The video’s ani­ma­tion (script­ed by archae­ol­o­gy Gary Devore) dra­ma­tizes the fates of three sib­lings, Lucius, Mar­cus, and Fabia, on that fate­ful day in A.D. 79. “Fabia and her broth­ers dis­cuss the recent tremors every­one’s been feel­ing,” says the nar­ra­tor. “Lucius jokes that there’ll always be work for men who rebuild walls in Pom­peii.” It is then that the long-rum­bling Vesu­vius emits a “deaf­en­ing boom,” then spews “smoke, ash, and rock high into the air.”

Gath­er­ing up his own fam­i­ly from Her­cu­la­neum, Mar­cus goes sea­ward, but the waves are “brim­ming with vol­canic mat­ter, mak­ing it impos­si­ble for boats to nav­i­gate close enough to shore.” As sub­se­quent phas­es of the erup­tion fur­ther dev­as­tate the towns, the luck­less Lucius finds him­self entombed in the room where he’d been await­ing his fiancée. Shel­ter­ing with her hus­band and daugh­ters, and hear­ing the roof of her home “groan under the weight of vol­canic debris,” Fabia alone makes the choice to join the stream of human­i­ty walk­ing south­east, away from the vol­cano. This sounds rea­son­able, although when Wired’s Cody Cas­sidy asks Uni­ver­si­ty of Naples Fed­eri­co II foren­sic anthro­pol­o­gist Pier Pao­lo Petrone to rec­om­mend the best course of action, the expert sug­gests flee­ing to the north, toward Her­cu­la­neum and final­ly Naples — and more imme­di­ate­ly, toward Vesu­vius.

“The road between Pom­peii and Naples was well main­tained,” Petrone tells Cas­sidy, “and the writ­ten records of those who sur­vived sug­gest that most of the suc­cess­ful escapees went north — while most of the bod­ies of the attempt­ed escapees (who admit­ted­ly left far too late) have been found to the south.” Should you find your­self walk­ing the thir­teen miles between between Pom­peii and Naples in the midst of a vol­canic erup­tion, you should “avoid overex­er­tion and take any oppor­tu­ni­ty to drink fresh water.” As Petrone writes, “only those who man­aged to under­stand from the begin­ning the grav­i­ty of the sit­u­a­tion” — the Fabi­as, in oth­er words — “escaped in time.” The likes of Mount Vesu­vius would seem to rank low on the list of dan­gers fac­ing human­i­ty today, but near­ly two mil­len­nia after Pom­peii, it is, after all, still active.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Watch the Destruc­tion of Pom­peii by Mount Vesu­vius, Re-Cre­at­ed with Com­put­er Ani­ma­tion (79 AD)

See the Expan­sive Ruins of Pom­peii Like You’ve Nev­er Seen Them Before: Through the Eyes of a Drone

High-Res­o­lu­tion Walk­ing Tours of Italy’s Most His­toric Places: The Colos­se­um, Pom­peii, St. Peter’s Basil­i­ca & More

Archae­ol­o­gists Dis­cov­er an Ancient Roman Snack Bar in the Ruins of Pom­peii

How Ancient Scrolls, Charred by the Erup­tion of Mount Vesu­vius in 79 AD, Are Now Being Read by Par­ti­cle Accel­er­a­tors, 3D Mod­el­ing & Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

John Steinbeck Wrote a Werewolf Novel, and His Estate Won’t Let the World Read It: The Story of Murder at Full Moon

Pho­to of Stein­beck by Sonya Noskowiak, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

John Stein­beck wrote Of Mice and MenThe Grapes of Wrath, and East of Eden, but not before he’d put a few less-acclaimed nov­els under his belt. He did­n’t even break through to suc­cess of any kind until 1935’s Tor­tilla Flat, which lat­er became a pop­u­lar roman­tic-com­e­dy film with Spencer Tra­cy and Hedy Lamarr. That was already Stein­beck­’s fourth pub­lished nov­el, and he’d writ­ten near­ly as many unpub­lished ones. Two of those three man­u­scripts he destroyed, but a fourth sur­vives at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Texas in Austin’s Har­ry Ran­som Cen­ter, which spe­cial­ized in hoard­ing lit­er­ary ephemera, espe­cial­ly from Nobel lau­re­ates. The unpub­lished nov­el deals not with labor­ers, farm­ers, or wastrels, but a were­wolf.

“Set in a fic­tion­al Cal­i­forn­ian coastal town, Mur­der at Full Moon tells the sto­ry of a com­mu­ni­ty gripped by fear after a series of grue­some mur­ders takes place under a full moon,” writes The Guardian’s Dalya Alberge. “Inves­ti­ga­tors fear that a super­nat­ur­al mon­ster has emerged from the near­by marsh­es. Its char­ac­ters include a cub reporter, a mys­te­ri­ous man who runs a local gun club and an eccen­tric ama­teur sleuth who sets out to solve the crime using tech­niques based on his obses­sion with pulp detec­tive fic­tion.”

Alberge quotes Stan­ford lit­er­ary schol­ar Gavin Jones describ­ing the book as relat­ed to Stein­beck­’s “inter­est in vio­lent human trans­for­ma­tion – the kind of human-ani­mal con­nec­tion that you find all over his work; his inter­est in mob vio­lence and how humans are capa­ble of oth­er states of being, includ­ing par­tic­u­lar­ly vio­lent mur­der­ers.”

Then still in his twen­ties, Stein­beck wrote Mur­der at Full Moon under the pseu­do­nym Peter Pym. After receiv­ing only rejec­tions from pub­lish­ers, he shelved the man­u­script and seems not to have giv­en it anoth­er thought, even in order to dis­pose of it. Though Stein­beck­’s estate has declared its lack of inter­est in its posthu­mous pub­li­ca­tion, Jones believes it would find a recep­tive read­er­ship today:  “It’s a hor­ror pot­boil­er, which is why I think read­ers would find it more inter­est­ing than a more typ­i­cal Stein­beck.” It also “pre­dicts Cal­i­forn­ian noir detec­tive fic­tion. It is an unset­tling sto­ry whose atmos­phere is one of fog-bound, mali­cious, malig­nant secre­cy.” It could at least have made quite a noir film, ide­al­ly one star­ring Lon Chaney, Jr., whose per­for­mance in Of Mice and Men proved he could play a Stein­beck char­ac­ter — to say noth­ing of his sub­se­quent turn in The Wolf Man.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

John Steinbeck’s Six Tips for the Aspir­ing Writer and His Nobel Prize Speech

John Stein­beck Reads Two Short Sto­ries, “The Snake” and “John­ny Bear” in 1953

John Stein­beck Has a Cri­sis in Con­fi­dence While Writ­ing The Grapes of Wrath: “I am Not a Writer. I’ve Been Fool­ing Myself and Oth­er Peo­ple”

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

The Story of Elizebeth Friedman, the Pioneering Cryptologist Who Thwarted the Nazis & Got Burned by J. Edgar Hoover

Elize­beth S. Fried­man: Sub­ur­ban Mom or Nin­ja Nazi Hunter?

Both, though in her life­time, the press was far more inclined to fix­ate on her lady­like aspect and home­mak­ing duties than her career as a self-taught cryp­to­an­a­lyst, with head­lines such as “Pret­ty Woman Who Pro­tects Unit­ed States” and “Solved By Woman.”

The nov­el­ty of her gen­der led to a brief stint as America’s most rec­og­niz­able code­break­er, more famous even than her fel­low cryp­tol­o­gist, hus­band William Fried­man, who was instru­men­tal in the found­ing of the Nation­al Secu­ri­ty Agency dur­ing the Cold War.

Renowned though she was, the high­ly clas­si­fied nature of her work exposed her to a secu­ri­ty threat in the per­son of FBI direc­tor J. Edgar Hoover.

Hoover cred­it­ed the FBI, and by exten­sion, him­self, for deci­pher­ing some 50 Nazi radio cir­cuits’ codes, at least two of them pro­tect­ed with Enig­ma machines.

He also rushed to raid South Amer­i­can sources in his zeal to make an impres­sion and advance his career, scup­per­ing Fried­man’s mis­sion by caus­ing Berlin to put a stop to all trans­mis­sions to that area.

Too bad no one asked him to demon­strate the meth­ods he’d used to crack these impos­si­ble nuts.

The Ger­man agents used the same codes and radio tech­niques as the Con­sol­i­dat­ed Exporters Cor­po­ra­tion, a mob-backed rum-run­ning oper­a­tion whose codes and ciphers Elize­beth had trans­lat­ed as chief cryp­tol­o­gist for the U.S. Trea­sury Depart­ment dur­ing Pro­hi­bi­tion.

As an expert wit­ness in the crim­i­nal tri­al of inter­na­tion­al rum­run­ner Bert Mor­ri­son and his asso­ciates, she mod­est­ly assert­ed that it was “real­ly quite sim­ple to decode their mes­sages if you know what to look for,” but the sam­ple decryp­tion she pro­vid­ed the jury made it plain that her work required tremen­dous skill. The Mob Museum’s Jeff Bur­bank sets the scene:

She read a sam­ple mes­sage, refer­ring to a brand of whiskey: “Out of Old Colonel in Pints.” She showed how the three “o” and “l” let­ters in “Colonel” had iden­ti­cal cipher code let­ters. From the cipher’s let­ters for “Colonel” she could fig­ure out the let­ter the rack­e­teers chose for “e,” the most fre­quent­ly occur­ring let­ter in Eng­lish, based on oth­er brand names of liquor they men­tioned in oth­er mes­sages. The “o” and “l” let­ters in “alco­hol,” she said, had the same cipher let­ters as “Colonel.” 

Cinchy, right?

Elizebeth’s biog­ra­ph­er, Jason Fagone, notes that in dis­cov­er­ing the iden­ti­ty, code­name and ciphers used by Ger­man spy net­work Oper­a­tion Bolí­var’s leader, Johannes Siegfried Beck­er, she suc­ceed­ed where “every oth­er law enforce­ment agency and intel­li­gence agency failed. She did what the FBI could not do.”

Sex­ism and Hoover were not the only ene­mies.

William Friedman’s crit­i­cism of the NSA for clas­si­fy­ing doc­u­ments he thought should be a mat­ter of pub­lic record led to a rift result­ing in the con­fis­ca­tion of dozens of papers from the cou­ple’s home that doc­u­ment­ed their work.

This, togeth­er with the 50-year “TOP SECRET ULTRA” clas­si­fi­ca­tion of her WWII records, ensured that Elize­beth’s life would end beneath “a vast dome of silence.”

Recog­ni­tion is mount­ing, how­ev­er.

Near­ly 20 years after her 1980 death, she was induct­ed into the Nation­al Secu­ri­ty Agency’s Cryp­to­log­ic Hall of Hon­or as “a pio­neer in code break­ing.”

A Nation­al Secu­ri­ty Agency build­ing now bears both Fried­mans’ names.

The U.S. Coast Guard will soon be adding a Leg­end Class Cut­ter named the USCGC Fried­man to their fleet.

In addi­tion to Fagone’s biog­ra­phy, a pic­ture book, Code Break­er, Spy Hunter: How Elize­beth Fried­man Changed the Course of Two World Wars, was pub­lished ear­li­er this year.

As far as we know, there are no pic­ture books ded­i­cat­ed to the pio­neer­ing work of J. Edgar Hoover….

Elize­beth Fried­man, via Wiki­me­dia Com­mons

Watch The Code­break­er, PBS’s Amer­i­can Expe­ri­ence biog­ra­phy of Elize­beth Fried­man here.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

The Enig­ma Machine: How Alan Tur­ing Helped Break the Unbreak­able Nazi Code

How British Code­break­ers Built the First Elec­tron­ic Com­put­er

Three Ama­teur Cryp­tog­ra­phers Final­ly Decrypt­ed the Zodi­ac Killer’s Let­ters: A Look Inside How They Solved a Half Cen­tu­ry-Old Mys­tery

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er and Chief Pri­ma­tol­o­gist of the East Vil­lage Inky zine.  Join her June 7 for a Necro­mancers of the Pub­lic Domain: The Peri­od­i­cal Cica­da, a free vir­tu­al vari­ety hon­or­ing the 17-Year Cicadas of Brood X. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday.

The First Cellphone: Discover Motorola’s DynaTAC 8000X, a 2‑Pound Brick Priced at $3,995 (1984)

We get the cul­ture our tech­nol­o­gy per­mits, and in the 21st cen­tu­ry no tech­no­log­i­cal devel­op­ment has changed cul­ture like that of the smart­phone. As with every piece of per­son­al tech­nol­o­gy that we strug­gle to remem­ber how we lived with­out, it evolved into being from a series of sim­pler pre­de­ces­sors that, no mat­ter how clunky they seem now, were received as tech­no­log­i­cal mar­vels in their day. Take it from Mar­tin Coop­er, the Motoro­la Engi­neer who invent­ed the first hand­held cel­lu­lar mobile phone. “We did­n’t know it was going to be his­toric in any way at all,” he says of the first pub­licly demon­strat­ed cell­phone call in 1973 in the Bloomberg video above. “We were only wor­ried about one thing: is the phone going to work when we turn it on?”

The device Coop­er had in hand was the pro­to­type that would even­tu­al­ly become the Motoro­la DynaT­AC 8000X, the first com­mer­cial portable cel­lu­lar phone. (This as dis­tinct from the exist­ing car-phone sys­tems that Coop­er cred­its with inspir­ing him to devel­op an entire­ly hand­held ver­sion.) Brought to mar­ket in 1983, it weighed about two pounds, took ten hours to charge a bat­tery that last­ed only 30 min­utes, could store no more than 30 phone num­bers, and cost near­ly $10,000 in today’s dol­lars.

Yet “con­sumers were so impressed by the con­cept of being always acces­si­ble with a portable phone that wait­ing lists for the DynaT­AC 8000X were in the thou­sands,” says Motoro­la design mas­ter Rudy Krolopp as quot­ed by the Project Man­age­ment Insti­tute. “In 1983, the notion of sim­ply mak­ing wire­less phone calls was rev­o­lu­tion­ary.”

38 years after “the brick,” as the 8000X was known, we’ve grown so used to that notion that many of us hard­ly ever make wire­less phone calls any­more, pre­fer­ring to com­mu­ni­cate on our phones through text mes­sages or an ever-expand­ing uni­verse of inter­net-based apps — to say noth­ing of the oth­er aspects of our lives increas­ing­ly han­dled through palm-sized touch­screens. “The mod­ern smart­phone is a tech­no­log­i­cal mar­vel,” says Coop­er. “It real­ly is incred­i­ble, all the stuff that is squeezed into that cell­phone.” Yet despite the aston­ish­ing evo­lu­tion of his inven­tion it rep­re­sents, he’s not sat­is­fied. “We think that we can make a smart­phone that does all things for all peo­ple, and yet we know that it does­n’t do any of those things per­fect­ly. We’ve still got a ways to go.” If you’re read­ing this on a smart­phone, know that you hold in your hand the “brick” of 2059.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Lyn­da Bar­ry on How the Smart­phone Is Endan­ger­ing Three Ingre­di­ents of Cre­ativ­i­ty: Lone­li­ness, Uncer­tain­ty & Bore­dom

Film­mak­er Wim Wen­ders Explains How Mobile Phones Have Killed Pho­tog­ra­phy

A 1947 French Film Accu­rate­ly Pre­dict­ed Our 21st-Cen­tu­ry Addic­tion to Smart­phones

When We All Have Pock­et Tele­phones (1923)

The World’s First Mobile Phone Shown in 1922 Vin­tage Film

Sci­en­tist Cre­ates a Work­ing Rotary Cell­phone

Based in Seoul, Col­in Mar­shall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. His projects include the Sub­stack newslet­ter Books on Cities, the book The State­less City: a Walk through 21st-Cen­tu­ry Los Ange­les and the video series The City in Cin­e­ma. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

The Surprising Reason Why Chinatowns Worldwide Share the Same Aesthetic, and How It All Started with the 1906 San Francisco Earthquake

Anti-Chi­nese racism runs deep in Amer­i­can cul­ture and law, begin­ning in the 19th cen­tu­ry as com­pe­ti­tion inten­si­fied in Cal­i­for­nia gold and land rush­es. Chi­nese immi­grants were pushed into teem­ing cities, then den­i­grat­ed for sur­viv­ing in over­crowd­ed slums. To get a sense of the scope of the prej­u­dice, we need only con­sid­er the 1882 law known as the Chi­nese Exclu­sion Act — the only leg­is­la­tion passed to explic­it­ly restrict immi­gra­tion by one eth­nic or nation­al group. The law actu­al­ly goes back to 1875, when the Page Act banned Chi­nese women from immi­grat­ing. It was only repealed in 1943.

Although rou­tine­ly evad­ed, the severe restric­tions and out­right bans on Chi­nese immi­gra­tion under the Exclu­sion Act drove and were dri­ven by racist ideas still vis­i­ble today in tropes of dan­ger­ous, exoti­cized “drag­on ladies” or sex­u­al­ly sub­mis­sive con­cu­bines: roles giv­en in ear­ly Hol­ly­wood films to the first Chi­nese-Amer­i­can movie star, Anna May Wong, who, after 1909 — despite being the most rec­og­niz­able Chi­nese-Amer­i­can in the world — had to car­ry iden­ti­fi­ca­tion at all times to prove her legal sta­tus.

Wong was born in Los Ange­les, a city that — like every oth­er major metrop­o­lis — became home to its own Chi­na­town, and a famous one at that. But the most famous of the seg­re­gat­ed urban areas orig­i­nat­ed in San Fran­cis­co, after the 1906 earth­quake that near­ly lev­eled the city and “came on the heels of decades of vio­lence and racist laws tar­get­ing Chi­nese com­mu­ni­ties in the US,” notes Vox. “The earth­quake dev­as­tat­ed Chi­na­town. But in the destruc­tion, San Francisco’s Chi­nese busi­ness­men had an idea for a fresh start” that would define the look of Chi­na­towns world­wide.

The new Chi­na­town was more than a new start; it was sur­vival. As often hap­pens after dis­as­ters, pro­pos­als for relo­cat­ing the unpop­u­lar immi­grant neigh­bor­hood appeared “before the dust had set­tled and smoke cleared,” notes 99 Per­cent Invis­i­ble. “The city’s may­or com­mis­sioned archi­tect and urban design­er Daniel Burn­ham to draw up plans aligned with the City Beau­ti­ful move­ment.” Feel­ing they had to cater to white Amer­i­can stereo­types to gain accep­tance, Chi­nese-Amer­i­can busi­ness lead­ers “hired archi­tect T. Pater­son Ross and engi­neer A.W. Bur­gren to rebuild—even though nei­ther man had been to Chi­na.”

The archi­tects “relied on cen­turies-old images, pri­mar­i­ly of reli­gious ver­nac­u­lar, to devel­op the look of the new Chi­na­town,” and the result was to cre­ate a gen­uine tourist attrac­tion — an “icon­ic look,” the Vox Miss­ing Chap­ter video explains, that bears lit­tle resem­blance to actu­al Chi­nese cities. The Chi­nese immi­grant com­mu­ni­ty in San Fran­cis­co “kept their cul­ture alive by invent­ing a new one,” a delib­er­ate co-opta­tion of Ori­en­tal­ist stereo­types for a city, its mer­chants decid­ed, that would be built of “ver­i­ta­ble fairy palaces.”

The New Chi­na­town was “not quite Chi­nese, not quite Amer­i­can”; safe for mid­dle-class tourism and con­sump­tion and safer for Chi­nese busi­ness­es to flour­ish. The mod­el spread rapid­ly. Now, in what­ev­er major city we might might vis­it — out­side of Chi­na, that is — the Chi­na­town we encounter is both a unique cul­tur­al hybrid and a mar­ket­ing tri­umph that offered a mea­sure of pro­tec­tion to belea­guered Chi­nese immi­grant com­mu­ni­ties around the world.

Relat­ed Con­tent: 

Learn the Untold His­to­ry of the Chi­nese Com­mu­ni­ty in the Mis­sis­sip­pi Delta

The Utopi­an, Social­ist Designs of Sovi­et Cities

The His­to­ry of West­ern Archi­tec­ture: A Free Online Course Mov­ing from Ancient Greece to Roco­co

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

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