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As J. Robert Oppenheimer gathers his group of Manhattan Project scientists at Los Alamos, New Mexico, he lets them in on a secret. They don’t have enough uranium or plutonium to test a potential atomic bomb, even if they figure out how to create one.

Sitting on the desk in front of him are two glass containers — a large fish bowl and a smaller brandy snifter. One by one, Oppenheimer drops marbles into the glass — plink, plink, plink — marking the growth in processing the deadly elements.

The character doesn’t mention St. Louis in the movie. But the city is where some of that initial uranium was developed. And after World War II, St. Louis became a major source of the uranium processing for missiles during the Cold War arms race.

In , the scientists celebrate when the final marble plinks into the glass bowl to show they have enough uranium for their task, much as they celebrate when the bomb test is successful. They celebrate again when the bomb is dropped, first on Hiroshima and then on Nagasaki, killing hundreds of thousands of Japanese civilians and ending the war.

The celebrations are muted, at least for Oppenheimer and many of the scientists, once they realize the impact of what they — and the politicians they serve — have done.

The story reverberates today.

Once every generation, it seems, members of Congress realize all over again that the people of our region — the workers who toiled at Mallinckrodt Chemical Works plants, and the folks who grew up in areas where some of that nuclear waste was buried, such as along Coldwater Creek in north St. Louis County — suffered serious maladies for their role in the war effort.

Three generations of activists — Kay Drey, Denise Brock and the co-founders of Just Moms STL, Dawn Chapman and Karen Nickel — have sounded alarm bells about the damage that the processing of nuclear material and its waste had on people.

Like the story of Oppenheimer, it’s one that has to be told over and over again because the legacy of the Manhattan Project is ongoing. It’s a story of patriotism and death; of moral ambiguity and the pain of unintended consequences.

So it was in late May, when I was at the Weldon Spring Interpretive Center for the rededication of a memorial that honors workers who died from maladies related to the processing of nuclear materials. The remodeled museum sits beside a massive pile of gray stone, piled high like so many marbles in a glass jar, protecting future generations from the nuclear waste buried there.

Veterans who attended the memorial were thanked for their service. Family members of the workers waved American flags. But the Rev. Gerry Kleba, a Catholic priest, also reminded folks of the somber reason for the occasion. He recounted the estimated 200,000 deaths in Japan, and the local deaths from various illnesses. He repeated the quote that haunted Oppenheimer and was repeated in the recent movie: “Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.�

This month, there was another event at Weldon Spring, this one with the Just Moms STL crowd. Sen. Josh Hawley, a Republican, pushed for a bill — also supported by Rep. Cori Bush, a Democrat — to create a new flow of compensation for St. Louis families who have suffered because of the city’s connection to the nuclear weapons program. The push comes on the heels of from The Missouri Independent, The Associated Press, and MuckRock, reinforcing what Drey has argued for more than a generation: the government knew it was poisoning the Earth, and workers and residents, in its rush to build weapons.

Who pays the price?

That’s a question that tortured Oppenheimer. It’s the question before Congress again and a new generation of St. Louisans, learning about the city’s past, buried under a pile of rocks that sits as a monument to the past.