Energy, Enthusiasm, and Extraordinary Curiosity: Remembering Pavel Jungwirth

Pavel was nothing short of a phenomenal chemist, tennis player, father, winemaker, civic activist, supervisor, science communicator, inspiration, lecturer and friend. Everything he did, he did brilliantly. What was most remarkable about all this, however (and, for the rest of us mere mortals, a little irritating), was that he did it all with such natural ease and effortless grace, whilst clearly enjoying himself immensely. 

Pavel Jungwirth was my teacher, later my colleague, and perhaps even my friend. In many ways, he was also a role model. His death caught me completely unprepared. Few people I have known were as full of life as Pavel.

I discovered him in 1997, while somewhat hesitantly screening potential supervisors for my master’s thesis.

He was a revelation to me and stood out in almost every respect. First, he was young. Of course, that is something that happens to everyone at some point, but in Czech science in the 1990s, it was a rather unusual quality.

He also had a gift for expressing ideas clearly. In Pavel’s hands, science made sense and was exciting. Equally important was the way he related to his students and colleagues. I very quickly came to feel that I was not simply part of a research group, but of something like an extended family.

After his postdoctoral stays abroad, he became – at least in my eyes – a natural ambassador of Western science in Czechia. He brought back not only new methods and contacts, but also the conviction that science was about asking interesting questions, presenting results with energy, and calmly accepting the risk of occasionally getting things wrong. He managed to change Czech science significantly without ever becoming a professional science administrator.

His voice also carried well beyond the scientific community. Pavel was never much of a believer in the Czech saying, “Don’t put out a fire that isn’t burning you.” Whenever something was on fire somewhere, he tended to feel that it was, at least partly, his fire too. He spoke out on contentious issues ranging from academia and homeopathy to climate change, migration, and public affairs. He made his views clear, but never aggressive. They probably provoked some people. But he never hid behind anyone else and was prepared to live with disagreement.

At his sixtieth birthday celebration, he asked us not to make it too sentimental. I am afraid I cannot quite honor that wish now. Pavel is no longer here. But as we know from the Cimrmanian theory of externalism, existence and perceptibility are not the same thing. Pavel will remain perceptible for a long time to come: in the people he taught, mentored, and inspired; in the questions that might never have occurred to anyone without him; in the institutions that could never become too comfortable with him around; and in the idea of science as an endeavor that is open to the world and pursued with deep personal commitment.

I miss you already, Pavel.

Pavel was simply great! And, most importantly, he was always great. I remember that we met one summer day at Dejvická underground station. Both of us were leaving work quite late. We started chatting about life and things like that.

At some point, I told him that I had been nominated for the Dream Chemistry Award, but that I had absolutely no idea what I was going to write about or whether I was up to it.

In 2004, ten countries joined the European Union, eight of them post-socialist states. The President of the European Commission at the time, Romano Prodi, organized and chaired a meeting of scientists from the accession countries. Professor Kroo of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences spoke on behalf of the post-socialist countries, as did I, representing the Czech Academy of Sciences.

After my speech, Paul Crutzen, the Dutch Nobel laureate in chemistry who was sitting next to me, leaned over and whispered: “Your speech was beautiful. But you know, you don’t really have any science.” Before I could respond indignantly, he added: “But perhaps you do. Not long ago, I had the opportunity to speak with a young chemist from your country. His name was Pavel Jungwirth, and he was brilliant and original.” And so, Pavel saved the reputation of Czech science that day without me having to say another word.

What I remember most about Pavel was his extraordinary energy and genuine passion for science. We began collaborating in 2005, combining his expertise in molecular dynamics simulations with our experimental work in membrane biophysics. He was never afraid of a difficult question or an unexpected result. Where others might have stopped at an observation, Pavel wanted to understand what was really happening at the molecular level. His creativity and determination repeatedly helped us explain experimental findings that might otherwise have remained unresolved. I greatly valued our scientific partnership, as well as the openness and enthusiasm he brought to it.

Pavel also had a remarkable influence on younger scientists. I am especially grateful that several researchers who worked with him later decided to continue their scientific careers at our Institute. In this way, an important part of his scientific legacy remains closely connected with the Heyrovský Institute.

It is still very difficult to accept that such an energetic and inspiring person is no longer with us. I will remember Pavel with deep gratitude – as an exceptional scientist, a wonderful collaborator, and a good colleague whose enthusiasm for science was truly contagious.

I never had the opportunity to collaborate with Pavel on a scientific project. Like many others, I followed his work, read his papers, and greatly enjoyed his presentations. One of my first vivid memories of him comes from an unexpected encounter at the synchrotron in Berlin.

During a coffee break, Pavel recognized me and, although we hardly knew each other at the time, immediately took me back into the experimental hall to show me what he and his team were working on.

Their beamline was a wonderfully complicated arrangement of detectors, cables, instruments, aluminum foil, and silver tape. In the middle of it all stood Pavel, explaining with great enthusiasm how a high-energy beam hit a sample under high pressure and what the detectors were measuring.

I no longer remember the details and I am not even sure that I fully understood them at the time. But I remember very clearly how deeply impressed I was.

What impressed me most was not the energy of the electron beam, but the energy coming from Pavel himself. I remember thinking what an extraordinary person: someone capable of harnessing the power of electrons, and practically the entire synchrotron, to answer his scientific question. That work, on the behavior of solvated electrons in ammonia, would later appear on the cover of Science.

Few years later, I began meeting Pavel regularly as a member of the IOCB Board. We served together for two terms, and during the second Pavel was President of the Board. There, once again, I saw the same energy.

He brought it to discussions about the future of the Institute, to drafting strategies, and to setting long-term goals. But he was equally willing to devote himself to things that might have seemed smaller, although they were no less important: mentoring PhD students, the Code of Ethics, and the Equal Opportunities Plan.

Pavel was deeply sensitive to fairness. He wanted everyone to have a genuine chance and equal opportunities, and he supported those who needed additional help. I especially remember his commitment to the Martina Roeselová Memorial Fellowship, which supports young scientists caring for children while completing their research and PhD studies.

Whenever these fellowships were awarded, I saw again the same energy I had first noticed at the synchrotron. Pavel took real pleasure in meeting the recipients and their families, especially their children. His interest was never formal. He genuinely cared about the people whom these programs supported.

One of my memories of Pavel is very different and not scientific. I once danced with him at the Institute ball. We danced the blues – or at least that was how it started. It was supposed to be a slow dance, but somehow, we travelled around the dance floor several times, and our blues became something closer to a quickstep. It was not technically perfect, but it was simply so much fun. And once again, there was that energy.