David Edmonds and John Eidinow
BOBBY FISCHER GOES TO WAR
How the Soviets Lost the Most Extraordinary Chess Match of All Time
TO ELISABETH EIDINOW
AND
TO THREE EDMONDS SIBLINGS,
PHILIP, RICHARD, AND JULIA
1. MATCH OF THE CENTURY
Funny to be a war correspondent again after all these years.
When you play Bobby, it is not a question of whether you win or lose. It is a question of whether you survive.
It is five o’clock in the evening of Tuesday, 11 July 1972. The seats filling the arena of the sports hall, the Laugardalsholl, in Reykjavik’s featureless leisure complex are sold out. On the platform, the world chess champion, thirty-five-year-old Boris Vasilievich Spassky, sits alone at the chessboard. He is playing white. Precisely on the hour, the German chief arbiter, Lothar Schmid, starts the clock. Spassky picks up his queen’s pawn and moves it forward two squares. The Soviet Union’s king of chess has begun the defense of the title that has been his since 1969, and his country’s without interruption since World War II. He glances up at the other side of the board. The expensive, low-slung, black leather, swivel chair, specially provided for his opponent, is empty.
Six minutes later, the American challenger, Bobby Fischer, arrives. A communal sigh of relief gusts through the hall. Because of his refusal to leave New York in time for the match’s opening, the first game has already been postponed and many had feared that he might not appear at alclass="underline" with Fischer, one can never be sure. Now a large hand reaches across the chessboard, plucks up the black king’s knight, and places it on f6.
In the provincial and normally tranquil Icelandic capital, what is already being called “the Match of the Century” is at last under way.
The World Chess Championship has existed since 1886. But with this final, it is a front-page story for the first time; at $250,000, the prize money is nearly twenty times more than in the last title contest, when Boris Spassky triumphed over his fellow Soviet, the then champion Tigran Petrosian.
Why do the games make news on television and stars of commentators? Already a people’s sport in the communist bloc, why does chess now become the rage in the West, the pastime of the moment, like the Charleston, canasta, or the Hula Hoop; what you talk about in the bar with strangers and over the dinner table with friends? The 1972 championship will become immortalized in film, on the stage, in song. It will remain incontrovertibly the most notorious chess duel in history. There will never be another like it.
This has little to do with the games themselves. If it had, the Reykjavik tale could be left to the existing books and myriad reports in chess volumes and articles that analyze the chess, game by game, in every detail. There are scores of them—for the most part, instant works. What turned this championship into a unique and compelling confrontation was off the chessboard, beginning with the conviction that history was being made.
To Western commentators, the meaning of the confrontation seemed clear. A lone American star was challenging the long Soviet grip on the world title. His success would dispose of the Soviets’ claim that their chess hegemony reflected the superiority of their political system. The board was a cold war arena where the champion of the free world fought for democracy against the apparatchiks of the Soviet socialist machine. Here was the High Noon of chess, coming to you from a concrete auditorium in Iceland.
Given the mutual hostility of the two great power blocs of the cold war, such a reading of the encounter was inevitable. But the story can now be retold from a new perspective, stripped of cold war distortions, a story more nuanced and surprising than could be seen in 1972. The end of the cold war has allowed access to people and records that reveal the individuals inside the Soviet monolith. White House, State Department, and FBI sources offer remarkable insights on official attitudes to the match and to Fischer. Far from being a simple ideological confrontation, the championship was played out on many levels, of which chess itself was only one. Reykjavik was the setting for a collision of personalities, of moral and legal obligations, of social and political beliefs.
However, in large measure, the sheer notoriety of the event was due to the presence of Bobby Fischer, a volatile genius, enthralling and shocking, appealing yet repellent.
In 1972, Fischer was still only twenty-nine, but he had already been at the summit of international chess for over a decade and the subject of increasing public fascination since he was a boy.
2. BROOKLYN BOY
Fischer wants to enter history alone.
Robert J. Fischer was born to a life of chess in Chicago at 2:39 P.M. on 9 March 1943. He grew up in a bustling, hustling society that to a great extent saw itself in the image of a Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post cover—the self-portrait of Middle America, prosperous, warmhearted, gainfully employed, family centered, community minded.
The Fischer family’s life would not have made the cover of the Saturday Evening Post. Bobby never knew the person named as his father on his birth certificate, Gerhardt, a German biophysicist. His mother, Regina, of Polish-Jewish descent, was a remarkable woman, clever and domineering. As well as Bobby, there was his sister, Joan, older by five years, to support. Throughout Bobby’s infancy, Regina was constantly short of money, struggling to feed and clothe her children, leading an itinerant existence.
However, in those early years of worry, she was nothing if not resourceful. There were jobs to be had: this was boom time for the American worker. Fueled by federal spending on the military, the combination of manufacturing technology and “can do” attitude was transforming the nation into the most powerful and productive in history. The U.S. economy had long outperformed Europe’s and now per capita income in America was twice as high as in the most developed of Western European countries, only slowly recovering from World War II despite massive injections of American money. Demobilized troops returned from Europe and the Pacific to full employment, high wages, and record growth, to diners and hot-dog stands, to homes with labor-saving machines and Main Street bursting with consumer goods. Television was starting its march through the nation; it was a time of cultural optimism.
The soldiers came back to a government under President Truman that was infused with a sense of mission—a determination to contain Soviet expansionist tendencies and to make the world safe for democracy.
During the war, Regina had gone from Chicago to Washington, D.C., to visit a Hungarian close friend, Paul Nemenyi, then to Idaho for a few months of study (she majored in chemistry and languages), before taking a job as a stenographer in Oregon and then as a shipyard welder. After that the family transferred south to Arizona, where she taught in elementary schools. Then a move east was undertaken so she could study for a master’s degree in nursing and subsequently enter a career as a nurse. They came to rest in Brooklyn, apartment Q, 560 Lincoln Place, small, basic, but habitable. It was in Brooklyn that Bobby spent his formative years. That was fortunate: in so far as America had a chess capital, it was undoubtedly New York.
When Fischer was six, Joan brought him home a chess set—he was a taciturn child, fascinated by board games and puzzles. Together they learned the moves from the instructions. Fischer soon became so engrossed in the game that Regina feared he was spending too much time alone. She sent an advertisement to the local paper, the Brooklyn Eagle, appealing for chess playmates for her son. The ad was never published because the editorial staff could not decide under what category to place it. What they did instead gives them a cameo part in chess history: they forwarded it to veteran chess journalist and official Hermann Helms. He wrote to Regina in January 1951, suggesting she bring Bobby along to the Brooklyn Chess Club.