Game of Chess Thrones: An Inconclusive Result

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The fight in the match was fierce. At first Bronstein dominated, leading after five games, but lost the sixth game in a bizarre way. During the adjournment, a drawish position arose, but Bronstein could not accept it and sought victory by pondering his move for forty-five minutes. He did not find a winning continuation and reconciled himself to a draw. When making his next move, he accidentally grabbed his King instead of the Knight. He immediately understood what had happened. But he had no choice. He had to make a losing move with his King. And then Botvinnik’s pawn, which could have been stopped by a Knight’s move, inevitably reached the promotion square. Crushed by this misfortune, he also lost the seventh game without a fight.
Botvinnik was leading. In the eleventh game, Bronstein equalized the score, but lost the twelfth game.
“What’s happening to him?” Weinstein asked. He was upset. “Is it some kind of psychological trick? Maybe eccentricity?”
“I’m afraid not,” Konstantinopolsky replied. “His nerves are failing him.”
Sometimes for twenty, thirty, once even forty minutes, Bronstein did not make the first move. He couldn’t force himself to do so. He was unable to shift from the state of tension before the battle to the actual combat. He did not have the strength to start fighting. He thought about an excuse not to come to the game, to be late, to delay it. Illness? Accident? He couldn’t be late just like that. It was unacceptable. The only thing he could do was come on time and sit at the chessboard, trying to turn off his nerves. Only when he made his first move, then second, third and a few more, did his nerves let go.
After seventeen games, there was again a balance in the match, and in the nineteenth, Botvinnik took the lead once more. And then Bronstein won two games in a row, the twenty-first and twenty-second. Everything was to be decided in the twenty-third game, the last one in which Botvinnik played as White and which he had to win to keep his title. A draw in this game did not suit Botvinnik because winning on order in the last game, in which he played as Black, was practically impossible. Of course, losing the twenty-third game meant an immediate loss of the match.
After Bronstein won the twenty-second game, something bad happened to him. He didn’t talk to anyone, ate dinner in silence, ignoring Weinstein’s and Konstantinopolsky’s cheerful chatter. Suddenly he got up from the table and started walking around in circles. He said things that didn’t make sense. It was some kind of incomprehensible gibberish. He didn’t answer any questions. Finally he stopped and started shaking. They took him to his bedroom and laid him on his bed. The convulsions lasted for some time, then Bronstein became motionless and fell into a stupor. They lost contact with him.
Weinstein made some phone calls, and after less than two hours, a trusted psychiatrist from the departmental clinic arrived. Doctor Yevgeny Gerasimov listened to Bronstein’s seconds’ accounts and then examined the patient.
“The nervous system couldn’t handle the strain. He needs to rest. Medication and treatment are necessary.”
“But the decisive game is the day after tomorrow,” Weinstein said.
“I know the score of the match,” Doctor Gerasimov smiled sadly. “I’m rooting for Bronstein. But he can’t play anymore. I’m sorry. It’s the end.”
“He has to play!” Weinstein exclaimed. “Just two more games. Don’t you have any medication? Something that will sober him up. Just for a few days.”
“Of course, there are remedies. But he won’t be in a normal state after taking them. The medication will definitely affect his play.”
“You mean, he’ll play poorly? How poorly?”
Doctor Yevgeny Gerasimov shrugged.
“I don’t know. I’m not a good chess player. Bronstein would win against me in any state, but...”
“But not against Botvinnik. I understand. And a draw? We need a draw.”
“I can’t say.”
“What if we ask for a break?” Konstantinopolsky suggested. “Due to illness.”
“In such a critical situation? Botvinnik will get furious. He won’t agree to that. He’ll put the entire Central Committee on alert.”
“Doctor Gerasimov will issue a medical certificate.”
“I know Botvinnik. He’ll demand an independent medical commission. What then?”
“Botvinnik is also in a difficult position,” Boleslavsky said quietly. “Under great pressure.”
“I know him. He has nerves of steel and an iron will. ‘How the Steel Was Tempered’ and so on. Bolshevik upbringing. Do you know that his brother gave a box of gold to the state when the Germans invaded the Soviet Union? He gave the family’s gold for the needs of the army.”
“Maybe it’s not nerves,” Doctor Gerasimov said, and everyone except Bronstein looked at him. “At least not only nerves.”
“What do you mean by that?” Weinstein asked, interested.
“I said there are means to bring David Ionovich out of the state he’s in. So it’s logical that there are substances that induce such a state.”
“Are you suggesting that he was poisoned?” Boris Weinstein slapped his forehead. It was possible. Sure it was be possible. And how!
“In a sense.”
Weinstein didn’t blame Konstantinopolsky and Boleslavsky. They only knew how to play chess. But why didn’t it occur to him?
“How can we find out what they gave him?”
“I’ll take a blood sample for analysis. For now, I’ll give him an injection to calm him down. He’s going to sleep. I’ll bring something in the morning.”
Botvinnik was aware that this was his last chance to equalize and defend the title. After missing so many opportunities, he gathered himself and approached the game with the will to win and maximum concentration. He intended to play confidently and patiently, not rushing and not taking risks, aiming for a small but stable advantage without engaging in active play from his opponent.
For over a month, he managed to remain calm and unaffected. Bronstein and his supporters behaved badly, they applied Kiev tricks. In the audience, right across the stage, there was a box reserved for Bronstein fans, working in the security organs, brought by Boris Weinstein. Whenever Bronstein sacrificed something or, conversely, captured a pawn or a piece, they applauded him like a ballerina. Bronstein made his move and quickly disappeared from the stage. Then he suddenly popped up and hid again, causing laughter in the audience, which distracted Botvinnik. He didn’t let himself be provoked.
The twenty-third game went according to his plan. In the adjourned position, he had a clear advantage. His two long-range Bishops were stronger than Bronstein’s two short-legged Knights in an endgame with pawns on both wings. It was necessary to analyze the position carefully and find the most reliable path to victory. After a long thought, Botvinnik sealed his next move and left the playing hall with his seconds Ragozin and Flohr.
The move seemed obvious. While escorting Botvinnik home, Flohr played through the variations in his head and explained to Botvinnik how he could win. Ragozin echoed him. Botvinnik nodded in agreement. After dinner, they looked at the position together, and then Flohr went home to polish all the variations overnight and compare them with Botvinnik’s and Ragozin’s analyses the next morning. Botvinnik and Ragozin analyzed until six in the morning, then Ragozin went home to get some sleep, while Botvinnik spent two more hours examining the position alone before going to bed at eight. Around noon, a tired but satisfied Flohr came to Botvinnik to show him the variations.
“Solomonchik, could you show this to Ganechka? I would like to take another look at the position on my own.”
Salomon Flohr was taken aback. Gayane barely knew how the pieces moved. Flohr assumed it was fatigue and stress getting to Botvinnik, and he started showing something to his wife, who listened patiently, nodded her head, and smiled politely. After an hour, Botvinnik left his study, and the friends had lunch together before heading to the Tchaikovsky Concert Hall.
Right before going on stage, Botvinnik whispered quietly so that no one could hear:
“You know what, Salo? I sealed a different move.”
If Flohr were a child, he would have burst into tears. But he wasn’t a child. He was forty-three years old and had such a varied life that he felt very old.
Hitler’s aggression against Czechoslovakia made Flohr leave for London. Shortly afterward, the Germans began bombing London, so Flohr went to the Netherlands. When the Germans took over the Netherlands, Flohr moved to neutral Sweden, where Rudolf Spielmann, who had escaped from fascist Austria, was already living. Fearing that Sweden would suffer the same fate as Norway, Flohr decided to go to the Soviet Union, where he was so celebrated in 1933 when he played a match against Botvinnik.
Salomon Flohr was not a child, and he knew very well that he was leaving the free world for a communist dictatorship. However, firstly, the free world was crumbling under the blows of Nazi Germany, and it was uncertain whether it would ever be free again. Secondly, in this communist dictatorship, his beloved chess was a matter of national importance, and chess masters, Flohr in particular, were surrounded with respect and provided with a comfortable life.
After the match with Botvinnik, he gladly and frequently traveled to the Soviet Union. He was treated like a star. Officials, journalists, cultural luminaries, and crowds of fans greeted him. In 1936, together with Lasker and his wife Marta, Salomon Flohr watched the May Day parade from the stand for special guests on Red Square. In the autumn of that year, Nikolai Yezhov became the People’s Commissar of Internal Affairs and hundreds of thousands of people were sentenced to death.
He gave simultaneous exhibitions not only in Moscow and Leningrad but also in Kiev, Kharkov, and many other cities. Smiling, dressed in a light beige suit, a style not commonly seen in the Soviet Union at the time, he was welcomed everywhere with a burst of applause and friendly cheers.
Half a year after his arrival, Hitler attacked the Soviet Union. Flohr evacuated through Central Asia to Georgia. It was 1942. As a well-known foreigner, a Czechoslovak grandmaster, Flohr stayed at the best Intourist Hotel in Tbilisi, waiting out the worst.
“Dear Mister Flohr!” one day the receptionist addressed him. “There’s a summons for you from the militsiya.”
An alarmed Flohr took his passport and went to the militsiya station.
“Oh, it’s you, dear esteemed Salomon Mikhailovich! Our heartfelt congratulations!” The militsiya officers began shaking his hand and patting his back warmly and effusively, in a Georgian way.
It turned out that the authorities had approved his application for Soviet citizenship. As a result, his Latin-scripted Czechoslovak passport was confiscated, and a new identity document in Cyrillic script was issued to him.
“Just remember, Salomon Mikhailovich, to register at the hotel with your new document!”
The next morning, he waited as usual for breakfast to be brought. No one showed up. They didn’t bring lunch either. Flohr went to the hotel manager to complain, and he learned that he was no longer considered a foreigner and he was not entitled to the meals. In addition, the manager asked Flohr to find another place to stay because the hotel was only for foreign guests. He also had to exchange the remaining hard currency he had to rubles at the official exchange rate because Soviet citizens were not allowed to possess foreign money.
And yet, he lived comfortably and safely. Of course, not everyone admired him as much as he wished. Since the early 1930s, when he experienced a stellar time, his brightness had faded.
In 1937, Pyotr Romanovsky published an article in the magazine “Chess in the USSR,” criticizing chess players from bourgeois countries. “Soviet chess players can create and fight freely. They are not burdened by the Damocles sword of material calculations that paralyze bourgeois professionals. Stereotype, routine, standard, and bare technique that characterize the style of representatives of capitalist West, like Fine and Flohr, do not limit the creativity of Soviet masters.”
In the book “Soviet Chess School,” Flohr was mentioned, but rather in a socialist realist spirit of pointing out flaws and calling for improvement. “With Soviet masters who bring great wealth of ideas to the chess battle and relentlessly strive for initiative, one cannot win with just bare technique.”
Of all the few things that didn’t go well for Flohr, he placed his wife Raya in the first place.
“If I had a wife like that, Salo, and found out that I had only one day left to live, I would spend it divorcing her,” said Botvinnik.
Flohr met Raya on Theater Square near the Kremlin, and even long after their divorce, that place had a negative effect on him.
When Bronstein entered the Tchaikovsky Concert Hall on Gorky Street to play the penultimate game, he was calm and wondered what future associations he would have with that place.
Konstantinopolsky knew that David couldn’t achieve anything anymore. It was a good thing that he was still able to behave normally. He played passively, without flair, but he surprisingly held on for a long time. There were chances for a draw, but Weinstein got excited prematurely. The game was adjourned in a difficult position for Bronstein. They analyzed it all night. There wasn’t a single forcing variation that led to Botvinnik’s victory, but it was felt that it would be much easier for Botvinnik to win this position than for Bronstein to draw. Especially since Bronstein couldn’t play anymore. Even at the end, when he resigned after forty minutes of thought, he could still put up some resistance, make a few more moves, but he was unable to do it.
The last game was a formality. Bronstein knew he had to win but had no idea how to do it. He sacrificed a pawn but didn’t get any attack or even a decent initiative in return. He made a couple of bland moves, and in a worse position, which he would have probably lost if he had kept playing, he accepted the draw offered by Botvinnik.
The match ended in a tie, and Mikhail Botvinnik defended his World Champion title.