Searching for Bobby Fischer (14 page)

IN THE DISTRICT
where Gulko lived there were hundreds of large new apartment buildings, all painted the same blue and white. They could have been lower-middle-income housing in Far Rock-away except that they looked out on farmland dotted by small huts.

We parked behind one of the buildings about half a mile from Gulko’s flat, where he said it was unlikely that anyone would be watching for him, then walked through alleys, beneath clotheslines and across sandy playgrounds. After seeing Soviet grandmasters shuttled to the Hall of Columns in limousines and fans bothering them for autographs, I found it strange to be sneaking through backyards in the company of a Soviet champion. We kept glancing behind us to see if we were being followed.

The Gulkos lived in a little flat in one of the large blue-and-white buildings. There was a small bedroom for the boy, David, and in the living room, where Boris and Anna slept, were a comfortable sofa and shelves filled with books about art and chess.

Anna Akhsharumova is a pale, thin young woman, with an odd suppleness like a Modigliani woman. Whereas Boris looked old for his years, Anna, who was twenty-seven, could have passed for a teenager. She was dressed in a simple sweater and blue corduroy pants, but what immediately caught my eye was the gold six-pointed star she wore on a chain around her neck. I had not seen one before in the Soviet Union. The Gulkos are not very religious and the star worn by this shy, introverted woman seemed to be a political statement.

Like her husband, Anna has been a Soviet champion; she won the women’s title in 1976. Without a doubt the Gulkos are the most talented and titled chess couple of all time. In fact, there is no sports marriage as accomplished as this one; perhaps if Chris Evert and Jimmy Connors had married it would have been roughly equivalent. Since they applied for emigration to Israel in 1978, the Gulkos have been barred from most tournaments. On the rare occasions when they have been permitted to play, their results have been either omitted from the public record or outrageously manipulated. Last year Anna was allowed to enter the women’s championship. The deciding game was against Nana Ioseliani, who, like Karpov, is popular with the Soviet establishment. Anna was declared the winner when Ioseliani ran out of time. Three days later a group of bureaucrats announced that Ioseliani would be given more time to complete the game. It was an extraordinary violation of the rules, and when Anna refused to continue, Ioseliani was awarded the win. “They did not want me to win the championship again because we are Jews and refuseniks,” Anna explained simply.

“My difficulties began in 1974,” Boris said. “I won seven tournaments in a row, which is very rare in Soviet chess. In spite of my success, or perhaps because of it, I began to have troubles. I was not allowed to travel abroad to tournaments. In the 1975 Soviet championship, I was in first place, ahead of the former world champion Tigran Petrosian, when a story was circulated on television and in the newspapers that my friends were losing to me on purpose. Petrosian said in
Izvestia
that it was impossible for a grandmaster to win so many games in a row without help from friends. These stories were so unpleasant for me that they interfered with
my concentration. I began to play badly and finished second to Petrosian.

“In the 1976 interzonals, the elimination matches to determine the challenger for the world championship, I was the only Soviet player without a trainer. In 1977, after I won the championship of the country, I thought my fame would help me, but I was mistaken. Most of my difficulties, I suppose, relate to being a Jew. All Jewish chess players have had problems. At times, even Tal, the great Russian world champion, has not been allowed to travel abroad for tournaments. The same was true for Bronstein, even when he was one of the two best players in the world. Kasparov’s mother changed his name from Weinstein, hoping to avoid the problem. Did you know that there are many Jewish chess players in the Soviet Union strong enough to be grandmasters, but they don’t have the money to enter tournaments? No one ever hears of them.”

While we talked, Anna served tea, sandwiches and a delicious homemade apple pie. It was important to our hosts that we eat a lot and look at their treasured books and photographs.

Listening to the Gulkos and to other Soviet Jews during the trip, I got the impression that as long as they didn’t make waves, Jews were not so much actively harassed or persecuted as actively ignored. Jewish complaints fell on deaf ears and their accomplishments disappeared. It was as if they were asked to live invisibly.

“In 1978 Anna and I applied for emigration to Israel. I wanted to live without chess management, but chess management didn’t want to live without me.” Gulko laughed quietly. “Until then we both were paid for being chess players, but after we applied for emigration all income stopped. They didn’t invite me to any tournaments, even those in this country. For two years I was not allowed to play a single game. For two years I waited. It was destroying me. Anna was in the same situation. We went on a hunger strike in 1980, and after that I was allowed to play in the Moscow Open. I suppose they didn’t consider me a threat to win, because it was a very strong tournament and I was out of practice.”

To the dismay of the authorities, Gulko did win, and during the awards ceremony at the Central Chess Club, he asked to speak. A hush fell over the gathering as he addressed the Soviet Chess
Federation and asked that Victor Korchnoi’s wife and son be allowed to leave the Soviet Union to join him in exile. After the speech players and guests paused to shake Gulko’s hand.

Volodja Pimonov witnessed Gulko’s courageous speech at the Central Chess Club. “Afterwards, I drove the judge of the tournament home,” he said. “The man was trembling, because authorities were already saying that it was his fault since he was the judge. After such a debacle they must find a scapegoat.”

In 1982 the Gulkos tried to publicize their situation by demonstrating outside the interzonal tournament. “Anna and I waved posters saying, ‘Let us go to Israel.’ We were arrested and thrown in jail for the night. A few days later I returned to the tournament, which had been moved to the Sport Hotel for increased security. This time I did not intend to demonstrate; I simply wanted to watch the chess. There was a large crowd outside the hall hoping for tickets. A large man with the face of a dog came over and kicked me and smashed me in the face. Then a policeman appeared, the dog man said that I had beaten him, and I was arrested again. The crowd got to see a more interesting show than inside the hall—a former champion of the Soviet Union being kicked on the street.

“A month later we went on another hunger strike. After twenty-two days the doctors told Anna that she must eat or she would die. I had nothing but water for forty-two days. We did it to gain the attention of chess players around the world. But they couldn’t help us.

“My savings are gone now. For a while we received parcels of clothes from Jewish organizations in the West, but they no longer come. I think they are impounded by customs. The clothes were useful because I could sell them in a secondhand shop for money to buy food. Our financial situation is critical, but the biggest pain is not being able to play. When we applied for emigration we were among the strongest players in the world. These years have been a creative death. My life now is mostly waiting. I’ve lost many years. I don’t know how many more I have left.”

Later Boris played a game against Josh, and then demonstrated several of his recent unpublished games. The calmness of his voice gave way to passionate chess talk and even peals of laughter. “You
have to be a grandmaster to understand,” said Boris, moving the pieces; at this moment all of us could feel the sublime importance of chess in this deprived little home. “I conceive of chess as an art form,” he said, showing us an original combination with two knights while Anna watched him as if he were reciting poetry. “I will only play in a way that interests me,” Boris said. “For me chess is finding ideas, beautiful, paradoxical ideas.”

Ten minutes after we waved good-bye to Gulko in the parking lot, we were stopped by the police. Volodja whispered that we must not speak English. He was questioned at length about a supposed illegal turn before we were allowed to go on. Volodja said he was certain they knew we had been at the Gulkos’. “You won’t be allowed to leave the country with your tapes and film,” he warned. “If they are confiscated, it will be very bad for me. Maybe you can make some arrangement?”

“What kind of arrangement?” I asked nervously.

GAINING ACCESS TO
the American embassy on Tchaikovskovo Street was like trying to enter a fortress before an attack. Guarding the outside perimeter, Soviet soldiers demanded passports in order to intercept Russians seeking asylum, as well as to record the names of everyone who went inside. Word had it that all visitors to the embassy were secretly photographed. Within the gates a Marine in a metal-and-plastic cage skeptically asked our business. When I explained that I was a writer and needed to see the ambassador he became flustered and politely pointed out that it wasn’t easy to see the ambassador.

Inside the embassy there were gaily colored rooms in various states of disorganization and disrepair. Bulletin boards displayed cheerful, homey notices about baby-sitting, Russian lessons, cake sales and square dances. The place had the rambling, upbeat look of a progressive lower school in New York City.

Bruce, Josh and I were led to the third floor, and after a few minutes the acting ambassador hurried into the room to say that he had no time for us today. I said we’d wait. Eventually his assistant appeared and asked what I wanted. Before I’d finished two sentences he said in a booming voice, “I’m sorry, but there is nothing I can do to help you.” Then he scribbled on a large notepad:
“This room is bugged. All the rooms at the embassy are bugged, even the ambassador’s office. Write what you want on this pad.”

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing to be done,” he said aloud again, pointing to the ceiling like a character in a Woody Allen movie. I described our situation on the notepad and asked for help getting my notes, tapes and film out of the country. In reply the assistant scribbled that he would discuss our problem with the acting ambassador, and that we could wait in the coffee shop downstairs.

The three of us sat at a table sipping tea. Noticing the banners of NFL teams on the wall, Bruce and Josh began to discuss the Jets. Sitting beside us were two young American diplomats dressed in Brooks Brothers suits. One was briefing the other, who had just arrived in Moscow. Both of them were tense and their rapid-fire whispering was quite audible.

“So what about the ICBMs?”

“Well, they’re using three different types.”

“Are they aimed at Alaska?”

“Yeah.”

“What about the borders?”

“They have the defenses, but the technology is primitive.”

Having just learned that the ambassador’s office was bugged, I thought it was bizarre to be listening to this conversation in the middle of the lunchroom.

Soon the ambassador’s assistant was back. “Do you want to give me your notes?” he wrote on a pad.

“No. I want you to make copies,” I wrote, and then handed him a package containing my tape cassettes and film.

“That’s going to be hard. The copy machines aren’t secure.” What madness, I thought. My chess notes were hardly espionage material.

Next to us the two young diplomats were shaking hands. “So when are we going to get together for a game of table tennis?” one of them asked.

The ambassador’s assistant shook his head. “You can’t imagine what it’s been like living here for two years,” he said aloud.

A FEW DAYS
later, Bruce, Josh and I took the midnight express to Leningrad. We were looking forward to seeing the Hermitage and
the circus, and to being away from Russian chess politics. When we left the Moscow station, the passengers in our sleeping car were crowded in the corridor, chatting and looking out the windows; then, one by one, they drifted into tiny sleeping compartments.

We were shocked when a large hulking man threw his suitcase on one of our two bottom bunks. Intourist at the hotel had confirmed that our room on the train was to be a private one. I found a woman conductor and tried to explain that the man didn’t belong here; besides, other compartments were half-empty. But when the man said a few words to her, she walked away. He was middle-aged, emotionless, silent. We’d been followed by other men with the same stony countenance.

The KGB man walked back into the nearly empty corridor and stared out the window. After a few minutes we noticed him exchanging remarks with another large man who occupied an adjacent room. Volodja had warned us that after visiting the American embassy we would be regarded as spies. I recalled the fear in his voice on another occasion when he’d said, “In circumstances such as mine, people have disappeared.” Pandolfini and I quickly decided to spend the night in the corridor with the door to the room open. Josh could go to sleep in the top bunk, where we could watch him. If we needed to call for help, maybe someone from one of the other compartments would hear us.

Josh lay on the top bunk reading while Pandolfini, our uninvited guest and I stood in an uneasy vigil in the corridor. We looked at a chess position from the sixth game of the match while the man stared out at the darkness. Long after everyone else was asleep and the doors between cars were locked, the man moved into the compartment, got into his bunk and turned off the light. I went in and turned it back on.

Sometime later Josh signaled to me through the half-open door. He whispered in my ear that the man, thinking he was asleep, had opened our luggage compartment. When Josh sat up, the man returned to his bunk. I told Josh that he should try to sleep. For the next five hours, Bruce and I stared at the same chess position.

Exhausted but safe in Leningrad, we called Volodja in Moscow, who told us that on the day after our interview Gulko had been
picked up by the police for questioning. He didn’t know whether or not Boris was still being held.