David Edmonds - Bobby Fischer Goes to War

The Interzonal tournament of 1964 was in Amsterdam, and a first-place tie with Tal, Smyslov, and Larsen saw Spassky into the Candidates, the culminating stage in the world championship cycle. As the result of Fischer’s accusing the Soviets of collusion, the Candidates round was held as a series of head-to-head matches. There was also a condition that only three Soviets could qualify for the Candidates, so competition between Soviets at the Interzonal stage was even fiercer than between candidates of different nationalities. To qualify, a Soviet had to finish in third place, while a non-Soviet could qualify by finishing eighth. Spassky thought that unfair.

Tournaments, featuring many players, were the usual form of competition. Spassky had never participated in a lengthy match before—a series of games against a single opponent—and found them physically and mentally draining. Nonetheless, 1965 was his annus mirabilis. He defeated first Paul Keres in an exciting, tightly fought contest, then Efim Geller, then the former world champion Mikhail Tal. So only Tigran Petrosian remained between Spassky and the title. Spassky was not among the Armenian’s greatest admirers, characterizing him as the king who “reigned but did not rule”; world champion, but not the strongest in the world. He also felt sorry for himself, a poor student facing the socially and politically well-protected national hero of Armenia.

The 1966 final was held in Moscow, and outside chess circles was virtually ignored in the West. Spassky performed more than creditably, losing by only one point. His and Petrosian’s styles were diametrically opposed. Spassky’s direct, open, attacking game, often described as “universal,” had no systemic weaknesses: He was strong in attack, doughty in defense, exceptional in the middle game, outstanding in the endgame; he was capable of marathon slogs and of stunning miniatures. Petrosian’s approach was strategic, slow, and, to those spectators not attuned to its infinite subtlety, soporific. Most chess players have a style, a chess fingerprint—but rarely one as distinctive as Petrosian’s. It required an opponent to adapt or die. Asked later why Petrosian had won, Botvinnik said Spassky did not manage “to program himself for Petrosian.”

Two months later, in Santa Monica, Spassky won what he describes as the tournament of his life (Fischer finished second). It brought him real money: $5,000. There followed a minor low that some ascribe to the personal contentment brought by his marriage to Larisa and the birth of his son, Vasili, in 1967. (That is not easy to reconcile with his complaint that when he lived alone, too much of his time went into domestic chores, such as ironing his shirts.) Reflecting on 1967, Spassky remembers, “I was a good Soviet citizen. I was traveling, playing, and enjoying life.” Back in the Candidates in 1968, he again sailed through against Efim Geller (5.5 to 2.5), Bent Larsen (5.5 to 2.5), and Viktor Korchnoi (6.5 to 3.5), losing only two games of the twenty-six in total. For the win over Larsen, he received the Soviet Badge of Merit. (In 1955, he had been awarded a medal for Valorous Labor, a comparatively run-of-the-mill Soviet decoration, and comments wryly in Grand Strategy, “That’s all I got.”)

Once again he faced Tigran Petrosian for the world title. The opening ceremony of the contest took place at the Moscow Television Theatre so that TV audiences could watch. However, once again, Petrosian vs. Spassky failed to ignite the interest of a wider Western audience. Unsurprisingly, the proceedings were conducted in a civilized manner; there were no major rows or controversies.

Most thought that the forty-year-old champion had little chance against the thirty-two-year-old contender. The Armenian’s chess had hit a ceiling, though we should remember that he was the only world champion since 1934 to have defended his throne successfully. He was not comfortable with the title or the adulation it brought him from the Armenian community worldwide. In one dazzling game, there was deafening applause in the hall, and a group of Petrosian fans tried to march onto the dais. The British chess official and writer Harry Golombek was there: “Only one aged Armenian succeeded in escaping the attendants and reaching the stage, where he clasped Petrosian by the hand.” Petrosian was quoted as saying before his second championship encounter with Spassky, “I never wanted to become world champion. I only wanted to play good chess. For six years now I have not taken a drop of alcohol, nor have I smoked. My doctor told me not to get excited at hockey or soccer matches because I had to have very strong nerves to play chess. But what do I have from life?”

For Spassky, it was the opposite, both in lifestyle and in morale. “On the eve of the Petrosian match,” he declared, “I felt magnificent.” Still, it was no walk-over. The match swayed to and fro. Spassky divided it into four parts:

1. Games 1–9 my sprint and fatigue;

2. Games 10–13 I am a punch bag;

3. Games 14–17 the turning point;

4. Games 18–23 my final offensive.

After game seventeen, Spassky was relaxing in his apartment when some heavy blows rattled the front door. “An Armenian guy had discovered my refuge and was trying to storm it. He was shouting: ‘Spassky, don’t win against our Petrosian!!’” Spassky ignored the threat. “I shouted back, ‘Don’t you worry, I will beat him.’ The guy then shut up and disappeared.”

He did win, gaining the title by two points, after six victories, four defeats, and thirteen draws. The chess was not always pretty, although some games—the brilliant fifth, for example, in which Spassky advanced his queen pawn all the way to the seventh rank—came to be viewed as classics. Arguably, Tigran Petrosian was the most difficult player to defeat in the history of chess. Tigr is Russian for “tiger.” Not so much tiger, more snake or cunning fox, commentators thought. He had infinite patience, awaiting exactly the right moment to pounce. Spassky called him “a unique match pugilist. His forte is that he makes it almost impossible to lay a glove on him.” Petrosian put it differently: “I try to avoid chance. Those who rely on chance should play cards or roulette.”

Afterward, a fatigued Spassky condemned the protracted qualifying process: “The system has become worse than ever before.” Anticipating his defense in 1972, he said, “I want to express beforehand my sincerest sympathy to the challenger who succeeds in breaking through all the trials and obstacles.”

Spassky went to Reykjavik to serve—in the eyes of Soviet society—as an icon as well as a player.

He was a flawed icon, at least in the view of the authorities and many of his peers. He stands out as being a member of the system’s awkward squad. How awkward? That is a question that can be answered only within the wider political and cultural context.

When imposing its will, the Party did not operate in a historical vacuum. In The Soviet Union Since the Fall of Khrushchev, Archie Brown identifies continuities with the Tsarist era: the tendency to place faith in people, particularly a strong leader, rather than in institutional structures, the dread of chaos, and the high premium placed on loyalty and unity. Added to these are systemic characteristics: the gulf between rulers and ruled and between intelligentsia and the masses, and the perception as normal of such state measures of control as internal passports, secrecy, censorship, surveillance, exile. Fear of anarchy and its correlative, acceptance of order, permeated all classes, providing a widespread distrust of liberalization.