Dutchman Who Did Not Drink Beer. He Also Surprised My Wife Nina by Showing up with Flowers at the Lenox Hill Hospital Just Before She Gave Birth to My Son Mitchell
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168 The Bobby Fischer I Knew and Other Stories Dutchman who did not drink beer. He also surprised my wife Nina by showing up with flowers at the Lenox Hill Hospital just before she gave birth to my son Mitchell. I hadn't said peep, but he had his quiet ways of finding out. Max was quiet in another way. He never discussed his heroism during the Nazi occupation. Yet not only did he write letters to Alekhine asking the latter to intercede on behalf of the Dutch martyrs, Dr. Gerard Oskam and Salo Landau, he also put his life or at least his liberty on the line for several others. I learned of one instance from Max's friend, Hans Kmoch, the famous in-house annotator at AI Horowitz's Chess Review. Hans was living at the time on Central Park West somewhere in the Eighties. His wife Trudy, a Jew, had constant nightmares about her interrogations and beatings in Holland by the Nazis. Hans had little money, and Trudy spent much of the day in bed screaming. Enter Nina. My wife was working in the New York City welfare system and managed to get them part-time assistance. Hans then confided in me about how Dr. E greased palms and used his in fluence to save Trudy's life by keeping her out of a concentration camp. But mind you, I heard this from Hans, not from Dr. E, who was always Max the mum about his good deeds. Mr. President In 1970, Max Euwe was elected president of FIDE, a position he held until 1978. His efforts in that post to hold together both Fischer-Spassky I in 1972 and Korchnoi-Karpov I in 1978, though widely reviled at the time, are universally acclaimed today. He also presided over a massive expansion of FIDE from 72 countries to 106. And no wonder: he visited more than 100 countries as FIDE president, tirelessly promoting chess. A journalist fittingly dubbed him "The High-Flying Dutchman." There is a lot about Max's life in chess that could be discussed at great length. As a theorist, he introduced the Scheveningen Varia tion of the Sicilian Defense and edited Chess Archives, which served for nearly two decades as the pacesetter in opening analysis. As an author, he wrote far more voluminously than any other world champion, including Alekhine, who published 17 volumes. But my subject is Max Euwe as I knew him. The years passed, and we met regularly, if briefly, during the Olympiads of the 1970s. True, his stuffed schedule precluded re peating our leisurely get-togethers of yesteryear; yet when I decided to return to competitive chess after an absence of 15 years and was ChapterXV 169 seeking a few invitations to European events, Max got the job done, unlike the American representative of the time who pronounced my request as undoable. Twice during the 1970s I visited Max in Amsterdam. Since he had given up teaching in 1957, one might have thought that his life had slowed down. Not at all. As president of FIDE and as a consultant for various computer companies, his plate was loaded. Yet there always seemed to be some space left over for an old friend. For most people, work expands to fill the time allotted; but for Max, time expanded to complete the work allotted. What Max wrote about Savielly Tartakower ought to be said of Dr. E himself: "Without men such as he, the chess world would not have been nearly what it is. It is not the rules and the precepts which make the chess community; it is the individuals." Our Final Farewell The FIDE Congress in Atlanta was over, and Max and I were back at the airport-this time to say good-bye. During his stay in Atlanta, he appeared to be more relaxed than I had ever seen him. No longer president of FIDE, he had time to reflect at length upon the future of chess. He believed that the royal game would soon become a required subject in schools throughout the civilized world, and he enumerated the many benefits therefrom. He also had high hopes for social experiments involving chess that he had initiated in Africa. Max radiated optimism and good health. And like all of his other friends, I felt bright and important in his presence. As he walked to the plane, I noticed the same spring in his step as on arrival. Imagine, therefore, my shock when learning of his death from a heart attack on November 26, 1981, just three months after what turned out to be our final farewell. Chapter XVI fin Offer I Couldn't f\_efuse When someone wins a U.S. national championship, he is hit by a barrage of unusual business offers. Although my title was for chess, which was not one of the more popular pastimes back in 1944, I still received numerous offbeat proposals. One of the oddest was to become president of the Southern Nevada Disposal Service, a beautifully named garbage company. The starting salary was munificent, but it was an offer that I both could and did refuse after discovering that the company was Mafia controlled. Another proposal came from a chicken farmer in Toms River, New Jersey. He reasoned that anyone with enough brains to be come a chess champion could surely find a plan to fatten chickens more economically. A dubious idea. Often, I recall Weaver Adams, a master who inherited a chicken farm and who was-so to speak-a white man clear through. He wrote a book, White to Play and Win, lived in a white house on White Street, chewed antacid pills that left the inside of his mouth perpetually white, and raised only white chickens that laid white eggs. Predictably, Adams' business was soon no more than a shell. There were other offers and endorsements, plus the usual phony land-development schemes. All came to nought. Then, about a year later when things had quieted down, I received a phone call from an old man named Koback, who owned a pharmacy in Hartford, Con necticut. It involved ... An Offer I Couldn't Refuse The year was 1946. Mr. Koback read that I was going to Moscow to play in a 10-board chess match between the United States and the Soviet Union. The Cold War was on, and the U.S. State Department hoped to improve relations between "the two super powers" by sponsoring this international competition. Mr. Koback suggested that we discuss over dinner a matter that "could prove quite profitable for the two of us." 170 ChapterXVI 171 We met the following Sunday in New York at Liichow's, a great old German restaurant down on East 14th. Koback was a tiny, frail man, and he came with his only daughter, a dark-haired, bright eyed woman of about 30. He also brought along a thick folder filled with pictures, maps and old news clippings that he used to illustrate points in his story. Koback's family owned the only chemist's shop in Tuapse, a small Russian town on the Black Sea. And it was to this small town that many Russian nobles fled some 30 years earlier to escape the Bolsheviks. The Kobacks collected millions in gold and jewels by arranging passage to Turkey for aristocrats and members of the haute bourgeoisie. But the Kobacks quite literally had to run for their lives when the Communists discovered their trade. They left behind a fortune in buried treasure. Old Koback showed me on maps where portions of the treasure were hidden, and he provided photographs and news clippings of his family posing in front of their Tuapse shop. "All these years I was hoping for a change in government," he said in a voice made hoarse by emphysema, "but I realize now that it is not to be in my lifetime. I want my daughter to enjoy some of this wealth." Koback claimed that the Soviets were anxious to make 50-50 deals because of their dire need for hard currency, and he asked me to represent his interests. "Half of all you recover," he concluded, "will be yours, and by the most conservative estimate, that should amount to half a million dollars." My mind began to swim. Half a million bucks, maybe more! Such talk occurred only in the movies. I could become rich without having to work for it. Here was an offer I couldn't refuse. One week later, in August 1946, I was off to Groningen, Holland, to play in the first great chess tournament following World War II. Most of the top players were there, including the cream of the Soviet crop. I planned to play myself into form for the U.S.A. U.S.S.R. match scheduled for September. And I made an interesting draw with Mikhail Botvinnik, who won the tournament a half point ahead of Max Euwe. At Groningen, however, my mind was not on chess. All I could think about was how to approach the Soviets with my secret. One of the "Russian" group was Salo Flohr, the famous Czech star who landed up living in Moscow after his country was overrun by the Nazis in 1939. You do know Grandmaster Flohr, don't you? This delicate and diminutive man spoke English and seemed more worldly and sophisticated than the other members of his delegation. Although 172 The Bobby Fischer I Knew and Other Stories only 38 years old at the time, he no longer enjoyed the kind of prestige that prompted FIDE in 193 7 to designate him the official challenger to Alexander Alekhine.