Bobby Fischer Goes to War: How the Soviets Lost the Most Extraordinary Chess Match of All Time

17. MIDDLE GAME

After the trauma of the first phase of the match, the organizers and contestants settled into a familiar routine. The shock of Fischer’s approach had worn off. Like inhabitants of an occupied town, they accommodated to a new way of life. There was the certainty of a complaint or more each day by letter, sometimes signed by Fischer, sometimes by Cramer; there were threats, tantrums, ultimatums. But there was also a built-in momentum arising out of a comforting regularity—the game, the day(s) off, the familiarity of the proceedings. As under occupation, the citizens could never let down their guard: there was always the danger that a Fischer complaint would escalate out of control. Some of the protests, however, began to lose their edge; indeed, tension levels among the organizers peaked when no objections were lodged. What was Fred Cramer planning now?

This self-made millionaire from Milwaukee and former president of the U.S. Chess Federation was a tiny man with a giant ego who had made his fortune in the lighting industry. Brad Darrach described him as five feet five “with a little help from his shoemaker” and added that, depending on his mood, he “looked like any of the seven Disney dwarfs.” When Cramer was encircled by the press, his lack of height rendered him invisible and all the journalists on the edge of the group could make out was a squeaky voice somewhere in the void.

Cramer was then in his late fifties and held the official title of vice president of FIDE, responsible for Zone 5 (the United States). He became Fischer’s unofficial spokesperson after Edmondson was summarily fired. Two men more different than Edmondson and Cramer would be hard to imagine. U.S. Air Force colonel Edmondson had a dignified military bearing and a calming influence. Former captain Cramer was excitable and self-important. However, he was highly regarded for his work as president of the USCF—bringing in the Elo system, named after its inventor, professor of mathematics Arpad Elo, which rated the strength of chess players. Cramer also left the USCF a substantial legacy.

Cramer regarded himself as a man of many key roles: gatekeeper to the American genius, main organizer, strategist, and spokesman—someone equivalent to the U.S. president’s chief of staff, barring the way to the Oval Office. In reality, he was little more than chief gofer, in charge of a coterie of lesser gofers, all tensely awaiting Fischer’s barked orders and sweating in case they failed to meet their fickle master’s whims at any hour of day or night. He once even admitted as much: “I am authorized only to complain.” Complain he did. Barely a day passed without a volley of his discourteous notes. He would also complain in person to officials—sometimes rather conspiratorially by whispering to them in a public place. “Ear-shattering whispers from six inches,” according to the British Guardian newspaper.

He was in the habit of holding impromptu press conferences in the antechamber to the main playing hall or in the lobby of the Loftleidir hotel, oblivious to how comical or portentous the journalists found them. He reveled in the attention and would dramatize the latest developments using an idiosyncratic vocabulary consisting predominantly of warring metaphors such as “The Russians are supporting their frontline troops with a paper barrage.” Not being blessed with the spokesman’s qualities of wit, tact and diplomacy, he was a journalist’s godsend, always to be relied on for a quote. In public relations terms, he was twenty years ahead of his time, defending Fischer’s behavior by launching verbal counterthrusts rather than by apologizing. The more outlandish Fischer’s conduct, the more vociferous Cramer’s defense. The Russians were always talking “nonsense,” “garbage.” The officials were “stupid” or “incompetent” or “biased.”

Reporters aside, he was not popular in Reykjavik. Spassky accused him of acting as though Fischer were the champion and “I was nothing.” The officials disliked him, too. Today, Schmid dismisses him with a laugh as “Bobby’s servant,” simply carrying out his wishes in a way Edmondson might not. He found fault so often, says Schmid, “that I was well trained.” Following his early attempt to have Schmid removed as chief arbiter, Cramer had aired doubts about the German grandmaster’s impartiality when he played bridge with the champion on a day off and when on a separate occasion he was observed dining with Ivo Nei. Schmid dismissed the accusations robustly: “Whenever I see Mr. Cramer, he tries to hide behind a big man.”

The big man was the key to Cramer’s frenetic activities. In Don Schultz’s phrase, “He was a 100 percent ‘yes-man’ for Bobby: Cramer did not want to be fired, like his predecessor, Edmondson. So he did literally everything Fischer wanted. Whatever Fischer would say, he would respond, ‘Yes, sir. I agree with that, let’s do it.’” It is easy at this distance to mock Cramer’s submis-siveness to Fischer’s every wish. But he was far from alone: most of those serving Fischer accepted that there was a line not to be crossed if his wrath was to be avoided.

Cramer’s press conferences were his—often desperate—means of proving to Fischer that he was faithfully executing orders. Schultz believes it was not the most effective strategy. “A better way would have been to go to the authorities behind the scenes. Instead, Bobby would say something and there would be a press release.” Frank Skoff, who became president of the U.S. Chess Federation in August 1972 and was one of Fischer’s aides in Reykjavik, is more generous: “Fred would have been a good guy if he’d just tempered himself a bit, but he was one of these people who bubble over, and when he gets going he shoots in all directions.”

Fischer’s bodyguard in Iceland, and one of the few to achieve some sort of rapport with the challenger, Saemundur—“Saemi-rock”—Palsson recalls how if Fischer needed to be woken up for a game, Cramer would “knock on the door and then say to me, ‘You stay there.’ Then he would run off.”

The close relationship that developed between Fischer and Saemundur Palsson, between the chess megastar and an Icelandic policeman, is one of the curiosities of the match.

In Iceland, the thirty-five-year-old Palsson was as much a celebrity as Fischer. An avuncular, regular-guy, he had won the gold medal in the Icelandic Judo Championship (middleweight), had taken first place in a Reykjavik rock-dancing tournament, and was the ex-goalkeeper for the national handball team. He had one other fateful attribute that put him on guard outside Fischer’s house the evening the contender finally arrived: His superiors knew he spoke some English, enough to communicate with the challenger.

On that night, at around midnight, Fischer poked his head out of the window to check whether the road was clear. When he saw that it was, he went out, asked Palsson, who was sitting in his police car, for directions to the city center, declined a lift, and loped off into the night. Palsson radioed his headquarters for instructions. “Don’t let him out of your sight,” he was ordered.

The chess player was now heading due west—away from the city. They pulled up alongside him. “Good evening, Mr. Fischer,” Palsson said. “How about coming with us? If you like, we can show you around and escape this jungle of much concrete.” The American agreed to an excursion. The night was chilly; Fischer had ventured out without a sweater. After picking up some warmer clothing, they took off for the mountains. Palsson contacted headquarters again, naturally briefing them in Icelandic. Sharply, Fischer demanded to know what they were talking about. Palsson was suitably mollifying.

In the country, they found a flock of sheep and chased them “like children.” It was the beginning of a firm friendship—some say Palsson was the only real friend Fischer ever had. “I need a tailor,” Fischer said that night. “Do you know where I can find one?” Palsson knew everybody in town—he promised to introduce Bobby to the finest tailor in Reykjavik, Colin Porter, an Englishman married to an Icelander. “My TV aerial is broken. Do you know anyone who can repair it?” “I’ll make sure it’s fixed,” said Palsson.

For the next two months, Palsson and Fischer were nearly inseparable. Fischer always called him “Sammy.” The policeman became the dependable elder brother that Fischer never had. They played tennis, they swam (“I was a little faster than him, but to keep him in a good mood I would lose”). Palsson would take Fischer to his house by the sea, where Bobby would lounge on the sofa while Mrs. Palsson cooked up colossal helpings of Icelandic cuisine. Fischer grew attached to Palssons son, Asgeir, then seven years old. Bobby could not understand why, when they went out in the middle of the night, Mrs. Palsson would not let her son accompany them.

Palsson even looked after Fischer’s finances. He remembers Fischer as being naive to the point of ignorance on issues of money, and especially on the foreign checks he received from various sources in Reykjavik. “He only wanted green [cash]. I said, ‘I can prove to you that these checks are real money.’ And I took a check for six or seven thousand kronur and we went down to the bank, where I said, ‘I need to change this check.’ And Bobby signed and got his money. Thank God he didn’t throw all those checks in the wastebasket.”

Meeting Palsson today, one understands instantly why Fischer found him easy to get along with. The Icelandic police inspector is immensely likable, transparently trustworthy, and unaffected. In Iceland, he is a national icon. “Oh, you must meet ‘Saemi-Rock,’ people say when talking about Fischer, and their eyes twinkle as they tell you about his exploits and how close he was to the strange American. The tone is affectionate, if a touch mocking.

His reputation for irrepressible amiability was enhanced a few years ago in an episode with which everyone in Reykjavik seems familiar. At a drunken and rowdy party, a brawl had broken out and neighbors called in the police. Palsson duly arrived, and within a few minutes he had deflated the situation and was teaching the partygoers how to dance. “I said, ‘Hey, everybody, let’s all be in a good mood. Shall we try a few steps?’”

During Fischer’s two months in Reykjavik, Paissons devoted attendance on the challenger was rewarded with shabby treatment from the police, the ICF, and particularly Fischer himself. Paid for a shift of eight hours, sometimes he worked eighteen. For the first fortnight, he had obligations during the day, and then, because of Fischer’s unorthodox sleeping habits, he would be on duty half the night as well. Later he was released by the Icelandic police force to be with Fischer full-time—but this still involved long hours. When Palsson complained, the Icelandic Chess Federation promised him some overtime, which he never received. Paul Marshall suggested to Fischer that they recompense Palsson, to which Fischer replied, “Offer Sammy money? He’s my friend. He would be offended.” “Whether he was very clever or very mean, you never knew,” says Palsson. “I would never have asked, but if he had offered, I would not have said no.”

Financial rewards might have been lacking, but Palsson had privileged access to the entire drama, even to the games themselves. Fischer wanted Palsson to stay backstage, to bring him orange juice and provisions; as Spassky did not protest, he was there for almost every match. At least once he served Spassky as well, not wanting to leave him out.

Palsson confesses to not being the brightest star in the firmament. But he has an emotional intelligence that allowed him to read Fischer’s moods. “You had to play Bobby like a violin. Sometimes it was best not to talk at all.” His attachment to Fischer remains touching, though he badly overrated Fischer’s attachment to him.

By late July, a diurnal rhythm has taken hold of the match. The games are supposed to begin at five in the afternoon on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays, but Fischer is always tardy, at times by just a few minutes, at other times by up to half an hour. Palsson is under strict instructions not to rouse him too early from his slumber. It is a short drive from the hotel Loftleidir to the coastal road and then to the Laugardalur, the municipal sports center consisting of an open-air athletic stadium, a swimming pool, and the giant fungus-shaped exhibition hall where the match is taking place.

Fischer’s car pulls in at the back entrance. Ignoring the animated, smiling faces of the young autograph hunters, the challenger, head down, strides through the door, along the narrow corridor, and left onto the stage. He barely glances into the auditorium. His clock is already ticking; if he is black, he now catches sight of Spassky’s first move. A quick handshake with his opponent, who only half rises, and Fischer slumps down into his chair. For a minute or two he surveys the board. Then, once he makes his move, several more are fired off in quick succession in response to Spassky’s.

Both players are well turned out. For game one, Spassky chose a formal suit, but by now he usually opts for smart casual: sports jacket, white shirt and tie, light-colored slacks. Sometimes he sports a cardigan, too. (Moscow and Los Angeles are suffering under heat waves, but in Reykjavik the weather is unusually miserable for this time of year, cold, cloudy, and wet.) The champion’s jacket goes on the back of the seat. Fischer’s wardrobe of suits spans the rainbow, from blue to an unfortunate maroon, the latter tailored locally. He has gray and black suits, too. A brown cardigan worn below his jacket combats the chill. His shirts also come in a range of garish colors, including canary yellow.

Both players have startling powers of concentration. In each session, which can last up to five hours, they leave their seats only for short periods to stretch their legs. When Spassky rises, he does so carefully and deliberately, eyes still on the board; Fischer bounds up in one movement. Nikolai Krogius identifies two typical Fischer poses at the table: “in one of them he would lean back in his armchair and swivel it slightly (his arms on the armrests), his gaze seeming to bore into the board from afar; in the other, his armchair would be moved as closely as possible to the table and his head, supported by both his hands, would be bent over the board.” Occasionally he picks at his nose. He has been seen putting his fingers in his ears. Krogius observes how Fischer covers his eyes with his hands but leaves chinks through which to observe his opponent.

Spassky too has a variety of postures. One is sitting upright, chin in hand, elbow on table; another is head in hands, blocking out extraneous sound and vision. What to do with those fingers? He might drag them through his thick mane of hair, place the tips in his mouth, or cup them on the bridge of his nose. There are times when he stares, not at the game, but at the rear wall—though it is clear that he is still computing permutations. After making his move, he jots it down with, in the words of one reporter, “the air of a man penning a note to a secretary.” The inscrutability into which he has long since trained his otherwise expressive features is a tremendous asset. Fischer once described what it was like facing Spassky across the board. He has “the same dead expression whether he’s mating or being mated. He can blunder away a piece, and you are never sure whether it’s a blunder or a fantastically deep sacrifice.” The only giveaway for those fluent in body language is an almost indiscernible compression of the lips in complex positions.

Energy levels must be kept high during such sustained periods of mental effort. During the match, Spassky sips at a glass of orange juice or pours himself a cup of coffee from one of two thermos flasks he brings in. Fischer has ice water, tomato juice, or cola. There is food behind the curtains, backstage, out of sight of the spectators. Fischer’s aides bring in supplies especially for their man, which they wrap in tinfoil. It is a smorgasbord of cheese, fresh fruit, cold meat, and herring. Before game fourteen, Cramer announces that they have added an extra foodstuff—hard-boiled eggs. Spassky has sandwiches.

The platform is carpeted green, with an extra rug under the table and chairs. There are a few unassuming potted plants on stage. The hall can hold around 2,500 on its deep purple seats. It varies from half-full to full to capacity. Sundays are busiest. Most of the spectators are male. They have paid the equivalent of $5 to watch—or, for the dedicated, $75 for a season ticket. Some have high-powered binoculars that they train on the two contestants, trying to read clues to their thoughts.

Lothar Schmid is positioned at the back of the stage. He has started the clock; he will take in the sealed move at adjournment, and open the sealed envelope at the beginning of the next session. But his principal task becomes policing the noise in the auditorium, which he does like a teacher in charge of a remedial class.

By now, Schmid has developed several ways of pleading for quiet. He might deliver a short speech before the game: “Do not even whisper,” he begs. Once the game is in motion, he will walk to the edge of the stage, placing a finger to his lips. He presses the button that lights up the neon sign, which is in English and Icelandic: SILENCE, PöGN.

Noise prevention sees the hinges of the doors oiled regularly to keep them from squeaking. Carpenters construct soundproof boxes at the entrances to the hall: the aim is to muffle the sound of clinking crockery from the restaurant. The sale of cellophane-wrapped food or candies is banned, though the Icelandic Chess Federation refuses to ban children, too, as Fischer wants. The place, Fischer charges, is “being turned into a kindergarten.”

But the hall is still, by championship standards. The highly chess-educated audience is as well behaved as any chess audience anywhere in the world. Inevitably there are disturbances and mishaps. Fischer complains that a man is snoring; Schmid immediately dispatches the ushers to rouse him. On another occasion, someone drops what sounds like a hefty piece of metal—the sound bounces off the walls, echoing around the auditorium. The audience do not resent Schmid for his admonishments—indeed, his predicament earns him sympathy. “What do [the Americans] expect him to do?” asks one. “Use nerve gas?”

Understandably, many spectators prefer to watch the match not in the hall—where they may be the target of a Fischer glare—but on the television monitors in the cafeteria. There they can sit chatting over the moves, eating hot dogs and pastries, drinking beer. They can also wander downstairs and sample the boisterous atmosphere of the analysis room. Here one of the visiting grandmasters will be explaining the nuances of the position and trying to predict what comes next. Bent Larsen, in town for a short period, is the punter’s favorite. Blunt and droll and voluble, his comments are sometimes greeted by applause—the rumble filters through to the auditorium, leaving Schmid at a loss.

At the end of a game, a pack of enthusiasts waits by the side entrance. Fischer ignores them all. He straps on his safety belt, as his driver—normally Palsson, occasionally Lombardy—slowly tunnels an exit through the crowd. Back in the auditorium, Spassky is more leisurely in his departure. A disappointing game may find him staring at the board for some minutes, lost in thought, contemplating how, where, why it went so wrong. Lothar Schmid comes to join him, the consolation of company. The champion puts on his jacket and slowly walks out. The auditorium is emptying now. Schmid collects up the pieces and stores them away.

Look skyward and you can see a man climbing across a platform just beneath the roof of the hall. He is smuggling out the closed-circuit video of the match. Chester Fox is determined to take possession of this, but the person responsible for closed-circuit TV, Gunnlaugur Josefsson, believes the American producer has no right to it. It is Josefsson who arranges the video’s thrice weekly escape.

Nonmatch days have also developed a more reliable tempo. The Icelandic Chess Federation committee gathers almost daily to discuss the latest crisis. The treasurer, Hilmar Viggoson, has the task of devising ever more ingenious schemes to compensate for the loss of film revenue. Some suggestions come from the public, after he placed an advertisement in a newspaper appealing for ideas. The most successful venture is commemorative gold coins. They sell out quickly. “We made a fortune from this,” says Viggoson.

Preparation for the next game remains the priority for the two contestants. Between periods of analysis with his seconds, Spassky relaxes with tennis—when it is not raining or too windy—or by seeing a movie. (When Larisa arrives, the TASS correspondent accompanies her to a film that would never reach the screen in Moscow, about a priapic monk who takes charge of a nunnery.) During the course of the two months, a number of close supporters of Fischer’s arrive to cheer him on. There is his early mentor, Jack Collins, his sister, Joan Targ, with her family, and his friend from Los Angeles, Lina Grumette.

Fischer works alone until late at night to the accompaniment of rock music; then he swims at the hotel, plays table tennis or tennis, or goes bowling at Keflavik. Archie Waters, a second-rate chess player, is Fischer’s favored table tennis partner. As for tennis, he has a number of opponents to choose from, including Svetozar Gligoric and Robert Byrne, both of whom are quite a few years older than Fischer. Byrne says they walked onto the court at eleven o’clock at night: “He saw that I could only play for twenty minutes, and for all these twenty minutes we merely warmed up. Then, noticing that I was already panting, he said: ‘Okay, that’s the end of the knock-up. Now we’ll start playing.’”

Fischer’s favorite leisure activity, however, is bowling. Even this is a means to a chess end, as Victor Jackovich from the U.S. embassy recalls. The most junior diplomat, Jackovich was assigned to take Fischer to the bowling alley in the American air base:

Bowling was partly a physical exercise and partly a mental distraction. That’s all it was. Bowling as a sport had no interest for him. He would always bowl out of turn. I would bowl, and his second, the Reverend William Lombardy, would bowl, and Fischer would bowl, and I would bowl, and Fischer would stand up. And if I went over and said, “No, it’s not your turn, it’s the father’s turn,” Lombardy would signal me to say no, no. And he told me later, ‘It makes no difference. It’s just throwing a ball at a bunch of pins, it’s not real bowling here, it’s not a game.’ And I remember a person at the base coming up to Fischer and with the best of intentions trying to tell him, “Look, let me show you what you’re doing wrong with your hook,” or whatever, because his balls were going all over the place. Fischer very curtly, very abruptly, told him, Look, I throw this heavy ball in order to exercise my arm, in order that I can be in better physical shape, in order that I can sleep better, in order that I can play better chess. That’s it.” He wasn’t impolite about it. I think the American was a bit taken aback because he thought this was his opportunity to show Fischer something, help him out. But Fischer didn’t care.

Fred Cramer compiles a timetabled daily duty roster, which he writes on Loftleidir stationery and sends to Frank Skoff, with a copy for Lombardy. They are a reminder to Skoff of his numerous tasks, though these vary from day to day. He must regularly comb the playing hall for cameras. He must chase up the Mercedes-Benz automatic-shift car, as promised by the Icelandic organizers. He must arrange the laundry. He must ensure there is a tennis or table tennis or bowling partner for Fischer, available at all times, and that the facilities are unlocked and ready for Fischer to walk straight in.

Skoff should always have suitable clothing ready for Bobby’s activities. He should try to ensure the facilities are not used “for other persons or other activities.” He should always be looking to add to the list of potential playing partners for Bobby. “Bear in mind that people do other things. Some even leave Iceland.”

As the sun sinks on a Friday night, the mood lifts in the American camp and among the championship organizers. For twenty-four hours, Fischer is locked away, observing his Sabbath. There is a temporary armistice between Fischer and the organizers. It is all quiet on the Loftleidir front.

In the Fox tragicomedy, it was far from quiet. The central issue now was not whether the cameras would be permitted in—most of the parties concerned had reluctantly abandoned any such hope—but whether Fischer could be made to pay. Chester Fox maintained he had so far spent up to $200,000 on setting up the film coverage and estimated his lost earnings at $1.75 million. He wanted compensation and threatened to sue Fischer “for every cent we can lay our hands on.” To cover himself, Fischer asked the Icelandic Chess Federation to deposit $46,875—half the loser’s share of the prize fund—in his bank account. The ICF refused.

Legal proceedings continued apace, with Fox going to the U.S. federal court to claim that Fischer had intentionally inflicted upon him “grave financial harm.”

On Fischer’s behalf, Cramer shrugged off the impending court action: Fox was merely trying to upstage Fischer—as usual. Fox’s lawyers obtained an order from a federal judge, Constance Baker Motley, to freeze a portion of Fischer’s prize money. “All we really want is to make sure that this historic game is preserved on film for posterity,” explained Fox’s attorney, Richard Stein. He would rather serve the order on Fischer privately, but if Fischer refused to meet him, he might have no option but to do so publicly, even if that meant walking onto the stage during the game. From this point, four helmeted policemen stood backstage to protect the challenger in case someone tried to thrust the papers on him.

On 27 August, the ICF came to a settlement with Fox. In return for Fox’s agreement neither to block the prize money nor to bring a lawsuit in Iceland against Fischer, the ICF gave up its share of any profits he had made from the film rights so far (and still hoped to make in the future). Not for the first time, Fischer was absolved of responsibility for his actions. Once again, the Icelanders had lost out. Eventually Fox would abandon the legal fight; it was only throwing good money after bad.