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William Winter
January 2, 2021
21
Furtive Glances
Berlin was most unpleasant. In the cafe which we visited after dinner hardly anyone seemed to be speaking, and the opening of the door was the occasion for furtive glances followed by sighs of relief when it was seen that the newcomers were merely ordinary customers. So offensive was the atmosphere that Molly and I were glad to get back to our hotel and lock ourselves in our room - very unlike our usual conduct on the first night in a foreign capital. In the evening we arrived safely in Warsaw to be greeted with the news of an appalling tragedy. Mrs. Stevenson, the wife of the B. C. F. secretary, who was competing in the women's championship, had decided to make the journey by air. When the plane stopped to refuel at Posen she wandered into the town, lost her way, and arrived back at the airport just as the machine was getting ready to start. Hurrying to get to her place she approached too near the revolving propellors, was drawn in by the air suction and killed instantaneously. This terrible affair cast a blight over the whole tournament. Thomas also had a journey full of adventure but his was merely comic. He travelled overland by car and, I believe, had a very pleasant time until he got to the Polish roads. Here in the depths of the country the car stuck in the mud and was immediately surrounded by a flock of geese who advanced with ferocious hisses towards the strange monster which had invaded their domain. Afraid to get out, our Captain and his chauffeur remained beleaguered until a farmer appeared who chased away the besiegers and hitched a horse to the bogged-up Daimler.
Behind the facade
At first sight Warsaw seemed to be a very fine city indeed. The streets were wide and clean, there were many fine modern buildings, and the great viaduct over the Vistula, soon to be destroyed by the Nazis, was a triumph of engineering art. We had no time for exploration so did not see the dark slums that lay behind the city's imposing facade. One thing that did strike us was the number of beggars. They lined ell the principal streets at regular intervals; men and women, some offering matches, others merely whining for groschen, the Polish copper currency.
Stronger and stronger competition
The tournament itself was one of the hardest I have ever played in. Not only were there more teams than ever before, but they very much stronger. Apart from the Russians, who were not at that time members of the International Federation, and Lasker and Capablanca, there was hardly a grand master in the world who was not representing his country. Alekhine played for France and I had to meet him in the evening, after struggling for six hours with Stahlberg. I don't know how I managed to draw. I think it must have been my subconscious mind which guided the pieces. Two games a day against such opposition is sheer cruelty, and much as I love playing chess against great masters, I was heartily glad when the event was over.
For the third time in succession, the Americans won. Their young team stood the strain better than most, and their top board, Reuben Fine, was in splendid form. Marshall kept himself in reserve, relieving Fine on top against some of the weaker countries. He went through undefeated while Fine lost only once - against B. Reilly of Ireland, now editor of the British Chess Magazine.
After Warsaw, the Poles arranged an individual tournament at Lodz, to which I was one of the foreigners invited, the others being R. Fine, L. Steiner Hungary, K. Opocensky of Czecho-Slovakia, and V. Mikenas of Lithuania, now a leading Soviet master. The Polish contingent was led by Dr. Tartakover who, although ordinarily resident of Paris, was a Pole by birth, and was making an extended tour of his native country.
Compared with Warsaw the playing conditions at Lodz made it seem like a sort of holiday and, up to a point, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I played well too. In the first round I beat Mikenas, and in the fourth inflicted on Tartakover the only defeat he suffered in three international tournaments in which he played in Poland. Tartakover blamed this defeat on my friend Dr. Seitz, the international chess journalist who was covering the event. “You gave him just the right amount of vodka” he said, “not too little and not too much.” Talking of vodka, I had a queer experience. On an off day (yes, we had one off day a week) I asked the Polish master Appel to show me round the ghetto district of which I heard a lot. It was a hot afternoon and the narrow streets were unbearably stuffy so, finding a small bar, we turned in for a drink of beer. As we quaffed the welcome beverage, I could not help noticing that four rough looking me sitting round a carafe of vodka at an adjacent table were glancing at us in an uncomfortably hostile fashion. I asked Appel what was the matter. “Oh” he said, “they’re only calling us bloated capitalists because we can afford beer while they have to be content with vodka!” What a topsy-turvy world this is – the veriest nip of spirit they despised so much costs three shillings and sixpence in London.
War casts its shadow before
Tartakover was first, and Fine second. I did not finish the tournament as well as I had started, but managed to get in the prize list, quite a good performance considering the opposition. Proceedings were, as usual, followed by a banquet, at which I made a short speech in Polish, received with great applause. It was prepared for me by the afore-mentioned Appel with whom I became very friendly. I fear he fell victim to the Nazi murderers as I have not heard a word of him since the war. He was a fine chess player and a very nice man. It was in Lodz that I had my first experience of a black-out, a most realistic rehearsal, with all the lights in the city extinguished, and heavy curtains or blinds of black paper drawn over the windows while aeroplanes droned. I was told these occurred monthly. It was a grim forerunner of the future, and was probably responsible for my rather stupid loss to Opocensky, with whom I was playing an adjourned game.
AND HERE IS THE PICTURE AGAIN!
But for one thing I would have thoroughly enjoyed my stay in Lodz. Playing conditions were excellent and our accommodation in the Hotel Polonia was luxurious in the extreme. Molly and I had a huge room at the top of the building, one side made up entirely of windows through which nothing was visible save the birds whirling in the heavens. Our fellow guests were an odd company. They included a band of Greco-Roman wrestlers with whose leader, Max Kramer, we became very friendly. We went to see him give an exhibition, quite a graceful affair with -none of the grunting and heaving which characterizes the all-in version of the sport.
A photo of myself and Kramer in the park at Lodz appeared in all the local papers and was reproduced in the magazine CHESS with the caption “Which would you rather be?”
Another quaint guest at the Polonia was a melancholy looking man nearly seven feet high and as thin as a lath, who called himself the eating champion of Europe. I forget how many legs of mutton and fowls he had consumed at a sitting but it was quite colossal. He was anxious to get to America where he was told that really star eaters could make big money, and I wrote a letter for him to a gent who promoted exhibitions of this sort. I do not know if anything came of it. I hope so for the poor chap looked as if he could do with a few square meals.
The Hotel Polonia was one of the few modern edifices in Lodz. Another was the post office, a red brick building which might have graced a London suburb but for the peasant women squatted on the steps and the chickens pecking about among the feet of the customers. The rest of the town was real old Poland, narrow streets lined with houses built mainly of wood, with some textile factories on the outskirts. I did not see these at close quarters but I was told that most of them were closed down or on short time.
Appalling poverty
This brings me to the blot on the pleasures I got from my stay in Lodz, the appalling poverty of the people. Sheer hunger, naked and unashamed, glared out of the gaunt faces on the sidewalk. Beggary was quite uncontrolled, tiny children haunting the cafes up to the small hours of the morning for groschen, and, worst of all, child prostitution was rife. I am sure that many of the emaciated little creatures who accosted me on the pavements could not have been a day over fourteen. I have never visited the new Poland, but I believe that all this has now disappeared.
(to be continued)
January 2, 2021
21
Furtive Glances
Berlin was most unpleasant. In the cafe which we visited after dinner hardly anyone seemed to be speaking, and the opening of the door was the occasion for furtive glances followed by sighs of relief when it was seen that the newcomers were merely ordinary customers. So offensive was the atmosphere that Molly and I were glad to get back to our hotel and lock ourselves in our room - very unlike our usual conduct on the first night in a foreign capital. In the evening we arrived safely in Warsaw to be greeted with the news of an appalling tragedy. Mrs. Stevenson, the wife of the B. C. F. secretary, who was competing in the women's championship, had decided to make the journey by air. When the plane stopped to refuel at Posen she wandered into the town, lost her way, and arrived back at the airport just as the machine was getting ready to start. Hurrying to get to her place she approached too near the revolving propellors, was drawn in by the air suction and killed instantaneously. This terrible affair cast a blight over the whole tournament. Thomas also had a journey full of adventure but his was merely comic. He travelled overland by car and, I believe, had a very pleasant time until he got to the Polish roads. Here in the depths of the country the car stuck in the mud and was immediately surrounded by a flock of geese who advanced with ferocious hisses towards the strange monster which had invaded their domain. Afraid to get out, our Captain and his chauffeur remained beleaguered until a farmer appeared who chased away the besiegers and hitched a horse to the bogged-up Daimler.
Behind the facade
At first sight Warsaw seemed to be a very fine city indeed. The streets were wide and clean, there were many fine modern buildings, and the great viaduct over the Vistula, soon to be destroyed by the Nazis, was a triumph of engineering art. We had no time for exploration so did not see the dark slums that lay behind the city's imposing facade. One thing that did strike us was the number of beggars. They lined ell the principal streets at regular intervals; men and women, some offering matches, others merely whining for groschen, the Polish copper currency.
Stronger and stronger competition
The tournament itself was one of the hardest I have ever played in. Not only were there more teams than ever before, but they very much stronger. Apart from the Russians, who were not at that time members of the International Federation, and Lasker and Capablanca, there was hardly a grand master in the world who was not representing his country. Alekhine played for France and I had to meet him in the evening, after struggling for six hours with Stahlberg. I don't know how I managed to draw. I think it must have been my subconscious mind which guided the pieces. Two games a day against such opposition is sheer cruelty, and much as I love playing chess against great masters, I was heartily glad when the event was over.
For the third time in succession, the Americans won. Their young team stood the strain better than most, and their top board, Reuben Fine, was in splendid form. Marshall kept himself in reserve, relieving Fine on top against some of the weaker countries. He went through undefeated while Fine lost only once - against B. Reilly of Ireland, now editor of the British Chess Magazine.
After Warsaw, the Poles arranged an individual tournament at Lodz, to which I was one of the foreigners invited, the others being R. Fine, L. Steiner Hungary, K. Opocensky of Czecho-Slovakia, and V. Mikenas of Lithuania, now a leading Soviet master. The Polish contingent was led by Dr. Tartakover who, although ordinarily resident of Paris, was a Pole by birth, and was making an extended tour of his native country.
Compared with Warsaw the playing conditions at Lodz made it seem like a sort of holiday and, up to a point, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I played well too. In the first round I beat Mikenas, and in the fourth inflicted on Tartakover the only defeat he suffered in three international tournaments in which he played in Poland. Tartakover blamed this defeat on my friend Dr. Seitz, the international chess journalist who was covering the event. “You gave him just the right amount of vodka” he said, “not too little and not too much.” Talking of vodka, I had a queer experience. On an off day (yes, we had one off day a week) I asked the Polish master Appel to show me round the ghetto district of which I heard a lot. It was a hot afternoon and the narrow streets were unbearably stuffy so, finding a small bar, we turned in for a drink of beer. As we quaffed the welcome beverage, I could not help noticing that four rough looking me sitting round a carafe of vodka at an adjacent table were glancing at us in an uncomfortably hostile fashion. I asked Appel what was the matter. “Oh” he said, “they’re only calling us bloated capitalists because we can afford beer while they have to be content with vodka!” What a topsy-turvy world this is – the veriest nip of spirit they despised so much costs three shillings and sixpence in London.
War casts its shadow before
Tartakover was first, and Fine second. I did not finish the tournament as well as I had started, but managed to get in the prize list, quite a good performance considering the opposition. Proceedings were, as usual, followed by a banquet, at which I made a short speech in Polish, received with great applause. It was prepared for me by the afore-mentioned Appel with whom I became very friendly. I fear he fell victim to the Nazi murderers as I have not heard a word of him since the war. He was a fine chess player and a very nice man. It was in Lodz that I had my first experience of a black-out, a most realistic rehearsal, with all the lights in the city extinguished, and heavy curtains or blinds of black paper drawn over the windows while aeroplanes droned. I was told these occurred monthly. It was a grim forerunner of the future, and was probably responsible for my rather stupid loss to Opocensky, with whom I was playing an adjourned game.
AND HERE IS THE PICTURE AGAIN!
But for one thing I would have thoroughly enjoyed my stay in Lodz. Playing conditions were excellent and our accommodation in the Hotel Polonia was luxurious in the extreme. Molly and I had a huge room at the top of the building, one side made up entirely of windows through which nothing was visible save the birds whirling in the heavens. Our fellow guests were an odd company. They included a band of Greco-Roman wrestlers with whose leader, Max Kramer, we became very friendly. We went to see him give an exhibition, quite a graceful affair with -none of the grunting and heaving which characterizes the all-in version of the sport.
A photo of myself and Kramer in the park at Lodz appeared in all the local papers and was reproduced in the magazine CHESS with the caption “Which would you rather be?”
Another quaint guest at the Polonia was a melancholy looking man nearly seven feet high and as thin as a lath, who called himself the eating champion of Europe. I forget how many legs of mutton and fowls he had consumed at a sitting but it was quite colossal. He was anxious to get to America where he was told that really star eaters could make big money, and I wrote a letter for him to a gent who promoted exhibitions of this sort. I do not know if anything came of it. I hope so for the poor chap looked as if he could do with a few square meals.
The Hotel Polonia was one of the few modern edifices in Lodz. Another was the post office, a red brick building which might have graced a London suburb but for the peasant women squatted on the steps and the chickens pecking about among the feet of the customers. The rest of the town was real old Poland, narrow streets lined with houses built mainly of wood, with some textile factories on the outskirts. I did not see these at close quarters but I was told that most of them were closed down or on short time.
Appalling poverty
This brings me to the blot on the pleasures I got from my stay in Lodz, the appalling poverty of the people. Sheer hunger, naked and unashamed, glared out of the gaunt faces on the sidewalk. Beggary was quite uncontrolled, tiny children haunting the cafes up to the small hours of the morning for groschen, and, worst of all, child prostitution was rife. I am sure that many of the emaciated little creatures who accosted me on the pavements could not have been a day over fourteen. I have never visited the new Poland, but I believe that all this has now disappeared.
(to be continued)
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