A Ukrainian Chess Match; The Descent into War

Out and About – Maddy Goldstein

Benya Wilfret

I felt his penetrating gaze scrutinizing me, scouring my face for any discernible clues. I slowly raised my head, locking eyes with him, his icy stare piercing into mine with unwavering intensity. I found myself incapable of any movement. His intricate web of wisdom ensnared me, its delicate strands wrapping around me with a suffocating hold, overwhelming my senses and leaving me entrapped in this cerebral entanglement. With each second a new strand pulled taut, enveloping me with a new constricting embrace. With a determined effort, I tore back against his gaze, winning back my autonomy from his strangling grip. I have to think. I turned my head back towards the chess board, analyzing the intricately carved wooden pieces lying on the old wooden board. 

The pieces danced throughout my mind conducting a symphony of deliberate moves, harmonizing into an ensemble of strategic ruin. Shattering the beautiful composition, my grandfather’s disapproving voice reverberated across the room, his viscous Ukrainian accent slathering the room with disdain.  “Don’t got all day now,” he uttered, his impatience nearly tangible. 

My lips contorted into a scowl as I grasped my knight, guiding him through his predetermined L pathway, poised to trap and outmaneuver my grandfather’s pawn. Without wasting a second, my grandfather’s eyes traversed across the board, concocting a counterattack that would inevitably ensnare me. 

As his brain was consumed with the task of beating me, I lifted my gaze and analyzed my grandfather’s aged countenance. His face, weathered and knotted like the bark of an elderly tree, bore an uncanny resemblance with that of a sea sponge. His beard, unruly as the untamed wilderness, conjured a man who has removed himself from the harsh constraints of civilization. I could only wonder what tales hid beyond his arcane face, yearning to learn the mysteries underlying his past. 

My family kept much of my grandfather’s life hidden from me, with many members unaware of his concealed past. Born with an exceptional intellect, he was forced towards engineering. Amidst the brewing tensions of the Cold War, he became a part of history, participating in the renowned space race between the Soviet Union and the United States. Unfortunately, soon after, my grandfather’s life took a far more twisted turn. As poverty increased in Ukraine, my grandfather’s greed overtook him. He began working more suspicious and unethical jobs within the USSR. Much of the storyline is unknown, but my grandfather would often leave his family to develop classified innovations for the Soviet military. 

While my grandfather’s contributions to society may have been significant, as a young child I couldn’t help but acknowledge the equal amounts of destruction that he may have wrought. Even with the unconditional love of a child’s innocence, I became skeptical.

 Bringing my attention back to the game, I watched my grandfather bring his impish bishop into play, manipulating the board into a labyrinth of complexity. As he brought his cigarette to his mouth, he smiled, understanding that he had successfully triumphed against my feeble attack. 

Dejected from his intellectual force, I slouched down in my chair and sipped my steaming black tea, its bitter herbal taste a temporary distraction from the recent loss. Despite the setback I remained undeterred. While my grandfather prepared his move, I mirrored his thoughts in my mind, strategizing and preparing my response. 

Although my grandfather’s intelligence was remarkable, it did not exempt him from having his shortcomings. During my adolescence, my grandfather frequently underestimated me, certain of his great intellect. With this realization I realized I could set a trap, relinquishing one of my pieces to capture an even greater one. If I misjudged the board and the plan didn’t act accordingly, it would surely result in a loss.

I timidly acknowledged the risk and moved my knight directly in the path of my grandfather’s bishop, its regal silhouette piercing the grey smoke emanating from his cigarette. Afraid to give away my plan, I refused to make eye contact, instead directing my gaze towards my tightly clasped hands. I intertwined my fingers, squeezing them together as hard as I could. My knuckles grew pale, the blood cells retreating as if they were soldiers called back from a raging battle. 

Mustering all my confidence I hesitantly looked up. As I saw my grandfather’s face I couldn’t help but release a light giggle. My grandfather was smiling. Exuberantly he crossed his bishop across the board toppling down my horse, removing it from the battlefield with a vibrant crash. With a radiant smile, I quickly used my pawn to capture his bishop, solidifying the brilliant exchange. Arrogantly I offered my hand to my grandfather, gesturing for his surrender. 

Furrowing his brows together he disdainfully slapped my hand away and lit another cigarette. He puffed on it furiously as though he expected Gary Kasparov to materialize in the smoke, ready to guide his hand to the best move. My grandfather did have one more shortcoming – he did not handle losses gracefully. 

Quite livid, he moved his pawn a step further, directly opposing my queen. A stupid move, it was clear that I could capture it with my bishop. With swift precision, I maneuvered my bishop to counter his, seizing yet another one of his pieces. My grandfather’s frustration intensified with every move, his once imposing army dwindling, and his options diminishing. 

After this, the speed of the game began to exponentially increase, my grandfather making more and more reckless moves and me knocking down his pieces one by one.  Next to the board lay a vast graveyard in which laid my grandfather’s once robust army, a haunting testament to their valiant yet futile struggles against my relentless army. As the destroyed pieces bore witness to the onslaught of my attacks the atmosphere around the chessboard grew increasingly charged. 

The weight of its impending climax lingered in the air, heavy and potent, a pendulum at the peak of its swing poised to determine whether I would be reaching victory or defeat. With delicate precision I cradled my queen between my thumb and forefinger, seeking the perfect destination for her regal power. 

Finally, I saw it; my eyes discerned her triumphant path, deftly sliding her across the board to the white and black encampment where she would reside. The beauty of this decision lay in the restraint it imposed on my grandfather. Simultaneously targeting his rook and king I forced him into a macabre retreat, compelling him to yield his king as I seized control of his rook. 

The sweet taste of victory enveloped me as I maneuvered my queen and rook, cornering my grandfather’s king in an inescapable checkmate. A surge of elation washed over me, every fiber of my being reveling in the triumph of outwitting my grandfather. The man could perform mathematical calculations at its highest level, create instruments that put men in space, and even create machinery of mass destruction, but he could not beat his eight-year-old grandson at the simple game of chess.

 I raised my fist triumphantly, a wide smile adorning my face as I eagerly scanned my grandfather’s expression, hoping to find the unmistakable glow of pride in his eyes. But all I witnessed was sadness, a reproachful disgust etched upon his face. As my smile began to fade my grandfather silently placed his pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket and withdrew to the solitude of the front porch.

In that bittersweet moment of ambivalence, I almost wished that I hadn’t won. Although we often did not show it, I cherished my grandfather. I loved these war-like chess battles, I loved listening to his vast collection of eccentric music, and I loved hearing his almost unbelievable stories. Above all else, I yearned for the affection and warmth only a grandfather could give. 

For many years until his passing, I attempted to play chess with him again. Despite my countless attempts, that fateful match remained the last game of chess he would ever play with me. In every chess piece’s move, I find echoes of our silent conversations, a legacy of love and complexity in every strategy.  Rest well Deda.