Chess Bitch: Women in the Ultimate Intellectual Sport Read online

  Periods were happily left undiscussed until a few days later when the whole team took a break from our formal training to visit the IBM headquarters in New Jersey. IBM, a sponsor of our team, generously donated computers to us, and allowed us to play against Deep Blue, the computer developed by IBM in 1997 that made history by defeating Kasparov in a match. Susan Polgar gave a talk about her career and lifestory to a group of computer programmers, many of whom were amateur chessplayers and many who had feminist views. Then Susan grappled with the question: “Why is only one woman, my sister Judit, among the top one hundred chessplayers in the world?” Susan argued that although many of the causes were social, “the ‘monthly problem’ gets in the way of the full development of many women chessplayers, since women may be menstruating during a crucial game.”

  Susan is not the only luminary in the chess world to adhere to such a view. Other strong women chessplayers, such as GM Pia Cramling from Sweden, or fellow team member Irina Krush, also prefer not to play while menstruating. Even if I could not relate, never having had problems playing when bleeding, how could I contest the testimonies of my peers? Susan’s argument was not that all women suffer during menstruation. Indeed, she was quick to point out that “though many women cite no special problems playing during these times, others are barely able to get out of bed.” She concluded: “Over the wide spectrum, women suffer.”

  Susan’s argument is not without evidence or merit, but it is dangerously circular. When a strong, powerful woman such as Susan is vocal in describing the deficiencies of the female body, she promotes such discourse as legitimate. Such statements could make female players more conscious of their periods, who would otherwise not even consider menstruation as a possible obstacle. In her doctoral dissertation from the California School of Professional Psychology, Los Angeles, psychologist and amateur chessplayer Linda Carol Gilbert details the sloppy methodology of previous writing on gender and chess. In her work, Chessplayers: Gender Expectations and the Self-Fulfilling Prophecy, she argues that the way we talk about women in chess influences the reality of women in chess. “A vicious cycle emerges when world-caliber chess celebrities voice their opinions on why women ‘don’t play as well as men’ and cite ‘science,’ perpetuating a disastrous self-fulfilling cycle that results in females being unfairly labeled as inferior.”

  Talking about menstruation as a problem perpetuates menstruation as a problem. The argument is also a throwback to the days when women’s capabilities in politics and business were doubted: “How could we elect a female president, what if she were on the rag during a war?” The cultural depiction of menstruation is still oppressive—even the casual labeling of the natural female cycles as a “problem” is an example of how the female body is considered substandard. The way that pads and tampons are advertised—“’cause you’re the only one who has to know”—associates bleeding with a shameful secret. Teenage-girl magazines have special sections in which girls write in to tell humiliating stories of bleeding excessively in front of “hotties” or in a pool. The overall effect is to make girls feel an early shame associated with their natural bodily rhythms.

  Susan concluded that the biological “problems” of motherhood and menstruation would explain the uneven ratio of men to women at the top of the chess world: “With equal social conditions between men and women, we could expect about thirty women in the top one hundred.” Susan strives for balance and consistency in both chess and life, always weighing both sides of an argument. Averaging feminism with sexism is a caricature of this quality. The logical premise that women are born with equal intellectual potential as men is marginalized by growing support for the moderate position that women have thirty percent of the world’s chess potential. Feminist writer Ellen Willis mimics delicate balancing acts such as Susan’s: “The feminist bias is that women are equal to men and the male chauvinist bias is that women are inferior.” Willis concludes sarcastically, “The unbiased view is that the truth lies somewhere in between.”

  That Susan voices such an idea is ironic, as she is a pioneer in chess, the first woman ever to compete at the highest level alongside male professionals. Her life had shown that with the same work ethic, women could be the players that top men could, but now she was doubting that women had equal potential. Such a contradiction between a woman chessplayer’s words and accomplishments is not atypical partly because, as the top British woman player, Harriet Hunt, notices, “Most of the best female chessplayers just play, without knowing too much about feminist theory. Most feminists in chess don’t have enough time to work on the game.”

  I was happy to train with the top female players and coaches in America, but I was offended by the discussion of menstruation. That week symbolized my ambivalence toward the larger chess world, which is the driving force behind this book. I love the passion, diversity, and intelligence in the chess world, but am often frustrated by the sexist views I encounter there.

  I confided in a few IBM women that I did not agree with Susan’s arguments, which elicited huge sighs of relief and an indignant comment from one worker: “I loved the talk till she brought up periods. Why? Why did she have to go there?” Focusing on supposed impediments such as menstruation distracts us from the fact that there are many women for whom chess is a profession and still others for whom it is an important and essential part of their lives. I reject the negative tone that wraps itself around women’s place in chess. Instead, I will turn my attention to the variety of strong and passionate women who do play chess.

  2

  War-Torn Pioneers:

  Vera Menchik and Sonja Graf

  Vera Menchik was the first woman to play chess like a man.

  — Grandmaster Salo Flohr

  Sonja Graf has written a book! We must be in the presence of something singular.

  —Roberto Grau, chess writer from Argentina

  Vera Menchik and Sonja Graf played in the first head-to-head match for the world women’s chess title in the summer of 1937, in Semmering, a winter sports resort in Austria. The contrast in their chess styles predicted exciting chess: Sonja attacked with ruthless abandon, while Vera excelled in positional play. Physically, they differed even more radically. Sonja was an expressive blond with a confident stride, while Menchik had a sweet round face and was impassive and modest. A British reporter wrote, “Sonja smokes without end, and during breaks eats candies. Between moves, she paces and talks with observers. Menchik is heavy-set and sits all game with her hands in front without even moving a muscle in her face.”1

  Vera Menchik defeated Sonja Graf, ending up with 11.5 points out of a possible 15. Vera’s overwhelming victory was not surprising. Just over thirty at the time of her victory over Sonja, Vera had already won six world titles. It was the last time the two would face off in a match. World War II altered the trajectory of both their lives, and the history of women’s chess.

  In photographs, Vera Menchik is pictured smiling sweetly with nary a mean bone in her body. But her tournament records and game scores depict a different Vera—beneath this gentle veneer was a trailblazer who raised the bar for women’s chess. Vera Menchik was the first woman to compete seriously against top male professionals.

  Born in Moscow in 1906 to a Czech father and a British mother, Vera learned chess from her father when she was nine years old. Early on she played in a club tournament among boys and finished in third place, which she later said “gave birth to my sporting spirit.” Despite this early show of chess talent, Vera’s main passions were for literature and theater, not chess.

  Vera came from a comfortable family and shared a six-room apartment with her father, mother, and sister, Olga. Vera was eleven years old at the time of the 1917 Russian Revolution, an event that profoundly affected everyday life for Vera and her family as they were forced to share their ample space with neighbors. A friend of Vera’s described what happened: “People from below came up, bringing their goats and fowls with them. Below was a forbidden land to her sister and herself
and of course extra fascinating on that account…people lived in these basements in great poverty; they had earth floors and the children were terribly dirty and ill-cared for.”2

  Unhappy with these changes in lifestyle, the Menchik family decided to emigrate. The family settled in Hastings, a seaside city in England. Teenaged Vera, shy by nature and struggling to become fluent in English, found her interest in chess flourishing as her loneliness deepened. “Chess is a quiet game,” she pointed out, “a perfect activity for someone who does not speak the language.” Vera began to play regularly, in spite of the critics who were concerned that “the deep silence and smoke is not appropriate for a young woman.”

  Hastings was a lucky place for Vera to settle. The Hastings Chess Club was one of the most well established in England, founded in 1882. International tournaments were held there each year, attracting some of the best players on the continent and in England. Vera joined the club in 1923 and soon caught the attention of a Hungarian player, Geza Maroczy (1870-1951). Maroczy began to train her. It was a good match because Maroczy had a fine understanding of the game, and Vera improved rapidly, developing a patient style similar to Maroczy’s.

  Vera Menchik. (Photo courtesy Cleveland Public Library)

  Unlike Vera, most women players were not systematically trained at the time; therefore, Vera Menchik soon became dominant among women. By 1925 she was unquestionably the strongest female player in England, having defeated the second-best player, Edith Price, in two matches.

  In 1927 she got a chance to test herself on the world stage. The first-ever Women’s World Championship was to be held in London. Sixteen women from seven countries would participate in the round-robin (everybody plays everybody) event, which was scheduled in conjunction with the first men’s world team competition. Vera swept through the tournament, ceding only one draw. She won the next six Women’s World Championships held in Hamburg, Prague, Folkestone, Warsaw, Stockholm, and Buenos Aires. Out of the sixty-nine games she played in these championships, she won sixty-four, drew four, and lost only one. Vera was miles ahead of the competition in women’s chess, but thirsty for more distinctions: “Victories over women don’t satisfy me anymore. I want to drink men’s blood.”

  This 1969 issue of Chess Review celebrates Vera Menchik, shown here as she appeared in 1927 soon after she won the Women’s World Championship. (Photo courtesy USCF.)

  Vera Menchik’s first chance to prove herself against men came in 1929 in a tournament in Ramsgate, an English seaside resort. Menchik represented Czechoslovakia on a team composed entirely of foreigners, giving her an opportunity to play against the best male players in England. The Englishmen were trounced, most notably by Vera, who shared the second highest score with Pole Akiba Rubinstein (1882–1961). The winner by half a point was the Cuban World Champion Jose Capablanca (1888-1942). Vera’s own coach, Grandmaster Geza Maroczy, also played with the foreign team under the flag of Hungary. Training Vera helped more than coach Geza could have counted on—his young pupil finished ahead of him. Her result was described as “outstanding,” and her ability “to come out unscathed” against such opposition astounded the chess world, particularly in view of Vera’s youth.

  After Ramsgate, Vera was welcomed into the elite chess arena and given opportunities to compete against the top men in the world in tournaments all over Europe. During the summer of 1929, Vera was invited to a particularly strong round-robin event in Karlsbad, a small town in Czechoslovakia. An Austrian participant, Albert Becker, was so shocked by her inclusion that he devised a humiliating plan. Anyone who lost to her would receive a lifetime membership in the Vera Menchik Club. In comic retribution, he was the first to lose to Menchik, and thus became a charter member of the club. Aside from that satisfying incident, Menchik’s overall performance in the tournament was not good. She came in last, scoring just three points out of a possible fifteen.

  Also in 1929, Menchik traveled to Paris for her first international tournament. She didn’t fare well there either, scoring only three points out of twelve. One notable opponent was Marcel Duchamp, the celebrated conceptual artist and painter, who for some time gave up art to pursue his passion for chess. Born in France, Marcel spent most of his life in New York City, as well as a year in Buenos Aires when his interest in chess was most intense. Marcel’s position in the chess world was similar to Vera’s. Both were superstars at their world-class events—Duchamp because of his fame as an artist, and Vera because of her gender—even though they were weaker than most of their opponents.

  The most famous game played between Duchamp and a woman remains the one chronicled in a much-celebrated photograph; in it he is playing against a completely naked Eve Babitz. Babitz had just started taking birth-control pills, which made her breasts swell to the size of bowling balls. She was a novice in chess and Duchamp won the first game in four moves. Against Vera, Marcel found a tactic, netting two pawns for nothing. With careful play, he should have easily won, but after a few mistakes by Duchamp, Menchik fought back to earn a draw. Menchik ended in eleventh place in the tournament, with Duchamp right behind in twelfth place.

  In the next decade Menchik played in tournaments with the world’s top players, sometimes defeating the best in the world. The Vera Menchik Club grew, adding two particularly distinguished members to its ranks: future World Champion Max Euwe (1901-1981) and future U.S. Champion Samuel Reshevsky (1911-1992). Vera’s willingness to participate in top-flight events and her occasional competence within them was admired.

  However, the cold numbers of the scorecards revealed that Vera’s percentages against the world elite were generally poor. Some of her results were humiliating. In Moscow in 1935, she played in a tournament attended by luminaries such as World Champions Mikhail Botvinnik and Emanuel Lasker. Some Soviet organizers, who worried that her standard of play was too weak, had discouraged Menchik’s participation. It was finally decided that Vera could play since she might provide a positive example for rising women players in the USSR. She finished last with a horrendous score of 1.5 out of 19.

  Vera was active in British chess politics and journalism. She met Rufus Stevenson, editor of the British Chess Magazine and later secretary of the British Chess Federation. Rudolf married Vera in 1937 and the couple moved to London. From then on, coverage on women’s chess was expanded in the magazine. Annual updates on the state of women’s chess in addition to frequent coverage of women’s events now filled the previously male-dominated pages. Vera later became the games editor and opening columnist for another British publication, the monthly magazine Chess. Vera also gave lessons, and, according to one student, was a “splendid and pleasant teacher.”

  People rarely had an ill word against Vera. British player H.M. Golombek suggested that she was kind to a fault, choosing the word complacent to describe her—not exactly a compliment for a chessplayer or any intellectual for that matter. Golombek, speculating that Vera’s kindness and modesty held back her chess results, proposed that “the defect in her play was the inevitable reflection of her character.”

  In my opinion, this conclusion is oversimplified. The styles of many chessplayers clash with their personalities, such as that of top woman player Ketevan Arakhamia, a frail, quiet woman with a hyperactive style. Judging from Vera’s approach and erratic results—sometimes she played decently, other times very poorly—she suffered from mythologizing stronger players as unbeatable, a judgment that reduced her already-small chances to win. I am often victim to this debilitating lack of confidence against certain players also. I considered rated masters and experts out of my league until I began to participate in all-night-marathon blitz (chess games played at extremely fast time limits, usually five minutes per player) sessions after tournaments. I remember playing dozens of games with two expert—the category just beneath master—players, one a female blackjack dealer and the other a middle-aged businessman. At first I lost every game, but by the third day, I won several games in a row, and as the night went on I continued to
hold my own. It was an important step on my road to becoming an expert.

  Jennifer and Greg.

  But there was one player, no matter how often I played him, who remained stubbornly in the category of the unbeatable: my brother. In the many blitz games we played, I would, from time to time, get a winning position, but then my brother would pound the moves down faster and start to trash-talk. A spectator might find Greg’s behavior confusing as he would act out in inverse proportion to the strength of his position. If he were up a Knight, he would calmly defeat me, but if his King were in danger of being checkmated, he would bang down the moves and chatter about how slow I was.

  As a fourteen-year-old, in a tournament at the end of a summer chess clinic in central Pennsylvania, I had a breakthrough tournament by beating one of the coaches, veteran Grandmaster Arthur Bisguier, and drawing against another coach. Then I was paired against my brother. He was white. At the master level, having the white pieces and playing the first move is a big edge. I responded strongly against his relatively tame opening choice, and as lots of pieces were quickly traded off, the position was equal. Greg offered me a draw. Nowadays I would think little of such a game, but at the time it was key to breaking a myth—my brother and coaches were somehow fallible, as we all are. To this day Greg continues to use intimidation tactics when I achieve better positions against him in blitz. It’s a running joke.

  Remnants of my childhood chess inferiority complex creep up even today: I am still sometimes struck in disbelief for some seconds when gaining a winning position against a grandmaster. These self-doubts are balanced, though, by another force from an even deeper source, which I suspect many chessplayers share. When I sit down to play, there is a visceral level in which I believe I should win because I am who I am. When this physical confidence comes, and it tends to come in waves when I’m under pressure, it trumps all.