Bobby Fischer in Valhalla by Gary Ives

EDITOR’S NOTE: This story is entirely fictional. While there is use of names of events, people and places commonly known to many, this work of fiction is entirely from the imagination of the author. The story, the author and the publisher makes no claim nor suggestion of this story being true or otherwise in any manner factual in relation to the events, people and places which are solely utilized to create an entertaining narrative. Reader discretion is advised.

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Bobby Fischer in Valhalla by Gary Ives

My dad, a patient man, taught me to play chess when I was just five years old. For six years our Saturday morning ritual was to take the chess board to Schwartz’s where we’d play one game in the corner booth over blintz, egg creams, and coffee. Somewhere along the line we attracted spectators hoping to see the cute kid checkmate his dad, the professor. Schwartz’s manager liked the high-toned ambience we brought especially after the New York Times Sunday feature on us. In truth it was Dad who was the real player and had twice vied for grandmaster. Of course, it helped that my dad taught at Columbia and played tennis with Bernie Kissel at the Times. It would be wrong to say we didn’t like the attention these games and the publicity garnered, although by junior high I had a price to pay for those moments in the sun. I was automatically and irrevocably cast as a nerd. Nerd became my nickname. That I wore glasses and was a good student didn’t help. However, I have never thought of myself as a nerd. No, to the contrary I loved being outdoors, hanging out with my buddies, and most of all playing baseball.

Actually, chess had become an albatross. Junior high and high schoolers stereotyped me as this nerdy boy genius. The irony of this is that I’m really not that good a chess player. Oh, I’m adequate, but I gave up entering formal competitions early on because I was easily outclassed by the real chess nerds. I never won a single game in a federation event; in fact, I made it to only four draws. Where the real nerds could think four and five moves ahead, I was lucky to anticipate three correctly. My dad, so understanding, never berated my limits.

Dad, a dues-paying member of the Chess Federation, held the rank of Master, and had once won a $600 tournament purse. But he too eventually quit competing. The end of competition chess for Dad was a particularly upsetting loss against 17-year-old Bobby Fischer at the New York Chess club. Much later, when I was older, he told me that Fischer, an adamant anti-Semite, kept whispering Nazi slogans and threats in German during the match and twice kicked dad under the table. He complained personally to the Federation president who chose to dismiss and ignore dad’s legitimate protest in order to curry favor with the popular wunderkind. “He’s a Putz, Sheldon, that Fischer, and the Federation knows it, so for that I quit them.”

I didn’t mind kids whom I knew calling me Nerd as it was generally done with that affection young people have with nicknames. But I made it clear to others early on that my name was Sheldon and they could call me Sheldon or Shelly or even Hey You, but not Nerd. This usually worked. However, in my senior year, six weeks before graduation an incident relative to this name friction changed my life. Our team was in the semi-finals playing against a team from Queens. On second base I tagged out this fat boy, ending the game. He grew agitated and walking off the field he yelled back, “I heard about you, you fucking, four-eyes. Nerd. That’s your name, ain’t it? Nerd?”

Later when we were boarding our bus, he taunted me again, only this time even nastier. I handed my gym bag to my buddy and walked over and punched him in the nose. He got up and punched me; then I delivered an uppercut that put his lights out. There was a terrible commotion, a crowd of parents and both teams, the ambulance. Someone said he was dead. “He ain’t breathin’. That kid killed him.”

Aw shit, did I ever feel terrible. My knees went weak and I nearly collapsed standing by as they loaded the stretcher into the ambulance. Our coach hustled us onto the bus and we left. However, later that evening two detectives came to our house and arrested me, charging me with assault and battery. My dad accompanied me to the precinct station where I was booked then released, with an order to appear in court for arraignment the next morning.

The fat kid, Billy O’Brien, was not dead; however my bolo punch had severed part of his tongue. An additional charge of maiming with grievous bodily injury was added. My Uncle Harvey, mom’s brother, would represent me pro bono through the trial and the following civil litigation that Billy O’Brien’s parents brought against me. The results of these actions were a felony conviction that placed me on one year’s probation, a cost to my family that included a $3500 settlement, and a permanent speech impediment for that asshole Billy O’Brien. But worse was the stress endured by my parents who worried more for my welfare than I did. The conviction killed my applications to Columbia and Princeton. There were several nuisance calls until we changed and unlisted our telephone number. Through this dilemma my family’s love and support never diminished.

Following graduation from high school, I enrolled in night courses at Brooklyn College while working in the library at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. My life was reconstituted and order was restored – at least until just before Christmas of ’59. I was on the steps of the gym in line to register for the spring semester when I heard someone yell, “Hey oou Nerd. Hey hunck oou!.” Hunk oou, what was that, I wondered.

It was that fat bastard Billy O’Brien. He was driving by with his window rolled down in the ’55 Chevy bought with the settlement. Because of his injury ‘Fuck’ came out ‘Hunnk’. The three male passengers with him all gave me the finger. The embarrassment was horrible and I left the line, opting for late registration the next day. On my way to the bus stop Billy and his pals jumped me. There was a rough tussle in which I managed a good kick to Billy’s balls and a couple punches, but I was quickly downed and immobilized with one ape on my chest pinning my arms and another holding my feet.

Billy stood over me, one hand over his crotch the other waving a stiletto. “Okay Oou Nerd, time hor pay back, oou hunking kike.” Just as he was wrestling to get that phrase out, a campus patrol car appeared. The lights and siren went on and Billy and his gang disappeared in a flash to wherever the Chevy was stashed. I accompanied the police to the station where the report was filed.

Later Billy was arrested. My dad called Uncle Harvey who got a copy of the report. He said that if the matter went to trial Billy would most likely beat it and recommended I decline prosecution, which I did. But in my heart, I owed that shithead. Well, that would be the last heard from that prick until 1972. In that meantime I had completed my degree in hotel and restaurant management, a profession which could easily turn a blind eye to a felony conviction. With a good word from the Commanding Officer of the Brooklyn Navy Yard, I won an internship with a company under contract to the Navy, which in the 60’s was establishing dozens of guest lodges at their bases all over the world. I’d worked the opening of the Navy Lodge Washington, D. C. and even a summer at Camp David. In 1970 I was appointed director of the Navy Lodge at the U. S. Naval Station in Keflavik, Iceland.

Iceland, many think of as Ultima Thule, the end of the world, but quite the contrary, in addition to its large NATO base, Iceland is a frequent stopover for transatlantic flights. Government and military VIPs and their families reporting to and from Europe often elected to spend a few days touring geysers and buying sweaters in Reykjavik. Several congressman, a senator, and two cabinet members, in addition to scores of general officers and their families had enjoyed our hospitality. Our ambassador’s residence in the capital Reykjavik, 35 miles away, was a mere apartment which spared the Embassy the rigors of hosting visiting firemen. To be sure, there were three excellent hotels in Reykjavik, but as a government entity our rates were a fraction of those fine commercial establishments. The powerful and wealthy, one learns in this business, are often cheapskates. Our Lodge, The Valhalla Lodge, had a splendid Viking décor with a beautiful scale model of a Viking ship in the lobby, and beautiful Icelandic tapestries adorning each of our 22 units. An excellent crew of two American and four Icelanders kept Valhalla shipshape.

The social life aboard the NATO base was quite active and with privileges at the Officer’s Club I enjoyed the company of military officers and their families. As Director of Valhalla, I was in a dandy position to do favors. I was popular. Life was good.

You may well imagine my surprise when in late 1971, whom should I see but Billy O’Brien, now an airman, riding in the back of an Air Force pickup truck assigned to the base Utilities Department. He showed no sign of recognizing me. Here, I must admit that ten years of hotel and restaurant management had increased my girth considerably. I had grown fat and weighed easily 100 lbs. more than in high school days, had lost all but a prematurely grey fringe of my hair, and now wore contact lenses. Immediately, those mean gears within my mind engaged. I would be patient.

Major Jolicoeur was the Base Engineer and I asked him to verify if that was indeed the notorious prick I thought it was, and if so, how with only half a tongue, could he have enlisted in the Air Force. As it turned out, the Pentagon was experimenting with a program called “Project 100,000” which Major Jolicoeur explained, “was to clean urban streets of trash and provide canon fodder for Nam.” Billy, it seems, was one of 500 trial balloons. “I dunno how he ended up here. His first sergeant says he’s dumb as a brick and even though he’s a hair lip, he doesn’t know when to shut up. He’s begged me to shit can him. But on account of this stupid project, I need a really good cause to get rid of the turd. We’re working on it.”

Early in ’72 we received the astounding news that the World Chess Tournament playoff between Bobby Fischer and Boris Spassky would be held in Iceland on our base. Valhalla would be packed for ten weeks with world class VIPs. To my great surprise, Fischer had requested lodgings on base away from the press. The Tournament was world news. This would be the big cold war showdown of the decade. The Soviets’ world’s International Champion Grand Master upholding hundred years tradition of reigning czars of chess, against the upstart Americans with their anti-Communist, Jew-hating bad-mannered, spoiled, genius – Boris Spassky vs. Bobby Fischer on neutral territory- Iceland.

The challenge for Valhalla was to provide first class service while the spotlight of the world shone on us. This presented a wonderful opportunity for my career. I knew that I was on the shortlist for the position as managing director of the Army Resort Complex in Garmisch, Germany. This could cinch it. But on the other hand, our chief guest would be not only one of the most eccentric and crankiest celebrities of the moment, but also the nasty anti-Semite who had hurt my father. What a paradox. I would much have preferred hosting Spassky, but the Russians had one entire floor of the Saga Hotel reserved for Boris.

This momentous news was conveyed to the base by the cultural attaché at our embassy. The Base Commander, Captain Fellows had personally conducted the attaché to Valhalla to introduce us. “This is your man,” the captain cheerfully announced, “he’s our resident Conrad Hilton, a first-rate inn-keep! Sheldon, you’ll liaison directly with the embassy. Let me know if you need anything.”

Fortunately, the attaché was eager to shift the hospitality burden to me. As the tournament dates drew nearer, he delivered request after request from Fischer’s people. “Sound-proof upper-floor room, make certain the draperies can occlude all light, unlimited ice and Pepsi-cola available 24 hours per day; transportation and driver available, sole use of the base bowling alley from eight till midnight; a high quality stereo system, massage service, meal delivery service, and a whore.”

The embassy and I were able to coordinate all the requests save the last. In a strongly worded cable, the ambassador had the last demand, Fischer’s request for a whore, disapproved. The other accommodations were arranged. He would be lodged in the second-floor north-end unit directly over my office. The adjoining room would be kept vacant to ensure security and quietude. Fischer’s entourage and a company of Euro chess masters would occupy the other nine topside units. The remaining units were booked early by the embassy.

The entire base was excited by the attention the world press focused on the event. On the evening of his scheduled arrival, several hundred GIs and their families gathered outside the air terminal to catch a glimpse of the famous bad boy. However, when the Pan Am’s passengers deplaned, there was no Bobby. Fischer had at the last moment thrown a tantrum threatening to withdraw from the tournament unless the stakes were doubled to $250,000.

After six no shows and a generous donation of $125,000 by a British millionaire, Fischer at last arrived quietly. Clearing Icelandic Customs and Immigration, he scoffed at the “puny” size of the air terminal. He’d said to his secretary, clearly within earshot of the joint Icelandic-American welcome committee, “If this is the best they can do for an airport, I wouldn’t want to be caught dead in this place.” The flowers presented to him by the young girl – he left on an empty seat by the terminal door. No one was impressed with the young Grandmaster’s arrival manners.

At Valhalla, he sent his secretary to the office to complete the registration card and fetch his signature. My staff had been briefed on Mr. Fischer’s eccentricities and to expect his churlish behavior. I had complete faith in the loyalty of all Valhalla employees. I was keenly aware of the intense national pride of the Icelanders. One did not disparage Iceland. Period. Ingvar Gudmunsson, our maintenance supervisor and sometimes night clerk was particularly sensitive, even for an Icelander, and I knew that if Fischer issued another comment like the “puny airport size” around Ingvar, there would be an argument. I spoke with Ingvar and hoped for the best. On his first evening at Valhalla, Fischer woke the night clerk just after midnight, requesting the services of a prostitute. I doubted that there was even one call girl in all of Iceland, a land of plentiful and gratuitous sex. If there was, I was unaware and certainly unwilling to sully Valhalla’s reputation. However, the next day we left a message for Mr. Fischer that we were working on his request, hoping this idea of his might just go away.

The most celebrated chess match in history would consist of thirty games between these two rivals. Spassky, the International Grandmaster of Chess, the World Champion, was defending not only his cherished title but the perceived intellectual, cultural and political superiority of the Soviet Union. And who better to crush before the world than an upstart American genius, pro-Nazi, anti-Communist, Jew hater– Fischer, the Western whizz kid, who had blazed like a comet through every accredited Federation event in North America. The press releases from Reykjavik began immediately. TASS and INTOURIST reported Fischer’s childish demands for a higher purse as a capitalistic insult to the ancient game. UPI, AP, and Reuters focused on Fischer’s good looks, his blaze to glory, and the quirkiness of his eccentricities, depicting him just a hair’s breadth from Einstein.

Neither Captain Fellows’s staff nor I had anticipated the pitch and extent of the press’s invasiveness. On Fischer’s second night at Valhalla, I had had to alert Base Security twice of intruding reporters keen to get a photo of Fischer. On the third day a temporary eight-foot chain link fence topped with razor wire and wired with electronic sensors surrounded Valhalla. Once Fischer had arrived in Iceland it was assumed that the theatrics would let up if not cease altogether. However, Fischer at once began a bevy of taxing demands: television cameras, a larger auditorium, a special irregular size of the chess board—exasperating demands in a country where resources were far more limited than in North America or on the Continent. To prove his insistence, Fischer refused to attend the first match, going so far as to endure a forfeit.

So, the auditorium was changed and television crews flown in from Great Britain and America. Still, Fischer demanded more: the distance between the audience and the stage had to be increased; then he dismissed his original demands to be televised before a large auditorium audience and demanded a smaller private game room with a limited number of spectators.

All of this nonsense fueled the press. These events were being discussed in foreign cities all over the world; far away Iceland was at once important. It was as if Elvis, Pele, or The Beatles were here. As the world clamored for more juicy stories, Spassky, a natural introvert, withdrew from public view – spending all non-match time in his hotel, tended by his watchers. Fischer, on the other hand, charmed the photographers, swimming laps at the pool and playing tennis at Spassky’s hotel.

On the evenings, after a movie or bowling, when he returned to his room, I inhabited my office and listened through a bug Invar had placed in his room. But nothing beyond Bach, Chopin, and Duke Ellington on the stereo was to be heard. The two Icelandic women who were our char force entered his room only when he was at a match, taking great care to ensure perfection and order in their cleaning. The radical right-wing Icelandic newspaper Sannleikurrinbladid did a feature article citing Fischer as lauding the intelligence of the Icelanders in that there were scarcely any Jews or Negroes on the island and that as he understood history, Icelanders would have supported the Third Reich had not they been invaded by England. These ideas were quite contrary to most Icelander’s views, but since only a small extremist faction read Sannleikurrinbladid there was little domestic reaction. Invar Gudmunsson, however, was presented with the article by a friend and brought this to my attention.

“How can such a thing be, that this famous American can come here to Iceland and say such stupid, outrageous things for the whole world to read? Does he want the rest of the world to think we are Nazis?”

“He’s an asshole, Invar. That’s how.”

“I would like to punch him in the face.”

“Well, so would I but I’ve learned the hard way that that seldom solves anything. But I have ideas I’d like to share with you, ideas to disturb this rude shitass of an American.”

“But of course, Mr. Sheldon.”

“But this must be one hundred percent secret, let us say for ten years. That means not you, nor I would mention my suggestion. Will you agree to that?”

“I agree. Tell me, please.”

The next day, with the aid of a pass key, several strips of hakari were sewn into Mister Fischer’s mattress. Hakari, best described as shark jerky, issues a strong aroma of ammonia. Two days later, Fischer sent word down demanding a change of mattress. Valhalla happily complied. The contaminated mattress was carried to the trash bin behind the lodge. There reporters had been picking through every bit of trash. The next day’s issues of Isvetia, Pravda, and Moscva Vecha all mentioned Fischer’s bedwetting problem. When reporters questioned him, he became angry.

While all this was going on, Ingvar installed two valves onto the cold water line feeding the toilet. The new valves were in my office under Fischer’s room. On match days, Fischer left Valhalla at eleven in the morning. He liked to sleep late and would not be awakened by his secretary until 10:30. His habit was to take a quick shower, dress; he would then use the toilet just before leaving. The feed valve had been closed the night before so that on the morning of his fifth match his toilet could not be flushed. This little trick was repeated every other day.

Ertla and Ingrid Jonsdotter, sisters, were our char force at Valhalla, hardworking, reliable, and loyal. The sisters were enjoying all the attention the Tournament had brought to Valhalla. They felt important as reporters questioned them whenever they ventured beyond the security fence. I don’t know if it was Ertla or Ingrid, but one of the ladies let slip that “Mr. Fischer is so smart but sometimes he don’t be smart enough to flush toilet.” That tidbit too made front page news in the Eastern European press.

Fischer had very basic appetites and generally had subsisted on hamburgers from the bowling alley. However, during the third week, his secretary inquired on the availability of pizza. We assured the secretary that good pizza was readily available, to just let the office know. Good pizza was indeed available from the enlisted club and by way of Valhalla’s office, the pizza could be laced with extract of cascara, 350 mg of which guaranteed a powerful stimulant to the bowels. For the rest of his time in Iceland, Bobby Fischer’s only friend was his toilet. But, as we know, his toilet was not always friendly. His secretary complained vociferously and we promised to change out the toilet bowl in Fischer’s room. I hand delivered the urgent work order to Major Jolicoeur at Base Utilities and invited him to lunch at the Officer’s Club.

“Norm, I’ve got an idea, it’s an unconventional idea we need to keep between ourselves, but if it works. Billy O’Brien will be outta here, pronto.”

Not only the Soviet press, but Invar and I reveled at each unpleasant turn our mischief created for Fischer. Still, he was gaining the upper hand in the matches. I wanted the U.S. to win the match, but my strong dislike for Fischer, and sympathy for Spassky, a Jew, mitigated that hope.

In late July, PanAm discovered a stowaway on the New York to Frankfort flight. Señorita Connie Velázquez, whose passport showed her occupation as club dancer, was handed over to Icelandic authorities during the layover in compliance with international law. Accordingly, she was taken into custody. Icelandic Law required a physical exam of any foreign person entering Iceland without a visa. This exam revealed active cases of genital herpes and gonorrhea. Following these procedures for the handling of undocumented visitors, as a Puerto Rican, therefore an American citizen, she was turned over to the American Embassy with orders that Miss Velázquez be placed in quarantine until return passage aboard the weekly military flight to the States was arranged. That is how she became the guest of Valhalla for one night, by order of the ambassador. The only room available was the room kept empty to ensure quiet and privacy for Mr. Fischer. But it was for only one night and an MP checked on her ever four hours.

By mid-August, Fischer had a commanding lead over Spassky. Secretary of State Henry Kissinger had called to encourage Fischer. Predictably, Fischer was wound really tight, nervous and snappish. This case of nerves did not help his irritable bowel syndrome even after he switched from pizza to chilli. His angry toilet had been replaced, but he demanded still another replacement, complaining that the bowl still would not flush in the morning.

Sgt. Dupre, Billy O’Brien’s First Sergeant assigned him the task. “There’s a new bowl and wax ring on the truck. Get over to the Valhalla this after lunch and switch out Mr. Fischer’s toilet. Make sure that place is neat as a pin when you’re through, you understand?”

“I don’t see oo come I gotta do iss by mysell, ‘Fff–irst Sergeant?”

“First of all, because I said so, that’s why. Second, because changing a toilet bowl is a one-man job. Shouldn’t take you more than forty-five minutes. Now get on with it O’Brien and quit sniveling, you dumbshit, and try to act like an airman instead of a little girl.”

It was the last week of the match. The timing was perfect. The matches would end early. On Monday, Fischer would return to Valhalla around the same time O’Brien would be changing out the toilet bowl. Fischer had been moody all day. That same Monday morning, he had demanded a doctor visit in his room. Later his secretary had asked for assistance in filling the tetracycline prescription the doctor had ordered.

O’Brien was in a foul temper because First Sergeant had called him a little girl. Fischer was most perturbed in that he had contracted the clap and who knows what else from his secret Puerto Rican tryst. Invar had managed for a full unflushed bowl. High above all the stars and planets were in alignment while below in my office Ingvar connected the air compressor to the cold water valve. Ingvar let O’Brien into Fischer’s room then returned to the office.

A few minutes later, an angry Fischer entered his room to find stupid Billy O’Brien standing over his toilet. He yelled at O’Brien just as Ingvar opened the valve blowing shit all over the two hostile men. It was a bad day for both Fischer and O’Brien. It is unclear who struck the first blow, but the noise from above clearly sounded a real disturbance. We summoned Base Security and very shortly Billy O’Brien was in custody. He was put aboard the stateside plane within hours with assault charges pending.

I personally assisted Mr. Fischer in moving into Señorita Velázquez’s now vacated room, assuaging him as best I could. I assured Fischer no one would know of this embarrassment, that his dignity would be protected by Valhalla and later had pizza and chilli delivered free of charge. In the meantime, Ingvar replaced the offending toilet bowl while staff sanitized the room.

Despite the bothersome events, Bobby Fischer beat Boris Spassky, winning from him the title as the world’s foremost chess champion. At the awards ceremony, Fischer demanded the presentation of the trophy and the check be conducted while seated at bunting draped tables, behind which he could scratch a terrible, implacable, burning crotch itch.

Billy O’Brien’s Bad Conduct Discharge flushed him out of the Air Force within a month. Bobby Fischer went on to reign as the world’s International Grandmaster. Eventually, he would renounce his American citizenship and bounce from country to country as a stateless person until ironically, Iceland, of all places, granted him residence where he died in 2008. Though unfortunately, his remains would not rest in peace. His body was disinterred in 2010 to resolve a paternity suit brought forward by one Señorita Connie Velázquez of Puerto Rico.

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Copyright Gary Ives 2024