where, on a scratchy blanket, he received a Soviet Hero’s reward.
In the following weeks, Major Ozunov himself began to thaw. Khristo and his comrades chased each other through the streets of Moscow. Following each other and being followed. Eluding their pursuers, checking their backs in shop windows, running dead-drops in the parks, brushing hands in fast passes in Krasnaya Presnya Park. At the militia station near the school, the lieutenant said, “I see Ozunov is at it again.” Denunciations poured in from angry citizens. I saw them pass an envelope, comrade, just as bold as brass in clear daylight. Foreigners, I’d say they were. And most brazen . They were broken up into teams, competed in discovering andpenetrating each other’s operations. Semmers gave Goldman a bloody nose when he caught him stealing a master cipher. A baker reported that a group of hooligans had kidnapped a tall Polish fellow in his shop.
And Khristo won. And won again. It was Khristo’s Red Star team that accepted the prize copy of Lenin’s speeches. You could dodge through crowds, slither beneath a wagon, crouch down in a phalanx of cyclists, it did not seem to matter. You looked in the reflective shop window and there he was—just near enough, just far enough—doing something or other that made it seem he had lived on this street all his life. Twenty of them chased him into the Byelorussian railroad station on Tverskaya Street. Then, three hours later, trooped back to the dormitory empty-handed. To find Khristo waiting for them in the parlor, wearing a stiff-billed train conductor’s cap. They knew him now for what he was, the best among them. They had seen it before, wherever they came from: the best in the classroom, the best on the soccer field, and they acknowledged his preeminence.
For his part, he learned to wear the star and honor its responsibilities. He encouraged the slow learners, lent a secret hand to those arrayed against him in competitions, and dismissed his successes as pure luck. Major Ozunov, in the hearing of other students, called him Khristo Nicolaievich, which put a seal on his ascendancy. Inspired by all this attention, he even managed to learn a little French.
On the last day of December it snowed a blizzard and he was summoned to Ozunov’s private office. Since dawn, kopeck-size snowflakes had drifted down the windless air. Through the major’s leaded windows—his office had formerly been the master bedroom of the once grand house—Khristo watched the street whiten and fill.
Ozunov stuffed the bowl of a pipe with tobacco, then lit it carefully with a large wooden match. As the office filled with sweet thick smoke, the major produced a chessboard and pieces.
“Do you play, Khristo Nicolaievich?”
“Not really, comrade Major. In Vidin, there was no time to learn.”
“You know the moves, though. What each piece may do.”
“Of course I know that, comrade Major.”
“Good. Then let us try a game. What do you say?”
“I will do the best I can, comrade Major.”
“Mmm,” he said around the pipe stem, “that’s the proper spirit.”
He offered his closed fists: Khristo picked the left hand and played black.
He had learned the moves, back in Vidin, from Levitzky the tailor, who called it “the Russian game.” Thus, the old man pointed out, the weak were sacrificed. The castles, fortresses, were obvious and basic; the bishops moved obliquely; the knights—an officer class—sought power in devious ways; the queen, second-in-command, was pure aggression; and the king, heart of it all, a helpless target, dependent totally on his forces for survival.
Khristo had virtually no inkling of strategy, but he resolved to be the best opponent he could. The object of the game, he knew, was not to slay the other king but to put the opponent in a position where he had no choice but to submit. He had overheard one of Vidin’s more daring wits describe checkmate as “all that Russian foot-kissing
In the following weeks, Major Ozunov himself began to thaw. Khristo and his comrades chased each other through the streets of Moscow. Following each other and being followed. Eluding their pursuers, checking their backs in shop windows, running dead-drops in the parks, brushing hands in fast passes in Krasnaya Presnya Park. At the militia station near the school, the lieutenant said, “I see Ozunov is at it again.” Denunciations poured in from angry citizens. I saw them pass an envelope, comrade, just as bold as brass in clear daylight. Foreigners, I’d say they were. And most brazen . They were broken up into teams, competed in discovering andpenetrating each other’s operations. Semmers gave Goldman a bloody nose when he caught him stealing a master cipher. A baker reported that a group of hooligans had kidnapped a tall Polish fellow in his shop.
And Khristo won. And won again. It was Khristo’s Red Star team that accepted the prize copy of Lenin’s speeches. You could dodge through crowds, slither beneath a wagon, crouch down in a phalanx of cyclists, it did not seem to matter. You looked in the reflective shop window and there he was—just near enough, just far enough—doing something or other that made it seem he had lived on this street all his life. Twenty of them chased him into the Byelorussian railroad station on Tverskaya Street. Then, three hours later, trooped back to the dormitory empty-handed. To find Khristo waiting for them in the parlor, wearing a stiff-billed train conductor’s cap. They knew him now for what he was, the best among them. They had seen it before, wherever they came from: the best in the classroom, the best on the soccer field, and they acknowledged his preeminence.
For his part, he learned to wear the star and honor its responsibilities. He encouraged the slow learners, lent a secret hand to those arrayed against him in competitions, and dismissed his successes as pure luck. Major Ozunov, in the hearing of other students, called him Khristo Nicolaievich, which put a seal on his ascendancy. Inspired by all this attention, he even managed to learn a little French.
On the last day of December it snowed a blizzard and he was summoned to Ozunov’s private office. Since dawn, kopeck-size snowflakes had drifted down the windless air. Through the major’s leaded windows—his office had formerly been the master bedroom of the once grand house—Khristo watched the street whiten and fill.
Ozunov stuffed the bowl of a pipe with tobacco, then lit it carefully with a large wooden match. As the office filled with sweet thick smoke, the major produced a chessboard and pieces.
“Do you play, Khristo Nicolaievich?”
“Not really, comrade Major. In Vidin, there was no time to learn.”
“You know the moves, though. What each piece may do.”
“Of course I know that, comrade Major.”
“Good. Then let us try a game. What do you say?”
“I will do the best I can, comrade Major.”
“Mmm,” he said around the pipe stem, “that’s the proper spirit.”
He offered his closed fists: Khristo picked the left hand and played black.
He had learned the moves, back in Vidin, from Levitzky the tailor, who called it “the Russian game.” Thus, the old man pointed out, the weak were sacrificed. The castles, fortresses, were obvious and basic; the bishops moved obliquely; the knights—an officer class—sought power in devious ways; the queen, second-in-command, was pure aggression; and the king, heart of it all, a helpless target, dependent totally on his forces for survival.
Khristo had virtually no inkling of strategy, but he resolved to be the best opponent he could. The object of the game, he knew, was not to slay the other king but to put the opponent in a position where he had no choice but to submit. He had overheard one of Vidin’s more daring wits describe checkmate as “all that Russian foot-kissing
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