Profession: Chessplayer: Grandmaster at Work

By Vladimir Tukmakov and Genna Sosonko

A True Professional From his childhood, Vladimir Tukmakov realized that there was something special about his ability to play chess. He had it all – talent, skill and motivation. After winning many junior and student tournaments, he went on to play in fourteen Soviet championships at a time when these were considered some of the most powerful competitions in the world. You are now invited to join the author in a very personal autobiographical journey, as he traces his development from one of many gifted chessplaying children to a powerful international grandmaster, a member of the world’s chess elite. For Tukmakov, chess was more than just a hobby or passion – it was his profession. From talented boy and strong grandmaster to twice leading the Ukrainian team to gold medals in the 2004 and 2010 Olympiads, Tukmakov’s story is a fascinating glimpse into the “golden era-of the Soviet School of Chess, and the trials and tribulations of individual will and genius. Included are dozens of photographs and over 40 deeply annotated games against some of the strongest chessplayers in the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Russell Enterprises, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781936490295

Book preview

Profession:

Chessplayer

Grandmaster at Work

by

Vladimir Tukmakov

Foreword by Genna Sosonko

2012

Russell Enterprises, Inc.

Milford, CT USA

Profession: Chessplayer

Grandmaster at Work

by Vladimir Tukmakov

© Copyright 2012

Vladimir Tukmakov

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any manner or form whatsoever or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

ISBN: 978-1-936490-28-8

Published by:

Russell Enterprises, Inc.

PO Box 3131

Milford, CT 06460 USA

http://www.russell-enterprises.com

[e-mail]

Cover design by Janel Lowrance

Translated from the Russian by Inga Gurevich and Sofia Ozul

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Foreword by Genna Sosonko

From the Author

Vovik, Vova, Volodya

Critical Games

The Decisive Move

Games with World Champions

Irrationally Logical Sacrifices

Theoretical Duels

The Colorful Life

Face Control

Playing for the Team

Career Highlights

Player Index

Opening Index

Foreword

Looking Inward

You are holding a very special book, special because the author, writing about his life, takes many different perspectives, including that of a perfect stranger. Occasionally he distances himself from the lead character, and at times he is that character, at first little Vovik from the fifties, who is engrossed in playing cops and robbers till dusk in the courtyards of Odessa, then Vova, a serious and independent boy, making decisions difficult even for grown-ups.

I was guiding him, a thinker and a bit of a bore, too proper, bookish and with no real life experience (where would it come from?), down the right path, or rather, I was helping him avoid clearly wrong ones. We were groping our way through life together, but he was tormented by doubts and insecurities, and I did not take off the mask of an omniscient sage.

Whom do you think he is talking about? Well, about himself, constantly looking inward and dispassionately recording everything that happens in his own soul.

Even if you don’t let me go, he said to his parents when he moved from Odessa to the godforsaken town in the far east of the vast country, I would leave anyway.

And he would, maintains the author, who was fourteen at the time, He would have gone back along the railroad tracks. Back to Odessa. Back to his grandmother. Back to chess. Fortunately, his parents gave in. The seven-day train ride across the country became a road into adulthood for Vova, both alluring and frightening.

A difficult childhood, no doubt about that, but who knows, maybe this mature and independent life helped Tukmakov in his chess career. After all, the essence of chess, as the great chess maven Botvinnik wrote, is that a chessplayer must find the correct solution (move) in a complicated, original position when no outside help could be expected. Those who know how to do it feel confident at the chessboard. He learned this skill early in life, and everyday obstacles only made him stronger.

Among peers he had a reputation of an ingot, a wholesome character cut from one piece. A man with nerves of steel, dispassionate and confident. But was it true? At times we see a doubter, even a timid young man, and can only trust the author, who opens his soul to the reader.

Affectionately remembering his first (and only) coach from the Odessa Pioneer Palace, Samuil Nutovich Kotlerman, the author mentions the other students of this modest man, who worked his whole life as a chemistry school teacher: Odessan grandmasters Alburt, Beim, Lerner, Palatnik, Legky. Fate scattered them in different countries and continents: some live in America, others in Israel, Austria, France...

Vladimir Borisovich Tukmakov, now in his sixties, is still walking along the streets and alleys of the city that remembers him as a young boy who was helping his grandmother sell newspapers at the newsstand on Sobornaya (Cathedral) Square, or Soborka, as all Odessans used to call it (they still do). He walked down the Grecheskaya (Greek), Uspenskaya (Assumption), Rishelyevskaya (Richelieu), Evreyskaya (Jewish), Ekaterininskaya (Catherine’s), and Troitskaya (Trinity) streets countless times, even if, in his youth, these streets had different names. These are the streets he sped through to the Vorontsov Palace in anticipation of sitting at the chessboard, not yet knowing that he would devote his life to the thirty-two pieces and the sixty-four squares.

He became a master at sixteen – a considerable age by today’s standards, but there were only three players who had become masters at that age before him – Botvinnik, Bronstein and Spassky. It seemed that the choice was clear: his life should be in chess. Not so. After finishing high school with a gold medal, Tukmakov entered the Technological Institute, publicly renounced chess and pledged allegiance to thermal physics. Overcome by vanity and pride, as the author would say in his usual ironic manner decades later.

But he could not resist the temptation of playing in the World Youth Qualifier, and his victory in the tournament, which featured numerous famous players, again revived doubts in his mind. For the next several years he tried to reconcile something that used to be reconcilable, but became mutually exclusive in modern chess. Tukmakov was playing in the tournaments of the highest level and studying, graduating from the institute with a diploma.

He made his final choice only in 1971 at age 25: chess, professional chess. What could have happened if he had stayed in science? This is a hypothetical question, of course. I think that even though physics would have gotten another professor, chess would have lost a strong, very strong grandmaster.

Qualifying for the USSR Championship First League was at the time an achievement in itself, and Vladimir Tukmakov played in these tournaments which had the reputation of being the strongest in the world, on a consistent basis. It suffices to list the names of the grandmasters who participated in the tournaments in different years to appreciate this level: Tal, Kortschnoi, Stein, Geller, Polugaevsky, Averbakh, Kholmov, Taimanov, then Karpov, Kasparov... Three times he was the runner-up in the Soviet Championship. Three times.

Three corner kicks are equal to a penalty kick. If we apply this rule from his childhood, when boys were tirelessly playing soccer in the Odessa courtyards, three silver medals are comparable to a gold one. And yet, now, when his career as an active player is over, you can ask a question: what was he lacking, what prevented him from achieving more than three silver medals in national championships, excellent performances in numerous international tournaments, from conquering if not the main summit, at least its spurs? Tukmakov never managed to play in the candidates matches; all attempts to get there ended in the interzonal tournaments. Why?

It is certainly possible to give an easy explanation: not enough talent. But was it about talent? There are many talented people, but strong characters are scarce, said the father of psychoanalysis, and it is hard to argue with him. Tukmakov had character. He also had determination, drive, self-control, and will, and understanding of what was happening on the board. What was the matter?

According to Tukmakov, the magic formula for success includes talent, memory, will (character) and hard work. And though the author occasionally complains about his memory, at the time his chess memory rarely let him down. We have already mentioned hard work and character. Talent, then?

One day in the conversation with Donner I dropped the phrase A big talent. The Dutch grandmaster frowned: What is that? Talent, talent... What do you mean? Talent is a commitment, a tremendous desire to achieve something, something to which you devote your soul, your heart, everything. This is what talent is. Without getting into the definition of talent given by the Dutch grandmaster, could we say that Tukmakov poured his soul into chess?

He recalls how his art teacher at school, handling out grades, used to say: You are a genius, you got an A. Generous in his praise, he would repeat this to another student. What he told Volodya was: You got an A, but you are not a genius.

Maybe as a teenager he really took these words to heart? Maybe, all the time comparing himself to the chess greats, he was thinking that he could not measure up? His best years coincided with a time when Petrosian, Spassky, Geller, Kortschnoi, Tal, Stein, Polugaevsky, just to mention the very best, were still shining. Then came Karpov and Kasparov.

To compensate for his lack of genius, ignoring his achievements and successes, he would tirelessly search for the root of his failures, painstakingly analyze his shortcomings, both as a chessplayer and a human being, not showing any leniency.

Immediately after a tournament we would conduct a debriefing. We analyzed not just the chess variations, but also what was behind them: the ideas, emotions, and character traits. Such phrases are liberally sprinkled throughout the book by its uncompromising author.

It was not easy then, and it is even more difficult now, to find a chess professional, who, in his spare time between tournaments, is not searching for new ideas in the Marshall Attack or an improvement in the Catalan, but is scrupulously analyzing his mistakes.

And what is wrong with that? a reader may ask. After all, analyzing failures, both in life and in sports, is much more productive for growth than basking in success, we might repeat after the author. It is true, all true. But maybe he was overdoing it?

Sharp, relentless self-criticism, even with its obvious positive aspects, is good only to a certain point. Objective comparison to those, who, in your opinion, possess great talent, may have a negative impact, especially when you reach a very high level. Something else is called for: detachment, even subjectivity. Maybe not forgetting about your own shortcomings and weaknesses, but at least pushing them somewhere deep and far away in your mind. What does it mean when my opponent blunders? What does it mean when I get lucky? I am playing better, that’s why he blundered, could not help but blunder, that’s the way it should be. Got lucky? Who else should Fortune smile upon?

Sometimes self-analysis, constant self-criticism, driving splinters into your ego, can become an obstacle on the way to the highest achievements.

Recalling one of his most successful tournaments, in Madrid in 1973, Tukmakov wrote that in the beginning he was not feeling well and sort of sleepwalked through the first round. But after he got better, a strange state of detachment from the outside world remained, and it felt like the games were won by themselves. Later I tried to reach this state of mind artificially, but could never completely recreate the Madrid trance, writes Tukmakov.

Could it be that this constant, merciless looking inward prevented him from ever again reaching the condition he had experienced in Madrid? Maybe if in his games he would have followed a simple ancient formula – glide through life, but do not push – the result could have been better.

There is an old Chinese tale about the Lord of the World, who lost his precious pearl. He sent Knowledge to search for it, but it could not find it. Then he sent Thinking, but it did not find the pearl either. He sent Perception, with the same result. So he sent Communion, and it found his pearl.

Sometimes the magic pearl is revealed only in the state of communion, and sometimes it is better not to have control or knowledge. Not knowing can mean just about anything, but it is not the same as knowing nothing. On the contrary, it means that someone with a lot of knowledge and experience can rely on educated intuition. Experienced tennis coaches teach their students to achieve this state that is indeed similar to a trance: knowing everything and controlling everything without any brainwork and self-criticism. Maybe in Madrid Tukmakov just did not have the energy to engage in self-analysis, and was forced to surrender to the 64 squares of the chessboard, which paid him back a hundredfold.

One of the most frequently used words in this book is goal. There is also an immediate goal and a minimum objective. Only once he mentions the great goal. Always firmly grounded, Tukmakov never set his sights too high, limiting his great goal to the candidates tournaments. It happened in 1979, when he was 33-years old, and he realized that everything he was going to do in chess would be only a repetition: one more trip to an international tournament, yet another second place in the national championship, making the Olympic team once more.

Consistently climbing one step after another, the USSR semi-finals, the First League, the Top League – only those who played in these tournaments can fully appreciate the meaning of these words – he qualified for the interzonal tournament. Tukmakov had a dazzling start, winning the first four games, including his games against Smyslov and Petrosian, and after seven rounds he was a full point ahead.

I remember that I decided to use a break between tournaments to go to Las Palmas to relax and witness Tukmakov’s triumph. But something inexplicable happened: he blundered and lost several games, and then one more, to an underdog. He did not achieve the great goal, and life did not give him another chance.

Maybe he should have chosen this great goal at a younger age, eliminating all other goals, especially the minimum objectives. And if the five years dedicated to the studies at the institute had been devoted to chess, perhaps the great goal would have been achieved? I do not know.

It is clear though that something else would have been set aside for such a great goal, but was it worth a short obituary line in Wikipedia: ...in 19xx he played in the Candidates Tournament for the World Chess Championship? I do not know.

But I do know that if he, trying to set this great goal, had put aside his wife and daughters, theater, books, friends, and who knows what else that makes up everyday life, he would be a different Vovik, Volodya, Vladimir Borisovich, not the one I have known for over forty years. And I am not sure that this book would have ever been written.

It has many portraits and sketches of people whom the younger generation only knows through hearsay, while those who are over sixty will plunge once again into this, the long-gone world of Odessa chess of that time. The author introduces us to Yefim Yefimovich Kogan, Samuil Nutovich Kotlerman, and Yakov Yukhtman, called Yankel by everyone. We see Lev Alburt, Misha Podgaets, and Lyonya Balmazi, and more. Tukmakov met without exception all the young chessplayers who later became famous grandmasters. They became veterans long ago, some of them are no longer with us, and some have stopped playing, but for the author they are still Vanyukha, Vitka, Dzin, Rafa, Belyava, Shiz, Michel, Gulka, Balash, and Tsesh. He not only played numerous games with them, but he also spent long months at tournaments and training camps, at Olympiads and nationals, with them. The readers will see them, the recognized titans of the game, great champions of the past, through the eyes of the author, who, without much sentiment, looks back at that amazing time that seems almost prehistoric now.

The majority of today’s players have never met Robert Fischer over the board; they have never even seen the American genius. No wonder: Fischer played his last tournament game over forty years ago. Now, when one of the greatest champions in the history of chess has passed away, any memoirs about him are even more valuable. Vladimir Tukmakov not only played with Fischer, but observed him up close during the long tournament in Buenos Aires in 1970, and wrote about it in great detail.

Describing the practices and customs of the now non-existent state, the author operates with expressions that can be understood only by people who lived at the time: clearance by KGB, eligible or not eligible to travel abroad, to report to the Sports Committee, the head of the delegation, to do the paperwork, character assessment, a quota for persons per trip, allocation of international tournaments, shopping, for which there was barely enough time, etc. It is easy to see that almost all of these terms are associated with travel abroad, one of the most highly valued things in the Soviet Union. Young chessplayers, for whom yet another open in Spain, rapid in the Netherlands, or playing in the German Bundesliga means simply moving in space, will be able to see their own lives from a different perspective, and those who are older can once again relive all the wonders of those glorious times.

The grandmaster states that his book is intended primarily for chessplayers. Of course, it is. But would it not be interesting for those who don’t know how the chess pieces move? Not just because chess is a small model for life, but also because the mosaic of Soviet chess, described by Tukmakov, presents an iridescent rainbow of characters, remarkable personalities, all the more surprising in a society where everyone is supposed to think alike.

Who knows, maybe when the spotlight of the future will highlight this outlandish regime, unlike any other, historians might find that the fact that chess had reached unprecedented highs and popularity at the time is an interesting phenomenon. Tukmakov’s book will add a few touches to the picture of the way of life and customs of that unique state.

The second part of the book is devoted to chess itself. Analyzing his games with a computer, Tukmakov found a lot of mistakes that he had not even seen when the games were played. As always, he ruthlessly and candidly highlights these mistakes. He never even tries to embellish his own, very imperfect creations.

I cannot agree with him. Would Morphy or Tal’s games look so flawless if they were analyzed by the unforgiving machine? And who can guarantee that the infallible games of the best modern grandmasters will withstand the scrutiny of more powerful processors and more sophisticated software two decades from now?

No, I cannot agree with the author’s pessimistic view of his games. A chess fan will not regret replaying his games; he will find beautiful ideas, surprising maneuvers, will learn to think logically and to carry out a plan consistently, the traits that always characterized the author’s game. A young chessplayer, looking to improve his game, will not find soulless characters indicating a slight advantage for White or a decisive advantage for Black in this book. He will read a short story about the opponent, and sometimes even a character assessment. Following the author, he will understand exactly why White has an advantage, what Black’s counterplay is based on, why the author made this choice and if maybe there was something better. The rich language of the commentary makes the reading not just useful, but also enjoyable.

In the foreword to his reflections about life titled Of Experience, Michel de Montaigne wrote that he described himself from his very own personal point of view, and that his shortcomings would appear in the book the way they were in real life. He states that he does not think about glory and the purpose of the book, and simply wants to please family and friends. Tukmakov also wrote that the author’s goal is not to teach or guide anyone and that his memoirs were inspired by a desire to re-examine his own life, to analyze the nearly-finished game.

The philosopher prefaces his work with the phrase this is an honest book, dear reader, and the chessplayer echoes: I tried to be honest with myself and the readers to the fullest possible extent.

It is absurd, of course, to compare a classic essay written by a French writer more than four centuries ago and a story of a man who chose professional chess and devoted his life to it. Especially since Montaigne did not especially like the game, which he considered pointless and childish. (Or maybe the brilliant Frenchman was able to foresee, during the second half of the 16th century, the beginning of the 21st century?) But throughout this book the grandmaster expresses an idea that the French philosopher, I think, would have liked. Here it is, a definite imperative that has been chosen by the author as his life philosophy, which he unswervingly follows, no matter what he does: it is not so important what you do in life, as long as you do it well. Ideally, better than anyone else. Of course only very few are capable of this, but even if it is to turn out to be an unattainable ideal, it is important to keep going without losing objectivity, to try to remain honest with yourself, and to strive for perfection.

This is what Vladimir Tukmakov would try to do when he played in the strongest chess tournaments. When he coached world champions and contenders. When he led the Ukrainian team to victory in the World Olympiad. When he was writing this book.

Genna Sosonko

Amsterdam

From the Author

This book is about finding your path, finding yourself. It is also about one’s choice of profession. I think this choice, especially for men, is just as important and complicated as choosing a life partner. In both cases the union is often preceded by passion – a beautiful, inspiring beginning. But life, fortunately, is longer and more complex than the wildest passion, and therefore other, more subtle details of the future choice should not be ignored.

Chess in the Soviet Union occupied a unique niche. Seemingly at the forefront of the ideological competition with the West, chess still was under less pressure than other areas of Soviet life. Personal and biographical details played far less important roles than they did in art or science, and the administrative control was not as strict. But mostly my choice was determined by an inextricable link between creative and competitive drive. Work done correcting both chess-related and human problems was invariably reflected in the tournament charts, defining the direction for further improvement.

Of course, it is a different millennium now, a different era. Chess, boosted by general technological progress, has become quite different, having lost along the way most of its romanticism, irrationality and mystery.

The chess profession also has undergone great changes. It is difficult to determine whether the positive or the negative elements have prevailed. But the freedom remains unchanged (relative freedom, of course, like everything else in this world), which distinguishes this profession from the other, often far more profitable occupations.

The author’s goal in writing this book was not to teach or guide anyone. I was inspired by the desire to re-examine my own life, to analyze the nearly-finished game.

This book is intended primarily for chessplayers, who are well aware that no one is immune to mistakes in analysis. Nevertheless, I would be glad if my story would help some of my young readers find their own path with fewer mistakes. An older generation of chess fans may find it interesting to go back to the atmosphere of Soviet chess, where I spent a large part of my chess life.

I tried to be honest with myself and the readers to the fullest possible extent, with the emphasis on defeats rather than on victories. Analyzing one’s failures, both in life and in sports, is much more productive for growth than basking in success.

I followed the same approach in the second, purely chess-related, part of the book. When I was analyzing and annotating the games, I often felt despondency and disappointment, primarily from the imperfection of my own play. Games that I thought were the best sometimes did not withstand the scrutiny of the computer analysis. But the possibility of reinforcing harmony with analysis and achieving even more perfect harmony like in no other area makes chess even more valuable and unique for me.

Fortunately, I kept notes on my time expenditure during many of my games, as well as my comments at the time, which helped avoid the temptation to embellish my own, very imperfect creations. I hope that this information will be of interest to readers as well as the author himself.

To make playing over the games more instructive each diagram is accompanied by a question. Sometimes the answer is obvious, sometimes the author himself does not have the complete answer. As in life, in chess it is much easier to ask questions than to answer them.

It is however important to correctly formulate the question. It is for you, the reader, to judge how well I managed to do that.

Vladimir Tukmakov

Odessa, Ukraine

Vovik, Vova, Volodya

A Peaceful Childhood

It all started a long time ago. We lived on Chelyuskintsev Street, that everyone called by its old name Kuznechnaya. It is renamed now like most streets in Odessa. It got its old name back, although it is unclear how the heroic Arctic explorers could offend the authorities. The old name and the courtyard were miraculously preserved amidst the new buildings, but the people living there are of course different, because of relentless time as well as life circumstances. The collapse of the Soviet empire only accelerated the process of the great migration that had started in Odessa long before perestroika.

But after the war there were all kinds of people in the courtyard, and during the occupation this motley crowd was joined by people that came from who knows where. Some of the old residents upon returning from the evacuation found unexpected guests in their apartments. The negotiations between the old and new owners were not always peaceful.

The family members returned from the war and from Derbent, where Grandmother spent several years after the evacuation with her youngest daughter, and discovered that they had lost one bedroom. Nevertheless, a two-room apartment, although tiny, but not shared with other families, was considered a luxury in those Spartan times.

Young Vovik was the only man in a female world, including Grandmother and her three daughters. Grandfather had been killed in the war, the two younger daughters were not yet married, and the fate of the father, the husband of the oldest daughter, was not clear. His physical absence was obvious, but what caused this absence was unknown.

However at the time the presence of a man, even an invalid, would cause surprise and even envy. The absence of a father was not shocking or embarrassing, especially because in this case, the child was surrounded with love and care of four females.

Childhood was happy and carefree. The huge courtyard, with its endless nooks and hiding places, was ideal for games of Cops and Robbers. In general, life was happening in the courtyard; the only reason to come home was for food and sleep.

Two episodes from my distant post-war childhood are stuck in my memory, because they deeply influenced the rest of my life.

Vovik was four or maybe five. In any case he was very young and trusted adults unconditionally. The neighbor upstairs, Uncle Grisha, was a shoemaker. Vovik was probably sent to pick up some shoes after they were repaired. After Vovik and Grisha chitchatted for a bit, Grisha offered a cigarette, and Vovik gratefully accepted. Was it done for educational purposes? Unlikely. Most likely it was a result of a habitual hangover. The ensuing reaction terrified both of them so much that Grisha immediately sobered up and saved the little boy. And for Vovik his first smoking experience became the last one...

Vovik is probably six or so. Late afternoon. Vovik, holding his mother’s hand, is en route home from kindergarten. His mother is distracted, because she has probably met an acquaintance. Anyway Vovik is left to his own devices for a moment or two.

He draws a huge Nazi swastika on the pavement with a couple of quick strokes. The horror on his mother’s face strikes Vovik and stays with him for the rest of his life. Why? Swastikas were skillfully drawn by all the boys. All fences were decorated with swastikas and five-pointed stars...

Vovik with his mother in Sobornaya Square in Odessa

I never drew swastikas again, and only decades later did I realize what it was about, and belated fear gripped me.

1952 – the Doctors’ Plot – is still ahead, but anti-Semitism in this country, set aside during the war, is gathering momentum. Mother was working as a pediatrician in a children’s clinic and was Jewish...

Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin occupied an important place in Vovik’s life. It is appropriate to mention that young Vovik was not very articulate: he started to talk late and needed a sign language interpreter. But he had a talent that clearly distinguished him from his peers. It was a lucky and necessary talent!

From the very first months of his life Vovik could recognize The Leader of Nations, correctly identifying him in every photograph and every poster. It did not take much talent to recognize him in the portraits, since they were hanging on every corner. But Vovik could also identify him in the group photos when even the adults would have trouble. Somehow he could recognize Stalin even in his early photos, where nothing seemed to point to his future greatness.

Every time Vovik recognized his favorite, he would point at him with his little finger and shout triumphantly, Kaaan! This game entertained him as well as the adults, so he honed his skill even further.

Who knows how far this talent would take him, if an unfortunate event did not happen. That day was also imprinted in his memory for the rest of his life.

March 5, 1953,