José Raúl Capablanca & Alexander Alekhine: The Art of Turning the Board
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The life stories of José Raúl Capablanca and Alexander Alekhine are strikingly similar… or perhaps it is just my own fascination that makes them appear so.
Friends in their youth, fierce rivals in adulthood—and yet, in many ways, profoundly alike.
I have already explored their early years in a previous blog:
The project is a mini-series exploring their biographies in parallel. Another related post in this series, already published, focuses on the life of Felix Sicre:
Once again, the main sources for the biographical material were Paolo Maurensig and Fabio Stassi—among my favorite writers and passionate chess enthusiasts—as well as Adolivio Capece, journalist and chess historian.
Today, however, I step away from biography and move toward legend.
It is fascinating to see how even the popular stories told about them—often imaginative, sometimes improbable—continue to bind them together in our collective memory, even after nearly a century, like twin souls.
This story may sound like an April Fool’s tale.
Perhaps it is. But it is still worth telling.
Enjoy the read.
J. R. Capablanca & A. Alekhine:
The Art of Turning the Board
Twin Souls—Humbling the Powerful
- Preface
- Introduction
- Humbling the Powerful
- Epilogue
- Bibliography
José Raúl Capablanca and Alexander Alekhine both lived through the turbulent years spanning the two World Wars, each earning, in turn, the title of World Chess Champion.
Their fame brought them into contact with the highest spheres of power, including political power.
Their personalities could not have been more different, and this shaped their destinies in very different ways.
Yet on the chessboard, they always maintained dignity and integrity.
In this article, I will recount the legendary “lesson” they are said to have given to the powerful—in different moments, at the height of their careers.
At least… this is how I like to imagine it happened.
Let us begin.
Humbling the Powerful
José Raúl Capablanca married very young, but he allowed himself many “escapades”… perhaps too many.
At the Karlsbad tournament in 1929, he had made a brilliant conquest: a lady of lively intelligence, whose irreverent gaze enhanced both her beauty and her refined elegance.
Capablanca had brought her into the playing hall to watch his game. But shortly after the round began, his wife suddenly appeared—Gloria Simoni Betancourt—with whom he had long been in crisis. She wanted to surprise him, perhaps in a final attempt at reconciliation…
The shock was enough: Capablanca blundered, exposing a bishop and leaving a pinned knight en prise.
He did not resign. He fought, tried everything to recover—but the game was lost, and that defeat cost him the tournament (he finished tied for second).
At the time, José Raúl burned with the desire for revenge against Alexander Alekhine. He wanted, of course, to reclaim the World Championship he had lost just two years earlier—lost, perhaps, through negligence.
He was so confident, so absorbed in life and its distractions, that he did not devote the necessary time to study and training. Unaware that Alekhine’s careful maneuvers would never allow him a rematch, he still believed that the title would return to him.
It was only a matter of time.
Fate, however, had something else in store.
In the end, Capablanca would find peace—and love—with a princess, ironically from the same origins as his nemesis Alekhine: Olga, who would remain by his side for the rest of his life.
A few years earlier, in 1925, still World Champion, Capablanca had taken part in the Moscow tournament—the first major international chess event organized in the Soviet Union.
Alongside him were his predecessor Emanuel Lasker and many of the strongest players of the time, with one notable absence: Alekhine, who had emigrated to France and was not invited by the new Soviet authorities.
The event caused a sensation. Crowds followed the games with stadium-like enthusiasm. Giant demonstration boards were set up so that everyone could watch, and the players were celebrated as heroes—not only the winner, Bogoljubov.
Capablanca was even cast as an actor in the silent film Chess Fever, directed by Vsevolod Pudovkin.
It was during this visit, as the story goes, that Capablanca caught the attention of the highest ranks of the Soviet establishment.
Whether this story truly happened or not is uncertain.
Like many tales surrounding great champions, it lives somewhere between history and legend.
Under the pretext of his diplomatic role, he was invited to the Kremlin, where much of the leadership of the Communist Party asked him to play.
One by one, they resigned—the head of the secret police, the chairman of the Council of People’s Commissars, the Commissar for Heavy Industry, and many others among the Soviet elite.
After less than two hours, no one remained.
Capablanca put on his coat and bowed, ready to leave, when a commanding voice stopped him from the shadows of a column.
“Do you still have some time for me, Monsieur Capablanca?”
He immediately sensed the tone—not a request, but an order.
The man stepped forward, lighting his pipe with satisfaction.
“Please send my regards to your family. But first, you must give me the chance to restore the honor my generals have lost.”
He wore a rigid, collarless white jacket and leather boots.
Capablanca avoided looking at his mustache.
There was a sudden movement of chairs. The board was set again.
Joseph Stalin took his seat.
Capablanca slowly removed his coat once more. The generals watched, tense and uneasy.
Stalin opened with a King’s Gambit.
It was said that Stalin had never lost a game in the Kremlin… perhaps because no one enjoyed the idea of ending up in Siberia.
The game was brief—and tense.
Curiously, Capablanca did not seem intimidated at all. He allowed Stalin very few exchanges.
“You are truly a war machine,” Stalin muttered, irritated, on the penultimate move.
Then—he turned the board.
No one dared to protest. There were no arbiters, of course.
“You see,” Stalin continued, “it often happens that one plays a game on behalf of another. I always choose Black. It is only right that we continue this way.”
Capablanca now had one move.
Just one—to avoid the checkmate he himself had prepared.
Thousands of variations aligned in his mind. One move… only one… to save himself from himself.
He pressed his fingers to his temples and thought for forty minutes…
until a simple pawn revealed a possibility.
A desperate leap of intelligence.
But it might work.
Stalin overlooked the idea and hastened to declare check.
That pawn saved Capablanca—and overturned the balance.
Stalin erred in his reply.
It was exactly what Capablanca had hoped for.
Another pawn advanced one square further… and everything fell into place, like a mirrored composition. Like a score by Mozart.
“It is not possible,” Stalin said.
Now, no matter how many times he turned the board, the game would end in a draw.
In the silence of impunity, Capablanca stood up, took his coat for the last time, and left the hall—carrying with him a quiet, almost childish, and deeply subversive sense of triumph.
Alexander Alekhine was already in his fourth marriage when he entered the patronage circle of Hans Frank, Governor-General of occupied Poland.
The year was 1940. His country residence lay deep within a dense oak forest. Alekhine and his wife were frequent guests there. The governor would greet them at the entrance, dressed in tight black trousers, a wide belt, and a spotless white shirt, always carrying a strong scent of cologne.
Grace, Alekhine’s wife, would often spend time with Frau Brigitte. Sometimes they would sit together, quietly sipping tea. More often, Grace—a talented painter—would portray her on canvas, while Alekhine played game after game against the governor.
At other times, there were lavish dinners and elegant dances.
Alekhine found it strangely relaxing to spend time in that countryside residence.
But could one really dance the polka in the middle of hell?
In a large aviary beside the house, a peacock was kept. In Russia, it was said to bring bad luck. Its harsh cry reminded Alekhine of the ambiguity of his own position—and yet he kept returning, again and again, to the patron’s house. Shielded from the horrors of the outside world precisely because he stood at the eye of the storm.
He gave chess lessons, and of course he always won—though never too convincingly, careful not to humiliate his protector. The governor did not tolerate defeat well, nor criticism. It showed in the way his whole body would stiffen, as dark shadows crossed his gaze.
For this reason, games were often played in consultation. Among the governor’s distinguished guests were Kurt Richter and Friedrich Sämisch.
Three against one—Hans Frank, Richter, and Sämisch—to soften the weight of defeat.
One day, Alekhine once again found himself alone at the board, facing Hans Frank and other Nazi officials, playing in consultation.
Whether this story truly happened or not is uncertain.
Like many tales surrounding great champions, it lives somewhere between history and legend.
The following position was reached:
FEN:
6k1/5pp1/5b2/5N1Q/3r4/1P6/P1Pq4/1K5R b - - 0 1
White: Alexander Alekhine
Black: Hans Frank (in consultation)
Alekhine’s opponent, after a long reflection and now convinced the game was lost, mockingly took the liberty of turning the board:
“Are you resigning? There’s no way to avoid mate on h8. If you play 1… g6, then 2. Qh7+ Kf8 3. Qh8+ Bxh8 4. Rxh8#.”
Alexander Alekhine calmly replied:
“No, I’m happy to continue… with the black pieces.”
Amused, his opponent watched Alekhine study the position.
Alekhine played 1… Rh4, and after 2. Nxh4 Qc3, Frank suddenly found himself in trouble. A flicker of irritation crossed his face.
Once again convinced the game was lost, and without the slightest hesitation, he turned the board again:
“And now? Don’t you resign?” he said, pointing to the line 3. Kc1 Qa1+ 4. Kd2 Qxh1, followed by the capture on h4 and, once more, defeat.
He did not hesitate for a moment. “Why should I?” Alekhine replied. “I’ll gladly continue… and take White again.”
This time Hans Franz was speechless. He could not see any way out of what, just moments before, had been his own position.
Guess how the game continued after the second turn of the board, and try to play like Alekhine.
After 1… Rh4 2. Nxh4 Qc3, Alekhine found the decisive continuation:
3. Qh8+ Kxh8 4. Ng6++ Kg8 5. Rh8#.
And he won… for the third time in the same game.
In the world beyond the board, Alekhine may have bent. But on the board, he never did.
Human weaknesses unite ordinary people and those in power. The latter are often more dangerous, as they can stubbornly impose their will. And yet, sometimes, even they receive a lesson.
Joseph Stalin could turn the board. Hans Frank and other Nazi officials could do it shamelessly more than once. But there is one dictator neither of them could defeat: the position itself.
See you soon,
@DocSimooo
- Stassi, Fabio. La rivincita di Capablanca. minimum fax.
- Maurensig, Paolo. Teoria delle ombre. Adelphi.
- Capece, Adolivio. Scacchi – I grandi maestri, le partite memorabili. Demetra.
- Aradeo Scacchi–Anecdote
- Winter, Edward. Hans Frank and Chess (Chess Notes).
