David Bronstein, One of the Greatest Attackers in Chess History – Part 5
David Bronstein, One of the Greatest Attackers in Chess History – Part 5
Learning the Art of Attack through Bronstein’s Games – Part 5
The Two Most Important Games of Bronstein’s Career
Before embarking on the fifth installment of this series, I provide the links to the first four parts:
One of the most intriguing and fundamental questions this series seeks to address is the following: how did David Bronstein actually play chess? Reflecting on his game against Paul Keres, played in Budapest in 1950, Bronstein offered a revealing insight in his book The Sorcerer’s Apprentice: “There are two ways to play an interesting game. One is to place our pieces around the equator (the demarcation line, an imaginary boundary between the 4th and 5th ranks – note by Z.P.), attempting to outmaneuver the opponent and patiently waiting for him to make a mistake. The other is to launch an attack straight from the opening. In this case, we often have to sacrifice a pawn for some nebulous compensation: for instance, an open file for a rook, a long diagonal for a bishop, or a strong square for a knight.”
At the conclusion of this reflection, Bronstein formulates a general principle of chess conduct: “My main advice to you is this: always play with imagination, do not spare your energy, and strive to create problems for your opponent.”
What deserves special emphasis is that this philosophy corresponds almost perfectly to the way chess is played today. This is, in essence, the credo of modern chess. It is precisely along these lines that games are conducted at the very highest level. In this sense, Bronstein unmistakably anticipated the stylistic evolution of contemporary chess and can therefore be regarded as one of its true forerunners. (In fairness, Alekhine had already embraced a similar approach. One might thus conclude that Bronstein was the great continuator and modernizer of attacking chess after Alekhine.)
Over the course of his career, David Bronstein distinguished himself in virtually every domain of chess artistry. He competed in an extraordinary number of tournaments and matches, gave countless simultaneous exhibitions, authored several influential books, and published innumerable articles on a wide range of chess-related themes. As a player, he was officially ranked second in the world in 1951, although it would be more accurate to say that he effectively shared first and second place with Mikhail Botvinnik, given that their World Championship match ended in a drawn score of 12–12. Under the regulations then in force, however, the title remained with the reigning champion, as the challenger was required to win the match outright in order to claim the crown (a rule that, it should be noted, no longer applies today).
Throughout his career, Bronstein played a vast number of important and memorable games. This naturally raises the question: which of them were the most significant from a strictly competitive point of view? While there are many plausible candidates, I have chosen to focus here on two. It is essential to stress that games of this magnitude are played under immense psychological strain and are extraordinarily difficult to handle. Great players often reveal their true stature precisely in such moments. Should one, in these situations, play exclusively for the result—if that is at all feasible—or should creative ambition still be allowed to guide one’s decisions?
In my view, the two most significant games of Bronstein’s career from a competitive standpoint are Bronstein–Keres, Candidates Tournament, Budapest 1950, and Boleslavsky–Bronstein, Match 1950, Game 14.
In the final round of the 1950 Candidates Tournament in Budapest, Bronstein entered play trailing Isaak Boleslavsky by half a point. This meant that only a victory would suffice if he wished to share first place—a result that would grant him the opportunity to play a match for the right to challenge the World Champion.
After his convincing triumph at the Interzonal Tournament in Saltsjöbaden in 1948 (a tournament in which, according to the opinion of the Soviet Chess Federation, he was not even supposed to participate!), Bronstein advanced to the Candidates Tournament and, as was often the case with him, made a rather unconvincing start. Nevertheless, two rounds before the end, he stood in second place, one full point behind his close friend Isaak Boleslavsky, who at that time was playing the chess of his life. This period truly marked Boleslavsky’s finest hour.
In the penultimate round, Boleslavsky drew his game against Kotov, while Bronstein emerged victorious from a complex and hard-fought battle with Stahlberg. In the final round, Boleslavsky quickly agreed to a 16-move draw with Stahlberg, and the struggle for first place was thus decided in the game Bronstein–Keres. Although Keres had already lost all realistic chances of finishing first, it was, of course, a matter of professional pride for him to play his very best against Bronstein.
Keres chose the Ruy Lopez, an opening that he undoubtedly understood better than anyone else in the world at that time. Shortly before the tournament, he had published an outstanding book on the Open Games (1.e4 e5), in which the Spanish Opening was analyzed with exceptional depth and precision. As contemporary authors aptly remarked, “it required great courage to play the Ruy Lopez against Keres”—and this was precisely the challenge Bronstein accepted. He opted for a then rarely played variation and deliberately sacrificed a pawn. According to Weinstein, his second at the tournament, this line had been prepared in Moscow, and the idea of the sacrifice itself was suggested by Konstantinopolsky.
Let us quote Bronstein himself regarding the second phase of the game:
“Keres defended himself excellently. First, he timely harassed my powerful knight with a pawn and forced its exchange. The attack was halted, but I continued to fight for victory and introduced the f-pawn into the attack.”
Objective analysis shows that this position, too, remains within the bounds of theoretical equality. Nevertheless, the time factor must be taken into account: Keres was already in severe time trouble. Moreover, the position itself was highly complex, and in such circumstances mistakes are not merely possible—they are, in fact, the rule rather than the exception. (It should be emphasized that Bronstein had consciously taken this factor into account during his preparation.) Consequently, the most critical phase of the game unfolded under conditions of acute time pressure for Keres.
Keres continued to find a series of excellent moves (25…Nc4!), but his next decision, 26…Bg7?, proved to be the decisive error. Bronstein, too, was not entirely immune to tension (in situations where one player is in time trouble, both sides feel the pressure) and failed to choose the strongest continuation, 27.Qh4, instead of maintaining the attack by other means. Bronstein himself later considered 29…b3 to be the decisive mistake, believing that Black might have reached equality after 29…Rfb8. This assessment, however, does not stand up to closer scrutiny: analysis shows that even then, White would have retained a substantial advantage, sufficient to secure victory. The conclusion of the game comes swiftly—faced with the threat of an unavoidable mate, Black resigns.
I was unable to locate Bronstein’s own full annotations to this game (in two of his books, he merely alluded briefly to certain phases of the struggle), yet the game was subjected to deep analysis by the great Botvinnik himself. That fact alone eloquently testifies to the exceptional significance of this encounter. Sustained and unrelenting pressure ultimately yielded its reward. I venture to believe that my own annotations correct several earlier analytical inaccuracies that have accompanied this game in the literature.
The subsequent game, Boleslavsky–Bronstein, likewise belongs among the defining masterpieces of Bronstein’s career. With this victory, he finally reached his long-sought objective—securing the right to contest the World Championship match.
This achievement, however, came at a considerable emotional and sporting cost. Bronstein and Boleslavsky were long-standing friends and knew each other’s style and psychological makeup with remarkable intimacy. After the first ten games, the score stood perfectly balanced at 5–5. Two further games failed to break the deadlock, bringing the score to 6–6. Consequently, the match was extended until the first decisive result. The 13th game, in which Bronstein had the White pieces, ended in a draw—and who could reasonably have anticipated that Bronstein, now playing Black, would deliberately steer the game toward a fight for victory? Yet this is precisely what he did.
In his favorite variation of the French Defence, Bronstein boldly captured the pawn on d4, a decision that at the time was widely regarded as strategically hazardous and even dubious.
The capture on d4 was not, strictly speaking, a novelty—Chigorin had already employed this idea as far back as 1901—but it was nonetheless a psychological surprise for Boleslavsky. True to his established style, he continued to play aggressively, pressing forward without hesitation, when suddenly a complete novelty appeared on the board: the startling and conceptually original move 8…Bf8!?.
The retreat of the bishop, taken in isolation, does not appear especially menacing, yet it radically alters the character of the position. It demands a fundamentally different approach from those previously known and forces Boleslavsky to seek out non-obvious, highly precise continuations. He was visibly unsettled by this unexpected turn of events. Choosing a natural but imprecise move, he soon found himself confronted, after 10…Qxf2, with a series of non-standard and highly uncomfortable problems, all of which had to be solved accurately merely to preserve equality. Instead, Boleslavsky committed a grave error with 11.Nb5?, and almost immediately slipped into a strategically and tactically hopeless position. After only 29 moves, he resigned—although resignation could justifiably have come even earlier.
As these examples vividly demonstrate, games of this nature demand exceptional psychological resilience and nerves of steel. At the zenith of his career, Bronstein handled decisive encounters with extraordinary confidence and clarity of purpose. It is worth recalling that his great predecessor Alekhine was likewise famed for his masterful play in critical, do-or-die games. Tragically, however, in the 23rd game of his 1951 World Championship match against Botvinnik, Bronstein committed a fatal error in an approximately equal position. The ensuing defeat cost him the match and deprived him of the World Championship title—a crown that, by virtue of the power, originality, and creative depth of his play, he unquestionably deserved.
To be continued…
