Philip Loyd

Elephants Never Forget

I sneaked another peak at her across the bar, trying my best to not look like I was looking, but it was too late, she had seen me already.  Why was I trying to avoid being seen?  Because I was shy?  Not hardly.  I was lonely, and I didn’t want to look like it.

More than that, I was horny, REALLY horny.  The only problem was, she was fat: hippopotamus fat.  It was nothing a few more beers couldn’t take care of, however, and anyway, there’s no shame in being lonely.

She looked familiar.  Maybe I had seen her before.  She just had that look about her, like I knew her from somewhere.  I looked in the other direction, but it was too late; she was already on her way over.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but you look so familiar.  Do I know you?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, still trying to pretend like I hadn’t been looking.  Loneliness is a hideous bitch.

“I’m sure I do,” she said.  “Do you come here often?”

If a man had said that, it would have been a line.

“Not really,” I said, “at least, not anymore.  It’s been fifteen years since I moved out west.”

“It’s just that, you look so familiar,” she said.

“It happens.”

“Where do you live out west?”


“Aspen?” she said. “Cool.  I’ve always wanted to go to California.”

So she was dumb.  So what?

“Are you from here originally?” she said.

“Yes, just down the road.”

“Did you go to Briardale Elementary?”


“Small world. Me, too.”

“Small world,” I said.  “Would you like another beer?”

Stupid question.  Turns out, the fat cow could drink me under the table.

She said her name was Kelli.  Kelli, with an i.  Kelli with an i ?  That did sound familiar.

“My name is Jeffery,” I told her.  “Jeffrey Joe Paul.”

“Jeffrey Joe Paul?” she said.  “Of course.  I knew I knew you.  Kelli Kirkpatrick.  We went to McKinley High together.”

“We did?”

“Yes, silly.  Mrs. McGonaguill, homeroom.  Don’t you remember?”

“Kelli Kirkpatrick?”

“In the flesh.”

As we continued talking, drinking more and more beer, it all started coming back to me, where I remembered her from, and it surely wasn’t Mrs. McGonaguill’s homeroom.  It was here, right here at this very same bar.  My only hope was that she had forgotten all about it.  The problem was, elephants never forget.

“You don’t remember meeting here?” she said.


“Not as such,” I said.  I was lying.

“Granted, it was a long time ago,” she said, “but I remember it just like it was yesterday.”

Of course you do.

“It was the night of the big fight, remember?” she said.  “You and I ducked out just in the nick of time.  Then we went down to Lazy Dave’s, then back to your place.  Still don’t remember?”

I told her sorry, but I did not.

“We made love until the sun came up,” she said.  “Of course, I’ve lost a lot of weight since then.  Maybe that’s why you don’t recognize me?’


Lost a lot of weight?  Sweet Jesus.

“You told me you would call,” she said, “but you never did.”

That’s because it was a line, you stupid cow.

“I tried calling you for weeks.  I called your house, I called your work, I called your mother, I came by your apartment, I left notes on your door, I sat on your porch all night waiting for you.”

Of course I remembered.  It’s the whole reason I moved to Aspen in the first place.

“So what happened?” she said.  “Why didn’t you call?  You said you would call.  I was waiting for you to call.”

You’d think at this point a guy like me would have enough sense to get the hell out of there.  You’d think that, but you’d be wrong.  Remember what I said about loneliness?  It’s a hideous bitch, and it’s no goddess.

I decided to deal with it the same way I deal with most of my problems: by drinking more beer. By morning I realized, I was going to have to move again.  I hear Atlanta is real nice this time of year.


Philip Loyd loves fat chicks and cheap beer, though not necessarily in that order. His first novel, You Lucky Bastard, is represented by New York Literary Agent Jan Kardys. Loyd lives in Dumbass, Texas.

Jesse Bant

The Music Man in the Sky

There was a flautist jamming in the stars, and I used to sit watching, seated on air. He made me cry one day but I wasn’t really that sad. His tunes were just too good, they had me skating around upside down all over the icy place. Didn’t know which way was up, so it rained.

Well it was just too bad.

One day I was doing my thing in the rainy cold sky when I cast my binoculars to the shoulder of Orion. There were attack ships on fire, but where was the Music Man? I couldn’t hear anything, there was only silence and then you’re sobbing.

Who are you and what have you done with Jammin’ Sam? Why am I now crying too? That skull in your uplifted palm, who does that belong to? Ah, I have detached my self from myself again, it is only my humbly decaying corpse who intrudes upon my pleasure.

So is this the skull of that musician? Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio.

No, it cannot be, for…

It be. How sad.

The stars are out in force tonight, they form a – a skull. So that is where you got to, you flutey fellow of infinite zest. Your body has been broken down into carbon, which has been then gravitationally sucked into a super-hot funky party. It seems that they have now exploded into a strangely sinister silhouette. That’s how you would have wanted it, Jammin’ Sam.

I best be off now. Intransient water-based beings like my good self haven’t any time for such trivial blowings-on of some jazzy musician.

I am crying.

Where did the music go? Your songs?

But up there, kicking it with the stars, I would listen all night. Now your skull smiles down on this ethereal dude. I don’t mean to be rude.

In my mind’s eye I still hear the tunes. Rhythm and blues. So take off your shoes and salute to the flautist who jammed, the soundtrack to the universe.

To that superheated constellation (who used to be Sam), which now grins fatally at those mere mortals who dare to jam.

To the mortals who dare to jam, salute.

To the end of time, play on, play it again, and don’t stop playing.

You may fall quiet (as Sam did), but others will play on.

For the past I weep, for the future I laugh. Aint it always the way. Till another day. To the flautists I say do continue to play. It is the price you will continue to pay, immortality for eternal musical appreciation, because I will remember.

I still remember the music man in the sky.

Chris Mann

For a sheet of paper marked with a $ and a ?
some five or six inches apart




Hold paper with right hand. Close left eye. Fixate $. Move paper slowly back and forth along line of vision and watch ? disappear at about twelve inches.
Self – an addenda without hope, a fashioned afterthought that models others (it predicts), subscribes: where metaphor is the hero and possible the wife,/ taking questions literally performs an ‚I‘ with loaded dice./ The paper clip – a mobius strip in one dimension – makes a Latin of machine translation and coz the face acts as a tourniquet for blood flow to the brain (try a smile in triplicate)/ we make pets of -ing and -ly, sweet nothings to the ear of ‚rithmatic./ Dimpled query – sitting on any point that could be made – fair dinkum figurative, parts positions down a mid/ (near misses, bait is what translates) of wimps, and like any prop requires objects other than itself to did./ (Fiddly stuff, taking piss out of a this.) Almost – a fib – kids itself (‚cept when it’s big) by restructuring the lexicon, a causal reference (it describes). It means both. (It’s a bit like soap.) Cyberspace uses facts as rent, it listens in on hymns, and mopes around the narrative of dope by chatting up a line at home. A loan. (Or fine.) Gives me the shits. And inside out and upside down a crab of pockets turns words to trojan horse a want with regulars, a learnt chess-without-a-queen or what-can-you-say? S’pose Jonah extends the form by whispering (a drop-the-hanky sort of before) ‚induction fucks a lot‘ and threatens an internal realism by coming on to one as one, what then? Does it verify? Or mean to refer to dubs as of-a-kind? You, expert, and don’t tell me it’s a different sort of question; been there, ‚it agrees coz it’s something else‘ sucks. If a paradox does in fact despair, it only explains fiction as some uncertain need, it don’t attitude. (Anyway, maybe it’s a medium – ‚certain‘ is a word that only happens in limericks). That it reinterprets, a la prejudice, abstract logics in a nest (in a nest of dependencies) is suitably cute. Intention makes for changes in negation (it quantifies (buys) things) by marking as incomplete those distinctions we’ve called possible, inertia come home to roost (; it would seem to be just a matter of decision which parts should correspond). Satisfied, perspective dressed to kill: actual thinks somersaults are neat – ‚I give up‘ deduces Wall Street to be a street. (Promise reflects a lack of surprise and performs a premise on itself (show off), a persuade of conclusions that even I can understand: in that consistency is closer to tragedy than logic, it too starts out right (subject). One is rather obviously a conceit, or modest state.) And if we tell what meanings do, we can tell on what they are, we can do functions (parts and combinations) as a tense of pronouns (that contexts stammer is self-evident), as a mass, a fallible nip. (Intension is the truth – it goes into a sentence twice/ (a cough of quanta goes off if’n you keep it in the shade) and all sentences are sets of possible worlds where the context set is empty, and empty coz it’s nice./ It groups. In adverbs. And adverbs come to lunch. Please is a property of prob. Expressly represents. And shoves empirical up the front. A situation-sized dob. Proof.) Pandora had an ego, Pandora had a dog. Psychology, or what you think it means, irons shirts. It is generally about. (An equivalence.) And if the dog knows that I too know where the bone is, is it a metaphor? Or just a summary? The present king of France thinks so. A fictive false (used as a setting) concept went to see and what he saw made sense: copy of particulars, ten bucks. ‚I’m sure‘ was trying to be efficient (so he explained) and got in a domestic (use) that does hi-camp. (Suits me.) Strengthening the antecedent is a favourite pastime (‚entities‘ to those who know):/ the semantics of pragmatics that jam gravity into a brick of course just ain’t on, they’re like classes – all shy signs and volunteers – none of them can throw./ A property is only a set for fairies. One unnoticed parameter was shot. It implied to death. If you call that tactics, you’ll dance with anything. If subject matter ain’t modal, is it occupied? Particles don’t add up ‚less they’re stood on: a proposition approaches function if the john has half a clue/ – aboutness ain’t on every street corner, but not coz it ain’t ‚identical‘. So what do you do?/ Describe? Remember? After all, representation requires states, subtlety is printed on every dollar bill – that addition is associative, costs, pimp. It is conditional. I mean, ‚it‘ is hardly underground. (The metaphysics of ‚watch it‘ need not apply (the motive of the inevitable was framed).)/ And the only place to go for blame/ is up. Time’s up, too. And if pretence weren’t so moody, roles could account appeals dispensable, as ex, a bias that knows what you mean. Ah, art: say ‚are‘. Next. Ideal data wipes the floor, ideal data types./ (What, words skite?/ Too fuckin right./ (Two can play at avarice, only one can win.) Whim. ‚I think‘ – as a definition of truth – is plus or minus ten percent (that is the observable universe), it is an essentially pathetic anything.) One to one (with witnesses) plays asides in positives (ghost prosodic systems) and uses disease as a way of tuning space (it localises as narrative, an ontology that eats shadows (I mean you may as well call it science)). It also hides. We please knees? Guess so.
Aboutness – the burden of similarity – intends. It depends, as do conditions, ideally, on observed adequates (a mapping of rhetorical pauses that take meaning to be a sentence (not here a description) of couldabeens) or plotted needs. It dresses non-equivalence, ignores a certain vague sincere evidence of prose and induces ‚for example‘ to be noun enough. (Speech, of course, also uses clues of consistency, a ‚the least meaning is the best meaning‘ principle of charity: thanks but no thanks.) To assume that it’s true and that it’s true of, in other words that it rhymes, is a symptom (trying to motivate meaning) of projected summary. Old-information-first held up it’s end of the conversation by saying nothing. It nominalised the postponed agent (a parasite) as actual (and therefore possible) or at least ersatz. (Possibilia deals, synodomistically, with completedness and only seems to cheat) Quasi much. Amounts. Now that’s a pathological predicate (you can tell, it confuses coherence and consistency). Or syllogism (; to the known, psychology means a theory of acquisition). See?


Malevolent Fictions


Falling Man

S found the grey truss, the story began. Neither of us knew about trusses. Anger is an energy, he said beating to the electronic band (with the flat sound). We decided on two definitions: the device worn to support a hernia, and, to tie or bind securely. After years of minor decisions, stilted talk, and intermittent carnality he tied himself with rope and jumped from a tall building. He told the woman in the lift that he’d decided to drown. But he jumped onto the concrete parking lot and broke everything and died ninety seconds later. The woman said she’d always remember him jerking. Held tied the rope tight around his chest and thighs. We were on the edge, that was the point of our involvement, he was intent on proving mortality. Anyway. the truss was just one of those tiny instances which inevitably lead to a larger act, and so he jumped trussed. I loved him. But you can’t argue with obsession. He even had caring friends. He always acted stories.

It’s for me to tell something about him, even though I’m unconvinced. For instance, he was selfish. That’s all. I’m left with a German text, it was sealed in a large brown envelope. His hair was short, his eyes green. I met someone once who he said was his friend, and she said, I go home when he arrives, I just have to go, can’t listen to him at all. I was at a party with her a year ago and she saw him walk in and left. I knew his capacity for words. He bought me nothing, not a single gift. If he hadn’t died I’d have stayed with him forever. He never told other women, even though his greed was obvious. He was often boring. But this german text turned up. I burnt his notebooks, I don’t need those memories. He ignored one potency: I can not be depleted, there is the joy of departure. He took twelve months to calm, to walk with ease, to talk slowly, to believe I loved him. He wasn’t a fine man, I was bad, he was bad, together we came to arrangements.

There was the question of a child once, but we decided no. He stuck the white cutlery rack on a wall in the passage next to the truss and the ivory shoe horn. It was square and new. We used a yellow one. He was a restless man, called me a burden. Whole days became halls where he delivered liturgies about the tyranny of things. The white cutlery rack was one. He brought it back from a party, carried it from room to room. Hammered nails in various spots until satisfied. He said his friend from the bookshop gave it to him. He lied, he’d stolen it from a kitchen. He didn’t ask me to the party. Then he died. A speck spiralling down. Floating perhaps, He was sober, said the lift woman. She was upset, said the detectives. They came to the house in twos. I didn’t have an answer. I tried to tell them about the liturgies but they couldn’t see the link. It was the same at a second hand shop where we looked through a suitcase of pink corsets. We knew their connection to the white cutlery rack. I’m pleased I held back about that suitcase.

We often walked, no money for a car. He wanted to look at the groins of statues. Again there wasn’t a no in me. He was the one with the no’s and the one waiting for them. He was caught in his own one thousand no’s. There was a fine woman’s groin in a garden in the city and a fine man’s groin beside a river near the sea. I think he got what he wanted, Let’s hope so. Trussing oneself to the inner beat of a flat sound must mean something. He did not like his body. I did. When I saw him laid out in the morgue he was beautiful, clear glowing skin. For a man too deep for his own vision, he looked outwardly healthy. I’ve never been sick, he said. I was always going into or coming out of tiredness. Don’t forsake me. he managed to say between abusive mouthfuls. There were times when he had the body of a woman. I’d catch him curled asleep naked, his balls squeezed between his thighs, and the curve of his body from waist to knee was female, his hand resting at the back of his knee.

I couldn’t stand being ordered from various rooms of our house. But for a reason obscure, travelling fast from his past, he couldn’t trust me with his friends. By the time I’d been notified he was long cold. Whenever he was bored he accused me of boring him, he bored himself to death. He said to me, he couldn’t bear it if a man made a play for me when we were out, and I’d be charmed. Yet he put great store in being charming. It’s a curious attitude. Was. Diaphanous was his favourite word. He had the youngest hands in the world. In every woman’s life there is an essential desire. I’m wide awake, have been for weeks, remembering his arms wrapping me, seeing his weary eyes, and hearing his horrid cries for clemency. He was sometimes good company. He was ready for touch, and corrected the array of things, potato-masher, frypan, tea-strainer, vase. He was a man damaged by beauty, endlessly soiling his symmetry. I’d never heard of new-order.

We’d been to Kevin’s the day before he went up in the lift. There was an eye chart on the wall and a pile of women’s black shoes on the floor below. Kevin’s the type who drinks all night. So was S. Apparently he’d found an empty room with a view, bound himself, shuffled onto the balcony and rolled over the rail. I sat quietly all through the evening. They talked about food. I had my own thoughts. And I made up sentences from the chart; if I stared long enough I could hold words together and see written on Kevin’s wall between the chart and the shoes: look behind, round where the women gather. Even the German text materialised. If people took with them when they died their images from back of my eves I’d be grateful, and even more so if they’d reclaim the feel of themselves from my throat and arms and belly. He is dead, he filled me, still does. I wish no-one had told me about his jerking. People are rarely silent when morbid. The ears are alert in grief.

He hung the fillets to defrost on the clothes line and so another idea hit. This time he traded a box of paperbacks for a sack of small mullet and invited twenty of his friends for dinner, and directed each of them to cook their fish a different way, no-one lost. People often came to our house, I’d close myself away and let them drink. There was a fear about him. He was an unkind drunk to me. To others he was charming, but to me he exercised the exhaustion charm induced. He’d say, don’t get defiant with me. Then he’d say, put up with these travesties. Apparently he’d been with his good friend before catching the lift; he didn’t smell death. When S was nine he beat up four teenagers. blinding one. He said he’d kill anyone who tried to harm me. His friend was in love with me: he had the brownest eyes I’ve ever seen. I was tempted. They can say S was a bad man if they like, he was a good man. I wish we’d had the child.

He was the best kisser ever. I go over conversations. Our time well it wasn’t based on anything love perhaps. But that seems too abstract or cosmic (his word, not mine) or nondescript or even easy. I suspect love was the core, but don’t quote me. Why am I calm about this. We would kiss for hours, it was necessary. He collected cacti, but only for a short time, like the fish. Things came and went without trace. Possibly the lift and truss came fast. The lift woman said he told her a story about an old blues singer who died at ninety two and had seventeen children and had married fourteen times, the last at eighty seven to a fifty year old virgin. She said he went on and on and ended up giving her a list of his famous songs. He said to her twelve times, she counted, that the best song in the world was Further On Down The Road. He always said that though, everytime he was drunk, whatever song he heard was the best song in the world.

He had a black shirt, I didn’t. All my clothes were black except for shirts. Once he asked me to dress totally in black with his shirt. I couldn’t think of a reason to say no. All his requests were unreasonable on one level or another. He stood beside the bed, I undressed by the wardrobe, He promised to buy me beautiful underwear, for himself. I didn’t object. I love black silk. I am not yet passed this desire, and of course soon I’ll indulge, as soon as his life has edged away from me, been teased out to the borders. This shirt was very old, ragged, but he took on the look of strength. I have a scarf like that, he was scathing, but whenever I wrapped it around my neck I was safe. The nearest I got to its meaning was when he held my throat during lovemaking. I never found that threatening even though we both knew my vulnerability at each of those extreme seconds, I’ve felt two other surfaces of similar softness: his eyelids, and the head of his penis. He never realised when I put silk around my neck that I was caressed by his eyes and penis simultaneously, and reminded of my own trust.

This is what his good friend told me the German text said: A baker and his wife from a German village had a seventeen year old daughter who disappeared one day and the police investigated and found traces of bone in the oven, and some bloodstained clothes in the cellar. The couple were arrested and said no no the bones were from a pig that she helped slaughter, they were pig bones and it was pig blood (schweineblutt) on the clothes they were going to throw away, But they were charged with murder, they confessed, yes it was her blood and they had burnt the body. They were sentenced to death, later commuted to life in prison, Then, some time later, the daughter turned up with a baby. She’d had a liaison with a soldier and run away with him, he’d left her, and she’d come back, The parents were set free. They had killed a pig.


Jas H Duke

Alekhine and Junge at Prague

In the year 1942

there was a chess tournament in Prague
nominally to honour the veteran Czech master Oldrich Duras (born 1882)
in 1942 Prague was in the Protectorate Bohemia-Moravia
ruled by Reich-Protector Reinhard Heydrich
second in command of the SS
Hitler wished to spread the message
that „normal conditions“ prevailed throughout his Empire
so sporting events were encouraged
provided the right people competed
and the right people won

It was an all-play-all event with 12 players
there were the Czechs Foltys, Opocensky, Zita, Kottenauer, Rejfir, and Hromadka
there were two Germans, the veteran Sämisch and the youngster Junge
and the World Champion, Alexander Alekhine
a Russian emigre who had settled in France
where he deserted his Russian wife and married a wealthy American
a chess player of tremendous ability
famed for the depth of his thought and his commitment to the game
Alekhine the player evoked universal admiration
but Alekhine the man often aroused hostility

The outbreak of war found Alekhine in Argentina
competing in the Chess Olympiad
this was a team event
Germany narrowly won from Poland
as Poland was eliminated from the map
the German and Polish masters stayed in South America
Alekhine did not
he returned to France and joined the French Army
on the French capitulation he was demobilised
he went to Portugal for a time
then returned to France
he mingled with the Nazi conquerors
played in their tournaments
wrote articles for their newspapers
where he stated that only „Aryans“
could „play chess artistically“
(to prove this point
the SS murdered the Jewish masters
Landau of Holland, Wolf of Austria, and Przepiorka of Poland)
Alekhine was brusque and rude and often drunk
but he was still Champion of the World.

Klaus Junge was the Champion of Germany
he was 19 years old
the greatest German player since Lasker and Tarrasch
born in Chile of German parents
blond, blue-eyed, handsome and sensitive
liked by all who knew him
for years German chess had floundered
despite lavish state assistance
the victorious team in Argentina had included two Austrians
(Eliskases and Becker)
made German by the march of conquest
but now Germany had a genuine grandmaster
and he was not a Jew

Junge started brilliantly
he won game after game
Alekhine had no losses
but he drew with Foltys, Zita and Rejfir
Junge surged ahead
there were murmurings among the Czech spectators
they did not see Alekhine as a drunken lout
in favour with Hitler
but instead
„a Slav like us“
during the tournament
the Russians began the offensive
designed to cut off the German Army besieging Stalingrad
rumours of this had reached Prague
Slavs advanced and Germans retreated
and the Czech Resistance
killed Reinhard Heydrich in a bombing attack
which in turn led to the murder of about 10,000 Czechs
all „Slavs like us“
Junge drew some games
Alekhine could still catch up

The last round was reached
neither Junge nor Alekhine had lost
but Junge had less draws and more wins
he led by a whole point
they still had to play each other
if Alekhine won they would be level

Alekhine had White
he played the Catalan System
a tense position was reached
Junge had a slight advantage
Alekhine dipped into his bottomless bag of tricks
found something
sacrificed the exchange (Rook for Bishop)
great complications ensued
Junge lost his way
made a less than the best move
and Alekhine overwhelmed him

So they finished level
but Alekhine had won their individual game
so the spectators
and the world
regarded it as another Alekhine triumph
he won thought the Czechs
he won
and he is a Slav like us

The German fronts gave way at Stalingrad and Tunis
there were mass surrenders
Hamburg collapsed under a hail of bombs
the U-Boats in the Atlantic were mastered
there was less interest in Hitler-sponsored chess tournaments
Hitler was going to lose the war

Junge was inducted into the German Army
there were no soft options for him
he was killed in battle in April 1945
still fighting for Hitler
Alekhine went to Spain in 1943
he remained on the Iberian peninsula for 3 years
living in cheap hotels, giving chess lessons, playing exhibition matches
there was intense feeling in France about „collaborators“
he thought it dangerous to return

But he was still World Champion
the USSR sent in a formal challenge for its leading player
Mikhail Botvinnik
the match was to be played in London
Alekhine accepted
he needed money to stay alive
but before the match could start
he died

Eventually a Championship Tournament was arranged
and this was won by Botvinnik
in the years after Alekhine’s death
master chess was dominated
by citizens of the USSR

In the circumstances at Prague
Alekhine and Junge could no longer be individuals and chess players
(the pleasant boy and the wily veteran)
the insanity of the Hitler regime
turned them both into soldiers
the Czech spectators thought the right man won
do you think that they were right?

Alekhine-Junge Prague 1942

 1  P-Q4,  P-Q4
2  P-QB4, P-K3
3  N-KB3, N-KB3
4  P-KN3, PxP
5  Q-R4+, QN-Q2
6  B-N2,  P-QR3
7  QxBP,  P-QN4
8  Q-B6,  R-QN1
9  O-O,   B-N2
10  Q-B2,  P-B4
11  P-QR4, BxN
12  BxB,   PxQP
13  PxP,   PxP
14  R-Q1,  Q-N3
15  N-Q2,  P-K4
16  N-N3,  N-B4
17  NxN,   BxN
18  R-R6,  QxR
19  QxB,   Q-K3
20  B-B6+, N-Q2
21  BxN+,  KxB
22  Q-R7+, K-B3 (would K-Q3 draw?)
23  B-Q2,  KR-QB1
24  P-K4,  Q-N6
25  R-R1,  P-N5
26  R-R6+, K-N4
27  R-R5+, K-B3
28  Q-B5+-, K-Q2
29  R-R7+, RESIGNS

Divider Line


Im Jahre 1942
fand in Prag ein Schachtournier statt
namentlich um den altgedienten tschechischen Meister Oldrich Duras zu ehren (1882 geboren)
1942 lag Prag im Protektorat Böhmen-Mähren
beherrscht vom Reich-Protektor Reinhard Heydrich
zweiter Befehlshaber der SS
Hitler wünschte die Nachricht verbreitet
es herrschte „Normalzustand“ in seinem ganzen Reich
deshalb wurden Sportveranstaltungen gefördert
vorausgesetzt die richtigen Leute nahmen daran teil
und die richtigen Leute gewannen

Es war eine jeder-gegen-jeden Veranstaltung
da gab es die Tschechen Foltys, Opocensky, Zita, Kottenauer, Rejfir, und Hromadka
da gab es zwei Deutsche, den erfahrenen Sämisch und den Burschen Junge
und den Weltmeister, Alexander Alekhine
ein russischer Auswanderer welcher sich in Frankreich niedergelassen hatte
wo er seine russische Frau im Stich ließ und eine wohlhabende Amerikanerin heiratete
ein Schachspieler von ungeheurer Fähigkeit
berühmt für die Unergründlichkeit seiner Gedanken und für seine Hingabe zum Spiel
Alekhine der Spieler erweckte allgemeine Bewunderung
doch Alekhine der Mann erregte oft Feindseligkeit

An der Schach-Olympiade in Argentinien teilnehmend
wurde Alekhine vom Kriegsausbruch angetroffen
diese war eine Team-Veranstaltung
Deutschland gewann knapp vor Polen
da Polen von der Landkarte eliminiert worden war
blieben die deutschen und polnischen Meister in Südamerika
Alekhine blieb nicht
er kehrte nach Frankreich zurück und ging zum französischen Heer
auf Grund der französischen Kapitulation wurde er entlassen
für einige Zeit ging er nach Portugal
dann nach Frankreich zurückgekehrt
verband er sich mit den Nazi-Eroberern
spielte in ihren Tournieren
schrieb Artikel für ihre Zeitungen
in denen er feststellte nur Arier wären „kunstvolle“ Schachspieler
(um diese Einstellung zu rechtfertigen ermordete die SS die jüdischen Meister
Landau von Holland, Wolf von Österreich, und Przepiorka von Polen)
Alekhine war schroff und unverschämt und oft betrunken
doch noch immer war er Weltmeister

Klaus Junge war Deutscher Meister
er war 19 Jahre alt
der größte deutsche Spieler seit Lasker und Tarrasch
von deutscher Abstammung in Chile geboren
blond, blauäugig, gutaussehend und sensibel
beliebt bei allen die ihn kannten
trotz großzügiger staatlicher Unterstützung
mühte sich das deutsche Schachspiel seit Jahren
dem siegreichen Team in Argentinien hatten zwei Österreicher angehört
(Eliskases und Becker)
durch den Eroberungsmarsch zu Deutschen gemacht
doch nun hatte Deutschland einen wahren Großmeister
und er war kein Jude

Junge begann ausgezeichnet
er gewann Spiel um Spiel
Alekhine hatte zwar nicht verloren
doch er endete unentschieden mit Foltys, Zita und Rejfir
Junge stürmte voran
es gab Gemurmel unter den tschechischen Zuschauern
sie betrachteten Alekhine nicht als betrunkenen Lümmel,
Hitler’s Günstling
doch statt dessen als
„ein Slawe wie wir“
während des Turnieres
begannen die Russen den Angriff
mit der Absicht die deutsche Armee an der Belagerung Stalingrads zu hindern
Gerüchte davon erreichten Prag
die Slawen rückten vor und die Deutschen zogen zurück
und die tschechische Widerstandsbewegung
tötete Reinhard Heydrich in einem Bombenattentat
welches wiederum zum Mord von ungefähr 10.000 Tschechen führte
alle „Slawen wie wir“
Junge glich einige Spiele aus
Alekhine konnte immer noch aufholen

Die letzte Runde war erreicht
weder Junge noch Alekhine hatten verloren
doch Junge hatte weniger Ausgleiche und mehr Siege
er führte mit einem vollen Punkt
sie mußten noch gegeneinander spielen
gewann Alekhine wären sie ausgeglichen

Alekhine hatte Weiß
er spielte das Katalanische System
es war eine angespannte Lage
Junge hatte einen geringen Vorteil
Alekhine stöberte in seinem unerschöpflichen Vorrat an Tricks
fand etwas
verzichtete auf den Austausch (Bauer gegen Läufer)
darauf folgten große Komplikationen
Junge verlor seinen Faden
machte nicht den besten Zug
und wurde von Alekhine überwältigt

Damit endeten sie unentschieden
doch Alekhine hatte ihr individuelles Spiel gewonnen
somit betrachteten die Zuschauer
und die Welt
dies als einen weiteren Sieg Alekhines
er gewann dachten die Tschechen
er gewann
und er ist ein Slawe wie wir

Die deutschen Fronten wichen vor Stalingrad und Tunis
es gab Massenkapitulationen
Hamburg brach unter Bombenhagel nieder
die U-Boote im Atlantik hatte man im Griff
es gab wenig Interesse an den von Hitler geförderten Schachtournieren
Hitler werde den Krieg verlieren

Junge war in die deutsche Armee einberufen worden
es wurde ihm nichts geschenkt
immer noch für Hitler kämpfend
fiel er im April 1945
1943 ging Alekhine nach Spanien
3 Jahre verweilte er auf der Iberischen Halbinsel
lebte in billigen Hotels, gab Schachunterricht, spielte Schautourniere
in Frankreich waren die Gefühle gegen Kollaborateure heftig
er dachte die Rückkehr wäre zu gefährlich

Doch noch immer war er Weltmeister
die UdSSR sandten eine offizielle Herausforderung von ihrem führenden Spieler
Mikhail Botvinnik
das Match würde in London stattfinden
Alekhine nahm an
er benötigte Geld um zu überleben
doch bevor das Match beginnen konnte
starb er

Schließlich wurde ein Meisterschaft-Tournier organisiert
welches Botvinnik gewann
in den Jahren nach Alekhines Tod
wurde Meisterschach von den Staatsbürgern der UdSSR dominiert

Durch die herrschenden Umstände
hatten Alekhine und Junge in Prag
aufgehört Einzelpersonen und Schachspieler zu sein
(der freundliche Bursch und der listige Veteran)
der Wahnsinn der Hitlerherrschaft
machte sie beide zu Soldaten
die tschechischen Zuschauer dachten der richtige Mann gewann
glaubst Du sie hatten recht?

Translation into the German language by Gabi Malotras