In 1940, Europe was being ravaged by the Second World War, with the nightmare of Nazism advancing. Zweig and other writers of the time went into exile in Central and, primarily, South America.
However, what this particular man was experiencing became unbearable for him, until, tragically, he decided to end his life, together with his wife, in Brazil, where they had sought refuge, in February 1942.
His final work, a masterpiece, to be precise, was Chess Novella. In it, we find ourselves aboard a ship sailing from New York to Buenos Aires. There, the passengers discover that the world chess champion is among them, although he appears to be rather distant and solitary: Mirko Czentovic.
As they gradually lose every chess game they play against the champion, one passenger, Dr. B., finds the courage to interrupt them and offer them advice for their next game. And somehow, their luck begins to change.
The magic lies in this man, and in the moment when he begins to describe how he acquired this skill at chess and at what cost.
Through his account, I literally lived in 1940s Vienna, read one of the most comprehensive indictments of Nazism, and, naturally, developed a profound respect for this ingenious game.
After reading the book, I tried to learn how to play and I am still trying to this day.
Moreover, if you surrender yourself to the author’s words, you begin to experience a battle with time, as well as with yourself. And I come to the following conclusion:
Material possessions, travels, and so on are all wonderful. But when a person communicates in this way, when they make you think, it is the greatest gift they could possibly give you.
“People and events don’t disappoint us, our models of reality do. It is my model of reality that determines my happiness or disappointments.”
Stefan Zweig, Chess Novella
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