In March, Cerydra crossed the Atlantic from Southampton aboard the “Rex.” New York appeared suddenly from the sea level; as that city, woven with gray and silver, rose from the morning mist, Cerydra stood on the deck, her cane held in her hand.
In the spring of 1932, the Manhattan skyline was growing wildly upward—the spire of the Chrysler Building had just been completed two months ago, the Empire State Building had been finished last year, and the shadow of Wall Street was cast upon the dark brown Hudson River.
This city did not believe it would fall, even though it had already fallen.
But the scene at the pier betrayed the truth.
Large numbers of unemployed workers stood on the open ground by the Hudson River, holding handwritten cardboard signs—bearing the same words as those on the cardboard signs in the Rome Testaccio District, just in a different language.
“We need work.” “The children need bread.” “Three years ago I had a job; now I have three children.” A cold wind blew in from the river, and the cardboard signs shivered in the wind.
A man wearing an old suit stood behind the pier railing, watching the princess’s motorcade pass by, while a ragged boy beside him stood on tiptoe to look.
Cerydra’s gaze met the man’s gaze for three seconds.
The man did not lower his head.
Cerydra did not look away either.
The Great Depression had entered its fourth year.
The unemployment rate in the United States was approaching twenty-five percent, the wave of bank failures was still spreading, and President Hoover was widely considered incapable of dealing with the crisis.
With eight months remaining until the 1932 election, the odds of Democratic candidate Franklin Roosevelt were gradually climbing.
Her first game of Chess in New York was against Samuel Reshevsky.
This American champion was born in Poland, learned to play Chess at four, and could perform simultaneous exhibitions at six; he was a rare talent personally praised by Fischer.
In stark contrast to the aged and steady Sir Thomas, Reshevsky’s style of play matched his age—sharp, fiery, and relentless.
The match was held at the New York Chess Club, and Reshevsky opened with the Najdorf Variation of the Sicily Defense, which was one of the most aggressive variations at the time.
His white pieces surged like a tide toward Cerydra’s kingside, forcing her to respond with every move.
Cerydra did not respond.
She abandoned the defense of her kingside; when the white pieces attacked, she simply pushed a black pawn on the queenside forward one square.
That move seemed completely unrelated to the overall situation on the board.
Then the second square.
The third square.
The pawn charged to the last rank and promoted to a Queen.
Reshevsky was stunned.
He looked down at the board—a moment ago, he had been one step away from breaking through her kingside defense, but now her newly promoted black Queen was pinned behind his pieces.
He calculated the variations, calculating them three times.
Then he reached out and tipped over his King.
“Your Highness,” he said, his voice much lower than before, “you abandoned the kingside.” “Yes.” “Are you not afraid that I would attack?” “I am,” Cerydra said, “but you were more afraid than I was.
You were afraid that your attack would not be fast enough.
So you used all your strength on the attack.
You forgot that a game was also taking place on the other side of the board.
Your kingside attack and my queenside promotion were the same game.
You chose to only look at half of it.” A week later, Reuben Fine—Reshevsky’s main rival—traveled from Chicago, and the result was the same.
In the sixth game, Fine resigned on the forty-second move; when he resigned, he stared at the board for a long time, then looked up and said: “Your Highness’s play has no flaws—what I mean is, Your Highness did not give me anything that could be called a ‘flaw.’ I am not playing against a Chess player; I am playing against a complete set of rules.” Cerydra played a total of seven games of Chess in New York, winning all seven, against seven opponents with seven different styles, with the same result.
But her most important game of Chess in New York was not on the board.
On the fourth day of her stay in New York, she met a middle-aged man sitting in a wheelchair in the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria.
The man was tall and slender with a handsome face, and even while sitting in a wheelchair, he maintained an upright posture.
Beside him stood a woman in a dark blue suit—his wife, Eleanor.
People were coming and going in the lobby, but no one paid special attention to this man.
Because he was not yet President Roosevelt; he was still just Franklin Roosevelt, the Democratic candidate, a disabled man whom many believed “could not be elected.” Cerydra recognized him.
In the history textbooks of another world, this man sitting in the wheelchair would be elected for four consecutive terms, lead the United States out of the Great Depression and into a world war, and then bid farewell to this world on the eve of victory.
It might not seem tempting right now but who knows what the future holds?
“And If you’re enjoying it, drop a Power Stone for me!”