And Is There Honey Still For Tea?

by Peter Murphy

  ‘Most of Hollander’s work,’ Jess continued, ‘seems pretty uncontroversial, at least for our purposes. He is very interested in the relationship between the States and the Federal Government, how power is shared under the Constitution, how far the Federal Government can influence State legislation, that kind of thing. He has written two or three pieces jointly with an associate professor at Yale Law School, Donald Tate, and several more on his own. We have copies of it all – Ben and I have copies.’

  ‘I have gone through them quickly,’ Ben added. ‘I agree with Jess. There is nothing of great interest to us.’

  ‘Not so far,’ Jess continued. ‘He did write a short piece about political responsibility for the Security Services about two years ago, but it was very technical – nothing rhetorical at all.’

  ‘Which makes his attack on James even stranger,’ Wesley mused.

  ‘Yes,’ Jess replied, ‘but now we come to more recent developments. About 18 months ago, he founded his journal, the Ivy League Political Remembrancer. When we first saw the article about Sir James, it seemed clear that the Remembrancer was Hollander’s project. We noted then that he is the general editor as well as managing editor, which indicates that the publication is essentially his sole responsibility. There are one or two other names, but they seem to be support staff. Since then I have tracked down the earlier issues – there are only three or four – and there is a marked difference in the tone and content of the work when compared to Hollander’s earlier pieces in other publications. In the journal, we have rhetorical pieces actively criticising the Government, particularly in the field of foreign policy. Again, we have copies. The tone is conservative and isolationist, for example a revisionist analysis of the Marshall Plan, condemning it as a waste of American resources, and a piece highly critical of every administration since Truman for giving away too many secrets about the American atomic and nuclear programmes.’

  ‘Now we are getting closer to it,’ Harper said.

  ‘Except for the fact that the earlier pieces in the Remembrancer were not written by Hollander,’ Jess replied. ‘The only piece under his name is the article about Sir James in the February 1965 issue. The others are all invited contributions.’

  ‘So,’ Wesley said slowly, ‘he was creating a forum for other academics to express their views: views that might not be acceptable to a more mainstream journal.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Jess said, ‘but then, apparently, he decided to make use of that forum to speak his own mind. And that leads us to yet another strange thing about Hollander.’

  ‘Go on,’ Wesley said.

  ‘Well, he is on track for promotion to full professor and tenure. I don’t know much about the American academic system, but my father has a distant cousin who is a professor at the University of Virginia. I was able to speak to him by phone. He is a mathematician, but he tells me that the career path is essentially the same, regardless of subject. There is a career path, typically about seven years, from assistant, to associate, to full professor. Promotion to full professor usually brings with it a grant of tenure. That means that it becomes very hard to dismiss the professor. It is designed to protect academic freedom. You can’t get rid of a tenured professor for expressing his academic opinions, however controversial they may be. You can only dismiss a tenured professor for certain kinds of misconduct.’

  She paused for a moment.

  ‘So the conventional wisdom is that, if you want tenure, you don’t make waves before you get it. You establish your reputation with safe, uncontroversial articles. Then, once you have tenure, you can chance your arm a bit more if you want to.’

  There was silence for some time.

  ‘How long does Hollander have to go before he would be awarded tenure?’ Wesley asked.

  ‘A year or two,’ Jess replied.

  ‘Then it would seem that his recent forays into the realm of the sensational, including his attack on James, are unwise,’ Wesley said, ‘at least according to conventional wisdom.’

  ‘The professor I spoke to at Virginia said he must have an academic death wish,’ Jess replied.

  17

  ‘Yesterday morning, I had a meeting with B H Wood, the editor of Chess,’ Ben began. ‘He sends his best wishes, James. He will act as a character witness, if we need him.’

  Digby smiled. ‘Baruch is a nice man,’ he replied, ‘and a strong player. He wiped the floor with me at Whitby a year or so ago.’

  ‘So he told me,’ Ben returned the smile. ‘He asked me to tell you how distressed he is by all this. He said you spent some time together in Argentina at a chess Olympiad and got to know each other quite well.’

  ‘Buenos Aires, 1939,’ Digby confirmed. ‘He had just started Chess three or four years before that. He has done very well for himself. It is very well produced.’

  ‘He found a way to turn his passion into a career,’ Ben observed.

  Digby did not reply for some time.

  ‘He would prefer to be playing,’ he said eventually. ‘He does play, of course. But whenever he plays he is also reporting the tournament for Chess, and so he has to spend much of his time on that rather than on preparation.’

  ‘He said that was a burden that all the best British players have to bear,’ Ben said, ‘the need to make a living, I mean.’

  ‘That is quite true,’ Digby replied quietly.

  ‘He had very little to say about Hollander,’ Ben continued, ‘nothing we didn’t already know, really. But we did discuss Stepanov. He gave me this book. It has a short piece about Stepanov and gives one or two of his games.’

  Ben held up the Survey of Soviet Chess.

  Digby laughed. ‘Of course, the dear old Survey. It’s been a year or two since I delved into that, but I am sure that one of the games they give is his splendid win over Keres in the Championship, in the early 1950s, I would think?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ben replied.

  ‘His best game ever, a real masterpiece,’ Digby said.

  ‘The biographical note is fascinating,’ Ben said. ‘If I read you one or two paragraphs, I think you will get the picture.

  Viktor Stepanov was born in Leningrad in 1914. His parents fully supported the Revolution of 1917 and the principles taught by Marx and Lenin. Recognising that the young Viktor had a great talent for chess, they did not divert him into other fields of study as would have happened in a decadent Western culture, but encouraged him to pursue his love for the game. He became a Young Pioneer, and joined the Pioneers’ chess club. Before long, he was winning tournaments because of his creative and original approach to chess. His parents then sent Viktor to Moscow where he was enrolled at the Chess Academy, and received instruction from senior Soviet masters and grandmasters. With the benefit of their teaching and advice, Viktor Stepanov quickly rose through the ranks and attained the rank of master at the young age of 22. Like many others, his career in chess was cut short by the Great Patriotic War, in which he served with distinction.

  After the War, Viktor Stepanov quickly resumed his playing career, winning a number of tournaments, placing well in the Soviet championship in several years, and attaining the title of grandmaster. Unfortunately, for some time, Viktor Stepanov fell prey to the bourgeois temptation to play safely, in the hope of resting on his laurels, and ceased his constant exploration for creative and original work in chess. This had the result that his tournament results became less satisfactory. But he received advice from more experienced grandmasters, and on their advice, Viktor Stepanov engaged in a long period of self-criticism in accordance with the principles of Marxism-Leninism, with the result that he re-discovered his creative flair, and won many fine games. He has made some important contributions to opening theory in the Sicilian Defence. He also serves as a teacher at the Moscow Academy where he passes on his skill and wisdom to the next generation of Soviet grandmasters.

  ‘Grandmaster Stepanov is a
lso a fine linguist, being fluent in English and German, among other languages. At some cost to his playing career, he selflessly placed his linguistic talents at the service of the State whenever they were required. He acted as an interpreter for the Soviet prosecutor in the trial of the Major Axis War Criminals at Nuremberg at the end of the Great Patriotic War, and in later years he played a leading role in negotiations on behalf of the Soviet Chess Federation with respect to the organisation of international chess tournaments, and the participation of Soviet players in tournaments abroad.’

  Ben closed the book with a smile. ‘This was published in 1955. It doesn’t say what Grandmaster Stepanov got up to after that. We know that he died, apparently of natural causes, in Moscow in 1963. We have his obituary from the Soviet chess magazine Sixty-Four. There were also brief mentions in Pravda and Izvestia.’

  ‘It would be interesting to know what he did during the Great Patriotic War,’ Wesley said. ‘Is there any light you can shed on that, James? You must have known him.’

  ‘Yes,’ Digby replied, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I knew him reasonably well, I suppose. The first time I met him was at Nuremberg. I was an interpreter for the British prosecutors and he was with the Russian team, so we saw each other professionally and at parties given, usually, by the Americans, who had more money to spend on such things than we did. He wore a military uniform at Nuremberg, and he had the rank of captain, if I remember rightly. I met him many times in Moscow subsequently. But then we were talking about chess. I don’t recall that he ever told me what he had done during the War. It would not surprise me in the least if he was in intelligence work of some kind. The Russians would have needed German speakers, just as we did, and linguists of Stepanov’s quality would have been rare.’

  Wesley thought for some time.

  ‘Was he the kind to be a solid Party man, would you say? Hollander’s article suggests that by 1962 he was desperate to defect to the West.’

  ‘That was relatively recently,’ Digby pointed out.

  ‘Yes, but if that is true, it must have been building for some time. Did you ever form any impression of him? By that I mean, did he seem to be a loyal servant of the Soviet Union, as the Survey suggests, or were there signs of restlessness, of his turning his eyes towards the West, perhaps? Did he ever say anything about that to you? After all you had known him for many years. It would have been much more logical to appeal to you than to Hollander, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Digby replied. ‘But I don’t know what was going on in his life. Perhaps he had some particular reason for approaching the Americans rather than the British.’

  ‘Did he know what work you had done during the War?’ Ben asked. ‘Would he have known that you had connections with the Security Services at that time?’

  ‘I may have said something about it at some point. I couldn’t go into any detail, of course, even then. I was still bound by the Official Secrets Act. He may well have guessed. So many of us in the chess world did that kind of work during the War; and we were both linguists.’

  There was a silence for some time.

  ‘Mr Wood explained to me that all the Soviet grandmasters have some contact with the KGB, whether they want it or not,’ Ben said. ‘He told me that they are only permitted to travel outside the Soviet Union for tournaments if the authorities are satisfied that they are loyal to the State, and are not likely to defect. He also said that their movements are closely monitored while they are abroad.’

  ‘That is quite correct,’ Digby replied. ‘There is a very obvious presence at whatever tournament they compete in. You can’t help but notice it. It is almost comical at times; they are so obvious. I am sure it is no fun at all for the Soviet players. They are discouraged from socialising with the rest of us. We have found ways, of course. When I went as a journalist, I was allowed to interview them. And there were some social events, opening and closing ceremonies and receptions and the like, when we could talk to them less formally. But Hollander was right about that. It would not be easy for a player to find a way to approach someone from the West and ask to defect; and it never happened to me.’

  ‘Did Wood have any insight into Stepanov?’ Wesley asked.

  ‘Not really,’ Ben replied. ‘He said you can’t always tell whether a particular grandmaster is a genuinely loyal Party man or not.’

  ‘You can in certain cases, especially the ones from the outer reaches of the Empire,’ Digby insisted. ‘They have no natural allegiance to Moscow, and Stalin made a lot of enemies in the outer reaches of the Empire. Sometimes they can’t hide the resentment, and they make comments when they think no one is listening. But not Stepanov. He was always the diplomat, always very controlled. Besides, he hailed from Leningrad. Whatever his real thoughts may have been, he knew how to keep them to himself.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ Wesley said. ‘Anything else, Ben?’

  ‘To change the subject slightly,’ Ben said, ‘who would pay your fees and expenses as a journalist when you went abroad to cover tournaments?’

  The abrupt change of direction appeared to take Digby aback.

  ‘Oh, whatever newspapers and journals were interested in my reports,’ he answered. ‘I should add that I did not always charge very much. I had money from my practice at the Bar. I went to the tournaments because of my love of the game. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Mr Wood mentioned that he found it surprising that you were taking so much time away from your practice,’ Ben replied.

  Digby laughed. ‘Yes, so did my clerk, and he never let me forget it.’

  * * *

  As the consultation ended, Ben was the last to leave Wesley’s room.

  ‘Ben,’ Wesley said, as he was about to walk out, ‘that last question you put to James, about his travel expenses and so on, seemed rather pointed. Did Wood suggest that you raise the subject?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Ben replied. ‘But he made it clear that he was puzzled. James went abroad a great deal, many times to Russia to cover the Soviet championship. But he wasn’t reporting for the leading newspapers or magazines on a regular basis. It was more the general interest magazines which would not usually have had much to do with chess. Wood seemed to think he could have done that kind of reporting just as effectively without leaving London. It seemed odd to him, and it seems a bit odd to me.’

  Wesley shrugged. ‘It could have been his love of chess tournaments, couldn’t it? He might have gone to soak up the atmosphere, and I daresay whatever reporting he was doing would have benefited from that. After all, one of the advantages of the Bar, once you get established, is supposed to be a certain degree of financial reward. There is nothing wrong with indulging one’s interests now and then.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Ben admitted.

  ‘Does Wood have doubts about James, do you think?’

  Ben thought for a few moments.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. At least, he said nothing directly.’

  ‘Do you?’

  Ben looked directly at his Head of Chambers.

  ‘To be honest, I’m not sure. But it has crossed my mind. Hasn’t it crossed yours?’

  Wesley smiled. ‘I think I will wait for Hollander’s response to our Request for further and better particulars,’ he replied. ‘With any luck, that will clear it up, one way or the other.’

  * * *

  She was waiting for him outside the clerks’ room.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ They said the words together at exactly the same moment, and then laughed, nervously, tentatively.

  ‘Come to my room,’ Ben said, putting an arm around her shoulders. ‘I don’t think Harriet is back from court yet; she had to go to Oxford. Do you have time? Does Barratt need you?’

  ‘No. I told him I would be back at the office in a few minutes.’

  Ben closed the door, and they stood close together for some time before he o
ffered his outstretched arms and she allowed him to pull her gently into an embrace. She raised her head from his shoulder to look into his eyes.

  ‘I was angry,’ she said simply. ‘I was angry at the thought that a meeting is going to take place, at which I am not even entitled to be present; I am angry that a group of old men, men I don’t even know, think they are entitled to decide the fate of my love life without even consulting me.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I understand,’ he said, ‘and I am sorry I didn’t offer you more reassurance.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I can deal with being angry,’ she replied. ‘I’m not really angry at you; it just came out that way because I can’t shout at the old men. So I made myself angry at you, and I made both of us endure a few miserable days. I’m sorry.’

  She reached out a hand and stroked his hair.

  ‘Ben, the important thing for me is to know where I stand in your life. I wouldn’t blame you if you tell me that your practice has to come first. I would understand that. I just need to know.’

  He kissed her on the forehead.

  ‘Jess, I love you,’ he said. ‘I will not allow anything to come between us.’

  ‘But if you had to give up the Bar, you would hate me, it would never work …’

  ‘It’s not going to come to that,’ he replied.

  ‘But what if it did …?’

  ‘There is still Australia.’

  ‘No, come on …’

  ‘Jess,’ he said, ‘do you love me too?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied simply.

  ‘Then trust me, please. I will not allow this to separate us. There will be a way, and we will find it. Together.’

  18

  Sir James Digby

  I went up to Trinity to read modern languages in October 1931, and began to learn to know the city which was to play such a huge role, if not in my life as it actually was, then certainly in how I saw my life in my mind. Cambridge – the people I met and the experiences I had as an undergraduate – took on a deep symbolism which seemed to touch and underlie everything that happened to me after my time there. Like many students, I found that a great deal of my time and energy was expended on people and activities outside my formal studies. But I would like to believe that it was not frittered away, as it was with friends who found religion, or alcohol, or some other diversion, during their first lonely weeks as young boys away from home for the first time. As it happened, the academic work necessary for me to take a good degree required relatively little of my time and effort. Languages always came naturally to me. My main language was German, with French a respectable second. The Cambridge degree course was very much geared to literature rather than the mechanics of language. I had been reading Goethe, Schiller, and Thomas Mann at school, and at Cambridge I simply continued where I had left off.