part 2 of racist murder story

[Sarah Hurst]

He believed that elderly chess players were worthy of much attention while
they were still alive. He himself never appeared at the parties and dinners
for Moscow veterans, and they didn't even know who had given money for these
gatherings. When Igor Zaitsev became ill, he often visited him. Zaitsev
recalls, "We were nodding acquaintances. We acknowledged each other if we
met in the club, we exchanged a few words, perhaps, but nothing more. When I
fell ill, Sergey started visiting me. I don't know why, but I immediately
trusted that man, he understood my problems and each of his visits gave me
strength and vigour. When I needed money for an operation, he gave it to me.
Without saying anything or asking for anything in return, he just came and
gave it to me." 

When he heard about grandmaster Konstantin Aseev's serious illness, he
obtained medicine for him, called Petersburg, lifted his spirits. He helped
Alexander Panchenko, who was indebted to him for many, many things, and
there were few he didn't help. 

Once we talked about the portraits of people from the chess world that I had
written. He liked the one about Max Euwe more than any of the others. Euwe?
It was surprising to hear this particular name, especially comparing the
modest Professor with the effervescent temperament and talent of the giants
of the game whom I was lucky enough to meet on life's path. 

Now I think that Euwe's emphatic modesty, his work ethic and his ability to
hold on with dignity and fulfill his mission under any circumstances were
the reason that the figure of the Dutch world champion seemed closest to
him. And, more importantly, perhaps: he liked the role of a man who had left
chess, was completely accomplished in society, then returned to it, this
time in the capacity of its commander-in-chief. Perhaps he was even
measuring himself up for this role? 

Before he moved to the Moscow flat that would be his last home, he lived
outside the city for three years. He really liked to walk, walking and
walking for hours, he had developed his own routes there. He got himself
some running shoes, and even rain didn't bother him, he took an umbrella
with him, and he could also manage without an umbrella. Always alone,
contemplating. Did he know about the habits of the philosophers, who valued
long solo walks so highly? Perhaps he did.

He also talked about the danger that was always close, and in his last years
not only on the level of a street insult. Although Sergey was accepted among
his friends and colleagues, for many others he became a foreigner after they
cast a glance at his face. He knew this very well. He knew it and was afraid
of it. His friends testify: this fear was always with him. Always. Did he
sense a wave sent from the future? Who knows. But it was as if he felt
something. Had a presentiment of it. He also said to his guys: "Don't hang
around just anywhere with nothing to do. Be on your guard." 

He avoided crowds of people. Once during the Tal memorial tournament he took
me to the doors of the chess club on Gogolevsky Boulevard. I suggested,
"Let's go in for a minute, at least, Sergey, today's round is interesting,
Kramnik's playing Shirov." "No, no, and don't try and talk me into it,
Genna, it's packed with people, so and so will come up to me, then someone
else. No, no, that's not for me. If you have time before you leave, let me
know, but don't try and change my mind now, don't change my mind." So he
didn't go into the club that day. 

In his last years he sometimes gave his driver a break and used public
transport. He liked riding on the metro, then also on trams, watching
people, listening in on conversations. 

On October 17, 2007 there was a big football match, Russia-England. He was
afraid of big crowds of people, he was on the alert then, too, but
nevertheless he went home on the metro. That day he decided to wait for the
crowd to thin out. He usually left the office between four and four-thirty,
but on this occasion he stayed at work until late for the first time in many
years: he already had some kind of feeling of foreboding. 

On October 20 he again went home on the metro. That day his soothsayer's
heart would be silenced, and it had just over an hour left to beat. He
reached his station without incident. "Noviye Cheremushki". He started
strolling in the direction of his house. A group of teenagers, apparently
skinheads. They started hassling and hectoring him. 

After he died, some people claimed that Seryezha had made some kind of
remark about them, providing a pretext to bring out their murder weapons.
This wasn't the case. In actual fact Nikolaev didn't even answer them, he
only walked faster, trying to get home as quickly as possible. This
infuriated them even more. They attacked him. He fell. 

Baseball bats and sharp instruments. Ten knife wounds. Death came almost
instantly. Someone also set off a firecracker. It hit his coat. The coat
caught on fire. It was in broad daylight; the street was full of people who
saw everything. The first call to the police came half an hour after his
death. 

That day was declared by the teenagers to be a "raid" day, they organised
these "raids" every weekend. People who looked obviously non-Slav were the
ones who suffered. A young Armenian was killed. An Uzbek street sweeper
received 12 knife wounds, survived, but was left disabled. The total number
attacked on that day was 27. 

They were caught accidentally - one was injured by his own murder weapon and
went to the hospital. There they thought he was a victim at first. In his
pocket they found a bloody knife and a mobile phone. They had photographed
everything and posted the pictures on the internet afterwards. From their
internet posts it was clear that they were proud of what they had done. They
stressed that they didn't have commercial motives, they didn't touch any
money, these weren't robberies. 

The police were called from the hospital. They went after the others. All of
them except for one were minors. The incident got publicity. In newspaper
articles and on websites they emphasised: a chess international master, a
native of Yakutia, Sergey Nikolaev. 

The trial took a year. In the dock even after their sentence was pronounced
the defendants shouted "For Russia!" and extended their arms in a Nazi
salute: "We'll build a new paradise, Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!" They celebrated
and congratulated the older one when he was given less than the prosecutor
had asked for, 10 years in a penal colony, and the others got three years
and up. 

When Sergey started talking about danger, the guys only laughed: "Papa,
who'd bother with you." Now that he's no longer here, his friends are
experiencing pangs of conscience, because they were unable to prevent what
happened. They reproach themselves: someone didn't call, didn't advise him
not to travel by metro, someone else didn't come to a meeting that was
supposed to have been confirmed already, another lived a stone's throw from
him, and what would it have cost him to go out to the baker's that day? An
emotional, understandable reaction, but were they really to blame for
Sergey's death?

So who was, then? The boys? Teenagers between 14 and 16? La Fontaine wrote:
this age doesn't know compassion. But can the reason for the murder solely
be explained by their being of an age when they didn't understand the value
of human life? Were they the only ones guilty of the crime? 

Only 15-year-old Stasik Gribach, whom the investigation considered their
leader? Reveling during the trial in his moment of glory and demonstratively
standing in the glare of the photographers and TV reporters with his arm
raised in a Nazi salute? His friends, who laughed when the sentence was
pronounced and continued shouting, "Sieg Heil! Seig Heil!", when they were
being escorted out of the courtroom? Their parents? The relatives of the
accused, when the event degenerated into uncensored abuse with invitations
to the journalists to "come outside and have a chat"?  The "support group"
that gathered in the courtroom every day? 

The Ministry of the Interior, which denied that there was an ethnic motive
for the crime, calling the murder a "street conflict"? The deputy minister,
who declared on the day after the boys' arrest: "The reason for what
happened was ordinary hooliganism. There's no question of any kind of
nationalist motive here"? Who is to blame for the fact that what happened,
happened? Who is to blame for the fact that in Russia in 2008 alone, only
according to official statistics, hundreds of people were killed or injured
due to ethnic hatred? Who is to blame for the fact that in the country where
Sergey Nikolaev was born and raised, he always felt like a second-class
citizen, he was always afraid? Who? 

He left us over a year ago. But, understandably, that isn't all. His
presence continues for those for whom his view of the world was decisive in
their choice of life path. For those who, without realising it themselves,
adopted one of the features of his personality, a habit or an expression of
his. And for those who smile just recalling him, wondering what Sergey would
have said in this situation, what new idea would he have dreamed up? His
spirit lingers over them.

 

 


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