unflattering GI buzz-cut. “My mother looked at them both, and told me to go with THAT one!” she laughed, gesturing at Art more than 50 years later in the couple’s elegant home in Mahwah, New Jersey. Alice and Arthur were married in 1960. “I had to get special
permission,” Art said. “since Czechoslovakia was a communist country!” The same year, Art also found time to win the very first U.S. Armed Forces Championship. Art was soon transferred to a dream assignment in Paris, where the couple lived much like civilians and enjoyed what seemed an extended honeymoon. In fact, Art had to get into uniform only to pick up his paycheck once a month. They roamed the romantic streets of the Left Bank together. He frequented the legendary Club Caissa, where its benefactor, Madame Le Bey Tallis, who hobnobbed with the world chess elite, would greet him enthusiastically with “Ah, Monsieur Fooy-ur-steen!” Their stay was extended into 1961 because of the Berlin crisis, caused by Soviet demands for the withdrawal of western troops from West Berlin and sudden construction of the infamous “Berlin Wall.” Indeed, Alice and Art wouldn’t have minded staying even longer in Paris, but Art’s older brother advised him to come back to begin establishing life in the U.S. “We moved from an apartment on Rue de l’Université in Paris
to a four-story walkup in Brooklyn!” Alice said. “But I soon loved Brooklyn too.” Back in New York, Art understandably heard the siren call of a professional chess career. But earning a living was of course the first priority. The couple still remembers a letter Art received congratulating him on winning another brilliancy prize—which amounted to a check for ten dollars and a cheap set that was admittedly on “back-order!” So it was clear chess wouldn’t put caviar on the table, or perhaps even cold cuts. And then Alice met Bobby. Art brought Alice to a congregation of chess players at Jack
Collins’ apartment—also known as the Hawthorne Chess Club, a hub of America’s best, like Donald and Robert Byrne, Lom- bardy and Fischer. “Bobby came up to say hello, and I introduced him to my wife.” It was clear Art was retelling a foundational family story. Alice took it over. “Bobby looked shocked and ignored me! He kept his eyes on Arty and blurted out, ‘You got married! What did you do that for?’ He was very rude.” The impli- cation was clear, why sacrifice a promising chess career to get married? “I had been friends with Bobby,” Art recalled, “but sometime after the Fischer-Reshevsky match in 1961, I didn’t see him much anymore. And Alice was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Life-changing accident Art began working for Sun Chemical, and was soon pro-
moted to more and more responsibility. At the same time, he continued to be a strong force in New York City chess, finish- ing high in tournament standings, winning the Manhattan Chess Club Championship, playing in another U.S. Champi- onship … and then, on Route 46, on that drive to the Poconos, it all suddenly went dark. At the insistence of her surgeon-father who was now prac-
ticing in Brooklyn, Alice would spend the next six weeks in a torso-covering cast that “was like armor” but allowed her to get around enough to go back and forth to the hospital to visit Art. She credits her complete recovery to her father’s prescription.
Didn’t know what a toothbrush was The results of Arthur’s head wounds would be more long-last-
ing, indeed lifelong. “Recovery is still an ongoing process,” Alice said. Art spent six weeks in a semi-coma, sometimes able to respond to simple commands, like instructions to move his head or open his mouth, but not fully conscious and unable to
uschess.org
speak. The neurosurgeon in charge of his case told Alice that her husband—the confident business leader and chess champion— would never talk again, and probably never be able to think about anything very complicated. She could only watch as Art lay silent in the hospital bed with a breathing tube in his trachea. Then one day Alice’s phone rang at home. A nurse told her
that Art had pulled out the breathing tube and wanted to talk to her. She rushed to the hospital. What would he say, what would Art be able to do? When she entered the room, Art and the neurosurgeon, who
Playing a top board at an unknown event.
had also been alerted to the sudden awakening, were hunched over a chessboard. “Honest to God,” Alice said, “he didn’t even know what a toothbrush was, and he only vaguely recognized me, and didn’t know anyone else—but there he was playing a normal game of chess.” “I remembered everything about chess,” Art said, “including my openings.” Recalling all of this so many years later, Art and Alice sat at
their dining room table, with Art’s chess scrapbook open. “You know,” Alice said, “I remember, that a bit later, we heard that the neurosurgeon committed suicide by jumping off the hos- pital roof.” Perhaps a single heartbeat separated the end of her sad recollection from Art’s devilish response: “Well, I did win that game.” I suppose you develop a dark sense of humor getting through all that’s been put in his path. But the funny young man who won Alice’s heart is still here. After waking up for that game, Feuerstein spent another
two months in the hospital and three years in rehab, relearn- ing the basics of day-to-day life. Through every day of his comeback, Alice was there for him. To support the family, she went back to school and became a highly valued operating-room nurse. Later, she started her own business as a massage ther- apist, which she continues today. The man who wasn’t supposed to talk or think well again even-
tually went on to finish a master of business administration at Baruch and launch a successful, 20-year career as an independ- ent consultant. In 1983 Alice and Arthur had a son, Erik, now creative director of Engage, a political consulting firm. As for chess, Art continued playing regularly, at the Dumont
Chess Life — January 2012 23
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