The Game That Never Happened

Unexpectedly, Kurt and I discovered another shared interest, chess. One day he casually mentioned that, back in his youth, he had been Germany’s school champion. There was a trace of old pride in his voice, quiet and controlled, just like everything about him. No bragging, no embellishment, just a fact.

I immediately suggested we play a game. He smiled and shook his head: “I haven’t played in ages. I need to practice. I don’t like losing.”

I could hardly wait for us to finally sit down at the board. Not so much for the victory itself, though yes, the desire to beat him was definitely there, but for the clash. In chess, words become unnecessary. Your moves speak for you, planned several steps ahead. At the board you see not only logic and strategy but also temperament, the ability to hold pressure. I wanted to see how he thinks, how he acts under fire. And since I enjoy playing risky, I fully intended to apply that pressure. I wanted to see how he would respond to the challenge.

But our game never happened.

Instead, one day he gathered the whole regional team and calmly announced that he had been appointed CEO of Sanvera in the US and would be leaving, in just a month. Everything was said clearly, businesslike. No drama, no emotion, yet I instantly felt something shift, as if a key piece had disappeared from the board.

For me, it was a heavy blow. Only eight months had passed since I’d moved to Germany. I had not only adapted but found my role, my place. The work inspired me, and it really felt like I was doing something useful for the company.

And now one of the essential elements of that system was collapsing—the person who had taken the risk of bringing me onto his team and with whom I had built genuine mutual trust. A rare kind of trust, deeply important to me. Suddenly everything seemed pointless, like a game that had started with great promise but was abruptly interrupted, with no final move and no endgame.