TITANIUM SHOVEL. From the series "Dead Ends of Russia"
Between the Titanium Valley special economic zone and the closed military town of Svobodny stands a small house. A retired family lives there. It's all that remains of a village called Tupik.
It's still listed as a village in the Sverdlovsk region. In the summer, a commuter train even stops at kilometer 33 of the Nizhny Tagil-Nizhnyaya Salda railway. But it runs infrequently. So we decided to drive to Tupik, fortunately, the maps showed a turnoff in the direction we needed before the checkpoint of the closed city of Svobodny. But when we arrived at the checkpoint, it turned out that this road had been dug up and blocked by a barrier. We had to make a detour and take an alternative route through the fields from the village of Severnaya. My guide, Olga Berdetskaya, a journalist from Nizhny Tagil, and I walked the last 1.5 kilometers. The direction of the trampled grass and the barking of dogs in the distance showed us the way.
Olya, tell me about Titanium Valley. I heard the locals nicknamed this special economic zone the Titanium Milking Parlor. Is it true that there are a lot of factories there, and do most of the people from Salda work there?
I was about 17, in 1997-98, when this project was first discussed. It was supposed to unite Nizhnyaya and Verkhnyaya Salda, with production facilities set up between them. But then the project kept getting frozen and then revived. And when I visited my parents, for many years it looked like this: a single, isolated building in a field—an office building, I suppose. A year ago, a single production facility opened. And now there are about three. But Verkhnyaya Salda is primarily operated by VSMPO—the Verkhnyaya Salda Metallurgical Production Association. It's an old facility, and it might not have that name anymore.
I know they still make titanium shovels there. They're wonderful, light, and comfortable. Our shovels were a local landmark.
For your information: VSMPO-AVISMA Corporation PJSC is a Russian metallurgical company producing titanium and titanium products. The company produced over 90% of Russia's titanium, exporting its products to 50 countries. Until February 24, 2022, the company was deeply integrated into the global aerospace industry. Major customers of its titanium products included Boeing and Airbus.
The history of VSMPO in Verkhnyaya Salda begins in the 18th century with the construction of the Demidov factories. Much later, in 1941, several factories were evacuated to the Urals, adding to the existing production facilities.
Our path ends at a railway line. The stop is simply marked: 33 kilometers. So when we find the only house beyond the line, we ask a woman who comes out to hear the dogs barking: Is this really Dead End?
"At first it was spelled Tupik, then they started writing it as 33 kilometer," explains Galina Stroganova. "Two of my kids have Tupik written on their birth certificate. But officially, it's called Tupik. We even have, what's his name... well, he sits in the administration... what's his name... the mayor comes! He comes, looks around, and then leaves. When my husband's parents lived here, we had a well, but then some guys from Seversk put some animals in there, and no one bothered to clean it out. My father-in-law used to carry water all the way from Svobodny (a closed city three kilometers away). Now all we have left is a swamp for washing our clothes. So we had to dig our own well. Last year, the swamp was fine; we kept geese. But this year, it's overgrown. Keeping geese has become completely unprofitable. Feed is expensive, and bringing it here is a hassle.
The Stroganovs have guests today. A school friend and relatives have come to the swamp to pick berries. Her husband, Sasha, went with them and some beer, so "who knows what they'll pick there?" Galina says this with a laugh, not a grudge.
Actually, we have a three-room apartment in Verkhnyaya Salda. But when Sasha's parents died in 2014, he said, "I was born in Tupik, baptized, and will live there." So that's how we live here. And when the pandemic hit, I spent two whole weeks in quarantine in the apartment; I nearly went crazy.
How do you get here?
Either on foot or by train. It only stops here in the summer now, though. In the winter, my husband clears the road with a tractor almost to the checkpoint. So I walk to Svobodny. This year was really nice; they're laying a gas pipeline nearby, or rather replacing pipes, so we've had a really good winter because they've paved the road. And in the summer, there's my scooter, a walk-behind tractor. I can ride it myself. That's when we're hauling groceries. But when we're light, we can just walk. It's 500 steps from our greenhouse to the corner of the power line and 1,500 to the checkpoint. There and back, 3000 steps.
Do you have one of those fancy watches that counts your steps?
No.
How do you count them then?
So I walk and count in my head.
What can you tell us about the history of the village?
There was logging here during the war. My mother worked here. There was a school, houses all around. But people started moving, rolling out the logs and transporting their houses to Verkhnyaya Salda. Only the railway workers remained: our house and the barracks where the railway workers lived. Then the barracks were resettled, too. And our house was the only one left. It was private. My husband's parents built it back in 1934. Our three sons were born in this house.
The house's construction date confirms the theory of Irina Tankievskaya, a researcher at the Verkhnyaya Salda Museum of Local History. She explains that there is no precise data on the settlement's founding date. However, it certainly doesn't appear on detailed pre-revolutionary maps. So, Tupik most likely emerged in the 20s and 30s as a section of the Seversky Forestry Enterprise. It harvested firewood for the Verkhnyaya Salda Metallurgical Plant. The plant itself was founded by Nikita Demidov in 1778 and, like many Ural factories, burned charcoal for a long time. Rails for the construction of Russia's first railways were manufactured at Salda factories. The railway line itself opened here in 1878, first in Nizhny Tagil, and then in 1896 reached Nizhnyaya Salda. And Nizhnyaya Salda was a dead end at the time.
Why are there no summer residents in Tupik?
Because there are missile troops here. It's impossible here. They won't give us land. And they said that even the Michurin orchards along the power lines will be cleared... But otherwise, we have everything we need to live. We have water, we cut firewood. The power gets turned off, but we have a generator. But I pay for the power regularly. We're already overpaid by ten thousand rubles, and my son says, "Mom, don't pay." How can I not pay? They didn't send the money today, and they won't send it next month. They'll come and cut us off, saying, "We don't live here." No, I said I'll pay at least 300 rubles. Let them accumulate.
The Stroganovs maintain the power line themselves. To prevent the two wires from shorting out in strong winds, a brick hangs from one of them.
Otherwise, when the wind blows over the wires, we're left without power. The electricians from Tagil came one day and said, "You're nobody here. We're not registered here." They don't want to fix it.
The small house is divided into two rooms: a kitchen with a stove and a bedroom. In the bedroom, where several icons hang on the walls, Galina does handicrafts in the winter, when she's not busy. She buys pictures and glues rhinestones onto the finished designs. Now she and her husband are both retired. Galina worked at the post office for 43 years, and Alexander worked on the railroad.
Why do I have strangers in my house! Who are they?
Alexander Nilovich enters the house noisily. In trousers and boots. As if he hadn't been in the swamp. He jokes, "Well, you can't just wear three-piece suits: socks, underwear, and a tie." The severity turned out to be feigned.
"Did you bring any berries?" the wife joins the conversation.
There's nothing, maybe a glass's worth. The swamp is dry. A berry here, a berry there. You can walk through the swamp in slippers.
And take me off. I'm a resident of Severka, — Another person appears in the house. A relative of the Stroganovs.
The village of Severnaya, three kilometers from Tupik, is known as the "village of rebels."
In 1930, a peasant uprising broke out in the village—the largest in the Sverdlovsk region. Attempts to exile three kulak families sparked a powerful protest throughout the village. A crowd of peasants greeted the police with shouts of, "Robbers have arrived, they're slaughtering honest people, we won't let them hurt our own!" The peasants set up armed posts and patrols. But the next day, the authorities issued a proclamation to the peasants of Severnaya village, deeming their actions an uprising against Soviet power. This disconcerted the peasants, and they ceased their organized resistance. Afterward, more than fifty OGPU officers arrested 20 of the ringleaders and deported the families of the dispossessed.
And in 2013, Severnaya took to the streets again, protesting against the widening of the road leading to Titanium Valley. The road is a central thoroughfare, and the widening, along with the construction of noise-reducing barriers, would have divided the village into two halves.
Yes, it happened. I'm a witness! Why should I tell you about it? They started it and then abandoned it. They wanted to put up fences there. We're against it! Let him, the boss, put up this fucking expansion.
Having summed up the story of the road, Alexander Kozmenko invites everyone into the yard to see his dog. She goes with him berry-picking, mushroom-picking, and "bear-hunting." Incidentally, it turns out that the Stroganovs had a bear cub, brought from the forest, living in Tupik for four months.
I would have kept living, but the cops took it away. They said it's illegal to keep wild animals.
How did they even know you had it at home?
Whole classes from Svobodny came to watch, like they were on a zoo excursion. We had to chain him up. God forbid. They'd come, someone needed teasing, someone needed to play with. Then word got back to the cops, and they took him to the circus.
Another Stroganov relative emerges from the forest—Uncle Kolya the Commissar. The origin of this nickname isn't entirely clear. He's a local "authority." It turns out the two Alexanders with the beer didn't even make it to the swamp. Uncle Sasha honestly admits they reached the power line, drank some beer, and turned back.
So you're happy here, and you don't want to leave Tupik?
Sweet, beautiful. We have a three-room apartment there, but what are we supposed to do in it?! Fight? I went out there, kicked a stump, at least I did something. But, God forgive me, you don't even have to go anywhere to pee or take a shit.
My niece, Lyudmila, walks past with a shovel. She was digging onions in the garden. I ask if it's titanium.
"No, that's not it. Titanium ones break quickly," Lyudmila replies.
But Uncle Sasha is rummaging around in the entryway and brings out the titanium shovels. They glitter in the sun like airplane parts. Beautiful.
Why should it break? Planes don't break, but a shovel should? We make titanium parts for Boeings!
Well, what Boeing can we talk about now? We're not friends with the Americans anymore.
They're doing it, they're doing it. Here in Russia, I think they've started doing something. Against these sanctions. For our planes.
I admire shovels, and as the owner of six hundred square meters, I wonder how expensive they are at the store. But people talk me out of buying them. They say, "These shovels are old-fashioned. The new ones aren't the same. They're as thin as foil and fragile."
Two Sashas, sitting on a bench near the house and drinking beer, move from shovels to geopolitics.
"Yesterday I saw a woman on TV who sounded like Vanga. She said this whole mess will continue until 2026. America will be screwed," says Sasha Stroganov.
"I don't know what these Americans are up to! Though, what did the Ukrainians do to us? Nothing. It's all the president's fault," Sasha Kozmenko continues.
I'm asking which president. And all three are getting it: the American, the Ukrainian, and the Russian.
— Fuck everyone!
The Dead End residents' plan for breaking the deadlock is simple: "We need to come to some kind of agreement." After all, a peaceful life, even in Dead End, is certainly better than a five-letter word banned in Russia.
That evening, 30 kilometers from Tupik, we found ourselves at a grand celebration. Nizhny Tagil was celebrating the 301st anniversary of the city's founding. I can only imagine what it must have been like there for the tercentenary. The guest star was the trustworthy Gazmanov (these days, as we know, the list of performers is handed down from above). A light show, several music stages, a fireworks display... It was as if the word that begins with another three letters, also banned in Russia today, had already arrived.
