Time to read: 13 minutes(s)

Author: Andrey Filimonov

On July 21, 1904, the final spike was ceremoniously driven into the Trans-Siberian Railway, skewering the European and Asian halves of the Russian Empire onto a single steel skewer. This occurred on a section of the East Amur Railway. The Trans-Siberian Railway's builders had been working toward each other for 13 years, traveling from Chelyabinsk and Vladivostok. Finally, the task was accomplished, the builders met, and the silver spike symbolized the start of the great project. From that time until today, the Trans-Siberian Railway remains a working wonder of the world.

Shortly before the final connection of the rails in the Far East, court jeweler Carl Fabergé presented Nicholas II and his wife with a New Year's gift for 1900: a surprise egg containing a "Siberian train" crafted from precious metals and featuring diamond and ruby ​​lanterns. The royal toy was wound with a golden key. It's unknown whether the young emperor ever played with the train, but he had a legal right to do so. Because, while still heir to the throne, he participated in the Trans-Siberian Railway's groundbreaking ceremony in 1891. It took place in Vladivostok, and the local newspaper enthusiastically reported that "the moment when the Tsar's Son steered the work cart, moving it forward and dumping earth from it like a simple worker, was truly solemn: everyone fell silent, remained motionless in their places, and only raised their heads so as not to miss a single movement of the Imperial personage's work..."

Fabergé was right when he crafted the Siberian train from gold and platinum. One and a half billion rubles were spent on the construction of the Trans-Siberian Railway. These expenses were not recouped during the lifetime of Nicholas II. The railway was built at public expense, the state was the sole owner of the highway, and it was designed with a far-reaching political goal: to "link" Siberia to the mother country, facilitate the transfer of troops in case of a "Chinese threat," and simplify the export of minerals from beyond the Urals to central Russia. The steam locomotive became a powerful tool of colonization. This was pointed out by critics of the project, Siberian regionalists. They wrote that the economic and commercial life of Siberia traditionally took place along rivers flowing from south to north, such as the Irtysh, Ob, and Yenisei. Therefore, railways that meet the needs of the region must be latitudinal: from Bukhara to Tobolsk, from Altai to Narym, from Minusinsk to Yeniseisk, and so on.

"During the discussion of the question of the Siberian railway, which has been expressed more than once, concerns have already arisen: will not, under such conditions, the railway itself become a tool for continuing the same means of profit that have been practiced until now, and is it not time to take care of the development of local industries, so that the railway could be used not only for the export of raw materials, but also for the benefit of the region and the population? — wrote Nikolai Yadrintsev in his programmatic article “Siberia as a Colony.” "They continue to tell us about the export of the region's wealth through improved transport routes and, so to speak, about opening new valves from Siberia; but does this resolve the issue of prosperity? Won't this mere export be the final liquidation of the region's remaining wealth, unless we take care to increase its productivity, unless we give it the opportunity to develop its own resources?"

Yadrintsev looked a hundred years into the future. Latitudinal roads never appeared in Siberia. Where the sound of trains never reaches, a green sea of ​​taiga still sways, where Chinese businessmen cut down trees and buy cedar cones from the sparse local population.

It's hard to imagine a more pleasant train accident.

Interestingly, the most vivid fairytale images of the Trans-Siberian Railway in the 20th century were created by foreigners. The first was Fabergé with his golden train—a glamorous but accurate metaphor. Siberians treated the new railway prosaically, without any pathos. So what? Well, it's a steam locomotive. Get on, off it goes. Foreigners were struck by just about everything about this railway—the endless expanse, the incredible landscapes, the exotic locals, and especially the time difference between the ends of the Trans-Siberian.

"The Trans-Siberian Railway is one of the longest existing railways in the world. It begins at any European station and runs across Russia for 9,288 kilometers, connecting hundreds of cities and towns, crossing 76 percent of the country's territory and seven time zones. When I board the train at 11 p.m. in Moscow, the next day's dawn is already breaking in Vladivostok, our final destination." — writes Paolo Coelho in his mystical (he has no other) novel, Aleph, whose main character searches for a source of divine energies on the Trans-Siberian Railway.

Coelho traveled from Moscow to Vladivostok recently, in the 21st century. The first Western writer to travel the world's longest railway was the Englishman Lyndon Bates Jr. In 1908, he spent two weeks on the Trans-Siberian Express, traveling at 30-40 km/h. Daring Siberian coachmen whistled past the "express." Lyndon Bates whiled away the time chatting with passengers and collecting stories. He was told about the "stingy city of Tomsk," where merchants refused to bribe the Trans-Siberian Railway builders, so they passed the city by. He was also told about the coldest city in the world, Yakutsk, where rebels were exiled:

"In Europe, they talk about the severity of the Russian winter. In Russia, they talk about the Siberian cold. And in Siberia itself, when the mercury drops below forty and sentries along the railway pick up sparrows stiff from the frost, they say: 'It's as cold as Yakutsk.'" L. Bates. "The Russian Road to China"

Naturally, among the English writer's traveling companions were former convicts, who told stories of their year-long trek to Siberia in shackles. Gold prospectors spoke of nuggets in the taiga. Someone recalled meeting the real Tsar Alexander, who lived in Tomsk under the name of Elder Feodor. None of this is entirely untrue, but this is Siberia. It's so... incredible.

After the overthrow of the monarchy and the Bolshevik seizure of power, the Trans-Siberian Railway became the axis of the Civil War. It was here that the question of Russia's unity was being decided. In 1918, Czechoslovak legionnaires severed the "spine of the empire," and Siberia and the Far East temporarily broke away from the mother country. It took the incredible cruelty of the Bolsheviks to reassemble the empire. The French poet Blaise Cendrars vividly described his journey along the Trans-Siberian Railway during the Civil War in his poem, aptly titled "The Trans-Siberian Express":

The train departed every Friday morning. They said there were many dead. One merchant had a hundred boxes of alarm clocks and wall clocks. Another carried boxed hats, top hats, and English corkscrews of various sizes. A third was carrying coffins from Malmö, filled with canned goods. And there were women, many of them, women whose wombs were rented out and could have become coffins… …Kurgan, Samara, Penza, Tomsk, Chelyabinsk, Kansk, Taishet, Verkhneudinsk. And then Death in Manchuria—that's our Refuge, our final destination. A terrible journey… (translated by Mikhail Yasnov)

In 1925, American journalist Junius Wood, a correspondent for the Chicago Daily News, traveled on the Trans-Siberian Railway. His report, "Incredible Siberia," begins with a document check. As soon as the train passed the Ural Mountains, a plainclothes man posing as a GPU agent appeared in the car. "A document, please," he addressed the passengers. "Life in Russia is impossible without a document. Without a document, you can only buy sunflower seeds at the station, but in all other cases, you need to have a piece of identification ready," the author explains to his American readers. "The fact is," he continues, "that Soviet Russia is a country where everyone is trying to cheat everyone else, and no one trusts anyone. The state deceives its citizens, and the citizens deceive the state. All hope lies in checking documents and the GPU agent. However, he, too, could be a fraud." In this unreal reality, like the Flying Dutchman, the Trans-Siberian Express flies through the night.

"The Trans-Siberian Express Paris-Vladivostok, running weekly in each direction, is the Trans-Siberian's signature train. Its only drawback, preventing one from enjoying the luxury of an express, is that such a train simply doesn't exist yet. The day of the week and the time of arrival and departure from this station heading east, and the same information heading west, were listed on the timetable at every station in Siberia this summer. This was announced in brochures sent abroad and announced by official information bureaus. Pure dreams often outpace facts in Russia."

While waiting for the train, the journalist spends time at the station among the crowd of passengers and paints a picture that could be observed in the USSR at virtually every railway station until the very end of Soviet power:

"Around one in the morning, I was at the train station, making my way through a crowd of people spread out on the floor: some sleeping, others eating from newspapers spread out on the tiles as tablecloths, with a simple assortment of sausage, bread, and tea on them, and still others simply waiting and trying to keep warm. The information desk was closed for the night. "Nandnyak!" said the station agent, meaning "in a few days." It's a common word in Russia, denoting the difference between optimistic plans and actual achievements."

In 1934, another English writer, Peter Fleming, traveled by train through the USSR to China. It was his second journey along the Trans-Siberian Railway. He knew full well what awaited him and, with philosophical humility, indulged in contemplative idleness.

“I like the Trans-Siberian Railway. You lie on your bunk and do nothing for a whole week, completely legally. You’re a passenger on the world’s longest railway. Outside, plains creep past and forests shimmer. The sun casts a dim light on the wasteland. Stacks of birch logs under the embankment—silver on the outside, black at the edges—seem frost-bitten even in summer. For some reason, magpies keep flying past the window. There’s nothing else to look at, but at the same time, there’s no reason to stop looking. In a vacuum of events, you invent some absurdly artificial need to get out of bed; for example, “in fifteen forties” or “when the locomotive next blows its whistle.” Because deep down, you’re afraid that without the self-discipline that gives existence a certain meaning, this long period of suspended animation will ruin your character forever.” P. Fleming. "In My Own Company: A Journey to China."

Fleming captures perhaps the most important discovery of all Trans-Siberian travelers: from the inside, the exoticism turns out to be stiflingly boring, the route passes through thousands of kilometers of emptiness, and you no longer wonder why Russians drink so much. Unlike most travelers, the English writer was "lucky"—his train derailed in Transbaikalia, and he was the only foreigner to capture the overturned carriages of the Trans-Siberian Express on film.

"It's hard to imagine a more pleasant train crash," Fleming writes. "The weather was perfect. No one was seriously injured. And everything was done in true Drury Lane style (Drury Lane is Britain's oldest theatre – ed.): with plenty of twisted steel, splintered woodwork, and turf deformed by demonic force. I started taking photos as fast as I could. Photography is strictly prohibited on Soviet soil, but the officials were too busy and nervous to notice."

Help soon arrived, and the carriages were put back on the rails. Just a few hours later, the train arrived at the Chinese border, and Soviet customs officers descended on the Englishman's compartment.

"They pounced on me suddenly: five large, inquisitive men whose English was about as good as my Russian. But it was clear they were serious. They methodically ransacked my suitcases. What was the serial number of my typewriter? Did I have a permit for my binoculars? And, most importantly, did I have any cameras or film?"

The author managed to distract their attention by showing a photocopy of a letter Stalin had written to Fleming's brother, a Reuters correspondent in Moscow. The sight of Stalin's signature had a magical effect on the Soviet officials—they forgot everything and, for a time, became sleepwalkers. Soon, the train driver gave the signal to depart, and the footage shot by the Englishman illegally crossed the border into Soviet Russia.

How David Bowie Came to Novosibirsk

A fortune teller once predicted David Bowie would die in a plane crash. From then on, the musician avoided flying and eventually died peacefully of cancer. Thanks to his superstition, Bowie became the only Western rock star to visit Siberia under Soviet rule. In 1973, after a concert tour of Japan, the musician urgently needed to go to Paris on business. The Trans-Siberian Railway was the shortest route for the aerophobic. Together with his friend, musician and photographer Geoff McCormack, Bowie boarded the SS Felix Dzerzhinsky in Yokohama, which took the British couple to Vladivostok. There, they took a sleeper train to Moscow and then spent seven days drinking with sailors, soldiers, and civilian passengers. According to McCormack, they sang along to "saccharine Russian covers of Beatles songs" the entire journey. They were probably referring to the hits of Pesnyary or Muslim Magomayev. The great musician was, of course, shocked that no one knew him on one-sixth of the world's land. During a long train stop in Novosibirsk, David Bowie, swaying and reeking of alcohol, walked out onto the station square to look at the people, who were also swaying and reeking of alcohol, staring at the English guest with the empty, bulging eyes so celebrated by Venichka Erofeev. Bowie left no memories of Siberia.

Even without him, the 20th century had plenty of English-language authors who again and again explored the theme of the Trans-Siberian Railway as an incredible “space” journey:

“The train is like a dream, or at least like a warm, bright, safe little world in the middle of a fast-paced and dangerous night. As you move between the carriages, you clang the heavy steel door, painted Soviet gray, then press the button that opens the electric door, and—beep!—you’re suddenly outside in thundering darkness, and the air is so cold, as if you’ve been dropped into an icy lake. You carefully step across two snow-covered steel plates, trying not to crash to your death, and reach for the button on the other side. Beep! Warmth, light, and safety again. It’s like being in outer space. Traveling on the Trans-Siberian Railway could be ideal training for astronauts, I think.” Andrew Dickson, writer.

And finally, the most honest confession from a foreigner on the Trans-Siberian Railway is the travel diary of American writer and wanderer Paul Theroux, who expressed the feelings of all travelers in Siberia: it's scary here and you want to go home.

“The Rossiya train lived ‘in Moscow’, and after my second breakfast (cold yellow potatoes, ‘solyanka’ – a soup of some kind of fatty lumps – and a decanter of port that tasted like cough syrup) I would ask the time and hear: ‘Four in the morning’… and after six thousand miles, after so many days on the train, I felt myself becoming more and more distant; every reminder that I was in Russia – women in orange canvas jackets working on the tracks with shovels, a glimpse of a statue of Lenin, the yellow crust of ice on the station signs and magpies hoarsely cursing in Russian at a passing train – every such reminder irritated me. I was angry that Russia was so big; I wanted to go home.” Paul Theroux. "On Rails, Across Continents."