A HIDDEN DEPRESSION. In 1997, I visited Siberia. Our guide in Yaroslavl, which is close to Moscow, noted a local unemployment rate of 30 percent. Further to the east, the rate was higher, and it has
not improved since.
Today's eastern Russia hobbles because of decisions made decades ago, by Soviet planners who built cities in places where no one would choose to live. Siberia's winters are the world's harshest. More than 2,600 miles from Moscow, Irkutsk's population of 593,000 shivers through Januaries that average 11 degrees below zero at night.
Remoteness also made Siberia a poor choice for city-building. Everything in Russia—power, money, commerce—loops back to Moscow. But Khabarovsk is an eight-hour flight from Moscow, or an eight-day train ride on the Trans-Siberian Railway. A flight from Moscow to Vladivostok, Russia's largest Pacific port, takes nine hours.
But neither climate nor distance weighed heavily in Josef Stalin's vision. Tapping Siberia's bonanza of gold, oil, nickel and timber required cities, Stalin's planners believed, and so Soviet leaders forcibly settled workers there.
Although Stalin's decisions -- nay, the planning conceit -- have left Siberia with an illogical cluster of company towns, the path-dependence has a longer history.
The Soviet collapse ravaged all of Russia, but the toll was especially harsh on what Russians call grado-obrazuyushy, cities built around a single factory.
In Biryusinsk in east Siberia, a solvents manufacturer buoyed the lives of 12,000 Russians during the Soviet era. The plant in turn was tethered to a cluster of sawmills that processed larch and pine and supplied the plant with sawdust, its primary raw material. "We could buy fur coats back then," says Olga Loginova, 47, a fermentation room worker.
In the post-Soviet chaos of the 1990s, hundreds of sawmills went bankrupt, including the Biryusinsk plant's suppliers. The factory had to pay more for sawdust from mills farther away. By 2005, at a time when Moscow wealth was pushing up downtown real estate prices to nearly $1,000 per square foot, Biryusinsk plant workers were jamming into the factory's grocery to receive management's substitute for a paycheck: loaves of bread.
Beer in Milwaukee, automobiles in Detroit, tires in Akron, flour in Minneapolis, Hog Butcher for the World, yes, we know that, and
what has happened, but we had both market tests and entrepreneurial people, and that helps some of those cities adapt. Elsewhere, the technocratic impulse persists.
In Irkutsk, bureaucrats have convinced themselves that building a "super city" will turn the tide. They believe that the provincial capital and two smaller satellite cities, Angarsk and Shelekhov, can be linked to form a megalopolis with a million people and a magnet for jobs, people and investors.
Sergei Voronov, Irkutsk's deputy provincial governor, lays out the blueprints: two new highways, 24 hotels, three ski resorts, a new airport and the timeworn cure-all of urban planners around the world, a monorail.
Da, and Lake Baikal has all sorts of recreational potential. Irkutsk, however, is the home away from Moscow of the
Decembrists. Despite being nobility, these renegade aristocrats were honored by the Soviet government as socially progressive elements.
Their mansions remain sources of civic pride.
The house which the Volkonskys built in Irkutsk in 1844 still stands. Close-by, in a hush part of the city, is the Trubetskoy house. The residence is simple but handsome from the outside, while inside, the Volkonsky’s furniture and many of their possessions are still here, the elegant rooms papered with the bright colours and friezes of the nineteenth century. Maria had a great love of the arts, the theatre and opera particularly. Since she was prohibited from attending the city theatre, she created her own in one of her parlours. The grand piano she had sent from the capital still dominates the room, and amateur dramatists perform here in the winter months.
The Decembrists had a huge impact on the life of Irkutsk. Along with a group of Polish officers exiled in the 1850s, they offset the Wild West feel of the city with their balls, concerts, plays and recitals. Many set up schools, at a time when the crime rate was such that its inhabitants would regularly shoot a warning salvo from their windows before retiring for the night. They influenced the nouveaux-riches merchants — who’d made their fortunes from sable furs and later gold — lending the town a sophistication and municipal munificence unknown in the rest of Siberia.
Their legacy can still be felt today in the squares, hospitals, universities and churches which monopolise the city’s centre. The art museum is the largest in Siberia, its rooms groaning with rows of nineteenth century canvasses, and the regional museum ranks among the best in the country. The merchants’ mansions, rebuilt in stone following a devastating fire in 1879, dominate the wide arteries of the city’s heart with their ornately-framed windows, imposing columns and handsome pediments. It might not be Paris, but it still comes as a shock after the badlands of Siberia.
The public squares are pretty, and the hospitality at the museums is genuine. But catch the tone of that passage. The salon culture of Paris or old Warsaw or old Moscow had been transplanted to Irkutsk, and it "civilised" those Wild West merchants. In North America, we'd know those merchants as Astors and Carnegies and Hills and Rockefellers and Edisons who were entrepreneurs first and patrons of the arts later. And I've deliberately named several people who later donated large sums of money to universities. On my trip, I rode a bus through
Akademgorodok, which the Soviets conceived of as Chicago (more of a college town than Boston!) and Madison and the Bay Area in one place. The reason I say "rode a bus through" is that we didn't stop. There didn't appear to be much going on. Yes, Stalin and his successors distorted Russian economic development, but communism might have grown more easily in a soil where an entrepreneurial tradition had not taken root first.