Perm: Gateway to Eurasia

text and photos

by william c. brumfield

“Perm will be the first

city in Europe to greet the new millennium.” So goes a local booster slogan for this metropolis deep within the Ural Mountains. And although one does not commonly think of Perm (current population just over 1.1 million) as the “first city” in Europe, there is a

certain attractive quality to the claim: “One Europe, from Perm to Paris!”

Perm is indeed just on the European side of the Urals backbone, but getting there by train gives the opposite impression. Our route followed the old path from Moscow to Vladimir and Nizhny Novgorod, and from there to Viatka (now known as Kirov). The real sense of boundary comes as the train crosses east over the majestic sweep of the Volga River, leaving behind the high, western river bluffs at Nizhny Novgorod.

The flat, sparsely inhabited terrain on the east bank—similar to grassy steppe terrain, yet not quite steppe—already suggests the erasure of Europe’s contours and reminds of that dimension of space that always seems to expand in Russia. Here is the broad conduit along which merchants from the Orient and nomadic invaders from Asia’s highlands moved toward the ancient territories of the Slavs. And in the opposite direction, Russia’s merchants, troops, and settlers moved inexorably towards the East. Asia is still far, but Eurasia feels near at hand.

And yet this is all still Europe. The town of Kirov, located on picturesque, hilly bluffs overlooking the Vyatka River (a tributary of the Kama and the Volga) is not even the beginning of the end of the European continent. This ancient town, first mentioned in Russian chronicles in 1374 under the name Khlynov, arose in an area along the Vyatka River that had been inhabited by Finno-Ugric tribes long before the first Slavs. Like so many other provincial Russian capitals, Kirov is struggling to modernize its economy while retaining some sense of its cultural heritage.

In Kirov, one year after the economic meltdown of August 1998, one cannot help seeing the huge contrasts—psychological and material—so apparent in contemporary Russia. On the one hand, people rising to new positions of responsibility in the professional and administrative worlds—what we might call a new middle class—show the signs of at least modest prosperity: clothes, education for their children, livable housing. Many now live in spacious, well-furnished apartments, located in some of the numerous, attractive new apartment buildings conveniently situated around the parks in the central part of the city.

On the other hand, the legacy of the financial crisis is still bitterly felt among these same people. These are not the cartoonish “new Russians,” with money to burn, but white-collar professionals who looked forward to an increase in the standard of living for themselves and their children. For them the 1998 devaluation of the ruble, although necessary for the development of the internal Russian market, was a devastating blow—even if they did not lose money in bank failures.

This is particularly a problem for the many single-parent families created by Russia’s high divorce rate. Responsibility for most of these families falls to the woman, who may occupy a socially respectable, prestigious position in education or culture (for example, a museum curator or assistant director in a research institute), but one that pays a meager salary. The day-to-day frustrations are immense, yet these women understand that the only solution is to work, however possible, toward the continued improvement of the system within which they live. The radicalism of the fringe political groups is not for them, yet they are increasingly supportive of political factions that emphasize the return to a strong state system. As one single mother in Kirov said, “Russians have always been a state people (gosudartsvenny narod).” Many white collar professionals in European Russia still consider state service the only legitimate form of work and the state structure the only more or less honest provider of employment.

The morning express train leaves Kirov for Perm at 08:00. For most of its distance, the rail line to Perm follows the Cheptsa River, an eastern tributary of the Viatka. The terrain consists of rolling hills, often of great beauty, with alternating fields and forests. August weather varies greatly in this part of the world, and throughout the eight-hour trip, massive rain clouds alternated with sunlight that was all the more brilliant on rain-drenched leaves. Picturesque villages, many with stout log houses, alternated with the all-too-familiar scenes of industrial desolation: rusting, abandoned factories, reinforced concrete shells, tottering sheds. This detritus can be found in any industrialized country. But there is an unusually large amount of it in Russia, the legacy of a centrally-directed state economy that wasted resources on a colossal scale. Hundreds of industrial building projects were left unfinished when the money ran out, the state collapsed, and the party ended.

Such thoughts were banished, however, as the train crossed the mighty Kama River and pulled into Perm Station on a rich late-summer’s afternoon. On the platform waited Evgeny Dvoeglazov and his wife Liudmila (who had established the local Intourist office in Perm after the deregulation of centralized tourism), and Gershen Davidovich Kantorovich, head of the preservation office for the entire province. Kantorovich supervised the preservation and restoration of many buildings in Perm and in the town’s many historic settlements. He played a leading role in the formation of the Museum of Wooden Architecture at the village of Khokhlovka (see page 51).

Rain clouds gave way to rich evening sunlight. From the bustling, overcrowded train station, we drove through leafy streets surrounding late Soviet-era housing developments. Gershen Davidovich then guided us to an interesting nook behind the impersonal facades.

It was the Church of the Icon of the Kazan Virgin, part of the 19th-century Dormition Convent that is now being reopened. Construction was going on everywhere, with a new refectory and other convent buildings taking shape near the church itself, constructed in 1905-07. Endowed by the wealthy Kamensky merchant family, the church is known for its large ceramic image of the savior by the famous Russian artists Viktor Vasnetsov and Nikolai Roerich. Yet, into this peaceful scene, with worshippers gathering for evening service, the world’s conflicts intruded: there was a bishop’s statement on the door of the church, requesting material aid for the Serb victims of NATO bombing.

Perm is a long, narrow city, whose main part extends for several miles up the Kama River. This metropolis has a strikingly cosmopolitan air, a “big-city” sense of proportion and design. This is especially visible as one drives up Lenin Street (Soviet names are everywhere in evidence), along a mall-like park lined with multi-storied apartment and office buildings. At the intersection with Komsomol Prospekt is the towering steeple of the former Transfiguration Cathedral. This early 19th-century neoclassical spire might be at home in any number of British or American towns—yet here it is on the banks of the Kama, an unexpected reminder of how much we share in our cultures.

At the center of town, where Lenin Street meets the park at Komsomol Square, a left turn on Karl Marx Street leads directly to one of the most dramatic vistas in the city. From the high, east bank of the Kama, the view extends across the river toward a mixture of forested hills and industrial plants on the west bank. Near this viewpoint is a bronze statue of Red soldiers and commissars commemorating the Bolshevik capture of the city in the spring of 1919. Like so many other industrial and railroad towns in the Urals and Siberia during the civil war, Perm was hotly contested. For a few months it appeared that Admiral Kolchak’s White forces, which captured Perm on Christmas eve in 1918, would prevail in their drive westward. But the energetic strategy of the Red commanders such as Mikhail Frunze and Vasily Blyukher drove Kolchak back from Perm and the Urals, forcing them into a disastrous retreat.

All along the path to Siberia, there are constant reminders and memorials to the civil war. Only now is some objective attempt being made to understand the history of the anti-Bolshevik side in this great tragedy. For example, not far from the Bolshevik monument is a pleasantly-restored townhouse, known before the revolution as the “King’s Rooms” Hotel. The facade now displays a bronze tablet noting that Grand Duke Michael, who was briefly the successor to Nicholas II after the abdication, lived in the house during 1918 until taken away for execution by the Bolsheviks. In a further twist, there is a tablet outside the house on Marx Street where Commander Blyukher, a victim of Stalin’s purges in 1938, stayed in 1919 after the capture of Perm. Sic transit gloria mundi. (Thus passes the glory of the world.)

Like many large American cities, Perm is relatively young in a historical sense. Although earlier settlements had existed on the site, Perm was founded only in the 18th century. As was the case in many other Urals towns (including Yekaterinburg), the guiding force in developing this area was Vasily Tatishchev, one of Russia’s most famous early historians. Tatishchev was that rare scholar who also had a gift for practical activity. Driven by Peter the Great’s quest for more secure sources of high-quality industrial metals, Tatishchev established settlements at the sites of mines, smelters, and metal-working plants throughout the Ural Mountains. Tatishchev chose the 17th-century village of Yegoshikha, with its favorable location on a major river and with nearby sources of copper ore, as the site for an important copper smelter. (Incidentally, Tatishchev had boundless admiration for Peter the Great and was one of the most influential early proponents of the central role of autocrat and state in Russian history; in other words, that Russians are a “state people.”)

But not until the reign of Catherine the Great, in 1781, was a charter issued for the town of Perm itself, whose name is derived from Finno-Ugric words meaning “distant land.” Because of its favorable location near the intersection of major rivers, Perm developed during the 19th century into a transportation center for such essential goods as salt, metal ore, and the products of metal factories spread throughout the western Ural Mountains. In 1846, regular steamboat service was established on the Kama. In 1863, Perm was included in the major Siberian Highway, and in 1878 construction was completed on the first phase of the Urals Railroad, from Perm to Yekaterinburg.

At the same time, Perm was remote enough to serve as one of the Russian Empire’s many places of exile. The famous state reformer Count Mikhail Speransky, who appears in Tolstoy’s novel War and Peace, fell into temporary disfavor under Alexander I and was exiled here in 1812-14. Two decades later, the writer and political thinker Alexander Herzen spent part of his long exile in Perm (1835). And there were other prominent exiles during the latter part of the century. During the Stalinist era, the Perm region would gain the sad distinction as a major point in the GULag empire.

Since its founding, Perm has been associated with heavy industry. By the 1860s, it had become one of the most important arms producing areas in Russia. The cannon works at Motovilikha, a well-preserved factory town founded in the 18th century just north of Perm, became a key component in the Russian (and later Soviet) military-industrial complex. Much of this area is now open to the public. Military buffs can visit an outdoor museum devoted to an impressive array of armaments produced at Motovilikha. In this and other industrial areas now included within greater Perm, the process of conversion to non-military products has occurred with some success, particularly in the area of aircraft engine production, e.g. Pratt and Whitney’s joint venture with a local jet engine manufacturer.

Whatever the details of any industrial enterprise, the city’s economy rests on the continuing viability of local industry, which includes not only metalworking but also major oil refineries and related chemical plants. In this respect, there are encouraging signs, particularly in the construction of swank new apartment buildings in the center of town and in the prosperity evident in new shopping areas, such as those around Komsomol Prospekt.

The well being of the city is also evident in the restoration ofmany pre-Soviet buildings, as well as in several reopened houses of worship. Although many Orthodox churches were destroyed during the Soviet period, a number have been reopened, such as the Church of the Ascension (1903-10) and the Trinity Cathedral (1846-49). Perm also has a large mosque of impressive design and even more striking color: bright green. Its tall minaret forms one of the area’s landmarks, soaring above the charming wooden houses and century-old brick buildings in what was once a Tartar neighborhood. And in the center of the city, there is a functioning synagogue, built in 1903.

The most visible religious building in Perm is the Cathedral of the Transfiguration of the Savior, at a former monastery of the same name. The Monastery buildings now house both the Art Museum (which contains an excellent collection of local religious art, including wooden statuary) and the Regional History Museum. Exhibits in the latter bring the shocking realization that the geological term “Permian” has its roots here: excavations in the area at the beginning of this century helped define the Permian period (270,000,000 to 220,000,000 years ago) in the Paleozoic Era, somewhat before the coming of the Slavs.

Some 370 kilometers to the north of Perm is the historic town of Solikamsk. Formerly, the  way to get to Solikamsk from Perm was by a local train that winds its way east and then north for eight hours. But with the completion of a new bridge over the Sylva River near its confluence with the Kama, it is now possible to cruise northward over good roads and reach Solikamsk in three or four hours—depending on the mood of the driver. Our driver, Nikolai, took his young son with us to see this historic town. Our pace was slowed by more than one coffee and cigarette break as we impatiently noticed that the sun reappeared after a day’s gloomy absence.

By eleven we had passed the industrial town of Berezniki, a Kama River port with important chemical plants and potassium mines. Just across the river is the historic town of Usolye, founded by Nikita Stroganov in 1606 as the center of Stroganov operations in the Urals. The name of the town derives from the word for salt, and here, as in Solvychegodsk in the North (see Russian Life, Feb/Mar 1999), the Stroganovs gained great wealth from refining the rich local sources of brine. Solikamsk itself, whose name means “salt on the Kama,” actually predates the Stroganovs: it was founded in 1430 by the wealthy Kalinnikov merchant family from distant Vologda (see Russian Life, Sept. 1997), who also established a salt works there.

As we approached Solikamsk, the extraordinary wealth of this area’s salt deposits became strikingly obvious. Even before the mine buildings were visible, we saw mountains of varicolored tailings from the mining of potassium and related salts. The surreal impression of these bare mounds, on which nothing could grow, was increased by the greenery at their base. Resuming our drive toward Solikamsk, we saw the huge mining complex, belching exhaust, and its dozens of buildings, many of which are landmarks of the Soviet industrialization campaign of the 1930s.

It was almost noon when we finally arrived in the historic center of Solikamsk (population approximately 110,000). I immediately leapt from the car with cameras flying as soon as I saw the glorious sun on the central ensemble of churches and bell towers. The local administration, and particularly the head of the cultural section, Valentina Popova, wanted to give us the usual wonderful display of Russian hospitality. But I had come so far, the sun was so glorious, and treacherous clouds were on the horizon. At my insistence, photographic work came first.

Despite the inevitable losses during the Soviet era, Solikamsk was more fortunate than many towns of the Urals in having kept at least the buildings of its historic center. And what an array they are! The magnificent late 17th-century Trinity Cathedral, with adjacent 60-meter bell tower and spire that looks like some odd transplant from St. Petersburg—as well it might, due to its construction in 1713; the no less picturesque Epiphany Church, with superb iconostasis preserved on the interior; the Church of the Elevation of the Cross, with its unique exterior decoration; the churches of the Transfiguration Convent; and the Ascension Monastery.

The above is only a partial list, and they are all still standing, most of them grouped near the central market square. This is no coincidence, for in the late 16th and 17th centuries, Solikamsk became not only a major center for the production of salt, but also an important transportation center. In 1597, the famous Babinov Road, blazed by a free peasant of that name, opened from Solikamsk to Verkhoturye, thus greatly reducing the time and distance to Siberia. For a brief time, Solikamsk was the administrative center of the Urals. By the end of the 17th century, its trade network reached all the way to China.

Despite many subsequent reversals of fortune, Solikamsk and its great 17th-century churches have endured. Igor Luzan, the young vice-mayor in charge of economic development, made it clear that the current administration is working successfully to develop contacts with western (particularly German) partners for the export not only of valuable minerals, but also related chemical and forest products. The mayor’s office has produced a lavish book on the area’s human and cultural resources—including, of course, the glorious churches. The city also plans to make much of its 570th anniversary in the summer of 2000.

By three in the afternoon, Valentina Popova finally managed to bring us to a sumptuous Russian lunch in a private room at the local hotel. Kantorovich, who had met Popova many years ago when both were young administrative workers in Solikamsk, reminisced about how much they had accomplished since then. He gallantly raised a toast to her, declaring that “culture should be in the hands of women.” Indeed, as I noticed throughout my trip east, most of Russia’s regional cultural administrators—as well as many restoration architects—are women, and they are doing heroic work.

But not even this lunch was the leisurely occasion our hosts had planned. There were still a few sites to photograph, but unfortunately, a late summer shower threw plans into disarray. Kantorovich wanted to leave ample time for the trip back over rain-slicked roads. Our driver Nikolai made record time. (I’ve notice that Russian drivers make much better time on the road home.) We arrived at Kantorovich’s apartment just before eight, and soon his wife returned from their country dacha, where the all-important summer harvest of vegetables, mushrooms and berries was underway. Many Russian families depend on this harvest throughout the year, and I was delighted to sample the fruits of their labors, including a superb berry wine. At ten in the evening, Kantorovich and I boarded the local train for Yekaterinburg—he to attend a conference of regional preservation directors and I to reach the next province on my journey east.