TATIANA - Midnight in Siberia: A Train Journey into the Heart of Russia - page 119

starving and freezing. Napoleon in 1812 fled Moscow, then faced an impenetrable enemy:
the Russian winter:
Winter and snow are particularly Russian phenomena, captured in poems and nov-
els and in the broadly-recognized images on lacquer boxes—of fur-clad figures
bundled against the elements, troikas or sleighs drawn by three horses, expansive
stretches of birch or pine forest laden with snow, and squat wooden peasant huts
around a stove to beat back the elements. 'Russia' conjures up associations with
Siberia, permafrost, and vodka to warm the flesh and boost the spirits on long
winter nights. Winter (Zima) is even a place in Siberia, a small town and stopping
point along the Trans-Siberian Railway from Moscow to Vladivostok.
But myth and poetry are one thing. Reality is another. And Hill and Gaddy argue that
the Soviet Union's obsession with moving people to Siberia, building up cities and indus-
trializing in harsh and isolated places, is at the core of Russia's economic problems today:
“If Russia is to be governable and economically viable, it needs to 'shrink' itself. Not by
divesting territory but by organizing its economy differently. The objective is to reduce dis-
tance and create new connections. People will need to migrate westward on a large scale,
and large cities in the coldest and most remote regions will have to downsize.”
Moscow seems so very far away as we push eastward. The feeling of disconnect grows,
making it seem unsurprising that having people scattered in such remote places is a drag
on a nation's economy. Politically the disconnect works in different ways. Many people in
Siberia feel little if any relationship to Moscow and the Kremlin, and throughout history,
people have felt relatively more free to think for themselves. And yet, distance is also an
impediment for any serious opposition movement to grow and thrive.
Sergei and I are still in third class. On this train we both have top berths. I am still hori-
zontal, quietly resting my head against the window. Sergei is up. He has climbed down and
made tea. He is sitting on the lower berth. The man there is still sleeping but has shifted his
legs to give Sergei a corner to sit on and enjoy his tea. Sergei has his hand on the spoon in
his glass so it doesn't rattle. He is worried it might wake me up.
I OFTEN WONDER how many gallons of tea are consumed daily on a Russian train. Every
car has a big cauldron of water, in Russian, a titan . It's like a modern-day samovar, a tradi-
tional device in Russia—usually ornately made of brass—that heats water with wood chips
and churns out damn good tea. The samovar on the train runs on electricity—as does the
train itself. Which raises the question: What is all the coal for? At many stops the provod-
niks shovel coal into a storage cabinet located on each train car. As I've learned, coal heats