Straight ahead, you’ll spot the Devil's Bridge-a sturdy arching structure of gray concrete stretching across the dip between grassy hills, with a round medallion at its center above the road below.
Now, take a good look at this rather mysterious bridge. You’re standing beneath the Devil’s Bridge-or as locals call it, Kuradisild. This isn’t just a span for crossing: it’s a gateway to Tartu’s tangled past, layered with stories of emperors, students, and curious bits of legend. If you listen closely, you can almost hear the echoes of history swirling beneath its stone arch, especially on moody, windy days like this.
The Devil’s Bridge was built here in 1913, yet there’s nothing devilish about its construction-no horns, no fire, just a cold arch of iron-reinforced concrete. It’s strictly a pedestrian bridge, and it elegantly stretches over Lossi Street, connecting the Domberg Hill’s slopes. At the center, a medallion stares down at you. On one side, facing towards Vallikraavi Street, there’s the carved face of Tsar Alexander I with the old Latin, "Aleksandro Primo," and on the other, numbers marking the tricentennial of the Romanov dynasty, 1613-1913. Imagine, for a moment, the pomp and pride of the Russian Empire that once reached even here in Tartu.
But if you wonder why it’s named the Devil’s Bridge, well, here’s a twist. Long ago, in the mid-1800s, the first major bridge at this very spot was built of wood, arching over a street so sharply angled that it resembled the much-feared Devil’s Bridge in Switzerland-site of a legendary battle. Locals thought this dark, looming shape, so different from its companion across the valley, should be called the Devil’s Bridge, while the much lighter, friendlier arch nearby was nicknamed Angel’s Bridge. The names stuck, and over time, became official. Some believe the bridge earned its name to mark a division-one bridge embodying light and reason and the other, darkness and old imperial power. See, when the new, concrete Devil’s Bridge was built in 1913, its decor boldly proclaimed loyalty to the Russian rulers, drawing an almost playful contrast to the Angel’s Bridge, which celebrated the spirit of knowledge and progress.
But let’s slip further back into history: before these bridges existed, the Toomemägi hill was sliced by a ravine, making travel between the university’s buildings a true nuisance, especially in the grim, wet seasons. The first bridges were wooden, faintly gothic, and creaky-imagine the anxious footsteps of 19th-century students and professors as they hurried across to their lectures, the fog curling up from below. Those bridges wore out in the harsh winters; one crumbled, another followed, each time replaced by something sturdier, until finally, the present devilish arch was forged from concrete, almost overnight by historical standards-just three months of building in the summer of 1913.
And, as with any grand old place, rituals have emerged. Student choirs, with voices swelling in friendly competition, began to meet on these very bridges. In the shadow of the Devil’s arch and under the brighter face of the Angel’s Bridge, male and female academic choirs answered each other with soaring songs. Even today, on special evenings, you might catch the Tartu University men’s chorus singing here, their voices filling the space beneath these ancient arches. If you close your eyes, you might just imagine the music drifting through the dusk above Lossi Street, mixing with distant laughter and the soft roll of bicycle tires.
So, whether you believe in a real devil-or simply the ghosts of history-the Devil’s Bridge stands watch in Tartu, both a relic and a living link in a story still being sung.
