In Russian there is a saying: “It is not the gods that make pots.” In essence, this means that whatever new things you set out to do, it cannot be that hard. Over the course of my life, I have indeed done quite a few things for which I had little or no prior training. More recently, these include historical research for a prose family memoir book, writing the book, self‑publishing it and all that comes after.

While the study of history has always been a joy, the truth is that my historical research skills do not come from academic training. They grew out of sheer necessity. With a family spread over several continents and deep roots in a country I have not inhabited since the age of six, I had little choice but to learn and try to become proficient. Was this easy? Well — both yes and no.

It helped that I could explore a great many sources thanks to knowledge of several languages, especially my Russian mother tongue. I was also “warmed up” by extensive family stories, and fast reading skill proved to be a definite asset. Yet, rather like in classical ballet, I soon discovered that the amount of proper pre‑warming required before producing something meaningful was colossal. Keeping warm, once achieved, was another matter entirely. It was like chasing a moving target: suddenly I had it — then just as suddenly, I lost it.

It was a sobering eye‑opener regarding the mind’s capacity, and especially its limits. To illustrate this more graphically: to find out how the master bedroom of a house looked one hundred years ago, I often had to start with the description of a cooking pot handle. Then I needed to determine who held that handle, when, and why — sometimes discovering there was more than one. Not to mention getting irresistibly distracted by the kinds of food cooked in that very pot.

Very soon I realised that I was not only dealing with history, but with something I now call emotional archaeology. In every family, feelings and perceptions have a history of their own. The lessons and assumptions passed down to us through generations form the top stratum; beneath it lie the events that shaped them — inextricably linked to broader historical developments. Knowing what happened is one thing. Inferring how these events may have shaped our ancestors is quite another. As the Germans say: “Da liegt der Hund begraben!” (there lies the dog buried). One of the oldest associations of this saying involves Satan himself, in the shape of a black dog guarding hidden treasure. I say no more.

I began with scarce and scattered evidence from the archives of the Bureau of Russian Emigrants (BREM) in Manchuria, created after the Japanese invasion of the region in 1932. Later taken over by Soviet authorities and eventually digitalised, this archive became accessible to me in fragments. At one point, the god‑daughter of my maternal grandfather, who lives in Australia, kindly shared with me photographs of a few relevant dossier pages she had encountered by chance during her own visit to Khabarovsk. That was a wake up call.

Another decisive step came in 2020, when I unexpectedly found relatives and other key people willing to help me dig further. After intense exchanges, a picture began to emerge — full of holes. I had long assumed our family small; instead, I discovered a forest of branches, first and second marriages within the same clan, and many unfamiliar names. The lines were unclear, the structure bewildering. The very first document I created to impose order bore the title “The story of the Egorenkov family from bits and pieces.” It could not have been named more honestly.

Slowly and laboriously, I continued down that path, assisted by relatives in Russia who could access archives closed to me as a foreign resident. Yet even they could rarely illuminate events more than four generations back. That is why the day I stumbled upon digitalised records of the Imperial Russian Army containing a full entry on my great‑great‑grandfather felt like a mesmerizing feast.

I squeezed everything I could out of internet searches and learned that seemingly incongruous combinations of search criteria sometimes yield the most unexpected results. I would not necessarily recommend this method to everyone, but I would insist on one thing: do not let your perceived limits stop you. Do not surrender to the thought that something cannot be found because you “do not know how”. Persistence matters. As Paulo Coelho famously put it: “When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you achieve it.”

Eventually, encouraged by small successes, I ventured into genealogical databases of all kinds, Russian and otherwise, and into memoirs and records left by people who lived in the same places and times. Even if you cannot find your person, a contemporary from a similar background can reveal far more than you might expect. Environments always leave marks.

Before long, I was surrounded by mountains of evidence, digital and paper alike. Research crept into train rides and coffee stops; my phone filled with screenshots, my email with endless links. At some point, when the gold mines overflow, infrastructure fixing suddenly becomes a central and mammoth task. And of course, the timing is always wrong. The same happened to me. Irritating as it was, suddenly sources had to be registered, systems devised, bibliographies prepared. One lesson became clear: it pays to build a robust information structure early on — and to be prepared to invest in technology. After the first book, both my PC and my phone retired honourably, having been worked nearly to death.

Yet here we are. Roots in a Handbag – the Stories of Maria and Olga is now out in the world. After that, I took a breath, steadied myself — and decided to repeat the experience. Why? I cannot fully say. There is something profoundly fascinating in moving back and forth between past and present. Perhaps because the past is never truly gone; it lives within us. The art lies in keeping the doors half closed.