It was 1975, in Irkutsk—a quiet Siberian city wrapped in the concrete hush of the Soviet era. My grandmother and I walked through her friend Katya’s neighbourhood. Massive poplar trees loomed overhead like silent giants. I had turned six just a few months earlier, and standing beneath those towering trunks, I felt smaller than ever—like a speck. The light barely reached the ground. Everything was filtered through shifting leaves and long shadows. The air felt hushed, like the trees were listening. There was something eerie about it—not frightening exactly, but strange, as if we had wandered into a place that didn’t quite belong to people.
“What’s out there, past Katya’s house, behind the trees?”
“There’s a big marsh out there,” Grandma said. “There is nothing interesting there.”
Specimens! I thought, electrified. Of course, my grandma—who had only two years of elementary education because of the civil war and then the Second World War—couldn’t possibly guess what was going through my head.
Since early age, I kept wondering: who will I become? I hadn’t even started school yet, but the question was already there, floating just behind my thoughts. Naturally. In the Soviet Union, everyone became something—an engineer, an accountant, a teacher, a librarian, a medical doctor. So I was constantly counterplotting.
And then, one day, I saw an old Soviet film—the 1935 adaptation of Jules Verne’s In Search of the Castaways (Children of Captain Grant). Full of wild adventures, it made my head spin. The original book was written to popularise geography, and that sealed it for me: I would, like the main character, Paganel, become a scientist. I was fascinated by the way his knowledge kept proving useful to the crew. Science wasn’t just theory—it was action and endless breathtaking adventures.
From that day on, I often pretended to be Paganel, and this sparked all sorts of ideas. One of them was to create a museum. A real one! I wanted to display all kinds of interesting stuff: dried flowers, bugs, pebbles, feathers, seashells— anything cool I could find. The museum would be right in our yard or, if Mom let me, in the storage closet. I’d already made a cardboard sign: “MUSEUM.”
But my desire to collect specimens didn’t counter my fear of going to the swamp alone. I decided to build a team.
Unlike Katya’s neighbourhood, the neighbourhood where we lived—more than a half-hour walk away—did not have huge trees and therefore was always full of bright sunlight and open spaces. It was a good thing and a bad thing at the same time—good because it was not scary and bad because it seemed that nothing interesting could hide there. There was nothing to look for because everything was on display. Our neighbourhood also had more children, though most of them were a bit older than me. At Katya’s, I never saw a single one.
When I told the kids about my plan for an expedition and a museum, they seemed interested and all agreed to join me the next morning. Still, I didn’t see the kind of excitement I’d hoped for. To them, it felt more like just something to do.
But then I added, “Don’t tell anyone. It has to be a total secret.”
That changed everything. Their eyes lit up with excitement.
Now, I realise, their hesitation wasn’t about the plan itself—it was about their parents. They weren’t sure what kind of permission they needed, or what the grown-ups would say. Secrecy gave them a way around that.
Promising to reveal where we were going in the morning. I told them to bring bags and jars for collecting things. If anyone had butterfly nets—bring those too. And food, just in case we stayed out too long and missed lunch.
Even my friend Mikey got excited. He usually found a way to mess everything up, but this time, he really seemed into the museum project too. We agreed to meet on the next street over at the house where Nina lived. She was about my age. Because her parents were always drinking, they barely noticed her. Her little brother, Andrey, was always filthy, head to toe.
I figured if Nina’s parents saw us, they wouldn’t care—they’d probably be glad Nina and her brother were off their hands for a while.
I barely slept that night—my mind was racing, and my heart pounded with excitement. At last, I would be like Paganel from my favourite movie. A real expedition! I couldn’t believe how close I was. No more pretending—it was actually going to happen.
Of course, I had doubts, even a bit of fear. But I wouldn’t be alone. If any problems came up, we’d figure things out together. Still, a few nagging thoughts crept in: what if the kids changed their minds at the last minute? What if one of them told their parents about our plans? That would ruin everything. These thoughts swirled in my head until sunrise.
By the time I finished breakfast, my parents had already left for work.
“Where are you going?” Grandma asked.
“I’m going to Nina’s—we’re going to play in her garden,” I said.
“Oh,” Grandma sighed. “Poor Nina and her brother Andrey,” she murmured. “Their mother is very sick, and their father’s a drunk. No one to care for them. Their grandmother is too old—she could die any day now. God knows what’ll happen to them.”
I felt a wave of sympathy for them. And that made me want to see them even more. Not out of pity—just a kind of ache, the kind you feel when someone else’s misfortune brushes close to your own skin. I felt helpless, as if their sadness had cracked something open in me.
As I headed out, I kept thinking: this little adventure I’m taking them on—it’ll end. And then what? What can I do for them? Nothing. Not really. Just be there for a moment, like a breath of different air before everything closes in again. But let’s take one thing at a time, I thought.
Their house wasn’t as big as my grandma’s, but it was tidy and well-kept, with a few small additions and even a chicken coop. Nina and Andrey usually played in a narrow patch of yard just beyond a low fence, so low I could easily step over it. That’s where they’d built a little toy house out of plywood and cardboard. They played “house” there, like they were rehearsing a life without anyone to care for them.
When I arrived, more than half the kids were already there, waiting: some with butterfly nets, others holding old bags that looked like the kind parents usually gave us to burn. Back then, we often got rid of things that way—by setting them on fire in a patch of dirt on front of someone’s house. Strangely, there were never any fires that spread.
All the kids were dressed neatly, as if they were heading to the city, not to a marsh expedition. They didn’t look anything like the characters from my favourite movie, which was disappointing, but understandable.
“Where are you all off to, this and that?” asked Nina’s dad. He was the spitting image of his son—pale as a refrigerator, thin as a stick figure, with the same thick glasses sliding down his nose. He didn’t seem drunk at all, at least not that morning. But unlike his son, he had this strange habit of tacking on “this and that” to almost every sentence. Another strange thing about him was that, unlike every other adult, he hadn’t gone to work that morning.
“We’re going to catch butterflies. On the field down the next street,” I said quickly.
“Ahhh, got it,” he said. “But do you have any killing jars, this and that?”
“What’s a killing jar?” I asked.
“Oh come on, this and that! Off to catch butterflies, and don’t even know what a killing jar is? Young entomologists, ha! What’re you going to do once you catch it, this and that?”
“I don’t know… put it in a jar and look at it?”
“In a jar? Just look at it? This and that! You kids don’t know a thing. If you want to admire a butterfly, it’s got to be on a pin, this and that. And before that, you need to knock it out. Knock it out good, so it doesn’t wake up again. That’s what the killing jar is for. Hang on, I’ll make you one. Just give me a jar. Glass, with a lid. This and that.”
I quickly handed him mine—it had a plastic lid.
“This one works. This and that. Perfect!”
He waved us in—like, come on through. We filed into the yard. He disappeared into the house, then came back with some old newspaper, scissors, a bit of cotton, and a small bottle of ether. Just like the one my grandma kept in her cabinet—always sealed and always dusty. Except this one was open, and half full of transparent liquid.
Why people kept ether in their houses, I had no idea. I just knew: don’t touch it. Dangerous. Later, I learned that some people used it as a topical anaesthetic or for cold compresses, and occasionally, as smelling salts if someone fainted.
“Here! See? This and that!” Nina’s dad started up, showing us what to do. “First, we cut the newspaper into strips—just like that, this and that… Then we fold it up like an accordion… and cut it even smaller, this and that… Now we take the cotton… soak it in the ether—really soak it good, get it nice and full, this and that… Then we drop it in the jar, slap the lid on—done! Killing jar’s ready. There you go, this and that. You catch a butterfly—drop it in, this and that—it’ll fall asleep forever… Then you take it out, spread the wings real careful, and boom—specimen ready, this and that. Now go on, go catch your butterflies. If you need help, come back—I got you. This and that.”
I looked at Nina’s dad with a new kind of respect. Before that, I’d thought he was just some drunk guy. But now, he seemed somewhat like a scientist. I actually started to admire him a little. Maybe he really had been an entomologist once. Or maybe he just knew things—weird things, like how to make a killing jar.
We headed down the path that led from the hill. About fifteen minutes later, we passed the dark part of town where Katya lived. And just beyond that, the marsh opened up in front of us. The air smelled different—like mud and something ancient. Everything felt enchanted. Tadpoles flickered in puddles that glinted like glass. Even the mud seemed alive.
I lined everybody up and gave strict instructions:
“Single file! Stay behind me. No wandering off. Marshes are dangerous. You could fall into a bog.”
“What’s a bog?” asked three-year-old Andrey.
“A bog is like a pit full of mud,” I explained, thrilled to sound like Paganel, as if this marsh were my very own wildlife reserve. “Step in—and you can drown. It sucks you in. That’s why you don’t go in the water. Not one step. We walk only on the grass bumps and ridges. See those grassy bumps? That’s what you stick to. Got it?”
Everyone nodded.
“And if you see anything cool—weird flowers, bugs, or little rocks—collect it. Put it in jars or bags. Maybe we’ll catch some frogs or tadpoles. With the flowers, I’ll show you how to make a herbarium. It’s easy. My dad taught me. You press the plant in a book, stack more books on top, wait five or six days, and boom, it’s done. Just like a real museum. All clear?”
In that moment, I didn’t just feel like Paganel from the movie—I was Jacques Eliacin François Marie Paganel. And that made me feel bolder, more confident, and utterly determined in our pursuit of new things, new places, and undiscovered wonders.
We started moving forward, carefully. Every step felt like it advanced the mission. The swamp rustled and squelched underfoot and smelled like green summer. To me, it was the realest adventure ever.
That’s when I realised our shoes were completely wrong for this. Most of us had sandals. Some were in flip-flops. I’d messed up. I should’ve told everyone to bring boots.
“Don’t go any farther till you find a stick!” I shouted. “Everyone needs a good stick! Something you can lean on and use to check where it’s deep.”
We spent about twenty minutes hunting for decent branches. Some were too thin, some were crooked, and some just snapped. But eventually, each with a solid stick in hand, we moved on.
We walked slowly, hopping from tuft to tuft. Even then, almost everyone slipped and stepped into the water. I did too, a couple of times. Everyone’s feet were soaked. Some kids got smart and took off their shoes, going barefoot instead.
The marshland was enormous. I had no idea it would be this big. There were no little streams here, no clear pools with tadpoles. Just green muck in the water and endless grass tufts.
“All right, start looking!” I said. “Anybody found anything yet?”
Someone was chasing a butterfly. A bunch of kids had snapped off reeds and were dragging them around.
“Drop the reeds for now,” I ordered. “We’ll grab some on the way back. This isn’t the time.”
We kept going. The swamp looked the same in every direction—moss-covered log, grassy tufts, pools covered with slimy stuff, mysterious ripples, scraggly bushes—and nothing else. Before long, everything had blended into one giant swirl of green. We had no idea where we were. We were lost. Now and then, when we came across little patches of dry ground, we’d stop, rest, and chew on something from our bags.
Once again on the move, we spotted a small pond covered in a thick layer of tiny green plants. Duckweed.
“Mikey!” I called. “Scoop some water with the duckweed! For the museum.”
Andrey—Nina’s little brother—snatched the jar out of Mikey’s hands.
“I’ll do it!” he shouted and ran toward the water.
He didn’t make it more than two steps before the ground gave way beneath him. He sank up to his waist in thick, black muck. Everyone froze. The swamp gurgled, like it was laughing at us. Andrey flailed, eyes wide with panic. At first, he looked like a pale, fragile, thin mushroom—the kind I used to find behind Grandma’s house after the rain. But unlike those quiet little things rooted in damp soil, this one was sinking, struggling. Suddenly, Andrey’s face bore the expression of someone far older.
“Come on! Get over here!” I yelled. “Hurry! Move! This and that!”
I didn’t even realise I’d shouted his father’s catchphrase. Maybe it was fear, or maybe my thoughts had gotten so scrambled that the words just slipped out. But in that moment, it felt right, as if I had suddenly stepped into the role of his father, a grown-up, and his life had become my responsibility.
The girls were screaming now—high and sharp. Nina lunged toward her brother, but her foot slipped on the slick mud. She fell hard, her hands slapping into the wet earth, then scrambled upright, only to sink knee-deep into the swamp. She froze, eyes wide, mouth open but silent, then turned her head slowly toward me. Her face was streaked with mud, her beige dress clung to her legs, soaked and stained dark like she’d been dipped in chocolate. She didn’t say a word—she didn’t have to. The terror in her eyes gripped me like a hook. Mikey and I rushed forward, grabbing her arms. The mud held tight, like it wanted to keep her, but we pulled harder—hearts pounding—and finally dragged her back onto the mound, gasping and trembling.
But Andrey—the more he struggled, the deeper he went. He was now almost chest-deep. I tried reaching him with my stick, but it was too short. So I threw it to him—something to grab onto. He caught it. And for a moment, he seemed to stop sinking so fast.
“Throw your sticks!” I yelled. “Everyone! Now!”
We all lunged toward a tall bush at the edge of the mound. It was like something woke up inside us. Mikey and I grabbed the thickest part of the trunk. The girls jumped in to help. The bush cracked and tilted. We didn’t tear it out—just bent it slowly toward Andrey. Now only his head was above the surface. One more second, and he’d be gone.
Without speaking, we all clung to the trunk. Like we were reading each other’s minds. The main thing was not to let it snap. The main thing was for Andrey to hold on.
And then—his arms shot up out of the swamp. He grabbed the branches. You could see it in his face—something switched on inside him. A determination to survive. He started pulling himself up. Once he’d hauled enough of himself out, he crawled along the bush like it was a fallen log. We held our breath.
And then—his glasses. They slid off his face and disappeared into the bog. Andrey froze. “Don’t stop!” Mikey shouted. “Keep going! Toward us! Hurry!”
Andrey’s head slipped under the muck. Only his hands were still gripping the bush. All of us pulled. The trunk cracked and tore from the ground. We held onto it as tight as we could and started to drag it—silently, with everything we had. Just praying his hands wouldn’t slip.
And then—he broke the surface. All black and dripping, only the whites of his eyes showing, but still holding on. His hands clutched the branches, the trunk, anything he could grab. One more pull, one more lurch—and suddenly he was right next to us. We grabbed him. Mud squelched all around us. He coughed, spat swamp water. I looked down—his shorts and glasses were gone, left behind in the bog. He was in nothing but his underwear, skinny, slippery, and muddy.
One of the girls slipped and fell backwards into the slime—they yanked her out by the legs.
“I almost drowned!” Andrey yelled—and then went limp. Like someone shot him.
“I wanna go home!” Nina sobbed.
Another kid began to wail. Then another. And suddenly we were all crying. Even Mikey was wiping his eyes like he was just brushing off sweat.
I wanted to carry Andrey. He looked so small. I crouched, picked him up, and hoisted him onto my shoulders. Surprisingly, he was light. Not like a person—more like a wet towel. Heavy, but not crushing.
“Let’s go,” I said, and we moved forward. But where to—none of us knew.
Mikey and I, as always, were in the lead. But now, moving was twice as hard. I couldn’t keep my balance. Hopping from tuft to tuft felt terrifying. Nobody said a word. Only the swamp made noise—squishing underfoot, like it was breathing.
Carrying Andrey on my shoulders, I realised I’d gotten more than I bargained for. All I wanted was an adventure—to find something special, something unusual that would amaze everyone. And yet here I was, with Andrey slipping and clinging to me, and despite my young age, everyone seemed to think I was the one in charge.
This weight of responsibility wasn’t what I had imagined. I never wanted power over people—not any kind—and now I was giving orders, telling them where to go, what to do. I hated it.
The worst part was, they followed. Without question. No one challenged me. They just… followed and that—that was scarier than anything else.
I leaned over to Mikey.
“Wanna hear a secret?”
He nodded without speaking.
“Don’t tell anyone, okay?”
“Just say it already.”
“I don’t know where to go.”
He didn’t say anything. But his eyes got huge. Then he straightened up and kept walking—like he understood that now, we just had to go. Somewhere. Anywhere. As long as it was forward.
It didn’t feel like The Children of Captain Grant anymore. The whole thing felt like a war movie—a unit lost in a swamp. Only instead of soldiers—it was us, kids.
I looked around at our expedition. We seemed like monsters out of some nightmare. All barefoot—no one had shoes left. Our skin, what you could see of it, was pale, bluish, the rest covered in swamp muck.
I really wanted to find someone older. Even just a little older. I couldn’t do this alone.
The oldest one among us was a third-grade girl—she was probably around nine, three years older than me.
“I don’t know where to go,” I told her quietly.
“I’m the one who’s gonna get in trouble for all this now,” she said.
For some reason, her anticipation of punishment made me feel a little better. Finally, there was someone who’d have to answer for everything. Almost like a grown-up. I hadn’t even noticed her before. As it turned out, she was a guest, a cousin of one of the neighbourhood kids, and had joined us at the last minute. I didn’t even know her name.
“Just look at us,” she said. “We don’t even look like kids anymore. Do you kids even realise that not every story in life has a happy ending? This one—it could end really badly. Grow up, boys and girls. Think before you act. Think hard. This isn’t fun anymore. So what now? Where are we headed?”
“I don’t know,” I said, and shrugged.
We trudged on. Then, like magic, a clearing opened up in front of us. Flat and wide, flooded with rich, emerald green. Scattered through the grass were flowers—white, turquoise, yellow—so bright it almost hurt to look at them. The whole clearing seemed to glow, like someone had poured liquid light across it. I wanted to bolt—to run straight into it, fall down in the middle of the flowers, hide inside their colours. That green was pulling me in.
We all froze. Like we’d been given a command. Just stood there, staring at this sudden miracle in silence. I’d been in the forest with my parents before, but I’d never seen anything like this.
One girl had already stepped forward—almost started running—but the third-grade girl grabbed her by the arm.
We froze again. Standing still like soldiers at the edge of a minefield.
“Where are you going?!” the third-grader yelled. “Don’t you see? There aren’t just flowers—there are lilies too! You know what that means?”
Later, I read that these kinds of beautiful green clearings in swamps are the most dangerous. They hide deep bogs underneath. Even a little mouse wouldn’t be able to stay on its surface—it would sink right in. But back then—we just felt it. Instinct.
“There’s water under those flowers! Muck!” I shouted. “That’s death!”
“Exactly,” she said. “Follow me. I know where to go.”
It turned out she had brought a handful of small ribbons and had been silently marking our path, tying them to tall grass and crooked twigs as we passed. No one noticed. She wasn’t trying to lead—just to make sure we could find our way back. When the ribbons ran out, she dipped her hands into the muck and began leaving quiet signs on the grassy tufts, one by one.
This girl, unknown to most of us, had been tracing a thread of safety through the swamp while the rest of us stumbled forward, chasing adventure. She hadn’t said a word, but she had been thinking of us the whole time.
“I wanna go home,” Andrey cried from my shoulders.
“I wanna go home too,” I said. “But I’m not crying, right? If we all stop crying, we’ll get home for sure. But if we don’t—we’ll stay here. Forever. This and that.”
Andrey started bawling even louder. I stopped.
“That’s it. I’m not carrying you anymore,” I said. “Walk on your own. Nina, take your brother’s hand. This and that.”
He slid off my shoulders and wobbled next to his sister.
It must’ve been about an hour later when we finally saw something familiar—the edge of Katya’s neighbourhood. We just collapsed onto the real ground—solid, flat, and dry. No one said a word. We were too exhausted to speak, too stunned to celebrate. We had made it out.
All of us were thinking the same thing: “What are our parents going to say?”
Except for Andrey’s dad, all of our parents worked full-time jobs—from seven in the morning until six, sometimes even nine at night. They came home exhausted, only to keep working: making dinner, washing clothes, caring for younger siblings, preparing for the next day.
Even the slightest misstep on our part—anything that made their lives harder—could make them furious. And when they were angry, you never quite knew what kind of punishment might follow.
What made it worse was the silence: there were no written rules, no clear lines. You were simply expected to know, without question, what was good and what was not. And if you didn’t—if you guessed wrong—the consequences could come down hard.
We’d made it out of the swamp. Now we had to figure out how to get home—without any shoes.
Back then, streets in those neighbourhoods weren’t paved. They were covered in gravel, chunks of brick, bits of construction waste. And glass—everywhere. Especially broken lemonade, mineral water, milk, and beer bottles. There were no plastic bottles in the Soviet Union—none. Everything came in glass. We’d seen the shards that morning, but now we had to walk over them. Barefoot.
In Katya’s neighbourhood, the ground was packed down and smooth—that part wasn’t so bad. We walked slowly, barely talking. But when we got to our own streets—that’s when it got hard. There were sharp stones—hot from the sun—and so much glass. It felt like the whole neighbourhood had turned against us. Like it could smell we were weak and wanted to finish us off.
But we kept walking. This time, I wasn’t in front. I drifted to the very back, beside the girl who had saved us—silent, steady, as if she carried her own secret compass. I was so tired I could no longer see the world around me, only the blur of feet and shadows. Some of us—me, Andrey, Nina, and the girl—had the sense to stay off the main road, skirting its edges where the broken glass was sparse and the sharp rocks gave way to softer ground. But most of the kids walked right down the centre, barefoot, stepping over shards and grit as if they didn’t feel it. I watched them and wondered: why weren’t they crying? Had their skin grown thick? Or had we all passed the point where pain could even reach us—emptied of fear, of tears, of anything but the need to keep moving?
We must’ve looked like zombies—barefoot and dripping, like something out of an old horror movie. Some of us had chunks of hair stuck together with mud. Others had slime dripping down their faces. Someone had a jar of duckweed swinging from their shoulder. We dragged ourselves forward, silent, heavy, with empty eyes.
“Drowned kids coming back from the swamp!” someone suddenly yelled from the side. “I saw them! They came out of the swamp!”
Then we saw them—the stand-ins for our parents: grandparents, older siblings. They had come out searching for us. Some were running. Others moved quickly, their bodies coiled with worry, faces tight with fear, relief, and something close to fury. Mikey’s grandmother was there too—in that same bright flowered blouse I’d always seen her in. She had a long switch in her hand. The one she used every evening to drag Mikey home and often to whip him. In their house, getting hit was just normal.
“Where’ve you been, you little shit?!” she yelled, like nobody else even existed.
She smacked him hard across the butt with the switch. Mikey yelped, grabbed his pants, and ran home as fast as he could.
“I told you, I saw them! Coming out of the swamp!” the same voice called again. I think that woman was still trailing behind us, like a crow circling something dead.
“Where are your glasses, this and that?!” someone shouted at Andrey.
He burst into tears. And then so did the others. Crying rolled through the group like a wave. Like something finally broke open.
Parents grabbed their kids however they could—under the arm, over the shoulder. They carried them home—the crying ones, the shaking ones, and those who remained silent.
My grandfather came up, didn’t say a word. Just lifted me into his arms. And carried me.
He didn’t say anything. He just carried me. He never talked much. He was always calm—calm even when my grandmother bit him so hard that blood sprayed across the walls. We grandkids all saw it. He never raised a hand to her. He was bitten for drinking on the weekends, or simply for smiling. Smiling, in Russia, often seemed like an offence. But even then, he stayed calm.
Maybe that calmness was what helped him survive the war. He’d been a soldier’s driver during the Second World War. He always went with the flow. Most of the kids I led into the swamp were like that too—quiet, compliant, and ready to follow. But I didn’t want calm. I didn’t want to go with the flow. I knew I wouldn’t survive a war like he did. I had to act, to push, to move in the direction I believed in—even if no one else did. I don’t remember much after that. I remember warmth. I remember a bath. I remember that no one really yelled at me at home. I got scolded a little, sure. They told me never to go near the swamp again. And then came the scary stories. About a boy who sank and was never found. About a cow that got pulled under—whole.
Years have passed since then. The swamp’s long gone—built over now, with houses, sidewalks, and benches. Everything smooth, clean, safe. No one remembers what used to be under all that asphalt.
No one except us.
We barely talked about the expedition afterwards. Just now and then, offhand—joking, smirking. Like: “Remember when Andrey went under?” Or “Remember walking barefoot over broken glass?”
Still, I haven’t let go of that day. Whenever fear creeps in or I find myself lost, I remember how we made it out—thanks to a girl no one knew, who said nothing, but marked the way. It was a stroke of luck, yes—but also a quiet reminder that in life, survival often depends not on strength or wisdom, but on the unnoticed, the unspoken, the small choices that shape our path without ever asking for credit. We came out of a real swamp—no shoes—and we still made it.
But what happened to Paganel?
As strange as it sounds, his character never really left me. He stayed with me, quietly guiding me long after that day in the swamp.
I became a biologist—and what a journey it has been to learn the marvellous complexity of life in all its forms. From the swamps of Siberia to a tenured professorship at the City University of New York, Paganel’s spirit somehow carried me through.
Not as a hero, but as a compass—pointing toward wonder.
This and that.
