16.4.10
Politics of Family Life
As my father closed the mahogany door to his study, an intense feeling of foreboding settled in the room. The last time I was in his office, I was 4 years old and being reprimanded for pulling all the tulips from the elaborate gardens outside. At the time, I thought them too pretty to be attached to the ground, but my father disagreed.
Piotr von Dietrich had used the family's money and influence well over the past few decades. He always seemed to be pointing at you with his rounded stomach, as if he considered it his source of power. His robes and golden pins upon his jacket labeled him a politician of one of the highest positions and rumor had it that no man contested him or his endeavors. His chair creaked as he leaned into it, and without a word, shuffled through a stack of papers on his desk. The papers were confiscated from me earlier in the week and had gained a significant amount more wrinkle to them. They were my notes, my studies, my dissections of the modern poetry that brought me to my father's office and to the attention of Interpol.
I sat very still, with my arms resting neatly in my lap, my shoulders back, and with my best attempt not to look like a dog with it's tail between it's legs. I believed myself to be innocent of any charges laid against me, but I couldn't shake being nervous. In no way was I against the State or the government. If anything, I encouraged Russia to help the Ukraine stand on her own.
My father sighed, and finally looked up at me. "Dear daughter, I'm sure you are aware of the charges against you." I pursed my lips and nodded. "Then you must know the severity of these charges. Our country is still all-too sensitive on the subject of freedom and individualism. These... poems... you know them well, daughter?"
I nodded again, the ingrained mannerism of not speaking to my father unless spoken to taking over.
"Please then, tell me what of them." He layed the stack down, sat up with his belly facing me, and tilted his head to listen.
I spoke tentatively at first. "This literature is fresh and new, father, written by Taras Shevchenko. He writes of rivers and fresh air, of missing home and love lost. One could also say that he writes about his country lost, of his inability to accept new changes."
"And what is your perception of these ideas?"
This answer was too easy for me, but I knew that no matter what I said, it was inconsequential. I knew my father, and I also knew that when he made his mind up about something, which his tightened face failed to hide, that he rarely strayed from it. "I believe his prose is an attempt to bring a rise in the people, to recognize what is happening to the country. I follow his works only because his subliminal meanings intrigue me."
Father shifted in his seat, making the chair creak again, picked up some of my notes, and looked at them uncommitted before tossing them back down. "Daughter, I understand what you're saying, but the situation can not be easily suppressed. Interpol has decided that they want to trial you for treason because of these papers. I ought not to have them, but I've used all my connections to prevent you from being jailed already. The government believes this Taras Shevchenko to be a turncoat, and he has been blacklisted. There is currently an investigation to find and trial him by the State, which does not reflect well on you since you have a significant amount of his translated works." He shifted again, looking perturbed, "I honestly don't know why you were studying this horrid poetry. You can't imagine the gold I've spent getting you into University to study medicine. You ought be married by now, girl and...!" His voice had raised in pitch and he couldn't hide how upset he was anymore. "Daughter, I can protect you no more. As I mentioned before, I used whatever connections to the court system that I could to prevent your arrest. Terms have been made, and to prevent any shame on our family due to your indiscretion, you must permanently leave the Ukraine by the eve's end."
I couldn't believe my ears. Leave home? Permanently? All because I was studying poetry? I stood up, and I could feel my face turning red in anger. "Father, no! This is preposterous! I'm not treasonist, and you know it!" I grabbed at the papers I had diligently spent hours studying and started ripping them to shreds. This was my attempt to be defiant, to prove I didn't care about the words on the paper.
My father remained oblivious to the bits of paper raining over the study and said flatly "It's too late, daughter. Things are changing, and to protect the future of our family and my position in the government, we can't have this... debacle overshadowing what is to be. Interpol has agreed to let you leave with no resistance as long as yo.."
And I stopped listening then, his words just a mumbling background noise to the screaming in my head. My father didn't fight for me, why would he? He was never the gentlest of parental figures and would only acknowledge me when my mother would insinuate that he should. He thinks he's doing me a favor by preventing me from being arrested, and in a way he probably was. Women going through the court system nowadays were just as likely branded a witch with the whisper of guilt from careless lips.
" ... and the von Dietrich bloodline spreads over many countries, so I'm sure we can find somewh..."
With clenched jaw, I flatly looked at my father and cut him off, "That's enough father. I shan't forget your kindness these past years, and I shan't forget your failure to protect me." That being the rudest thing I've ever uttered to my father, I turned and briskly walked out of his office, slamming the door with all my might.
...Banished.
Piotr von Dietrich had used the family's money and influence well over the past few decades. He always seemed to be pointing at you with his rounded stomach, as if he considered it his source of power. His robes and golden pins upon his jacket labeled him a politician of one of the highest positions and rumor had it that no man contested him or his endeavors. His chair creaked as he leaned into it, and without a word, shuffled through a stack of papers on his desk. The papers were confiscated from me earlier in the week and had gained a significant amount more wrinkle to them. They were my notes, my studies, my dissections of the modern poetry that brought me to my father's office and to the attention of Interpol.
I sat very still, with my arms resting neatly in my lap, my shoulders back, and with my best attempt not to look like a dog with it's tail between it's legs. I believed myself to be innocent of any charges laid against me, but I couldn't shake being nervous. In no way was I against the State or the government. If anything, I encouraged Russia to help the Ukraine stand on her own.
My father sighed, and finally looked up at me. "Dear daughter, I'm sure you are aware of the charges against you." I pursed my lips and nodded. "Then you must know the severity of these charges. Our country is still all-too sensitive on the subject of freedom and individualism. These... poems... you know them well, daughter?"
I nodded again, the ingrained mannerism of not speaking to my father unless spoken to taking over.
"Please then, tell me what of them." He layed the stack down, sat up with his belly facing me, and tilted his head to listen.
I spoke tentatively at first. "This literature is fresh and new, father, written by Taras Shevchenko. He writes of rivers and fresh air, of missing home and love lost. One could also say that he writes about his country lost, of his inability to accept new changes."
"And what is your perception of these ideas?"
This answer was too easy for me, but I knew that no matter what I said, it was inconsequential. I knew my father, and I also knew that when he made his mind up about something, which his tightened face failed to hide, that he rarely strayed from it. "I believe his prose is an attempt to bring a rise in the people, to recognize what is happening to the country. I follow his works only because his subliminal meanings intrigue me."
Father shifted in his seat, making the chair creak again, picked up some of my notes, and looked at them uncommitted before tossing them back down. "Daughter, I understand what you're saying, but the situation can not be easily suppressed. Interpol has decided that they want to trial you for treason because of these papers. I ought not to have them, but I've used all my connections to prevent you from being jailed already. The government believes this Taras Shevchenko to be a turncoat, and he has been blacklisted. There is currently an investigation to find and trial him by the State, which does not reflect well on you since you have a significant amount of his translated works." He shifted again, looking perturbed, "I honestly don't know why you were studying this horrid poetry. You can't imagine the gold I've spent getting you into University to study medicine. You ought be married by now, girl and...!" His voice had raised in pitch and he couldn't hide how upset he was anymore. "Daughter, I can protect you no more. As I mentioned before, I used whatever connections to the court system that I could to prevent your arrest. Terms have been made, and to prevent any shame on our family due to your indiscretion, you must permanently leave the Ukraine by the eve's end."
I couldn't believe my ears. Leave home? Permanently? All because I was studying poetry? I stood up, and I could feel my face turning red in anger. "Father, no! This is preposterous! I'm not treasonist, and you know it!" I grabbed at the papers I had diligently spent hours studying and started ripping them to shreds. This was my attempt to be defiant, to prove I didn't care about the words on the paper.
My father remained oblivious to the bits of paper raining over the study and said flatly "It's too late, daughter. Things are changing, and to protect the future of our family and my position in the government, we can't have this... debacle overshadowing what is to be. Interpol has agreed to let you leave with no resistance as long as yo.."
And I stopped listening then, his words just a mumbling background noise to the screaming in my head. My father didn't fight for me, why would he? He was never the gentlest of parental figures and would only acknowledge me when my mother would insinuate that he should. He thinks he's doing me a favor by preventing me from being arrested, and in a way he probably was. Women going through the court system nowadays were just as likely branded a witch with the whisper of guilt from careless lips.
" ... and the von Dietrich bloodline spreads over many countries, so I'm sure we can find somewh..."
With clenched jaw, I flatly looked at my father and cut him off, "That's enough father. I shan't forget your kindness these past years, and I shan't forget your failure to protect me." That being the rudest thing I've ever uttered to my father, I turned and briskly walked out of his office, slamming the door with all my might.
...Banished.
7.4.10
It Makes No Difference to Me
It Makes No Difference To Me
by Taras Shevchenko
by Taras Shevchenko
It makes no difference to me,
If I shall live or not in Ukraine
Or whether any one shall think
Of me 'mid foreign snow and rain.
It makes no difference to me.
In slavery I grew 'mid strangers,
Unwept by any kin of mine;
In slavery I now will die
And vanish without any sign.
I shall not leave the slightest trace
Upon our glorious Ukraine,
Our land, but not as ours known.
No father will remind his son
Or say to him, "Repeat one prayer,
One prayer for him; for our Ukraine
They tortured him in their foul lair."
It makes no difference to me,
If that son says a prayer or not.
It makes great difference to me
That evil folk and wicked men
Attack our Ukraine, once so free,
And rob and plunder it at will.
That makes great difference to me.
If that son says a prayer or not.
It makes great difference to me
That evil folk and wicked men
Attack our Ukraine, once so free,
And rob and plunder it at will.
That makes great difference to me.
I really should have known that once I started questioning new ideas that the questions would turn around to me. This male dominated world doesn't take lightly to women who express themselves, who question the ways of those in control. It was this poem, "It Makes No Difference to Me" that slipped from my case at the Blue Scepter House, and found by one of those dreaded men that don't accept educated women. The paper and margins were covered in my notes, dissecting the poem. From another's eyes, these notes may appear to be facts, and it was my mistake that I stamped this poem with my ink.
Last eve, our Butler rushed into our sitting room looking anxious.
"M'am, the Interpol is at the door, and they state that it is most urgent that they see you." My mother stood up, keeping that naturally composed von Dietrich face, and nodded to the butler to let the officials in.
I'd never seen a pack of wolves with my own eyes, only photographs, but when the five, crisply uniformed officials stormed in, their eyes filled with red suspicion, I felt something was immediately wrong.
"Ms. von Dietrich, I am Commander Pavlo Yanukovych with the Ukrainian Interpol," stated the man with the most silver badges on his chest. He reached out his hand suavely to take my mother's in greeting, but she remained calmly ramrod straight. It was obvious that my mother could sense the negative electricity in the air with their approach. The Commander, recognizing that he wasn't to receive the lady's hand, awkwardly revoked his own and placed it behind his back.
"Commander, what is this hullabaloo?," she immediately retorted, squinting at each official in turn.
"M'am, the most grievous of information has come to our attention about your daughter, Amarisa. Is this she?" He pointed his nose toward me, as I sat poised and blank-faced behind my mother. I could tell he was attempting to be most cordial since he was in the home of a powerful politician.
Ignoring answering his question directly, my mother stated, "What you have to say, you can say in present company. Now please, explain what I may do for you."
The Commander pulls out a wrinkled piece of paper, and in the candlelight I can see my elegant script. He hands the paper to my mother, who sets her glasses upon her nose and examines it. The room is awkwardly quiet a moment until my mother looks up at the Commander and asks, "What of this? This is my daughter's writing, but it appears to be an assignment for University. What pray tell would instigate a menagerie of police officials to come storming in my house?"
The Commander glanced over at me, then respectfully replied, "M'am, our sources state that there are many more documents like this, perfidious to Ukraine and the Russian motherland."
My mother seemed to grow two meters at that statements and bellowed, "Are you implying that my daughter is a treasonist?"
The silence from the pack of wolves was answer enough. My heart dropped, recognizing that my extracurricular studies provoked all this. My mother took a confident step toward the pack and sternly continued, "Thank you for your time, Commander. I will communicate this with my husband and will contact you shortly."
After the men left, my mother took several minutes to look me in the eye before storming out of my sight.
The worst part is not knowing what was going to happen...
Last eve, our Butler rushed into our sitting room looking anxious.
"M'am, the Interpol is at the door, and they state that it is most urgent that they see you." My mother stood up, keeping that naturally composed von Dietrich face, and nodded to the butler to let the officials in.
I'd never seen a pack of wolves with my own eyes, only photographs, but when the five, crisply uniformed officials stormed in, their eyes filled with red suspicion, I felt something was immediately wrong.
"Ms. von Dietrich, I am Commander Pavlo Yanukovych with the Ukrainian Interpol," stated the man with the most silver badges on his chest. He reached out his hand suavely to take my mother's in greeting, but she remained calmly ramrod straight. It was obvious that my mother could sense the negative electricity in the air with their approach. The Commander, recognizing that he wasn't to receive the lady's hand, awkwardly revoked his own and placed it behind his back.
"Commander, what is this hullabaloo?," she immediately retorted, squinting at each official in turn.
"M'am, the most grievous of information has come to our attention about your daughter, Amarisa. Is this she?" He pointed his nose toward me, as I sat poised and blank-faced behind my mother. I could tell he was attempting to be most cordial since he was in the home of a powerful politician.
Ignoring answering his question directly, my mother stated, "What you have to say, you can say in present company. Now please, explain what I may do for you."
The Commander pulls out a wrinkled piece of paper, and in the candlelight I can see my elegant script. He hands the paper to my mother, who sets her glasses upon her nose and examines it. The room is awkwardly quiet a moment until my mother looks up at the Commander and asks, "What of this? This is my daughter's writing, but it appears to be an assignment for University. What pray tell would instigate a menagerie of police officials to come storming in my house?"
The Commander glanced over at me, then respectfully replied, "M'am, our sources state that there are many more documents like this, perfidious to Ukraine and the Russian motherland."
My mother seemed to grow two meters at that statements and bellowed, "Are you implying that my daughter is a treasonist?"
The silence from the pack of wolves was answer enough. My heart dropped, recognizing that my extracurricular studies provoked all this. My mother took a confident step toward the pack and sternly continued, "Thank you for your time, Commander. I will communicate this with my husband and will contact you shortly."
After the men left, my mother took several minutes to look me in the eye before storming out of my sight.
The worst part is not knowing what was going to happen...
3.4.10
Family by Blood
The blood that flows through my veins is ancient, and I've been told that it should be something I consider both prestigious and honorable. My father is a politician, just like his father before him and grandfather before that. Our family estate has been handed down the generations with a plot of land that requires a telescope to see the edges of. Father never talks business outside of his study, and when he brings well-tailored gentlemen to the mansion, I am to smile, curtsy, and only speak of trivial things that girls are allowed to speak of. My mother, though, the Mistress of our grandoise estate, has always encouraged me to be educated and refined. Over tea, we would discuss politics, the state of our country, Newton's Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica, prisms and light, and our relationship with the Heavens. I was very fortunate that my mother inspired me such, and when I was of age to be married, she helped convince Father that the University was in my best interest. It truly is unheard of to be a woman in her twenties of high status not wed to some pretentious aristocrat living off Daddy's money.
Men did not interest me, because if they were any sort like my Father, then I wouldn't get to pursue what I wanted to study. Going to St. Vladimir University was an opportunity to be with like-minded individuals and to make some friends that weren't spoiled rotten. There is nothing wrong with being rich, because I certainly liked my accoutrements, but at the University, I've been witness to all degrees of fortune, or lack thereof.
Now in my fourth year, already accomplished in the medical order and pursuing further studies on propaganda in the modern day, I wonder what my parents think of me now. What would they think about what I'm doing?
Men did not interest me, because if they were any sort like my Father, then I wouldn't get to pursue what I wanted to study. Going to St. Vladimir University was an opportunity to be with like-minded individuals and to make some friends that weren't spoiled rotten. There is nothing wrong with being rich, because I certainly liked my accoutrements, but at the University, I've been witness to all degrees of fortune, or lack thereof.
Now in my fourth year, already accomplished in the medical order and pursuing further studies on propaganda in the modern day, I wonder what my parents think of me now. What would they think about what I'm doing?
2.4.10
Hidden Meanings
I was exasperated, digging through poorly printed texts of Shevchenko's poetry. The project the Professor had assigned was not only consuming all my time, but all my mental clarity. Each poem had a subliminal, satirical meaning to it, "The Reaper," "The Testament," "Fate," and the even more obviously prosed, "Calamity Again."
We started to see that the celebrated poet was writing against the new order of things, against the State and the Motherland; and he was building a following of learned men. Whispers of his discourse echoed off the alleys and mainways. One could see the discontentment building of the new merging with Russia.
It took all my wits to keep this information to myself. A Judas, so blatant and exposed, in our midst! In our country! Had the authorities not figured this out yet? If something wasn't done soon, this blessed art could raise a revolution that Ukraine could not afford to employ.
So the Professor and I sit at The Blue Scepter House day after day, murmuring in hushed voices when we find new material. Now that we possess this atrocious propaganda, what do we do with it?
We started to see that the celebrated poet was writing against the new order of things, against the State and the Motherland; and he was building a following of learned men. Whispers of his discourse echoed off the alleys and mainways. One could see the discontentment building of the new merging with Russia.
It took all my wits to keep this information to myself. A Judas, so blatant and exposed, in our midst! In our country! Had the authorities not figured this out yet? If something wasn't done soon, this blessed art could raise a revolution that Ukraine could not afford to employ.
So the Professor and I sit at The Blue Scepter House day after day, murmuring in hushed voices when we find new material. Now that we possess this atrocious propaganda, what do we do with it?
31.3.10
The Mighty Dnieper
The poem we were trying to translate was by the one and only Taras Shevchenko, a poet who most recently released his works to the public. The ban of all artful literature in the native tongue of Ukrainian had just been released, so there was an overflow of students and literary minds producing more than any one person could read in their lifetime.
The Professor and I sat at a nicely covered table at Скіпетр будинок, or rather the Blue Scepter House, and poured over a crumpled sheet of poorly printed paper with Shevchenko's poem. The translation wasn't too difficult, but we wanted to make certain to uphold it's artistic value.
I pondered a moment, collecting my thoughts and tried to see the poem from the poet's perspective. I started out reluctantly, "We all know the Dnieper is the river that flows from the motherland Russia, through Ukraine and into the Black Sea. One could be certain that this river is also our connection to our new sister country, the link that Ukraine needs to make her whole again."
The smile on his face as he listened reassured my assessment, so I continued. "The first stanza shows us a description, of a swelling river extending its boundaries. Here in Kiev, the Dnieper is calm, and our fishermen and ship merchants are fortunate to sail safely upon her waves. But to the north in the undeveloped areas, the river takes on the face that nature intended. Perhaps what our poet is trying to tell us that what we see commonly may appear to be calm, collected, under control, but beyond the seams rampages something we know can exist but actively avoid. The literary proverb writer, John Heywood said it best with "Out of sight, out of mind," in which something, like say the engorged river, is easily dismissed because it's state is not within our line of sight."
I paused a moment, taking a sip from my freshly refilled tea and looked to see how the Professor was taking my idea. He straightened his posture, smoothed out the tablecloth in front of him, and nodded for me to continue, "And the second stanza?"
Following the printed words with my fingertips, I reread the second stanza and hummed a sigh. "The moon, oh the moon! How artists savour and obsess over the moon!," I mockingly chimed. This provoked a laugh out the Professor, and he had to put his teacup to his face to regain his composure. "I believe the meaning behind this quip can be taken at surface value. The moon exposes that which is in the dark, and with that exposure, whatever we are looking at appears to be troubled... angered like the river."
"And the last stanza?"
"The lack of a cock's crow, of man's presence, the owl's warning, and the creaking of ash trees. Hmmm..." I took another sip of my tea, staring at the words on paper as if boring through them with my eyes would help the meaning come. "Nature is calling out a warning, as nature has more eyes than we can imagine. The flora flails their arms, and the fauna foretells with coos. Blatantly, man is not listening to nature's call."
"So what does all this mean, pray tell?," the Professor inquired, a knowing look upon his face.
I gathered my thoughts, fit the ideas together like a jigsaw puzzle, and then gasped quietly. "Dear Professor, I fear I can't say! Do you truly believe that Shevchenko is a treasonist?" This last word I barely whispered, glancing around the small restaurant to ensure no eavesdroppers. "What is IT and what is this warning? Oh! I truly hope my assessment was just a pipedream, an uneducated guess about words I don't understand!"
Professor Kostomarov leaned over the table toward me and seriously stated, "Don't you ever belittle yourself like that, Miss von Dietrich. Your intuitions and assessments are the same that I have unfortunately concluded. What one can't admit in leaflets and books against the State, they can hide in poetry and art. I knew you would see this, which is why I asked you to join me in the translations. I trust you can keep this between us as we further study his works." He looked down his nose at me with raised eyebrows, expecting my answer.
Pushing my teacup away, I lifted my face slowly to look him in the eye. "I understand Professor. This shall remain between us."
The Professor and I sat at a nicely covered table at Скіпетр будинок, or rather the Blue Scepter House, and poured over a crumpled sheet of poorly printed paper with Shevchenko's poem. The translation wasn't too difficult, but we wanted to make certain to uphold it's artistic value.
The Mighty Dnieper
The mighty Dnieper roars and bellows,
The wind in anger howls and raves,
Down to the ground it bends the willows,
And mountain-high lifts up the waves.
The pale-faced moon picked out this moment
To peek out from behind a cloud,
Like a canoe upon the ocean
It first tips up, and then dips down.
The cocks don't crow to wake the morning,
There's not as yet a sound of man,
The owls in glades call out their warnings,
And ash trees creak and creak again.
I pondered a moment, collecting my thoughts and tried to see the poem from the poet's perspective. I started out reluctantly, "We all know the Dnieper is the river that flows from the motherland Russia, through Ukraine and into the Black Sea. One could be certain that this river is also our connection to our new sister country, the link that Ukraine needs to make her whole again."
The smile on his face as he listened reassured my assessment, so I continued. "The first stanza shows us a description, of a swelling river extending its boundaries. Here in Kiev, the Dnieper is calm, and our fishermen and ship merchants are fortunate to sail safely upon her waves. But to the north in the undeveloped areas, the river takes on the face that nature intended. Perhaps what our poet is trying to tell us that what we see commonly may appear to be calm, collected, under control, but beyond the seams rampages something we know can exist but actively avoid. The literary proverb writer, John Heywood said it best with "Out of sight, out of mind," in which something, like say the engorged river, is easily dismissed because it's state is not within our line of sight."
I paused a moment, taking a sip from my freshly refilled tea and looked to see how the Professor was taking my idea. He straightened his posture, smoothed out the tablecloth in front of him, and nodded for me to continue, "And the second stanza?"
Following the printed words with my fingertips, I reread the second stanza and hummed a sigh. "The moon, oh the moon! How artists savour and obsess over the moon!," I mockingly chimed. This provoked a laugh out the Professor, and he had to put his teacup to his face to regain his composure. "I believe the meaning behind this quip can be taken at surface value. The moon exposes that which is in the dark, and with that exposure, whatever we are looking at appears to be troubled... angered like the river."
"And the last stanza?"
"The lack of a cock's crow, of man's presence, the owl's warning, and the creaking of ash trees. Hmmm..." I took another sip of my tea, staring at the words on paper as if boring through them with my eyes would help the meaning come. "Nature is calling out a warning, as nature has more eyes than we can imagine. The flora flails their arms, and the fauna foretells with coos. Blatantly, man is not listening to nature's call."
"So what does all this mean, pray tell?," the Professor inquired, a knowing look upon his face.
I gathered my thoughts, fit the ideas together like a jigsaw puzzle, and then gasped quietly. "Dear Professor, I fear I can't say! Do you truly believe that Shevchenko is a treasonist?" This last word I barely whispered, glancing around the small restaurant to ensure no eavesdroppers. "What is IT and what is this warning? Oh! I truly hope my assessment was just a pipedream, an uneducated guess about words I don't understand!"
Professor Kostomarov leaned over the table toward me and seriously stated, "Don't you ever belittle yourself like that, Miss von Dietrich. Your intuitions and assessments are the same that I have unfortunately concluded. What one can't admit in leaflets and books against the State, they can hide in poetry and art. I knew you would see this, which is why I asked you to join me in the translations. I trust you can keep this between us as we further study his works." He looked down his nose at me with raised eyebrows, expecting my answer.
Pushing my teacup away, I lifted my face slowly to look him in the eye. "I understand Professor. This shall remain between us."
30.3.10
St. Vladimir University
There was just something so alluring about those iced eyes, that large nose with a mustache growing out of the perfectly shaped nostrils, and most especially, the elaborate rants about love, independence, and free thought. St. Vladimir University was my home for the last 4 years, where I studied with the Faculty of Medicine, but I had surpassed my professor's knowledge, so I would traverse my way to Professor Nikolay Kostomarov's History session to hear his lectures about romanticism in the modern world.
It's an exciting time. After the most recent government upheaval, the Russians are releasing the ban on arts. Isn't to create art an innate human ability? With Kostomarov's words ringing true, word spread and his class was always overcrowded with students. Of course, I always positioned myself within his line of sight, and after a few sessions, his gaze rested on me more often than not. It was a matter of time before he signaled to see me after class.
"Miss von Dietrich," he enunciated with a slight Russian accent, "I can't seem to find you on my student roster, yet here you are everyday. I'm most certain Professor Ivanovich would be quite disappointed you haven't been attending his dissection courses."
"Professor, who couldn't resist hearing your dissertations on the influence of the Russian motherland on Ukraine's blossoming architecture, political structure, and the arts? Because of you, there are now three new poets living in my dormitory!" The look upon my face must have been convincing enough for him not to laugh me off like any other male.
He smiled then, his slightly crooked teeth peeking out behind his lips. For a man 20 years my senior, he still gave me the same respect that he would give his male peers. "Come, Miss von Dietrich, I need someone to help translate a Shevchenko poem. Care to join me for tea?"
And that is how we became inseparable. Me, completely smitten by the prospect of free thought, new ideas, and he, fancying the whims of young woman in a time that ideas were still new.
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