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.
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