peculiar

the diary of antonya dimitrei

The first time I read a book, I was twelve years old. It was found in my father's office, a place he fondly referred to as his 'mесто хаоса'. If you asked me why I was there, I could not tell you, for nothing can even begin to explain the curiosity of a child. I remember I had stared at the immense amounts of papers and files, hastily organised into tall stacks. I believe I had chosen to look into his desk drawer specifically because it was closed; keeping me out. A challenge. My father was not generally what I would call a fool, but if one had important documents, or perhaps, a book, kept in a drawer, would one not think to lock said drawer? I knew I shouldn't have been in his office - he had affirmed this many times - and yet, I disregarded his words without so much as a second thought. Within, the drawer was very much ordinary, and reflected the surrounding office; cluttered, messy, ordinary. Filled with random detritus; bills and prescriptions scrawled upon in his messy doctor's handwriting, acting as an obstacle of sorts to the real treasure within.

A book. Anna Karenina, by Leo Tolstoy, first published February 1877. It was old, falling apart at the spine, the paper soft and yellowing and absolutely begging to be read. There was something beautifully forbidden about it, which made the endeavour all the more exciting. So of course, being the ignorant child I was, I stole the book from the drawer without even beginning to think of the repercussions.

It was a long book, and I didn't understand most of it, but it was lovely. The words were wonderfully descriptive and flowing, painting pictures I never thought could exist outside the boundaries of my own imagination. It was like watching my mother sew, the words weaving together to form a beautiful tapestry of vibrant colours and patterns. It was what made me fall in love with literature for the very first time.

I was enveloped by the story, so much so that I did not hear my mother gasp in the doorway, or see the blood drain from her face. I was so engrossed in the book that it was only when she snatched the book from my grasp, that I noticed her.

Now, my mother was a gentle, patient woman, so to see her in such a state alarmed me.

"Antonya! What do you think you're doing?" she snapped, her tone hushed.

"Reading this book, mama." My gaze dropped to the floor and I felt my cheeks flush. She never spoke to me like that.

"Where did you get it?" She reached forward and snatched it from my hands.

"Father's office." I mumbled, knowing very well it was off-limits.

"We cannot read books, Antonya." She stressed the word books, as if it was a curse. "Do you understand?"

I didn't, but I nodded anyway, not wanting to upset her any more than she already was.

"Good. I never want to see you reading books again."

When I was fourteen years old, at the age where I had just begun to understand how the world worked, I realised why my mother had been so gripped with fear when she caught me reading. I had learnt that the Council did not allow us to read, in order to stop the gathering of knowledge and imbalance of power amongst us. It made sense, I suppose, in order to keep us ignorant and unsuspecting. Twice a week, the Council would hold ritualistic book burnings. We were all made to attend, and listen to the Chancellor preach his ideals. Once he had finished his speech, he would bark "hачать!", and the Chancellor's Vice would douse the pile of books and papers - that had been assembled earlier in the day - liberally with gasoline, and strike a match. It was horrific. I could never once bring myself to watch.

But alas, as aforementioned, nothing may contain the curiosity of a child. While my mother indeed had taken the only book in our house away, and burnt it, the house was not the only place where I might find books.

I would find the books after the burnings, under piles of ash and charred paper. I was building up a collection - Human, All Too Human by Friedrich Nietzsche, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Each of these stories, all different, all beautiful in their own special way, transported me to different worlds. It was like I had discovered a little piece of heaven on Earth, one which I had no intention of giving up.

The boy across the street is in love with me. His name is Alexei, and he told me so last night, stars glowing bright, their light filtering down on our hands intertwined, through the leaves of the willow tree on the outermost-outskirts of town. I trust him.

I told him about the books.

He was shocked, to say the least. But when I took him to my room, showed him my collection, he smiled. He asked me to teach him to read, his eyes shining, full of hope. I think I could love Alexei, properly, but something is holding me back.

I love something else.

When I told him this, he was angry. He called me an intellect, and a variety of other words I do not care to repeat. He destroyed my copy of Jane Eyre. As he ripped each page from the spine, I felt myself tear along with it. I had screamed at him, begged him to stop. He stormed out of my house, ignoring my pleading calls. It is peculiar how quickly he turned on me. It makes me wonder whether he had true feelings for me at all.

I know Alexei reported me. The Chancellor and his consuls are coming. I hear their boots marching on the cobbled streets. I hear them knocking on the door, each one like a gunshot. I hear my father opening the door, speaking to them. I should be mad at Alexei, for telling everyone, but for some odd reason, I feel nothing.

I know what will happen, for I can already smell the books burning outside. But it hardly matters anymore. I have already lost myself. Each time the books are burned, I feel a little part of me burn along with them.

They are almost at my bedroom door. This will be the last time I write.

~ From the diary of Antonya Dimitrei, 1949