The Roses That Bloomed in Auschwitz

The Roses That Bloomed In Auschwitz

Savoring a moment of solitude, I meandered along the park’s edge admiring the luscious layers of color that bulged like impasto paint on a canvass. A blanket of leaves covered the sidewalk like a mosaic of golden honey and rotting lemons woven into a patchwork quilt that warmed the earth below. As I kicked at the decaying beauty that swallowed up the path beneath my boots, a solitary burnished red maple leaf caught my eye. It was out of place amid the golden blanket of American Elm leaves and the glowing tunnel of amber trees that characterize this area of Central Park. Strange, I thought most of the maples were in the north part of the park. After puzzling for a moment, I reached down to pick up the crimson leaf and noticed an unnatural neon green peeking from its jagged corner. A sticky note. I peeled it back and read the hand scrawled note:

1621 Gable Street. West Village. Saturday 2:00 PM

Captivated, I pondered the peculiar invitation in my hand. 

“What the?” …. I looked around to see if anyone was watching as I tucked the leaf and note into the pocket of my sloppy sweater, then strolled to Fifth Avenue and waved down a cab to my Midtown apartment. 

Malcom the doorman greeted me with his dependable snowy smile.

“Hey Malcom, how’s it goin?”

“Pretty good Miss Maggie,” he said warmly as he wrapped his white glove around the polished brass handle and held the door as I walked through. 

“Happy Thanksgiving Miss Maggie.” Malcom’s greetings have always made me feel like I belong in this city that seems as big as the world. 

“Thanks Malcom, you too. I hope you have a nice day.”

##

My law firm was in the middle of closing a big deal for one of our most important clients which meant I had to work on Friday, so I decided to stay in the city instead of making the four-hour trek to Boston to spend Thanksgiving with my parents. 

Thanksgiving came and went without fanfare. The Macy’s Parade filled the silence as I nibbled on a dry, pre-made turkey dinner from Wegmans. The store-bought mediocrity reminded me of my aloneness.

After a grueling 12-hour shift on Friday I was exhausted and ready for a restful weekend, but the pigeons clucking on the ledge outside my bedroom window and the sirens blaring from the street below didn’t get the memo. Sleeping-in wasn't possible, so I rolled out of bed and threw on my weekend jeans, a red Henley, and my favorite sheepskin boots. I pulled a beige beanie over my auburn curls, slipped on my sloppy sweater and headed to The Daily Brew for my favorite pumpkin spice latte. I ordered, then snagged a small table by the window where I closed my eyes and rested my head against the glass. The morning sun felt comforting on my pasty Irish face. I pulled the maple leaf and sticky note from my sweater pocket. 

1621 Gable Street. West Village. Saturday 2:00 PM.

Hmmmm. Probably a sicko or pervert.... 

Curious, I pulled out my phone and mapped the address. It was a real. 

I slurped the last drops of my latte then strolled back to my apartment where I went about my Saturday chores. Between the firm and my volunteer work at The Hort I’d been working 60+ hour weeks and was desperate for some down time. 

As I stirred a can of soup I glanced at the clock on the stove. It was already 1:00 O’clock. “Oh, what the hell.” I turned off the burner, threw on my sweater and rushed to the elevator. Malcom hailed me a cab. 

##

The Brownstones on Gable street are picturesque. Iconic New York City.

I walk slowly and take in the neighborhood. 1615, 1617, …  at 1619 I tuck myself behind a tree and study the stately brick home at 1621. Black wrought iron rails and tidy steps lead to a landing where symmetrical topiaries sit beside a grand door. Perfect, down to the finest detail.   

I glance at my phone, 2:00 O’clock.

Just do it…. No, don’t be an idiot, it’s probably just a sick prank…. Or the person is a psychopath .…

Too curious for my own good I tip-toe up the stairs and take a deep breath. As I reach for the knocker the door slips open and before me stands a stooped over gentleman, small in stature, who looks to be at least 90 years old. 

“Hello, …. is this 1621 Gab…?”

Before I can finish the question, the frail looking man waves his hand, gesturing for me to follow, then turns and walks down a long foyer with 20-foot ceilings, a mahogany staircase and crystal chandelier. Hesitantly, I comply and follow. The grand house smells of burnt toast, old man after shave and antiques. 

“You came. She knew you would.” He says as if he knows me.

“Um … yeah, …. I found this sticky note in the park, on a maple leaf?…” I start to show him the note.

“Yes, yes. I left it there for you.”

“For … me?” I ask quizzically.

“Well not precisely, .. but yes, .. precisely. For you. Come.”

I wonder about his accent, I’m terrible with dialects but I’m pretty sure it’s Eastern European. Words role from his lips like honey. 

“Tea?” He asks as he leads me into a vintage kitchen where his loafers click in rhythm with his cane against a wide-planked wood floor. “Uhm, sure... tea would be lovely,” I say, not wanting to be rude.

Light is streaming through a large window above the sink that looks out onto a small rose garden, the flowers are still in bloom.

“Are those Knockouts?” I ask.

“Yes, yes, … Ahh, .. you know roses?”

“Well… yeah, sort of, … I’m learning.”

He fills a teapot with water and places it on a gas cooktop, turns the knob and the ignition switch clicks; tick-tick-tick. Flames encircle the burner with a whoosh. His hands shake as he pulls two delicate teacups - painted with tiny roses - from a wooden cupboard. 

“She loved them.” He says longingly.

I am captivated and intrigued by this gentle gentleman.

“Katarina, my wife… She loved roses. These cups were dear to her.”

I’m leaning in the doorway as the man walks over to me and reaches out his knobby hand. 

“How impolite I am. Please forgive me.  Elie Friedman. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Um, Maggie Sullivan.” Nice to meet you too.

“I am elated that you decided to join me today Maggie Sullivan.” He walks over to a breakfast nook and pulls out a wooden chair. 

“Please come Maggie, … sit.” His words are sincere, unpretentious and his manners are impeccable, from a different time. 

The tea pot whistles and he shuffles back toward the stove. He opens a glass container with neatly spaced cloth tea bags. “Do you prefer Earl Grey or Chamomile?”

“Earl Grey would be great. Thank you.”

I watch as he carefully pours steaming water into the small cups and rests the tea bag strings across the outer edge. His hands shake as he places the cups on matching saucers and carries them to the table. He sits across from me.

“My Katarina, …  She loved flowers, and trees. Fall was her favorite season. She called leaves “tree petals,” she was creative with words that way. What about you Maggie?” 

“Actually, I love flowers and trees too.  Plants in general. I volunteer at the Hort in Midtown and I’m taking night classes in horticulture.” 

“Ahh. You would have gotten along well with my Katrina.” He says as he gazes out the window at the blush-pink roses.”

“Um… why did you put your address on that leaf?” I ask cautiously.

“All in due time dear Maggie. All in due time.”

A white cat enters the kitchen, brushes against my leg and purrs.

“That is Jack. He showed up 15 years ago and never left. Katarina could never turn away a stray. She had many animals on small farm where she lived outside Budapest as a girl. It was all lost in the war.”

“Oh my… How long were the two of you married?”

“Sixty-Eight Years. She passed two years ago.”

“Oh my. I can’t even begin to grasp that.” My words feel clumsy, obtuse.

“No, of course you cannot understand. It is a lifetime. Katarina was more than my wife, she was my best friend. My grief shall not end until I see her again.” Elie’s kind eyes lock on mine as he asks, “why you study horticulture?”

“Oh, uh… I want to help people in poor countries learn how to grow sustainable crops. There are too many hungry people in the world and there’s just no reason for it. It’s shameful how rich countries throw away millions of tons of food every year while children are going to bed hungry.”

“Sustainable crops,” …  “what does this mean?”

“Um, crops that won’t destroy their own environment over time. Planted and rotated to protect the soil, without chemicals, water conservation… That sort of thing.” 

“This is good plan Maggie.” 

Elie seems focused on my every word as I tell him of my plans and how I don’t want to do acquisitions and mergers for the rest of my life. 

“You have good heart.” He says as he slowly pushes himself up from the table and walks toward a large living room.

“Come.” He speaks to me as if I am his friend. Obediently, like a friend, I follow.

Elie opens large double doors and reveals a tastefully cluttered library with bulging bookshelves. He removes a book from a lower shelf and hands it to me.

From Thorns to Fragrant Petals 

By Katarina Friedman

“This is my Katarina.” He points to a photo on the back of the dust jacket. A woman with a radiant smile and dark eyes is posing in front of a rose garden.

“She was so beautiful. She was an author?” I ask.

“Yes, yes. She was both… beautiful and writer. You may keep it.”

“What? Really? No, … I couldn’t.” 

“Do you not enjoy reading Maggie?”

“No…... I mean, yes, … I enjoy reading very much. My dad says that reading feeds the soul.”

“Your father is smart man. The book is gift. When you read you will understand.”

“Thank you,” I say, spellbound by this man, this place, this book, this day. 

“You are very welcome. I am tired now. You will come again next Saturday, yes?”

“Um, well….”

“Does that mean yes dear Maggie?”

“Yes, Mr. Friedman, I would love to come again.”

“Please call me Elie.” 

“OK... Elie. Are you sure about the book?” 

“Yes, I am certain. It is what she wanted.”

The strange comment makes me wonder if Elie’s age is affecting his thinking.

“Now, I must rest.” Elie shuffles toward the front door to let me out. 

“Thank you Mr. Fried.… Elie. I really enjoyed our visit. But I still don’t understand about the leaf and sticky note.” 

“Patience Maggie. In due time, in due time.” Elie reaches out to shake my hand and I notice a faded tattoo on his forearm.. I try not to gasp. He stretches his wrinkled skin to make the number legible - B8426. He looks up at me and says “Katarina was A1621. One reason we bought this home.”

“Oh my Go...” The “d” catches between my tongue and teeth. I don’t want to offend. 

“It was long time ago.” 

Elie seems weary so I say “I will see you next weekend.” 

“Yes, yes, I look forward to it Maggie. Shalom.” 

Elie closes the door and I walk down the front steps. I notice a red maple tree near the sidewalk that I didn’t see before. Its leaves are almost gone. 

##

When I arrive at my apartment building, I barely notice Malcom holding the door for me as I rush upstairs and open the book.

Roses, like human beings, are complicated. Each petal is lush for a time with pigment and fragrance. Protected by bitter dagger thorns, whose tips fester and infect when they prick fragile skin. Like humans, the elegant rose is prone to disease, but it is also resilient. Roses must be pruned and fertilized in order to thrive. They are capable of blooming again and again, even after the first blooms wither. Pests attack, water is scarce and the ground freezes, but the rose bush buds again. 

The book is an allegory; about suffering, good and evil, darkness and light, struggle and triumph. It tells a story almost too horrific for words, of injustice, prejudice, hatred, redemption, and the healing power of nature given by God to His children.

I lose track of time and finish all 342 pages. 

The allegory ends by asking the reader to contemplate a single question.

Are you a petal or a thorn?

##

The week grinds at a snail’s speed as I am eager to see Elie again. I arrive at the brownstone at 2:00 o’clock on Saturday to find it full of people. I walk in and look for Elie. 

“Are you Maggie?” A middle-aged man asks.

“Um, yes…” I answer with a questioning tone.

“Elie asked me to give you this.” The man hands me a small envelope.

“Elie had a premonition that the All Mighty would be sending his angel to gather him to Katarina. He called me to come see him last Monday. 

The man reaches out his hand. “I am Rabbi Labin, I was Elie’s friend for many years.” 

I feel like I’m in a bad dream as I shake his hand. 

I carefully open the envelope and find inside a small card hand painted with watercolor roses.“My dear Maggie. I am very sorry we were unable to speak again. To everything there is a season. All will be made clear and you will understand.”

“What happened? I don’t understand…. ” Tears fill my eyes. 

“Elie died in his sleep early Wednesday morning. It was his time.” 

The rabbi puts his hand on my shoulder. “Are you ok?”

“Um.. sure, I didn’t even know him really … It’s just that he never told me about the leaf and the note.….. never mind.”

“Elie was a good man and will be greatly missed. Please sign the guest book.” The rabbi motions to a book on the foyer table next to a photograph of Elie and Katarina. 

My hand trembles as I sign: 

My friend for a day whose memory will be with me for a lifetime.

I only wish I knew more. Fondly, 

~ Maggie Sullivan.

##

As the weeks pass the experience fades and I get back into my routine. Two weeks before Christmas Malcomb greets me as I arrive home from work. 

“Hey there miss Maggie. Something came for you today.”

“Oh yeah?” Intrigued I head to the mail room and sign for a large package.

To: 

Maggie Sullivan

c/o The Hort

Manhattan

New York, New York.

From: 

Elijah and Katarina Friedman

1621 Gable St.

Greenwich Village 

New York, New York

I rush upstairs, sit down at my kitchen table and carefully cut the plastic tape along the flaps of the cardboard parcel.

Inside is a rough-hewn wooden box. I lift the lid and find a letter. 

“Dearest Maggie,

Katarina wanted you to have these.

We were never blessed with children, but Katarina's dying request was that I choose someone to give her most treasured possessions. 

Katarina worked in Canada warehouse at Auschwitz where she sorted belongings of other Jews. The maple leaf became reminder to her of what she endured and how the experience changed her. Canada was burden that she carried throughout her life. 

Because we were Hungarian, we were in last group to arrive at the camp. Katarina was 18 and I was 20 when we were released in 1945. We lived only feet apart for 10-months, but met for first time on train home. Until the day of Katarina’s death we never separated.

Katarina did not allow Canada warehouse and Auschwitz to make her bitter. She was my holy example of love and remained petal until the day the angels carried her to the One who Is.  We never understood why we survived when so many did not. Perhaps now we know.

Six months before Katarina left me, she had a dream she said was from God. In the dream she saw young woman with red hair kicking Elm leaves in Central Park. She said the Almighty told her the woman was a petal and not a thorn. She was certain that the woman - you - had been chosen by God to help others. I did not have strength until last week to follow her wishes. It took all my strength to place the maple leaf on the path Saturday last. When you came to my home and knew the name of roses behind our kitchen window, I knew that Katarina's dream was divine. She wanted her most precious possessions to be gift to you. She knew you would come. Please keep her memory alive. Be well dear Maggie. 

~Elie.”

I opened the box and pulled back a delicate cloth embroidered with roses. Beneath it was a photograph of a young couple on their wedding day, a Hebrew bible, a lacquered maple leaf, two cloth gold stars, and the rose teacups. Another note explained how Katarina had taken the cups from the Canada warehouse and managed to hide them until the war ended. 

At the bottom of the box was a small book titled: 

The Roses That Bloomed In Auschwitz.  

By Katarina Friedman

And a check made out to Maggie Sullivan in the sum of $100,000. I gasped. Attached to the check was a neon green sticky note that said:

For your sustainable food. 

Shalom. 

~Elie.