Tulips in Her Hand

Chapter One

"A flower's appeal is in its contradictions — so delicate in form yet strong in fragrance, so small in size yet big in beauty, so short in life yet long on effect."

—Terri Guillemets

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A small town outside of Lublin, Poland, Spring 1942

Distant hum of a nearby train. Clicking of an old grandfather clock. Nine hundred clicks later, a creak of an opening door.

That's how Celina waited for her father to come home each and every day. Her eyes would squeeze shut, her ears waiting for every minuscule sound. She would sit cross legged on the dusted wooden floor, clothed in a white nightgown. When her father did creak open that old door, she felt a cool breeze littered with stale tobacco and a hint of a floral shop greet her cheeks. Instantly her eyes would spring open, like those of a cat's, and find a sleek, shadowy figure presented before her.

And in the hands of that figure, were always shades of pink, blended together in the form of a tulip.

"Did the tulip man change the world today?" Celina would cry out, gazing into her father's glassy eyes. A laugh would escape his mouth, hinted with a touch of something else, perhaps the train ride. She would wait for either a slight nod of the head or something less comforting, a flat out no. On those days, Celina would leave her father be, to where he would slip into the shadows of his bedroom and remain there, a prisoner until morning. Usually he greeted her with a nod, however, igniting a sort of flame in his daughter's eyes.

"Did he rescue a trapped boy? Or perhaps gave money to the poor, or painted a lovely picture?"

To this he would respond with some heroic or inspiring action, bringing about an upward curve on Celina's lips. At this point, her father would shed his coat, and dive into a long explanation on the tulip man's whereabouts.

"Yesterday, he gave a painter extra change. You see, the painter was quite poor, and couldn't afford all the supplies needed to create what he need to change the world. But with that extra change, however, the painter could afford just a smidgen of paint, enough to paint a canvas," he said, the words pouring out of his mouth like a fountain, "and today, the painter returned, handing the painting to a homeless woman, who was shrouded in darkness that she struggled to overcome. When she received that painting, the woman found enough strength to break through that darkness, and start doing something to change her life. So tomorrow, when I purchase tulips from the tulip man, where do you think she'll be?"

"I don't know, where?"

"She'll be alongside the tulip man, dealing with change and money." At this Celina cocked her head, confusion spread across her face. Sparrows sung a soulful tune outside the window, crickets hummed a serenade.

Suddenly, her face light up. "You mean she got a job?"

"Yes, my darling," he said, rising from his position on the armchair, "you are so bright." He would tell her this often, and each time in caused her heart to glow with content. These nights were always beautiful, when her father was happy, despite them growing scarcer and scarcer as time wore on.

Celina outgrew her white nightgown. Her enthusiasm lessened, her words transforming into those of a young woman, asking politely about her father's day. However, she never outgrew her father's wise words and the aroma of stale tobacco.

Then one day, that changed.

Celina Rudaski woke up in a garden of tulips that morning. Bits of petal and grass stuck to her hair, the smell of pollen overwhelming her nose. The sun began to escape from the rolling hills, allowing its presence to be known through its fiery glow. A strange feeling seeped into her skin as she rose from the dirt. Her father hadn't come home that night. Distant hum of a nearby train. Clicking of an old grandfather clock. Nine hundred clicks later, there was no creaking of a door. No cool breeze littered with tobacco and tulips.