of the room, behind a dark, waxy bush.
“ Hallo? ” Elise stammers back.
A woman, whom Elise guesses to be in her late forties, emerges from behind a row of shelves, her hands in gardening gloves, her face streaked with dirt, her graying hair tied back in an unkempt ponytail. She is sporting blue coveralls with innumerable pockets: the ubiquitous uniform of handymen and laborers throughout Germany. Elise has never seen such clothes on a woman before.
“ Was machen Sie hier? ” the woman demands.
Where to begin? Elise takes a deep breath. “ Ich bin—es war— Liesel.”
“Liesel?” the woman says suspiciously. “Liesel Kriegstein?”
“Do you speak English?” Elise asks, giving up.
“Yes.” The woman’s tone is arrogant, testy. “What are you making here? This is not a public garden.”
Racking her brain for an answer, Elise realizes that language is not the issue. How can she begin to explain to the woman what remains a mystery to herself?
“I came from a party over there,” Elise says, pointing in the general direction of the first garden.
“Yes, for Frau Kriegstein, I know. They invited me also. I do not go. It is a strange habit, nicht ? To have a birthday party for the dead. A tradition, where they come from, but for me, it is strange. I do not like it.”
Elise nods, trying to look sympathetic, cataloging the new information. “It is Liesel Kriegstein’s birthday?”
“ Was her birthday. She died six months ago. But to continue to celebrate, after death, is not good. Besonders not good for her little boy. Time to move on, nicht ? I am taking care of Frau Kriegstein’s flowers for many years. All of the gardeners from this Kolonie come here to my—how do you say—warmhouse, to give me their flowers for the winter. I keep them alive through the cold months, give them back in the spring. Every year, until now, Frau Kriegstein too. Now, her mother, the old woman, has the garden.”
In her telling of Liesel’s garden, the woman’s tone has changed, grown wistful, and her face has softened into sadness. She turns to Elise with a hungry look. “Do you want to see Frau Kriegstein’s plants?” It is an order.
Elise follows the woman to the room’s middle aisle, where about twenty potted plants—rhododendron, azaleas, begonias—bloom beautifully, on a shelf marked Kriegstein . “It was terrible to watch Frau Kriegstein being sick. Krebs. She always had the best garden, always a nice, polite customer. She came to the garden even when she was very weak. Last winter, she would visit me here, check on her flowers. But to make such a birthday party now, it is Unsinn .”
Looking around the room, at the quiet order of the plants, everything in its place, Elise can understand why the woman would feel terrified by the chaos of the tipsy festivities happening in the garden nearby. She remembers the same look in her father’s eyes, regarding the wild chatter of his offspring at the dinner table, the obvious relief on his face when they excused themselves, one by one, to do homework or watch TV.
The woman looks at Elise sharply. “You were a friend of Frau Kriegstein? I never knew she was speaking English.”
Caught again. Elise tries her best to shrug helplessly and smile. She lifts the letter from her pocket. “It was a mistake,” she says. “My name is Elise Kriegstein. The little boy—Frau Kriegstein’s son?—came to my house with this.”
The woman swiftly takes the envelope from her. As she unfolds the letter, shaking her head, Elise regrets having showed it to her.
“What does it say?” Elise asks, her voice unconsciously dropping to a whisper, as the woman reads silently.
“It is from Liesel’s mother,” the woman announces, and then, unnecessarily: “To Liesel. The stupid old woman, she thinks you have some way of connection to her daughter, because of the names. She saw your last name on your building’s directory.”
“But why? How?”
The woman shrugs. “She
“ Hallo? ” Elise stammers back.
A woman, whom Elise guesses to be in her late forties, emerges from behind a row of shelves, her hands in gardening gloves, her face streaked with dirt, her graying hair tied back in an unkempt ponytail. She is sporting blue coveralls with innumerable pockets: the ubiquitous uniform of handymen and laborers throughout Germany. Elise has never seen such clothes on a woman before.
“ Was machen Sie hier? ” the woman demands.
Where to begin? Elise takes a deep breath. “ Ich bin—es war— Liesel.”
“Liesel?” the woman says suspiciously. “Liesel Kriegstein?”
“Do you speak English?” Elise asks, giving up.
“Yes.” The woman’s tone is arrogant, testy. “What are you making here? This is not a public garden.”
Racking her brain for an answer, Elise realizes that language is not the issue. How can she begin to explain to the woman what remains a mystery to herself?
“I came from a party over there,” Elise says, pointing in the general direction of the first garden.
“Yes, for Frau Kriegstein, I know. They invited me also. I do not go. It is a strange habit, nicht ? To have a birthday party for the dead. A tradition, where they come from, but for me, it is strange. I do not like it.”
Elise nods, trying to look sympathetic, cataloging the new information. “It is Liesel Kriegstein’s birthday?”
“ Was her birthday. She died six months ago. But to continue to celebrate, after death, is not good. Besonders not good for her little boy. Time to move on, nicht ? I am taking care of Frau Kriegstein’s flowers for many years. All of the gardeners from this Kolonie come here to my—how do you say—warmhouse, to give me their flowers for the winter. I keep them alive through the cold months, give them back in the spring. Every year, until now, Frau Kriegstein too. Now, her mother, the old woman, has the garden.”
In her telling of Liesel’s garden, the woman’s tone has changed, grown wistful, and her face has softened into sadness. She turns to Elise with a hungry look. “Do you want to see Frau Kriegstein’s plants?” It is an order.
Elise follows the woman to the room’s middle aisle, where about twenty potted plants—rhododendron, azaleas, begonias—bloom beautifully, on a shelf marked Kriegstein . “It was terrible to watch Frau Kriegstein being sick. Krebs. She always had the best garden, always a nice, polite customer. She came to the garden even when she was very weak. Last winter, she would visit me here, check on her flowers. But to make such a birthday party now, it is Unsinn .”
Looking around the room, at the quiet order of the plants, everything in its place, Elise can understand why the woman would feel terrified by the chaos of the tipsy festivities happening in the garden nearby. She remembers the same look in her father’s eyes, regarding the wild chatter of his offspring at the dinner table, the obvious relief on his face when they excused themselves, one by one, to do homework or watch TV.
The woman looks at Elise sharply. “You were a friend of Frau Kriegstein? I never knew she was speaking English.”
Caught again. Elise tries her best to shrug helplessly and smile. She lifts the letter from her pocket. “It was a mistake,” she says. “My name is Elise Kriegstein. The little boy—Frau Kriegstein’s son?—came to my house with this.”
The woman swiftly takes the envelope from her. As she unfolds the letter, shaking her head, Elise regrets having showed it to her.
“What does it say?” Elise asks, her voice unconsciously dropping to a whisper, as the woman reads silently.
“It is from Liesel’s mother,” the woman announces, and then, unnecessarily: “To Liesel. The stupid old woman, she thinks you have some way of connection to her daughter, because of the names. She saw your last name on your building’s directory.”
“But why? How?”
The woman shrugs. “She
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