Petru Romanescu was eating an enormous white onion, crisp and raw, as if it were an apple, the first time I saw him in at the center of Vienna's Naschmarkt. A wrinkled old vegetable woman with a crooked smile swatted at him playfully with her straw broom, spitting out strange words that sounded like Ukrainian. I spent my summer holidays with Tante Sabine in Vienna at her villa near the Ringstrasse, and for many years, I had secretly accompanied Frau Gilda, my auntie's head cook, to the open air market, just footsteps from the famous Karlskirche. While Frau Gilda argued over the price of fresh forest mushrooms, I mingled with the colorful folk in the streets, filling my ears with musical languages I didn't understand, transporting me magically to lands unknown.

Clearly my aunt would have disapproved, but I had grown tired of petit point and German poetry and pastries, and there was nothing more invigorating than the pulse of the morning market, the delicious smells of freshly baked bread, giant wheels of fresh cheese, carefully polished fruits and vegetables, and towering rainbows of bright-faced flowers.

Petru was tall and handsome, easy to spot in the knotted crowd, with jet black hair and green eyes that seemed to light up and smile on their own. His clothes looked clean but they were a little tattered and his black boots had seen better days. While Frau Gilda bought a bouquet of French lavender from a short woman in a blue dirndl, a gentle summer breeze swirled my flowered skirt around me and lifted my hat from my head. With one hand, Petru reached up and rescued it.

I offered him my hand and gave him my thanks. To my surprise, he kissed my hand valiantly, like something out of a cinema romance, velvety words rolling from his tongue. The only words I caught were his name.

Frau Gilda took me by the arm, tugging impatiently. "We must go, Miss Brigitte. Your aunt will be furious. That boy is a Fluchtling, a refugee from Eastern Europe." Petru said something like "blumen" and motioned for me to wait a moment.

Frau Gilda grumbled disapprovingly, but he smiled at me and handed me a green cone of waxed paper. Tucked inside was a glorious rose, a brilliant crimson red tinged with ivory, its fragrance unusually sweet and powerful. He pointed at the cracked face of his watch, and whispered "Freitag, halb zehn." For a moment I felt like I too was floating in the breeze, my feet no longer touching the ground. A rosy blush warmed my cheeks and I said, "Oh yes, I'll be here, Friday, half past nine."