English Original
He strode the length of the nursery walkway, inhaling the heady scent. To an untrained eye, the rows of methodically labeled roses might look identical. But Monsieur Francis Meilland knew better. As a rose breeder, he had dedicated his life to these plants. He knew each one intimately.
Pausing, he reached out to rub a particularly glossy leaf, its finely serrated edge curling slightly over his finger. Ah, this one . . . this one . . . Monsieur Meilland sighed.
A masterpiece! Unlike anything he had ever grown before. Of all his treasures, this plant produced the most heartbreakingly beautiful blooms.
Monsieur Meilland was anxious to experiment, to develop the rose further, and to give it an appropriate name. But he was out of time. The year was 1939 and the threat of war hovered over Western Europe. He could only hope to preserve the rose from the terrible dangers on the horizon.
By June the following year, the German Army had occupied northern France. Now the Nazis cut across to the coast, then turned and moved toward Paris, never striking twice in the same place. Waging blitzkrieg, or lightning war, they had attacked first one town, then another, spreading defeat and disaster everywhere.
Pressed for time, Monsieur Meilland took cuttings from his beloved plant, still untested and still unnamed. Methodically, he packaged and shipped them to rose aficionados throughout the world. Would they get out of France? Would they arrive at their destinations? More importantly, would they survive? He could only hope. And pray.
One last plane left France just before the Nazis gained control of the airport. On board were the final rose cuttings, cushioned in a diplomatic pouch, destined for the United States.
Four long years passed. Throughout Europe, shelling resounded like a giant bell solemnly tolling the dead. And then it arrived: a letter from a rose grower in Pennsylvania praising the beauty of Meilland's discovery. It was ruffled. Delicate. The petals were of cameo ivory and palest cream, tipped with a tinge of pink.
His rose had survived.
But, for Monsieur Meilland, the crowning glory came later. On the very day that Berlin fell and bells of freedom rang across Europe, rose growers gathered far away, in sunny California, at a ceremony to christen his splendid blossom. To honor the occasion, white doves were set free to wing their way across a sapphire sky.
And, after so many years, the fragile rose that had survived a war finally received its name.
中文翻译
他大步走过苗圃的小径，深吸着那令人陶醉的芬芳。在外行人看来，那一排排标签整齐的玫瑰或许看起来一模一样。但弗朗西斯·梅昂先生深知并非如此。作为一名玫瑰育种家，他将一生奉献给了这些植物。他熟悉每一株玫瑰。
他停下脚步，伸手抚摸一片特别光亮的叶子，其精细的锯齿状边缘微微卷曲，拂过他的手指。啊，这一株……这一株……梅昂先生叹了口气。
一件杰作！与他以往培育的任何品种都不同。在他所有的珍宝中，这株植物开出了最令人心碎、最美丽的花朵。
梅昂先生急于进行实验，进一步培育这株玫瑰，并给它起一个合适的名字。但他没有时间了。那是1939年，战争的威胁笼罩着西欧。他只能寄望于保护这株玫瑰免受即将到来的可怕危险。
次年六月，德军占领了法国北部。纳粹军队横扫至海岸，然后转向巴黎进发，从不在同一地点发动两次攻击。他们发动闪电战，袭击了一个又一个城镇，将失败和灾难四处播撒。
时间紧迫，梅昂先生从他心爱的植株上取下插条，它仍未经过测试，也仍未命名。他井井有条地将它们打包，寄往世界各地的玫瑰爱好者手中。它们能离开法国吗？能抵达目的地吗？更重要的是，它们能存活下来吗？他只能希望，并祈祷。
就在纳粹控制机场之前，最后一架飞机离开了法国。机上载有最后一批玫瑰插条，它们被小心地放在一个外交邮袋里，目的地是美国。
漫长的四年过去了。在整个欧洲，炮火轰鸣，如同一口巨钟在为逝者庄严地敲响。然后，一封信到了：来自宾夕法尼亚州一位玫瑰种植者的信，信中盛赞梅昂这一发现的美丽。它花瓣层叠，精致优雅。花瓣呈浮雕象牙色和最淡的奶油色，尖端带着一抹粉红。
他的玫瑰存活了下来。
但是，对梅昂先生而言，最高的荣耀还在后面。就在柏林陷落、自由的钟声响彻欧洲的那一天，玫瑰种植者们远在阳光明媚的加利福尼亚州聚集，举行仪式为他这朵灿烂的花朵命名。为了纪念这一时刻，白鸽被放飞，在蔚蓝的天空中展翅飞翔。
历经多年，这株在战争中幸存下来的脆弱玫瑰，终于获得了它的名字。