Julius Rosenthal will make candy no more and other short stories, Nicholas Russell [android pdf ebook reader TXT] 📗

prepared to step out, but the officer motioned for him to stay. The officer, though, stepped out and crossed over to two other men. A crowd was standing out front of the station; Julius recognized a few, but most he did not. The one face he did recognize was that of Rabbi Addlemen.

Addlemen was young; he had only been at the synagogue for a few years, not long enough for him to find a wife. He was moving through the crowd slowly and with warmth, touching one man’s shoulder, hugging another woman doing what he could to keep the group calm. There were six or seven young men surrounding the group all armed with rifles. Out of the corner of his eye, Julius saw the officer who escorted him snap to attention and raise his arm in salute.

He turned to return to the car when one of the other men began shouting. He was too far for Julius to hear the exact words but their meaning was clear from the reactions of the crowd. A few of the older women collapsed and some of the men stepped forward stepping between their wives and the soldiers. Addlemen began to scream, waving one hand for the soldiers to step back and the other waving to the crowd. Panic crossed his face as the soldiers stepped closer.

Julius turned to see the scarred officer reenter the vehicle and mutter something to the driver. A quiet pop followed by screams caught Julius’ attention just as the car began to move. He turned back to see one of the officers standing over Addlemen with his sidearm drawn. Julius couldn’t see the Rabbi’s body, but he could see the young woman standing across from the officer, her face covered in blood and gore. The man raised the pistol to the sky and fired two more shots as the soldiers pushed them toward the station’s entrance. The car turned a corner, and Julius could no longer see the crowd behind him.

Julius watched the corner until the car slowed and turned again. Looking forward again, Julius’ mind was barraged with images of the Rabbi’s body lying prone on the ground. The only sound in the car was the quiet rustle of the driver’s coat as he turned the wheel, moving the car through town. Like a silent film, the Rabbi’s murder kept replaying over and over in his mind. It wasn’t until the third scream that Julius realized someone was speaking to him.

“Jew, where is Frankfurt street?”

“What?” Julius’ voice was barely a whisper. It wasn’t until the officer asked again that he realized they were lost. Neither the driver nor the officer had been in town long and the streets were old, laid out before the advent of cars. Julius mumbled some directions, and the sedan started moving again; the rest of the trip was swift. The driver took the snow-blanketed roads faster than Julius would have liked, but there was nothing he could do about that.

The sedan came to a stop in front of a large two-story house. Julius recognized it immediately; it was Hans’ home. Hans was the closest thing to a mayor around town; he oversaw taxes and always made sure the streets were clear, and if anyone in town had trouble or needed a problem resolved they went to Hans. The house was busy today, men in black uniforms moving in and out of the front door. The officer stepped from the front seat and directed Julius to the front porch.

As he crossed the yard, he was met with sneers as the uniformed men saw the embroidered gold star across his chest. Julius reached the porch and climbed the three steps. He was nervous; the men milling about the front yard all seemed to stare at him. As a child Julius had read a book about Africa in which the writer described how a pack of hyenas would surround a lion and nip at the great beast, taking small bites from behind. They would keep it turning, trying to defend itself, until it was too weak to continue. Julius was beginning to feel more like that lion with each step.

The porch covered the full front of the house, and as he tried to find a place to stand the soldiers created a bubble around Julius, never coming closer than a few feet. The events of the past half hour were weighing heavily on Julius, and he suddenly felt quite tired. Julius stood close to the wall and wished he had grabbed a coat before leaving the shop. He heard a voice he recognized; Hans stepped from the door and looked ten years older than his forty-five years. Their eyes met, and he motioned for Julius to step from the porch. He followed him to the side of the house. Hans looked to Julius and gave the old man a sad half-smile. “I wish you had listened to me; you could have been in America by now.”

Hans had come to Julius a few months back, trying to get him to sell the shop and move to America; he even had the all the necessary paperwork filled out. Julius had refused; he couldn’t see leaving the store. “What would I do in America?”

Hans was quiet for a moment as his shoulders slumped. “They are arresting dissidents.”

Anger blossomed in Julius; he had given his son for the fatherland and not once had he cried foul. He would not stand here and be called anything but a true German, and in his anger allowed his voice to grow louder than he should have. “I am not a communist!”

A few of the soldiers turned to see what all the noise was about. Hans nodded and waved trying to assure the men that all was