Julius Rosenthal will make candy no more and other short stories Read online

  Table of Contents

  Julius Rosenthal Will Make Candy No More

  Shadows of the Gemmel Anomaly

  The Gatekeeper

  Hands Of Love

  Circus People

  An Unnecessary Life

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Julius Rosenthal Will Make Candy No More

  Julius was not an extraordinary man. He was actually quite the opposite. At eleven he was the tallest boy on Rosenthal Lane, but now as he approached his seventy-fifth birthday he was the shortest. Julius though liked to remember that he was still the tallest eleven year old. I must apologize for we have just met and I have already told you two lies. The first is that Julius is quite extraordinary because he has no tears left in him. The other is less a lie and more an omission of change. The small road that Julius lives on, that his family had lived on for six generations, was no longer called Rosenthal Lane: it had been renamed in honor of the Chancellor Hitler.

  Just before dawn Julius awoke, as he did every morning. It was Thursday and every Thursday Julius would make the trek across town from his tiny candy shop to the asylum delivering fresh caramels and toffees to those who had the misfortune of being trapped inside its walls. He poured himself a cup of coffee and looked out the tiny kitchen window. The yard was covered in a thick blanket of pure white snow. Once full of flowers and a small vegetable garden, the yard was past repair now; the flower beds long since overtaken by weeds and grass. Looking out though Julius didn’t see any of that all he saw was he lovely Juliette running about in the thick wool coat Ava had given her for Hanukkah. Some mornings looking out he saw his Ava running after the girl, but not in the winter: Ava never liked the winter.

  He washed the mug and slipped his jacket on. Standing at the front door he looked over the parlor. Julius kept it as clean as he could but Ava had always been the housekeeper. His eyes focused on the family portrait hanging above the fireplace. It seemed like another lifetime, his loving family reduced now to only its patriarch. He turned and left the house, gently closing the door behind him, not knowing he would never see this place again.

  The small dirt road leading to Rosenthal’s home had developed a set of ruts from the decades of use. When he first took over the role as head of the family, Julius had tried to fill in the ruts. It had worked for a short while but as it always is with nature she did as she wished and they quickly dipped back down. The walk to work was another reminder of his solitude. Ava’s dislike of winter had been easily pushed aside when Juliette ran about playing as they would walk with her to school. She would run ahead, pulling her legs high in the deep snow drifts. She would get as far as Ava would allow her to go before stopping looking back and with arms stretched wide falling backwards into the snow. Juliette would then swing her arms and legs wildly until Julius was close enough to help her to her feet.

  Halfway to his shop the road turned west, the bend sharp enough that a passing car was not able to see around its corner. Julius stopped. He hadn’t stopped here in years, this place didn’t affect him as it once did. Today for some reason, looking out over the snow, all he could see was gleaming red. The corners of his eyes itched but no tears came. It was soon after that when his beloved Ava passed: the doctor said that tuberculoses weakened her heart but Julius knew the truth.

  Julius crossed the road choosing not to step on the ground where she had fallen. A freezing wind filled the air as he passed, and Julius pulled his coat tighter. He moved around the bend as the sun crested the mountains bathing the road in its warm glow.

  Only the baker was open earlier than Julius the two had been friends since their youth. The past year had been rough on both businesses. The baker was forced by new laws to lay off three of his workers, all Jewish, and he had not yet been able to find anyone to replace the men. His wife had helped at first, but she was not used to the laborious work of a baker and was forced to stop. The baker left his back door open, filling the tiny alley between the shops with the warm smell of sweet breads and his famous cinnamon roll. Julius moved past and stopped at his door. He pulled the shiny key from his pocket and slid it in the lock. For four generations the Rosenthal Candy Company had never found a need for a lock, but these were hard times for all.

  “Did you eat breakfast, or was it just coffee again?” Julius turned to see the baker, his arms were covered in the fine white flour he used for his sweet bread.

  “Ja, I did.” Julius smiled and turned back to his door as he jiggled the lock. Even a new lock didn’t want to work on a cold winter morning. It finally turned and Julius slipped in waving back to his old friend. He turned on the gas lanterns. A salesman from Rheinisch had tried to get Julius to switch to the newer, cleaner electric lights, but Julius had said no: there was something magical about the soft flickering glow.

  Julius looked to the storeroom’s shelves: the war had been hard on all shops, but his seemed to fare worse than the rest. The shelves were mostly bare except for a few spare items - two oranges and a few cups of sugar. Julius measured out the sugar: it was almost six cups, but not quite. He wondered how many strings of candy that would make. He walked into the front room and retrieved the book. The book was his family recipes; each generation would add one now and again, but they never altered the originals set down by the company’s founder. Julius had been named for this man, and carried the weight of that name with him whenever he would make a batch of candies.

  For three of the six generations, the book sat on the counter next to the register. A new place was needed after a man passing through town had attempted to grab it from the counter and make a run for it. He had barely gotten to the door before he was tackled by a group of children. His grandfather Tobias loved to tell that story; he said it reminded them of the inherent good in all children. Julius had liked the story because it was always followed by a caramel. He pulled the book from below the counter and placed it gently on the glass counter top.

  Julius wanted a caramel, now and looked to the large glass container across the room. From here it looked empty but he crossed the room anyway. Up close Julius could see a single candy in its dull wax wrapper. He pulled the heavy, leaded-glass lid from the jar, took the end of the wrapper between two fingers, and stopped. Julius’ father had been a fickle man in the early years when Julius was not a candy maker, but an apprentice. His father had hammered into him that the candy was for the customers; every little bit was a piece of silver from your pocket. Julius let go and replaced the lid.

  Back at the counter he carefully opened the book; a dab of colored paint in the top corner told what each section of the book contained. He flipped past the red dots (soft candies) and the yellows (chocolates) to the blues. Julius had always preferred the blues - hard candies stored well and could always be slipped to a sad child to bring out a quick smile. He turned the pages slowly, looking over each page with care; with only a small amount of sugar, he wanted to make something that had a nice sweet flavor. He settled finally on rock candy; it was a simple recipe, simple enough that school children made it but rock candy was always a favorite. The recipe called for sixty pounds of sugar; Julius did the math reducing it to the amount he had. He had enough sugar to make three - only three? Julius did the math again making sure to check each figure before moving to the next.

  A deep sadness came over Julius as he closed the book and looked at the near-empty store front. It had been weeks since a customer entered the shop. He looked out the front window, a view he used to enjoy, that was now blocked by a large gold star painted across the window. He slid the book back into its place below the counter and returned to the back room. Hanging from a hook just inside the door was a tan apron. Julius took it down and slipped it over his head before tying it around his waist.

  Besides holding storage, the backroom also held an old stove and oven. Above the stove was a rack holding five pots. The smallest held no more than a cup and was used to make cream fillings. The next size larger was what he needed but he didn’t have a pot in between. He set the pot on the stove and crossed the room to the sink. Years earlier he had bought multiple measuring cups in what his father would surely have called over-indulgence. Julius just liked to have one cup for each ingredient; it kept the flavors from mixing before they should. He filled the glass to the necessary mark and poured it into the pot.

  The stove’s knobs were speckled with rust and the labels had worn off long ago; as he turned the knob a blue flame burst out from under the pot. Julius bent down bringing the flame to eye level and began to turn the knob again. Julius’ father had mastered the knobs, and could always get the perfect flame on the first turn. It was a skill that despite his years making candy, Julius never cared to master. He twisted the knob back and forth just slightly, bringing the flame higher and lower.

  With the flame at the desired level, Julius stood back up and stretched his back. His age was beginning to haunt Julius; the times when he could grab fifty pound bags of sugar were long gone. He had accepted that, but it was now getting to the point where the everyday work needed to run the shop was slipping. He had hoped his son, Albert, would have taken over the shop, but the Great War took his Albert away. Albert’s passing had not taken his tears or even the passing of
his beloved Ava, it was when God took Juliette. Julius had not blamed the driver in his fancy car; he blamed God for the death of the sweet Juliette.

  The hiss of spilled water drew Julius back to the present; the pot was to a rapid boil now. He chided himself for his lapse; in his grief, Julius had forgotten to add the orange rind. He dug around in the cabinet looking for the old steel grater. Julius had talked to a salesman once who tried to get him to start using artificial flavors, but that seemed like an affront to the family name. So here Julius was grating the rind of an orange that was a day or two from being rotten. With the rind in a neat, orange-white pile Julius tapped the side of the grater, loosening the last few pieces.

  He added the powder to the boiling water before measuring the sugar. He preferred to add the rind before the boil to allow the flavor time to disperse throughout, but he had let his mind slip this morning and was forced to add it later than he liked. Julius reminded himself that the rind would still flavor the candy well, and that he was just being a perfectionist.

  As he was measuring the sugar he heard the tiny jingle of an old brass bell; it was a sound he had not heard in weeks. He set the measuring glass down and leaving the sugar container open, Julius stepped out into the stores front room. Examining an empty glass jar was a man dressed in a crisp black uniform. He was tall-easily over six feet, but other than the broad shoulders one would expect from a man of his height, he was thin, almost giving the impression of a pole wrapped in black wool.

  The man turned toward Julius; his face was sunken and pale with a jagged scar crossing the left side of his face. Julius tried not to stare, to keep his eyes from locking with the man before him but he couldn’t. The scar ran from the base of his ear to the tip of the man’s lips, giving him the look of a sinister smile. Julius recognized the uniform and couldn’t bring himself even in his mind to say their name. Julius could see the man’s collar and the four silver squares turned slightly to the side. “Good morning, sir, is there anything I can help you with?”

  Without saying a word, he moved toward the counter and looked into the empty glass case. He always kept his posture perfect, kept his shoulders back and his chin high. “You are Julius Rosenthal, are you not?”

  “Yes sir, I am.” Julius knew what the man was here for and felt a spasm run down his spine. The town was small, and so far there had not been many people taken, but he had received letters from friends, and when these men show up people are never seen again.

  The man raised his long, thin arm and with his boney finger pointed toward the door. “You will need to come with me.”

  He stood perfectly still and waited for Julius to move. Julius looked over the store and the corners of his eyes began to itch. He tied his apron and laid it on the counter. Julius wanted to speak but found his throat sore and dry. He tried again but the same thing seemed to happen; by his third try he found his voice though it was frailer then it had seemed when he last spoke. “May I gather my things?”

  The man’s cold face broke, and he seemed for just a moment to be human, but Julius knew better. He could see the man’s back stiffen before he spoke. “Yes, but hurry; I am expected at Headquarters soon.”

  Julius nodded and stepped to the register, reaching under the table for his recipe book. He looked to the register and placed a finger on the “no sale” button. He knew how much money was in the till- three Riechmarks - but wasn’t sure if he should take it. Most likely the man before him would take the money either way, so Julius didn’t really see the point. He left the money but tucked the book under his arm. He walked around the counter and started for the door.

  Stepping out Julius was surprised to see the late hour. Having not carried a watch in years, Julius tended to lose track of time. He arrived at work just before dawn and left as the sun was setting, time beyond that seemed irrelevant. Now the sun was high in the eastern sky, and Julius let it flood his vision, blocking all that was around him. The SS officer pushed Julius, knocking him off balance and bringing him back to the street. He turned to see the man again and saw the baker exiting the front of his store. “What is going on here?”

  His voice was cold and firm, and in a strange way, reminded Julius of his father. The officer turned and the moment the baker could see the man before him completely his demeanor changed. The strength from the moment before was gone now replaced by fear of those who backed the dark bully before them “I have orders directly from the Führer. To bring all Jews together for deportation, are you attempting to stop me, Baker?”

  “No, it’s about time we get these Jews out of here.” A searing pain rushed through Julius’ chest as the man before him, a man whom Julius had played with as a child denounced him. Their gazes met and humiliation filled the baker’s eyes as he turned and reentered his shop. Julius turned and straightened his back as he walked to the black sedan.

  The officer whose name Julius still did not know turned and motioned for two men to come forward. The two men, neither in uniform but each wielding clubs, entered Julius’ shop. The muffled sound of shattering glass floated behind Julius as he walked to the car.

  The drive across town was swift and unpleasant. Julius had not liked automobiles before Juliette’s accident, and now found them almost unbearable. The sedan pulled up to an abandoned train station; the government had built a newer station ten years ago, and since then this one had fallen into disrepair. Julius 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.