Julius Rosenthal will make candy no more and other short stories

I’m sorry old friend, I can’t.”
“The book belongs to Albert’s father.”
Heinrich didn’t move it was as if every muscle in his body had frozen in an instant. After a long pause he turned to Hans as a deep sadness filled his eyes. “I had Albert’s father in my car. I must go speak with him.”
Hans reached out and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I am doing what I can for him; we should not draw any unnecessary attention to him now.”
Heinrich watched Julius as the frail old man moved to take a seat on the steps leading down the side of the porch. He looked tired, as if he had aged greatly since he sat in the back of Heinrich’s car. One of the younger men kicked Julius as he walked past, screaming for him to get up. The scar on Heinrich’s chest (the one the size of a British bayonet) burned as he witnessed the father of the man who saved his life treated this way. He started to step from the car and Hans grabbed his arm. He took hold of him just above the elbow and leaned in close at the same moment. “I have made arrangements. He will be safe, but we cannot jeopardize that now.”
Heinrich put his hand on Hans and nodded. A shout from the front door of the house drew his attention. The man with the scar would be ready to leave soon. He took the cigarette from his mouth and twisted the burning tip between two calloused fingers. Once it was out pulled the pack from his pocket and slipped it back with the rest. “Get the book, and be sure to tell him.”
He paused; for years Heinrich had wished to repay this debt, and now that he could it did not feel like enough. He felt he should say something, something that would make Albert’s loss seem worth what he now was, but no words came. The sedan’s windows were down and he reached in, retrieving the book. He looked to the door and handed it to Hans. “If there are any problems I will deal with him.”
Han’s tucked the book under his arm and with a nod moved away, almost as an afterthought he turned back to his old friend. “We haven’t earned it yet, have we? I try but, I don’t – I don’t know if...”
Heinrich opened the door and looked over his shoulder to Han’s, “I don’t think you can; all we can do is try. We try and then we pray that God forgives us.”
Hans turned as Heinrich slipped into the car and closed the door. Neither man looked to the other again and neither man saw the other again. Hans walked to the corner and quietly handed the book to Julius, then nodded and returned to the house. When he got to the door, Hans stopped and looked back to Julius. He had never talked of the war. His wife had asked many times, but he always said he could not find the words. Usually it was a lie, something he said to get people to change the subject. Standing here now, having stripped his savior’s father of everything he truly couldn’t find the words.
Julius ran his fingers across the engraving on the front of the book. His father was the one who had the book rebound in leather and the store’s name etched into it. He heard a voice behind him that he would remember for the rest of his life. He turned slightly, and from the corner of his eye watched the scarred Officer shout to the men to get ready the unit was moving out within the hour.
The time passed quickly and the soldiers paid no notice of Julius as they moved about loading their supplies into arriving trucks. Once the truck was full and a small group of soldiers climbed aboard the truck would depart, within moments another would take its place. It took no more than a dozen minutes to load the troops onto the trucks and as the last truck was loading a young officer approached Hans’ front door and waited at attention. As he struck attention the door creaked open and an older man stepped out accompanied by the scarred officer. “Good that you have arrived. Your transfer to Buchenwald has been approved.”
The officer looked to Julius, and then back to the young man before him “You are to escort this Jew to the train station. He will ride the eight am train and you will then take the nine am.”
As the officer passed, Julius was able to get a look at the young man who was to escort him back across town. He was short in stature, without the build of a typical Gestapo officer. The man with the scar sneered as he passed but at the same time he made sure to keep it hidden from the officer behind him. He crossed the yard at a jog and climbed into the back of the final truck slapping the tailgate and screaming for the truck to move. The truck belched a puff of black smoke, and with a shudder, began to move.
Once the truck had cleared away, the sedan from earlier pulled to the gate and stopped. The driver did not step out or make a sound, he simply waited. Julius looked back to the young man, seeing his face now he reminded him of Albert. The officer started to step past, stopped, and leaned in close to the young man’s ear. Julius was too far to hear what was said but the grimace that crossed the young man’s face made the condemnation seem obvious. As the officer stepped past, the young man turned and his back straightened “If I may ask the