Chapter 1 #2
The Row kept a fund for such occurrences. The Applebaums always contributed their share, though they had not been raided . . .
yet. The booksellers on Book Row might squabble, undercut one another, or hold out on a rare find, but they wouldn’t stand
by when one of their own was being mistreated. Especially by the self-appointed censors of Anthony Comstock. They always bailed
out their colleagues and, when necessary, fed their families if they were brought to trial.
None of them were dealing in actual pornography of any kind. Someone like that would be drummed out of the neighborhood. All
their good names were at stake.
Unfortunately, Comstock couldn’t tell the difference between fine art, caricature, pornography, and a doodlebug. Odious man.
But today all was normal on the avenue. Awnings were unfurled.
Outside shelves and bins were being replenished from the day before.
Already the early shoppers were looking for a “steal” (sometimes literally) in the bargain bins, or hoping to spy a collector’s item from the throwaway boxes, left outside the shops each night, where people or other dealers left unwanted printed matter that others might be able to sell.
Next door at Tellers’ Fine Printing and Stationery, Yannis Teller waved as he held the door for his mother, recently arrived
from Lithuania, as she carried a basket of hand-painted greeting cards inside.
Across the street, Mr. Kirsch stepped out of the narrow door of his art-book shop and began sweeping the sidewalk. Olivia
didn’t have to look at her lapel watch to know that it was five minutes to nine.
She glanced at her sister, still stewing because Celia had once again shirked her duties. In a way, Olivia envied their youngest
sister. Not that she would ever admit it. “Come inside. She’ll be back, but we must open the store. You can take in the throwaway
box, and she can go through it later.”
“Fine.” With a huff Daphne hoisted the wooden box. “But I’m not touching these filthy old books. I’m wearing my good dress,
and it’s not my job!” She stomped over the threshold and staggered inside, trying to hold the cumbersome box at arm’s length.
Olivia followed her inside and closed the door; with a last glance out to the street, she turned the closed sign to open.
Cooper Union
Astor Place
Celia stood at the curb at Astor Place, just one among many, waiting for the trolley to pass by.
Was Margaret already speeding toward the ship that would take her to Europe? At least she would be safe there. Unlike the
rest of them.
Celia would have to warn Yannis of the new circumstances as soon as she could take a break. Maybe at lunch.
She hadn’t even had breakfast. She’d sneaked out early on the pretense of going to the butcher’s for bacon. Now she was going
to be late. Much later than a trip to the butcher’s would take. But she couldn’t tell her sisters about the message she’d
received last night notifying her of the emergency meeting this morning. She’d hardly slept from wondering what was happening.
Her stomach was queasy from hunger, lack of sleep, and just plain fear. Reprisal. Margaret’s word rolled over and over in her mind. The Arcadia had never been raided. Book Row hadn’t always been the brunt
of Comstock’s hatred, not while there were abortionists and prostitutes to chase down. But nothing was ever enough for him.
And now he had a bunch of thugs making sporadic trips down to intimidate the little guys. Celia hated him.
Why was the trolley taking so long to take on passengers?
Across the street Bible House, by far the largest publishing and printing business on Book Row, filled the entire block. Comstock
wouldn’t dare raid them. They mostly printed Bibles.
The trolley finally started up, and the sea of pedestrians rushed across the street.
Shifting her knitting bag more securely, Celia rushed with them. She didn’t knit, or sew, or even cook all that well, but
that was not what her knitting bag was for. The yarn inside was musty with age, covered with printer’s ink and grease spots.
It was very useful, not for actual knitting but for protecting eggs on the trip home from the grocer’s or for temporarily
housing abandoned animals. Their own dear calico, Jane Addams, had briefly found sanctuary there when Celia had discovered
her in the gutter, half drowned and covered with ants.
Today, it was secreting a pamphlet about the efficacy of using vitamins pre- and post-pregnancy. What was pornographic about vitamins? Even vegetables had vitamins.
But it was the two articles from Margaret’s magazine, The Woman Rebel, already seized by Comstock and destroyed, that had turned his attention to Book Row. The original magazines hadn’t been
printed there, but Celia was going to make sure the individual articles—already transferred to Linotype casters ready to be
printed, and now residing at the bottom of the old green knitting bag—would be. She wasn’t even sure what they were about.
But she had absolute confidence they were needed.
As they reached the other side of the street, the subway station disgorged another crowd of people, most of whom—clerks, managers,
cleaning staff, and mannequins—hurried to work at Wanamaker’s. The department store had grown so large that it took up two
full blocks on the west side of the avenue. Celia could remember the days when her mother would take them to stand on the
third-floor skywalk that connected the two stores, where they could look down on all the people below. It was like standing
in the sky. She never went there now, but Daphne still loved to “window shop,” mooning over the latest fashions that she would
never have any place to wear, even if she could afford to buy them.
Wanamaker’s sold books, but they would never be raided. The idea was absurd. Comstock had set his sights on the belly of Book
Row, the smaller shops between Tenth and Fourteenth streets; businesses that he could bully, owners who didn’t have the clout
to fight back.
She picked up her pace as she passed the newsstand that took up most of the corner at Tenth Street.
She could hardly see the top of its roof for the crowd pressed around it, jostling to buy their papers and the latest news from Europe, where a war had been declared and many of them still had relatives.
Celia reached Eleventh Street and was about to cross when someone called her name.
She whirled around, stuck between thoughts of war and fear for what she was carrying.
“Miss Celia, don’t you want your bacon? It’s Monday. I saved you a nice meaty piece.” Mr. Krause, the butcher, was standing
outside his door, his hand raised in greeting.
The bacon. Her excuse for coming out in the first place. She’d forgotten all about it.
“What luck, Mr. Krause. My head was in the clouds.”
He handed her a hefty slab wrapped in white paper and tied with brown string, just as he had done every Monday since Celia
could remember.
“And how are you ladies getting on, these days?”
“Fine, fine—thank you.” She stepped away. She was really late, and Daphne would not be happy if she had to open without Celia.
“And Miss Olivia, she doing well? Haven’t seen her in quite a while.”
“She’s been busy with the shop.”
“Well, you tell her I asked about her.”
“I will, thanks again.” Celia added the bacon to her knitting bag. Two doors later she nipped into the bakery, where Mrs.
Franchetti had saved a crusty country loaf.
“For my girls at the Arcadia.” She pinched Celia’s cheek as she did every visit. The loaf went into the knitting bag, and
Celia hurried on her way.
Everything seemed perfectly normal on Book Row, and Celia was beginning to think maybe she’d been overreacting about imminent raids and imprisonment.
Up ahead, Mr. Henderson was just going through his throwaway box. He added a volume to his outside shelves as she reached
him. “Morning, Miss Celia. Only a few of these I can use. Shall I leave these others next door for Mr. Gepfert to peruse,
or would you like a look?”
“Thank you, Mr. Henderson,” Celia said, trying not to appear impatient, but she was going to be in such trouble if she was
late again. “I’m sure our box will be full enough.”
“I’m sure it will. I swear this old almanac has been around the block twice. I didn’t want it the first time round.” He tossed
the book into a discard carton. “With any luck some urchin with sticky fingers will help himself. It should be worth a cent
or two even with a torn cover and two years out of date.”
Celia nodded; she’d just seen Mr. Kirsch come out of his store and begin sweeping his sidewalk. Five minutes to nine every
day, even in the rain.
“I’m late,” she called back to Mr. Henderson without slowing down. She cut across the avenue, past the back entrance of Grace
Church, and nearly bumped into two washerwomen who had stopped to exchange some gossip on the sidewalk. She managed to reach
the Arcadia just as Mr. Kirsch stepped inside his store.
Nine o’clock. The carts were already placed outside. She hurried into the shop.
Olivia and Daphne were waiting at the counter.
“Sorry,” Celia huffed. Olivia was looking taller and more severe than usual in her brown tweed suit.
Her almost black hair was slicked back in a low bun, not a single strand out of place.
She must have an important client appointment this morning.
Celia unconsciously smoothed her own wayward tresses.
Daphne’s light curls perfectly framed her face, but her lilac flowered dress was covered by a work apron, which meant she’d
had to take out the book bins in Celia’s absence.
“Where have you been? What took you so long? I had to open the store and put out the street books and bring in the throwaway box and I’m dusty and moldy already and we haven’t even had breakfast. How am I supposed to meet customers this way?”
Assuming all this was rhetorical, Celia didn’t attempt to explain. The fact that Jane Addams had jumped down from her place
next to a bust of Edgar Allan Poe, and was now threading figure eights around Celia’s ankles, should give her sister a clue.
She dug the bacon and bread out of her knitting bag and handed them to Daphne.
Jane Addams followed the bacon and rubbed up against Daphne’s ankles.
“Ugh. Jane Austen, you naughty kitty, you’re leaving fur on my dress.”
“Then you better run upstairs so you can primp some more,” said Celia. “Take the bacon with you.”
Daphne stuck out her tongue.
“Don’t be such a brat. I said I was sorry.”
“You’re the brat.”
“Well, you—”
“Ladies, you’re both adults. Please act like it; customers will be entering any minute now, and they’ll find the two of you
caterwauling like a couple of alley cats. And you’ve upset Jane Eyre.”
At the sound of her name, the calico pricked up her ears and gave her full attention to Olivia.
Olivia grabbed her skirt in both hands and lifted her hem. “No cat hairs, please. I’m expecting Mr. Delereux. He’s interested in The Decameron.”
“Really?” asked Celia. It would bring a handsome sum, money they could use. Running a bookshop was a lot more expensive than
even Olivia had anticipated, and she’d been doing the books for their father for years.
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed. We both will.” Celia glared at Daphne.
“I hope he buys the whole shop,” complained Daphne, her full bottom lip slipping into a pout.
“Would you like me to cook the bacon?” Celia asked sweetly, thinking about a Sunday dinner of roast beef, potatoes, and pudding,
if Mr. Delereux actually bought The Decameron.
“You’d just burn it.”
“Enough,” said Olivia. “We’ll have the bacon for dinner. Ah, here is Mr. Delereux now. You two may disappear.”
Daphne didn’t need a second order. She grabbed the book she’d been reading—probably a romance story, she was always reading
about people in love—and took the stairs two at a time. Where she would stay upstairs for a good half hour, cosseted with
her mirror and curling iron.
The bell over the door tinkled.
Celia threw her bag into the throwaway box and shoved both to the floor behind the counter. Then threw herself after it. None
of them were in any state to be viewed by their distinguished customer.
She heard Olivia greet him in her most pleasant voice, and they went upstairs to the private client parlor for coffee and Turkish delight, one of Mr. Delereux’s favorites, followed by a change of venue to the rare-books room and a hard sell from her upright and polite oldest sister.
As soon as Celia heard the old two-person elevator clanking up the floors, she lugged the box back to the counter and quickly
perused the contents. A book on the water plants of the Sicomac Valley. Two volumes of poetry by someone she’d never heard
of. A dog-eared copy of a Bobbsey Twins mystery. She set that aside for Daphne to consider. Two Boy Scout handbooks—they already
had several in better condition. A math textbook. And a stack of dime novels that had seen better days.
At the very bottom she found a cookbook that looked like it had fallen into the soup. A quick riffle through its pages revealed
just what she’d hoped to find. A strip of paper used as a bookmark, which she quickly slipped into the pocket of her skirt.