Chapter 5
The next morning Celia went out to get the early edition of the Sun. She normally didn’t buy the paper every day, but the news this week was of particular interest to her, and if she were honest,
she was curious to see if the “interesting stranger” would be there.
As she reached the newsstand and the group clustered about an open magazine, laughter broke out.
“Now, that’s a good one,” said Peter Stammer. They all agreed.
“What is it?” Celia asked, trying to peer over the shoulders of the men.
“Cartoon in The Masses. Comstock dragging a poor woman into court because she’d given birth to a naked baby.” He chuckled again. Then sighed. “If
laughter would just get rid of him. The basta— Sorry, Miss Celia. We have a bad habit of not taking your sensibilities into
account when we get to talking.”
“Not to worry. I expect my sensibilities will survive,” Celia said wryly and made her way to the counter. She was glad to
see that there were still copies of both the Times and the Sun left. She paid Mr. Wickes and settled in to read the headlines, while she listened to the gossiping men.
The good thing about being one of the few—very few—women in the book trade, was that after they got used to her, the other
dealers tended to ignore her, talking among themselves as if she wasn’t there. Though to give them their due, they occasionally
asked her opinion. And they weren’t above asking the Applebaum sisters to contribute to the Row’s bail fund. Something they
hadn’t had to use too much lately. Seemed that the Society for the Suppression of Vice had been giving the theater their attention—until
Margaret Sanger had set Comstock off again.
But the news was good, or, as they said, no news was good news; only a little article on page four about the search for William
Sanger, thought to have possession of the unpublished manuscript, and who seemed to have disappeared.
“They hit Fischer’s at the Bible House building yesterday,” said Peter Stammer. “I’d be damned if I know where they get these
“agents.” They read ‘manuscript’ on the window and took it upon themselves to burst inside, demanding to see what manuscripts
they had in their possession.
“Joseph had to come out front and explain that everything in the store was a manuscript, music manuscripts, and that there
were over a thousand of them, because they were a music store. I swear. I don’t know how he looked at them with a straight
face.”
“Well, he couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t trash the place just out of spite, could he?” Mr. Schulte pointed out.
“I heard that they left in such a rage for being made to look stupid, they accosted an innocent passerby on the street who raised such a commotion that it caused a traffic jam. This upset the ladies trying to enter or exit Wanamaker’s.
They complained to Wanamaker’s. Wanamaker’s complained to the city.
And the city promised to tell Comstock to lay off.
I don’t think we’ll be seeing them again for a while. ”
“I hope you’re right. Last time he got raid happy, Henderson here had to go down to the courthouse with bail money so many
times we had to reimburse him for the subway fare.
“Let’s just keep our heads down and hope this all blows over soon.”
“I just hope that Comstock doesn’t get it in his head to start tearing up Book Row like he did back in ’06,” Mr. Stammer said.
“What happened in ’06?” asked Celia, beginning to worry.
“The fool arrested the secretary at the Art Students League for depicting nude statues in the catalogue. There was a huge
public uproar. The society was humiliated and blamed Comstock for going too far. That cretin went berserk and raided all the
shops that sold art books and paintings, confiscated huge amounts of irreplaceable books, and destroyed them. People were
afraid to come into the shops.
“We thought those days were over. Now he’s being urged to retire, it seems he’s gone rabid again. You and your sisters be
real careful.”
“Us?” Celia exclaimed, shocked.
“Any of us who deal in rare and fine books, or any books at all, are liable to be targeted by Comstock’s goons. The post office
and society have gotten sick and tired of his overbearing attacks. They created the monster, and now they’re having trouble
getting rid of him.”
“Maybe he’s learned his lesson,” Mr. Bender suggested.
“Maybe so,” Mr. Schulte said. “Paper says he’s looking for Mr. Sanger, who, it was said, is working with a printer in New Jersey. I don’t think we’ll be seeing much more of his shenanigans. These last few raids smack of thugs running amok.”
“I agree,” said Mr. Stammer. “And running amok can be even more dangerous and do as much, if not more, destruction. Do not
underestimate him.”
The group began to disperse, but Celia stayed to look through the papers, taking the opportunity to see if she espied a certain
“interesting stranger,” but with no success.
The rest of the front pages were filled with stories about the skirmish in Europe.
Celia had never been to Europe. She hadn’t been “finished” abroad or anywhere else. She hadn’t even been to college. Every
time she broached the subject, her father insisted she was getting more of an education reading on her own than any young
man or woman in any institution anywhere. But it wasn’t true. She learned what was handy or what caught her eye. And she had
to admit to herself, if no one else, there were big gaps in her education.
Usually, she assuaged this lack by telling herself she was still a work in progress. And she intended to progress, not spend
the remainder of her life sitting in a musty bookstore waiting to sell a book that someone else would read. All those books
and all those customers, sometimes it felt like she didn’t know the world or even how to deal with people outside of selling
them a book.
Now that her father was gone, they didn’t have the money to send her to Europe or to college—besides, they needed her at the
shop.
“Well, I don’t envy those Poles,” Leo Wickes said from the other side of the counter.
Celia shook her head. “No.” She wasn’t quite sure where Poland was. Somewhere in Europe. She’d look it up as soon as she got back to the shop.
“As long as they don’t drag us into it.”
That surprised her. “Why would they?”
“It’s a small world. The Dabrowski boys are both talking about going back to Poland to fight. If the war drags on, there will
be more. Could drag us all into it, eventually.”
Celia was beginning to feel that maybe ignorance was bliss after all.
Mr. Wickes smiled at her. “Don’t you worry. I’m just rattling on. At least they won’t come over here. We got a nice big ocean
between us and President Wilson keeping us safe. You have a nice day now.”
Celia took her papers and started home, her head full of news but none that would make her feel that she could breathe freely
again.
She bought some rolls and got her cheek pinched by Mrs. Franchetti and was about to cross the avenue when she saw two men
step out of Kirsch’s Fine Art and Illustrations.
Then she saw that Mr. Kirsch himself was escorting a customer out to the street, and her stomach did a little flip. It was
her “interesting stranger.” She was certain of it.
So instead of crossing, she continued down the sidewalk, hoping to meet up with them before they parted.
They seemed to be deep in conversation. It would be rude to interrupt them, especially if they were in the middle of a negotiation,
so she merely slowed down and hoped they would notice her. Something, she was embarrassed to acknowledge, that was exactly
what Daphne would do.
“Miss Celia, good morning,” said Mr. Kirsch.
Celia swallowed. But suddenly couldn’t manage a good morning.
“Let me introduce you to Mr. Joshua Starling. Miss Celia Applebaum, one of the owners of the Arcadia Rare Bookshop I was telling
you about.”
“Miss Applebaum.” Since his hat was already in his hand, he merely dipped his chin. The sun caught the blond in his hair and
did a little dance across his head. Or perhaps that was Celia’s stomach. What was wrong with her?
“A pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“Mr. Starling is on a buying trip for a London collector.”
“Ah, have you been successful in your search?”
“I just arrived a few days ago. I’ve perused several private collections uptown.”
So, a serious collector.
“They didn’t have anything that would fit my client’s collection, so it was suggested I visit the haunts of Fourth Avenue.
And I must say, it’s been filled with welcome surprises.”
Celia was so intrigued by the twinkle in his eyes that she almost missed Mr. Kirsch’s next statement.
“Mr. Starling is particularly interested in ancient, unique texts. Though I don’t know too many ancient texts that aren’t
already in the museums or collections of private owners.”
Celia knit her brows; she wasn’t sure what Mr. Kirsch was hinting at. That she should not trust this new collector? That he
might be a Comstock agent? But then he smiled at her, and she wondered if all this excitement was affecting her judgment.
“My sister Olivia is the rare-books . . . specialist. If you’d like to make an appointment with her, I’m sure she would be
delighted to accommodate you.”
“I most definitely will do that. And are you the nonfiction specialist?”
“Pardon?”
“I see that you are carrying several newspapers. Are you interested in current affairs?”
Celia dragged her eyes away from his sparkly ones and looked down at the papers, as if it were the first time she’d seen them.
She swallowed. “One should always be interested in current events, don’t you agree?” Now she sounded like one of those poor
bluestocking spinsters in a Jane Austen novel.
“Yes, I do. Very important.”
Why did it seem like the man was always on the point of bursting out laughing?
But before they could continue, two black automobiles cut out of the morning street traffic and came to a stop just beyond
them.