Chapter 7
Olivia guessed it was the sound of a fracas below the window that made her get up from her chair and look down to the street.
She’d been sitting in the parlor having a cup of tea and trying to catch what little breeze there was. Below her the street
was still alive with those leaving work for home, or coming out for the evening air.
And then, the slamming of vehicle doors—several of them—shouts, running footsteps. She knew that sound. It catapulted her
from the chair to the window—and her heart stuttered to a stop. Below her, two black automobiles were parked at the curb.
She knew what they were and what they were doing. At first, she was afraid they were coming to the Arcadia. Then she saw them
enter next door. The Tellers’ shop. Had Yannis left for the night?
Then she remembered that Celia was there with Yannis’s father.
“Daphne!” she cried.
It was only a moment before a groggy Daphne stuck her head out of the bedroom door. Her hair was tied up with socks to enhance
her curls.
“What is it?”
“They’re raiding Yannis’s shop. Get dressed.”
“What? Oh no.” Daphne’s head disappeared. Two minutes later she returned after hastily dressing and pulling the socks from her hair.
They ran down the stairs, both too impatient to wait for the slow and creaking customer elevator.
Olivia had to fight the impulse to run outside and try to . . . It was too late to do anything but make it worse. She grabbed
Daphne’s shoulder, and they squeezed into the bow window to watch and wait.
“What’s taking them so long?” Daphne asked in a voice she hadn’t used since she’d outgrown her fear of thunderstorms. “They’re
all okay, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know. I hope so.” Olivia saw Mr. Henderson striding up the avenue. He stopped in front of Kirsch’s Fine Art and Illustrations
just as Mr. Kirsch stepped outside.
Olivia bit her lip. They would know what to do. Minutes ticked by while the two men stood on the sidewalk watching the door
of Tellers’, while Olivia watched them. People passed by, hesitated in front of the shop next door, then scurried past, or
detoured to the far side of the street. Vehicles and wagons continued to go about their business, merely slowing down to slip
around the parked automobiles.
“We have to do something,” Daphne urged.
“Not until we get the okay from Mr. Kirsch.”
Several people had gathered in front of Mr. Kirsch’s store. They all knew what was going on; they didn’t dare interfere lest
they get added to the raid.
It seemed to Olivia like a lifetime while they waited shoulder to shoulder, neither of them speaking, Olivia at least praying that everyone at Tellers’ would be fine.
Then chastised herself for hysteria. The agents of the SSV weren’t violent against people; well, not too violent, not usually.
They just hounded people to death. And destroyed a world full of words, pictures, paintings, ideas.
At last the agents came out, jumped in the automobiles, and drove away. It seemed to Olivia they hadn’t confiscated anything.
Even leaning forward into the curved part of the window, she couldn’t see that well, and she cursed her fading eyes. At least
she could see that they were not hauling Yannis or his father or Celia away to jail. She prayed that they hadn’t done damage
to the printers themselves.
As soon as they were gone, Daphne ran toward the door. Olivia pulled her back. “Wait for Mr. Kirsch.”
Another eternity passed, and finally Mr. Kirsch and the other men started across the avenue to the printshop. Olivia and Daphne
rushed out to meet them.
“Is everything all right at the Arcadia?” Mr. Henderson asked.
“Yes,” said Olivia. “But Celia was at the Tellers’ helping them with the accounts.”
“I’m sure they’re all perfectly fine,” he said.
“Let us hope so,” Mr. Kirsch said. “Let’s see what damage has been done.” But as he reached for the door, it opened and Celia
stepped out.
“Celia.” Olivia reached for her, but Celia just shook her head and walked past them toward the Arcadia without stopping.
“Oh dear,” said Olivia. “I’ll just stick my head in for a minute then go see to her.”
She and Daphne stepped inside. The men crowded in behind them. It looked like a tornado had hit the stationery department.
“Good Lord. An abomination!” exclaimed Mr. Henderson.
Olivia felt a wave of nausea. And she realized it was purely selfish, as she imagined her own collection of rare volumes scattered
and torn across the floor.
Yannis stood in the ruins, looking bereft. His father sat on a stool, hunched over resting his elbows on his knees. “I am
so sorry,” Olivia said.
Yannis nodded.
“Can we help?” Daphne asked. “They’ve made such a mess and . . . Oh, your mother’s lovely cards.” Her lips trembled, and she
bent down to pick up several that were crumpled on the floor.
Yannis took them from her and smiled, his face softening. “Thanks. But I’m going to take my father home, where he can be comfortable.
Tomorrow will be soon enough to make decisions.”
“You ladies go see to your sister,” said Mr. Henderson. “We’ll get things cleaned up in a jiffy. And then we’re going to discuss
how to handle this if it happens again.”
“When it happens again,” Mr. Kirsch said.
“Well, let us know if we can do anything,” Olivia added, though none of the men were paying the least attention. She scurried
Daphne out, leaving the men rolling up their sleeves.
Celia didn’t go upstairs and shut herself up in her bedroom; instead she squeezed past the stacks of books on the stairs that
led to the unused balcony at the back of the store. Even in the days when customers were allowed up there, it was the one
place where she had always felt safe, where she knew who she was, where she didn’t feel responsible for getting her friend
in trouble with the Suppression of Vice agents.
Because it had to be her. She or Selena or Jon. Ever since she’d begun to work with Yannis on the printing, she’d been so careful not to treat him any differently than before. She’d thought they had a perfect arrangement. He printed, her stipend helped pay for his other secret printings.
She’d thought it had been in both their best interests. That they had a common cause. That they were a team.
Until tonight.
Now Yannis thought she had compromised them. He must hate her. And she’d lost her one means of printing. She’d let everyone
down. Was she responsible for the raid tonight? She’d been very careful not to be followed, not to misspeak; she even lied
to her family to protect the work.
Maybe it was just because Yannis was a printer, and Comstock was looking for the manuscript that Margaret had left behind.
That wouldn’t be Celia’s fault. No one but Selena knew she was a part of the Sanger adherents.
Celia sat in the dark in the very back of the balcony, in the darkest corner, that was terrible for reading but perfect for
hiding. She’d spent many an hour in that corner when she was younger. After her mother was gone, when Celia blamed her father
for all the bad things that had happened.
She still blamed him, deep down. His needs, his desires. He was an educated man. Why did he act like all the rest?
She heard the front door open and her sisters come in. She curled deeper into the dark. She couldn’t face them. What could
she say but more lies. They probably already knew she hadn’t gone to help with the accounts.
She heard murmured voices, then the elevator clanking upstairs, and relaxed a bit. After the day they’d had, her sisters wouldn’t come down again once they discovered she hadn’t gone up to the apartment.
She let out her breath and with it some of the tension she’d held all night. Her eyes had just closed when she heard a rustle . . .
of fabric.
“I thought you might be hiding here,” said Olivia.
Celia straightened up.
“There’s no reason to be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” said Celia, and realized she meant it. She hadn’t been afraid since they understood they were being raided.
Frenetic, panicked, but strangely exhilarated. A memory of that feeling skittered across her shoulders. Then things got torn
up and Yannis got mad, and Mr. Teller looked like his world had just shattered. It was then she felt the full weight of what
she’d asked of them. And now she didn’t think she could face another day.
“Well, good. We’ll all have to be especially kind to Mr. Teller. Yannis is worried about him.”
“Yes,” Celia said. And it’s all my fault.
“Come to bed. Things will look brighter in the morning. And we can put this night behind us.”
“Can we? Who will be next? He didn’t even bother to come on the raid. Just sent his thugs. He probably doesn’t even know what they did or why or anything.
I’ve never even seen the man, and I hate him with all my heart.”
“Celia,” Olivia stood over her like some dark avenging angel. “It’s over. Nothing bad happened to our friends. Nobody went
to jail. They didn’t even give the Tellers a fine.”
“That makes it worse.”
Olivia exhaled a puff of air. It was her way of putting an end to whatever their troubles were. She took Celia’s hands and pulled her to her feet. “Come to bed. The Tellers will need us tomorrow.”
Celia went with Olivia upstairs but not to bed. She spent some time staring out the front window at the street that appeared
completely normal, as if nothing had happened. Olivia left her alone, just cleared away her tea things, then went to her own
room.
Celia waited until she thought Daphne would be asleep, then tiptoed into their room. Olivia was right. There was work to be
done tomorrow. She hadn’t betrayed them. But if Yannis wanted nothing more to do with her, so be it. She would have to find
somewhere else.
She quietly slipped into bed. Stared up to the ceiling, though it was too dark to really see it.
“Were you scared?”
Celia started. She’d been sure Daphne was asleep.
“No.”
Celia could feel Daphne turn over to face her. “I would have been; I am now.”
“Well, don’t be. It’s over.”
“I can’t help it. I can’t sleep.”
“You could if you’d stopped talking.”
“I just keep thinking about those horrible men.”
“Well, don’t. The sooner they’re forgotten, the better.”
Daphne sat up. “But we can’t. They could come back at any time. What if they come here? What if they take us to jail?”
Celia finally stopped staring at the ceiling and propped herself on one elbow. “They’re not going to take us to jail. We’ve
done nothing wrong.” Which was another lie. Her sisters had done nothing wrong. She had.
“What about the books in the safe?”
“They are great literature. Just don’t say anything about them, and they won’t find out.”
“But they’re for sale. Maybe we can ask Olivia not to try to sell them.”
“So we can join the beggar women on Union Square? You want to have to hold out a tin cup for your supper?”
“I want to . . . to be safe . . . and happy. . . . And . . . I’m scared.”
“Go to sleep. They probably won’t come back.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re never scared. But I am. I can’t help it. I’m not brave. Or determined. Or anything. I don’t even
care that much about books. Just the ones that have happy endings, because I can pretend they’re about me.”
“Don’t worry. It will all work out. Now go to sleep.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Then just be quiet.”
Daphne finally stopped talking, but instead of being relieved, Celia felt even more alone.
And a few minutes later when Daphne’s breathing grew slow and even, it was Celia who turned her face to the wall and silently
cried herself to sleep.
Tellers’ Fine Printing and Stationery was closed the next day. There was a sign on the door saying that for family reasons,
it would be closed until further notice, and customers with outstanding print jobs should please inquire at the Bible House
building.
It sounded so final that Celia thought she might be sick.
She asked Olivia to telephone Yannis to inquire about Mr. Teller.
She imagined all sorts of horrible things.
A heart attack. Or a determination to take his wife and return to their home in Europe.
She peered in the window, but no one was inside; papers were still on the floor where they had fallen.
What if they decided not to reopen? Would she be responsible? Even if they did reopen, would they still be friends? Just the
thought made her stomach tighten and her face burn. And what would happen to her own work without him?
“You’re worrying for nothing,” Olivia told her. “Mr. Kirsch said they’re just spending some time away from the shop to reorganize.”
Celia didn’t believe her. She went about her day as if it was a punishment. More bookmarks came in, and there was nothing
she could do about them except leave a message at the church that things were halted “until further notice.” She didn’t know
what else to do; the only other contact she knew was Selena, and Selena and Jon were evidently lying low.
She finally crossed the street to Mr. Kirsch’s. It was five to nine, and she waylaid him as he stepped out onto the sidewalk
with his broom.
“Where on earth did you get that notion? Of course they’re reopening,” he assured her. “There was a bit of a kerfuffle with
the printer, and they’re waiting for parts.”
“But no one’s been inside. There’s still stuff on the floor.”
“All in good time. Now, no more worrying.”
Well, at least she felt better knowing they intended to stay in business; she would just have to accept whatever happened
to their agreement when Yannis finally returned.
She crossed back to the Arcadia feeling considerably better, pulled out the sale carts, and carried the throwaway box inside to inspect.
A few usable books, one on the train ride across Canada that she set aside for Mr. Estes’s perusal.
No bookmarks with messages. No bookmarks at all.
No instructions about what to do with the few pamphlets that she’d managed to print before the raid descended.
If Yannis had even remembered to put them in the bin, as he’d promised.
Which must mean that someone was getting the message that printing had been delayed. Was he communicating with Jon and Selena
but not with her? She willed away the tears that threatened to spill over. The Tellers would reopen. She could still fix things.
She carried the throwaway box back outside and returned to face another day at the bookshop and wonder if things would ever
be the same again.