Chapter 24 #2
Everyone, including Celia and her sisters, turned to see Mr. Henderson step forward.
“Ah, Mr. Henderson. He of the bail money. We’re not quite ready for you yet.”
“No, Your Honor. I’ve come to file an amicus curiae.”
“This is not a trial, Mr. Henderson.”
“I understand, but someone has to say something. This young woman has done nothing wrong. Mr. Comstock and his ‘agents’ have made a habit of trolling the blocks of Fourth Avenue known as Book Row, supposedly looking for lascivious and obscene material. We do not sell such material on Book Row.
“We are quiet, law-abiding citizens, and we police one another for any slips from legality. I’ve drawn up a list of perfectly
respectable items Mr. Comstock and his agents”—the word dripped with disrespect—“have confiscated just in the last year.”
Comstock shot up from his seat. “I’ve made four thousand arrests; I think I know licentious activity when I see it. And I’ve
found plenty of it on Book Row.”
“Your Honor, I would like to present a list of the arrests he’s made in the last year. You will see that almost all of them
have been dismissed or charged with a misdemeanor fine.”
“I’ve made—”
“Sit down, Mr. Comstock. Mr. Henderson, we might as well hear your list, too, providing it doesn’t take too much time. Please
proceed.”
“Last February, they attacked Mr. Eban Jankowitz’s business for selling note cards with photographs of Michelangelo’s great
religious sculpture portrayed on the front, sculptures that are displayed in the Vatican and in the Louvre museum in Paris.
He came back a month later and confiscated several shelves of art books from the world’s leading scholars. I have affidavits
from them here.”
The clerk left his place by the bench and ran to take the affidavits.
They followed the first paper.
“He was fined a large sum from one of your associates on the bench—”
“One not so honest as you are, judge!” an anonymous catcaller exclaimed. Cheers and whistles erupted, followed by the gavel.
“Which he paid, but his stock was not returned—Comstock said it had been destroyed already—”
“Liar! He keeps ’em to look at when nobody’s around!”
The judge banged his gavel. “One more outburst and I will clear this courtroom.”
It seemed to Celia that would be an impossible endeavor; the place was packed. But everyone settled into silence, and Mr.
Henderson continued.
“Mr. Jankovitz was not able to overcome the loss of his stock. These art books were nowhere obscene or lascivious. They were
compiled by well-respected professionals from universities and museums around the world. He was forced to close his shop and
find another way to support his family. He’s now working as a salesman for a larger bookstore farther uptown, a broken man.”
Mr. Kirsch turned blazing eyes at Comstock. He and Mr. Jankovitz had been good friends as well as colleagues.
By now everyone, including Celia, had turned to listen to Mr. Henderson.
“These ‘agents,’” Mr. Henderson continued, “and I use the word loosely, have routinely attacked our newsstands, card stores,
and tobacconists. They stole a case of Statue of Liberty souvenirs, mistaking them for the Venus de Milo, which, I might point
out, is also a noted work of art and not pornography.
“And a stack of that week’s edition of Nick Carter dime novels that had just been delivered,” Mr. Wickes, who had joined Mr.
Henderson, added.
He was immediately hushed by someone in the crowd. The crowd that was suddenly augmented by people Celia recognized. Mr. Krause, Mr. Stammer, the whole Franchetti family, and others all lined up at the back. Even Officers O’Halloran and Sullivan were there.
“They systematically attack Mr. Giuseppe’s tobacco shop, confiscating his Italian-language newspapers and helping themselves
to candy and cigars for their own consumption.”
The judge leaned back, as if he would remove himself from such obvious and distasteful miscarriage of the law, then zeroed
in on Comstock.
“And how do you explain this, Mr. Comstock?”
Comstock heaved from his seat. “Italian anarchist propaganda.”
“Do you read Italian, Mr. Comstock?”
“No, but I have it on good authority.”
“And these accusations of theft of candy and cigars? Can you refute that?”
“I’ve never seen them do it.”
“He never even bothers to come himself, and they never bring a summons or search warrant.”
“Just stuff their pockets,” Mr. Giuseppe blurted out, before being hushed by his colleagues.
The judged tsked. “Mr. Comstock, you claim to be a stickler for the law, is this true?”
The bulky man shrugged one shoulder. “It may be that they have visited without my knowledge. I can’t be everywhere, though
I try.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“There’s more!” Mr. Henderson bellowed, obviously determined to be heard. “They destroyed an entire order of theater posters from Tellers’ Fine Printing and Stationery that had to be reprinted at Mr. Teller’s own expense.
“Here is the poster.” Mr. Henderson unfolded the red and black poster advertising a popular play currently at Daly’s Theatre.
The clerk, looking a little worse for wear, made the run for the poster.
The judge took it and held it at arm’s length. “My wife and I saw this play, very good entertainment, nothing salacious that
I recall.”
Comstock popped up again. “But Your Honor, look closely at the way the couples are portrayed.”
The judge looked. The courtroom strained to see.
“It looks like one is doing the turkey trot and the other . . .” The judge frowned. “That’s definitely a couple dancing the
tango. It’s the way couples dance these days.”
“They’re portraying licentious behavior. Look how they hold each other and—”
“Hmm. Even though I’m not much of a dancer myself, and would never attempt to try the tango, I do not see why others should
be stopped from enjoying such a pastime.”
“But Your Honor, it will influence every young—”
“Sit down, Mr. Comstock.”
“But Your Honor. The dance encourages—”
“Sit down! And don’t stand up again until I ask you to.”
There were several guffaws among the onlookers.
The judge banged his gavel. “Order.” He waited for absolute quiet then said, “Is there more, Mr. Henderson?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Then proceed.”
“His men inflicted damage to Schirmer’s Music Store without any documentation or warrant.”
“Causing a turmoil at Wanamaker’s, I remember,” said the judge.
“And the manhandling of Commissioner Pullman’s son and daughter-in-law.”
“We were in the middle of a near riot,” barked Comstock. “They didn’t show proper identification and acted belligerent!”
“Your Honor, if it would please the court . . .” Officer O’Halloran stepped out of the group in back. “Officer Sullivan and
I have patrolled that area for the last year, and it’s never caused any trouble, even with the students from nearby colleges
enjoying themselves of a weekend. The only disruption of the peace is by that man and his thugs, uh, agents, going after honest
working folk. They’re a blight on the community.”
This won resounding applause from others in the court.
Up jumped the vice agent. “It’s because the police won’t lift a finger to support our work.” Comstock was having to yell to
be heard, his face red as a tomato above that white bushy mustache and mutton chops.
O’Halloran jabbed his finger toward the suppression man. “We don’t work for you; we work for the City of New York and we’re
upholding our duty to them that hired us.”
“That’s right,” added Officer Sullivan.
“Bah! I should have you both brought up—”
“Quiet!”
“They are hiding filth and licentious activity, protecting porno—”
Down came the gavel. “Case dismissed. And I suggest, Mr. Comstock, that you use more common sense the next time you decide to wreak havoc among respectable Manhattan businesses. Don’t bring another case my way until you have some actual proof of wrongdoing.
Real, legal wrongdoing, not your interpretation of it.
Miss Applebaum, you’re free to go. Mr. Kirsch, could you please see the young lady out of the court? ”
A hooray went up; hats were tossed by perfect strangers. All glad to see the morality man get what they thought he deserved.
Mr. Henderson was clapped on the back, had his hand shaken by everyone who could reach him. And if he had allowed it, they
would have carried him out on their shoulders. Fortunately, good sense prevailed.
Mr. Kirsch trundled Celia, Olivia, and Daphne out of the courtroom, where they were joined by the denizens of Book Row.
As soon as they were back on the street, cries of “Hip, hip, hooray!” arose as her neighbors surrounded them. Mr. Kirsch hurried the Applebaum sisters toward his automobile, but Celia pulled
back and turned to face them.
“I don’t . . .” She cleared her throat. “I don’t know how to thank you all, but . . .”
“There, there,” Mr. Henderson said. “Everything is good now. But you be careful, young lady.” He raised his voice to the others.
“None of us should get too complacent. We haven’t seen the last of that man. He took a lashing today at the hands of the judge.
But he still wields a lot of power.”
“He looked like a man at the end of his rope,” said Mr. Stammer.
“I hope he hangs himself with it,” Mr. Bender added.
“Mostly likely he will,” agreed Mr. Henderson. “But he’ll take as many of us down as he can until that happens. So be prepared.”
“I didn’t mean to bring so much trouble on everyone,” Celia said.
“You didn’t. You were doing whatever it is you were doing. He had no reason to arrest you. Take the girl home, Kirsch. She looks like she might fall over.”
Celia smiled wearily and allowed Mr. Kirsch to help her into his car. She was tired, emotionally depleted, the memory of the
courtroom, the jail, and the fate of her cellmates twisting and swelling inside her.
As they rode uptown Celia began to realize just how close she’d come to imprisonment. And as they neared Book Row the urgency
to act rose from her chaos and fear. And with it only one question. Was she willing to get back in the fight?
The rest of the day passed in a blur, none of the sisters veering far from the others. Olivia waited until Celia and Daphne
were in bed before she tiptoed downstairs to the Sappho fragments. This would be her last time. Tomorrow she would telephone
Max, who probably would refuse to take the call. In which case she would leave a message for him to pick up the manuscript.
She wouldn’t give details to the secretary of the antiquities department; she’d always been a nosy creature.
Her throat burned as well as her eyes.
It would be better this way. He could tell the authorities that a bookseller had found the fragments in a throwaway box and,
not recognizing them or knowing what they were, had thought the best thing to do was contact the museum. Then the Applebaums
would be free of them. Undiscovered poems by the greatest female poet in history. They would probably be consigned to storage,
where they would be forgotten for another hundred years, or forever.
What did it matter to her? In a few years she probably wouldn’t even be able to see enough to read the words.
Once she was free of them, she could get on with her regular work; there were several volumes of a family history sent to her by a minister in Schenectady.
He was paying well, and fortunately it was mostly a case of restoration of bindings and a few unreadable passages.
In English. She’d neglected it for too long.
Work would cure her of this emptiness. And sleep. She was exhausted with worrying about Celia and the future of the store.
She told herself all these reasons, but she’d never been very good at lying to herself. She knew the cause of her despair.
She’d left her profession and the man she had thought would be her life. Oh yes, she had a duty to the family, always that.
And she’d done her duty, but now, she finally had to admit, to herself at least, that it hadn’t just been her altruistic sacrifice,
but because she was afraid. Afraid of watching her career deteriorate because her eyesight was failing, helpless to stop it.
Desperately hanging on until she would finally be forced to leave because she was no longer up to the task. To see love change
to pity in Max’s eyes, and finally to disgust that he had wasted his life sharing hers, until she could no longer see his
eyes at all.
Now, suddenly, two years after making that sacrifice, spending her days doing mindless restoration and repair, she’d been
given the opportunity of a lifetime, one that might also destroy the Applebaum family’s reputation. She would telephone first
thing tomorrow. Make a clean break. He could send a “scout” to pick it up. It would be safe enough until tomorrow. She would
keep the Applebaum name out of it—a name, a reputation she was beginning to resent.
She would somehow make provisions for the girls, while she quietly wasted away, not able to leave her mark on the world of
translations and restoration, or give her love freely to Max.
But this one last night, she would spend with the poetess.
She let herself into the third floor; walked back to her workshop without even having to turn on the lights, she knew it so
well. She opened the door to her workshop and stopped.
It didn’t take light to know that someone besides her had been in the room. How was it possible? She turned on the overhead
light.
Slowly looked around. She was alone, and nothing seemed obviously changed. But it was different. A stack of papers here, a
book resting at the wrong angle there. A stool standing slightly askew to the table, as if someone had kicked it by mistake.
Slowly, she walked to the desk. Everything seemed the same, except for one drawer, which had been left slightly askew. Something
Olivia would never do.
She thought back to the last time Max had been here. He hadn’t touched anything but her. He’d left in anger, but he hadn’t
done this.
Someone had searched her workroom.