In a bin at the entrance, she spotted several bound books and was delighted to find the tkhines. Below, in the main sanctuary, some men had already started davening, their bodies swaying back and forth under their prayer shawls. Afraid to contaminate them with her gaze, she settled in the back row with her book, too far to hear, but out of the line of vision of the other women. She wished that, like the men, she could close herself to the world and hide under a talis, that white silk cloth lined with gold and silver threads and edged with fringes, the number of strands of each representing a symbol. Under a talis she could convene with God as if He were close to her, like the friend her father had found in Him. But it was God’s wish that prayer shawls be the province of men only.

Do not focus on human inadequacies or on the injustices God unleashed upon the world for reasons He saw fit, Batya told herself. What mattered at this stolen hour was that she was in a house of purity, of sanctity, of holiness. From here, her prayers could be heard by Him, He who had forgotten her existence.

She was flipping through the book to find the right page when it was yanked out of her hand.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The words were hissed at her in Yiddish by a woman whose burgundy-colored kerchief twisted tight around her head.

Batya’s face flushed.

“You’re impure.” The woman’s blue eyes darkened in anger. “How dare you bring your filth to a house of worship?”

“He’s my God, too.” The heat of humiliation deepened in Batya’s cheeks. Who was she next to a truly pious woman, one who must have shaved her head for modesty under that kerchief? Batya’s voice took on a begging tone: “I must talk to Him.”

“Tme’ah,” the woman yelled in a loud whisper. “Impure!”

At the sound of her voice, the other women turned around and stared.

“You want to contaminate our holy books with your muck?” The woman swung her hands to encompass the whole building. “To corrupt the virgin brides before their weddings?”

The other women rose to their feet, shock and disgust on their faces.

“Leave!” one spat.

“Get out before you pollute the air in the synagogue!” called another, not attempting to keep her voice down.

“Shame on you,” the mother huddling with her daughter yelled. “The chutzpah of the likes of you to come here!”

Not since her family had been chased from Komarinoe had Batya felt such naked hatred. Her taunters this time, though, were Jews. Her head bowed, she slunk toward the exit and almost tripped onto the circular staircase, since she could barely see through the tears misting her eyes.

At her back, she heard, “And don’t you ever dare come back!”

Chapter Twenty-Five