Two evenings later, Batya sat on the lap of a card player at the pavilion, a man whose pile of money was growing. Later, after she’d brought him good luck and he’d shown his gratitude with a few coins, she strutted in front of a newcomer who seemed confused by the large selection of women. Ever since the incident in the synagogue she’d made an extra effort to lure one man after another. Anything to please Moskowitz in case he’d heard about what she’d done.

Thankfully, no reaction came from him. Until several months ago, he had spent hours prowling the streets for male passersby, soliciting them to try his wide offering of pleasures. Lately, though, he’d hired two hustlers to fill this role and had shut himself off from women’s squabbles to work on his abacus. When Batya walked past his office, she heard the sounds of his counting tool as he swiped the wooden beads over the metal rods, and through the open door she glimpsed him filling the pages of a ledger. The month before, three men had brought in an iron vault and a three-drawer filing cabinet. When Batya retrieved the newspapers from the floor, she had noticed the letterhead of Zwi Migdal among the stacks of papers on his desk.

Now fanning herself, she caught sight of Ulmann approaching, his shoulders stooped from long hours over his jewelry creations. “I’ve missed you,” she purred, and meant it. His visits had become an oasis of tranquility in her hectic evenings.

He looked down at her with tender eyes. “Mayn sheyn meydele,” he said, my pretty girl.

She led him upstairs, where he removed his jacket and sat on her bed. While he took off his shoes, she stroked his head, neck, and back. Her hand moved down the length of his arm. “How was your day?” she asked. “Your week?”

He sighed and lay down, still clothed. She unbuttoned his shirt while he spoke. “The clients, the suppliers, they are all one big pain in the tuches.” He smiled at her. “Just the thought that I’d see you tonight made me happy.”

She kissed his cheek, then buried her face in his neck. His arm wrapped around her and brought her closer.

“You have no idea how lonely I am.”

She nodded into his shoulder. “Your wife?” she ventured, knowing the story of his poor wife who was sick in both body and soul, but whom Ulmann could never divorce because she was his second cousin. Such shirking of responsibilities would make him a pariah in his family. His three sons needed a father who was a role model, a man who wouldn’t desert a wife in her time of greatest need.