Batya lowered her head in reverence for God and His will, while her heart sank. It wasn’t like Rochel to be so accepting of a sister’s illness; she had fought so hard for Batya’s life. Weariness must be settling inside Rochel, too. Like the rest of them, Rochel hadn’t escaped pogroms; she had just survived untold losses, then gathered the threads of her strength to forge on. Only once she told Batya of the two little brothers she had raised alone in Krakow after their parents had been killed, until one day, when she came back from foraging for food to the coal cellar where they lived, the boys weren’t there—and never returned. Rochel acted as if the past could truly be buried, as if her heart didn’t agonize with worry every day, tortured by questions about the boys’ fates. When Batya and Rochel again took their spots at the payment queue, Batya held her friend’s hand, concerned that like Nettie Rochel might break down.

And how long could she herself go on? Many of the girls in Freda’s house were in their teens. Nettie and Rochel, in their early twenties, were considered “mature.” In this city full of prostitutes, few lived to old age. If they didn’t die of disease or kill themselves in their youth, they were forced out of the brothels once their bodies outlived their usefulness. On their own, with no other means of employment—and denied charity by the formal Jewish benevolent organizations—they often died of starvation.

Through the open door, Batya heard Glikel arguing with Freda about her deducted pesos. “I had stomach problems. I ate no chicken all week, only rice.” The third time Glikel raised her voice, Freda slapped her face. “Take it, or go elsewhere. Many girls will be grateful to take your room in this house.”

When it was Batya’s turn, she spread her tokens on the table and waited while Freda compared their accuracy against the records in her notebook. At last Freda raised her head, and her finger punched the page. “You’ve been keeping the light on in your room. You’re wasting kerosene.” Her pale blue eyes were sharp. “And now that you dance so much, it’s only fair that you pay more for the musicians.”

“I can’t afford that,” Batya blurted out. With such deductions, she would end up owing the house money.

“Who should pay that?” Freda retorted. “And you had two pieces of cake at the café last week—”

“Your brother took me there!”

“Did he eat the cakes, or did you? And here’s the doctor’s bill for this month.”