Batya closed the window and returned to Dora’s bed. This time she stretched next to her, hoping to catch some sleep before her late afternoon and long evening’s work. She thought about the drunkard’s anguished words. Just last week, Rochel had been booed when she had gone to the Jewish theater with Moskowitz. When confiding in Batya, Rochel’s eyes brimmed with tears, and she explained that the pimps’ union faced harsh criticism from the leaders of the Jewish community.

“My client said that the upstanding Jews of Argentina and Brazil blame the caftans for the rising anti-Semitism,” she said. Caftan, the Spanish word for a pimp, originated from the Orthodox men’s garb. Rochel had a regular weekly engagement at an out-of-town private villa owned by a wealthy merchant who entertained government associates away from the public eye. She had explained to Batya that Zwi Migdal worked diligently to widen opportunities for its members. The stronger it became and the greater its holdings across South America, the greater were the bribes Zwi Migdal distributed all around. The organization—legally unionized—was the source of corruption at all levels of government and police.

When Batya went to the kitchen to fetch lemonade and cake for Dora after her siesta, Rochel was there, chatting with other sisters about the incident. “That drunkard? He used to be rich, from an important Sephardi family that has been here since before the Warsaw gang arrived. Now he lost his construction contracts to goyim because they don’t know the difference.”

Batya hurried out of the kitchen to bring Dora her treat and lock her up so she herself could get ready for work. She couldn’t stop thinking about how she had been hated by the women at the synagogue. By Jewesses. Now, like in Russia, Jews were hated by goyim, too.

Just before sunset, in the pavilion, Moskowitz crooked his finger at Batya to join two influential clients he was entertaining on the patio. She sat with them as they, too, were discussing the afternoon’s incident. “A loser that can’t handle his own stupidity,” Moskowitz said to the customers. “Who gives the tailors in town the best business? The cobblers, the milliners, and the haberdashers their livelihood? What about the jewelers and the bankers? Who buys carriages and hires the coaches? Who builds new houses and pays for the cultural institutions? We are the businessmen that drive the economy of Buenos Aires. We bring the money in, and we spend it generously. We are the heart and the pulse of this city.”

“Let’s drink to that!” One of the men raised his glass.

“Lechayim,” said Moskowitz, clinking his glass with both men’s.

Batya smiled sweetly, but her hands closed into fists of despair.