In the mayhem, two dozen sisters trailed out after the men. More girls streamed out of the houses up the street, and soon more pimps merged with their colleagues as they all headed toward the center of town. Batya couldn’t resist following, and within minutes she was swept along behind one hundred caftans and twice as many prostitutes.

To her surprise, Moskowitz’s destination was the Judaica store. As expected, the store was closed for Shabbat. Moskowitz kicked gently at the door to protect the polish of his lacquered shoes, but his gesture served as a signal to two other men, who unleashed their fury on the stubborn door until it crashed in.

Once inside, Moskowitz headed to the locked glass display case behind the counter, where a large Torah scroll stood upright, exhibited in all its glory with its heavily carved silver posts peeking through a velvet sheath embroidered in gold. It took a sofer painstaking years to hand-scribe a parchment, Batya knew, and it cost a fortune. None of the synagogues in the shtetls had been able to afford such a holy Torah.

“Break it,” Moskowitz directed, and the man standing next to him smashed his handgun into the glass, splintering the case to a million pieces. Moskowitz grabbed the Torah and the additional double silver crown resting beside it, decorated with precious stones.

The mob behind him cheered as they marched out. On the street, Moskowitz danced with the holy scroll as if this were the festive holiday of Simchat Torah.

Batya hung back until the store emptied of people. She stood still, disbelieving her good luck, then rushed to the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. In the hundreds of thick leather-bound, gold-embossed spines she was unable to locate the simpler, smaller tkhines book.

God, please show me the way, so I can recite for You Your words of prayer. Please give me a sign that You will accept my prayers, me, Your humble Batya who’s sinned so much. Please show me that You know that my soul is still as pure as it was on the day I was stolen from my parents’ home.

Scanning more rows of books, she kept speaking to Him. She couldn’t leave without the book. Failure would mean that God had indeed turned away from her forever.

The minutes ticked by on the huge wall clock, the pendulum marking every other beat of Batya’s pounding heart. Hurry up, she told herself. Running along the bookcase on her left, she examined every shelf, then retraced her steps to view each with more care. Hurry up! If she was the only person here when the police arrived, she would be accused of the double crime of vandalizing the store and stealing the precious Torah scroll. Her fingers shook as she passed them over the wooden shelves, her eyes searching. Cold perspiration formed at the back of her neck.