Outside the fence, one of the two aging prostitutes gestured to rest the stretcher on a flat stone bench. Perspiration made the woman’s flowery dress stick to her body, and the powdered skin of her face drooped under its two painted blotches of red. Yet there was fervor in her hooded eyes as she addressed the small group of mourners. “Whatever happens to us, we must always remember one thing: we’re Jewish. We may neglect most of our Jewish traditions—even forget many—but the tahara, purification of the body in preparation for burial, is one thing we should never ever give up.”

“Amen,” murmured the sisters.

“Today, the tahara allows your sister Nettie to meet her Maker with the utmost respect and dignity. She may be banned by people of our tribe from being buried among them, but the gates of heaven will open to her no matter. There she will wait, pure, with all other departed holy souls of our people, until the Resurrection of the Dead with the arrival of the Messiah.”

“Amen,” murmured the sisters.

“And after we’re gone,” the woman went on, pointing at herself and the other sister, a small-boned woman with a birdlike face whose sagging breasts reached her protruding belly, “you must take over this very important tradition. It’s a mitzvah that will grant you a special spot at God’s feet.”

As the sisters nodded, Batya nodded, too, wishing that she had such benevolence in her heart to wash and cleanse dead bodies. For the first time in a while she thought of Miriam, who had been deprived of the last rites of purification and burial. Had her young friend’s soul been punished yet again by being turned away from the gates of heaven? Could God be this unfair? At least Nettie was again as pure as the child she had once been. Goodbye, Nettie, my beloved friend, Batya said in her head. May the Good Spirit envelop you.

Juliet and Clara, sisters always eager to help, took over the carrying of the stretcher, and the procession walked along the outside periphery of the cemetery, where small tombstones listed the names of pimps and prostitutes, forever outcast.

“The curse of consumption,” Batya said to Rochel.

“Not consumption,” Rochel murmured. “She poisoned herself.”

“What?”

“She swallowed drops of rat poison. She’s been doing it for months to avoid drinking carbolic acid all at once.”