Like Ulmann, who shared his feelings with the eagerness of a youth, no one ever inquired about her. No one guessed that she was a prisoner, shackled to her bed even if no chains were visible. Even Batya’s excursions to the market for shopping were good for business. Other than washwomen and domestic helpers, honest women never left their houses unchaperoned. Moskowitz and Freda were confident that a seasoned girl like Batya knew that there was no place to run to and that she would return with a trail of hungry men following her.

Batya washed between men and chewed mint leaves to refresh her breath. At dusk, she took a permitted break to rest, eat a light supper, and redo her makeup and hair. At least she knew what to expect from regulars, who showed up mostly in the evenings. The more income she produced from her regulars, the more she could avoid the perverts. “God, keep my soul pure,” she mumbled her refrain. “God, please show me a sign that You hear me. Save me from this hell.”

Glad as Batya was to have the tkhines book, its theft weighed on her. On her subsequent excursions to the market, she distributed pesos among amputees exposing stumps, dark-skinned native women begging with babies tied to their chests, ancient people with no hair or teeth, and street urchins whose bellies were distended from hunger.

But no matter how many coins she distributed, her conscience wouldn’t be sated. Her mother’s watching from above made her sin visible. While her mother might be crying with Batya over her fate, she would be unforgiving when it came to the voluntary offense of theft. Her mother was also watching Batya gobble down an abundance of food, while their relations in Russia starved. For all of Batya’s careful saving, she was a long way from having enough money to pay for passports and travel tickets for her father, Surale, baby Vida—and, if she was inclined to join them, Keyla. From Siberia, Keyla had written to their father that she’d had twins, a boy and a girl. She hadn’t mentioned that Fishke was the father, even as she continued to visit him monthly in prison, and Batya feared that her sister had been violated, all alone in that frosty wasteland of men.

“Help me, Mama, to get my father and my sisters out of Russia. You are closer to God. Maybe He’ll listen to you. I know that I’m their only hope. So far, I’ve failed them. I’ve failed all of you.”

The following week Batya accompanied Moskowitz on his late afternoon outing. They walked up Calle Corrientes, lined with cafés and stores that were out of the reach of the poor immigrants who lived in this mixed neighborhood. The late afternoon sun still shone high in the sky, while the pale, humble moon hung at a distance, awaiting its turn.