Batya sent a shy smile to a man across the room. The man’s moustache twitched in response. She batted her lashes, when her attention was arrested by a turn in the conversation.

“I didn’t steal that Torah scroll,” Moskowitz declared, laughing. “When the Judaica store reopened on Sunday, I showed up early and paid for it. I also paid for the damage of the broken door, and then some, for goodwill.” He shook a finger at his companions. “No one would ever say that Yitzik Moskowitz is a thief.”

Her tkhines book was paid for! A wave of relief washed over Batya. Smiling, she bent over her cake to allow herself a few seconds alone to bask in this discovery. The payment Moskowitz had made to the Judaica store was from money he’d extorted from her. God knew it.

“It’s time we build our own synagogue,” Moskowitz went on. “Why depend on the stuck-up Jews allowing us in? They are colluding against us? Well then, we’ll show them what we’re made of. We’re as good Jews as they are. Our synagogue will be grand. We’ll hire the best rabbi and the best chazzan.”

“They’ll come crawling back to us for our donations,” said the corpulent Enrico, who had been Aharon in the old country.

“There’s an empty lot on Guemes Street,” Pedro said.

“If the owner will sell to us,” Enrico replied.

“It’s owned by a Frenchman’s widow living in the south of France.” Pedro winked. “I’ll make sure she’ll be happy to sell to us.”

“If we want to move our offices there, too, there’s a larger lot on Córdoba 3280,” Moskowitz said. “We can build a mansion so that all those who scorn us will know whom they’re dealing with: the best businessmen in this country, the smartest, shrewdest capitalists in all of South America.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Pedro signaled the waiter, who brought over a bottle of champagne, popped the cork with great ceremony, and poured it. “I’ll donate the most beautiful crystal chandelier you’ve ever seen,” Pedro declared.

“I will donate the curtains for the arc,” said Enrico.

“Two Torah scrolls.” Moskowitz sniggered. “One I already own.”

The men went on to discuss who would donate what furnishing, decor, and funds, but Batya stopped listening. Rather than suffering God’s wrath for his sins, Moskowitz only continued to rise in the ranks of Zwi Migdal.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Summer 1893–1894

She was forever wrapping her head around the fact that while summer was in full force in Buenos Aires, in Russia winter was holding on to the earth and sky, merging them into one icy substance. It had been as hard to breathe in Russia’s freezing air as it was to breathe here in the humid heat.