She had failed her family. Had she been a couple of years older, not a small-framed, thin adolescent, perhaps she would have been more valuable to the tavern owner. Perhaps he would have kept her working at least until after Shabbat.

As they trudged again on the furrowed road, Batya pushed the cart doubly hard, while her mother leaned on it as she struggled to walk. But her father sang.

My father buys a little horse that neighs

Whose name is Mutzik,

Buys a puppy that barks

Whose name is Tsutsik.

Batya tried to draw strength from her father’s spirits, but rather than buoying her mother’s mood, the singing only distressed her further. “Do you hear him, Batya? A poet I married. The only train to America is the train of his singing.”

“What’s the first thing you’ll do when you reach America?” Batya asked her mother in an attempt to distract her.

Raising her head heavenward, her mother said, “Get myself a gold front tooth from all the gold that’s paving the streets.”

“I’ll be so rich that I will have a candy every day,” called Surale from behind, where she was leading Aggie. “Or maybe a slice of orange?”

“In America everyone gets a whole orange every day. It showers down like manna from heaven,” Batya’s mother said. “And there’s so much sunshine that people must wear special dark glasses or their eyes can’t sleep at night.”

“I’ll have a hot bath in a real tub.” Batya’s tone was dreamy. “I’ll wash my hair in rosewater until it shines.” When combed with fragrant oil, the blond streaks would emerge. Her curls would fall on the back of a lovely new sky-blue dress she’d wear, its full satin skirt like Queen Esther’s.

“First get rid of the lice,” her mother said. “In America they have a special concoction for it.”

“I’ll go dancing at a ball.” Twirling Aggie’s rope, Surale swiveled in a jig.

“How can you dance on an empty stomach?” Their mother smiled. “First we’ll eat the feast Americans will prepare for us upon our arrival: kneidlach soup brimming with fat, a whole goose cooked on a spit, and kreplach filled with mushrooms.”

The long sentences seemed to dissipate her energy. She breathed hard as she and Batya resumed pushing the cart. Batya gave it a heroic shove to also help her father in front. It was still early morning. How could they go on the whole day—and where to?

From behind, the pounding of hooves signaled an approaching carriage. Batya’s father pulled the cart to the side, and Batya navigated its wheels to make room on the narrow road.

As the carriage passed, the coachman, perched outside the enclosed cabin, called his horses to a halt. A head leaned out the cabin’s window, and Batya recognized the rich patron from the tavern.