And then she spotted him: Kolkowski emerged from the port’s office ushering a group of mostly men, but also some families, all carrying bundles and boxes tied with ropes. They looked pale and emaciated in their bedraggled clothes. Most had taken off their coats and struggled with carrying them along with the rest of their belongings.

Batya counted fifty people. She followed them through the two short blocks to the expansive dormitories that made up the Immigrants’ Hotel. This part of Kolkowski’s story seemed true, as unlikely as it had first sounded. She followed him back to the port and took her post by the warehouse. He disappeared behind the gate, only to come out fifteen minutes later accompanying a smaller group.

Batya allowed a small hope to bloom in her chest. Might she have found a solution for her family? As she walked away, she saw two women in black mourning clothes and head scarves, with five little children between them, standing in the middle of the street, dazed as she had once been by the piercing bright, hot sun and disoriented in the unfamiliar surroundings. No men accompanied them. No relatives showed up to welcome them. These desperate widows, who must have come here seeking a better future for their children, would end up as destitute and resourceless as they had been in the old country. Batya wished she could warn them against the couple that was approaching them, a husband-wife team she was certain were pimps. The man made an attempt at respectability by wearing a shiny top hat that was incongruous with his frayed jacket. But Batya doubted that these confused, tired mothers would heed her warning against this benevolent-seeming couple who was handing the children chocolate and, in a few moments, would offer the mothers shelter for the week. Soon after, Batya knew, in order to feed their children, the women would be pressured into prostitution.

The idea of Jewish colonies in remote parts of Argentina stayed with Batya throughout her waking hours. In her dream that night she saw herself riding a horse and rounding up a herd of cows, all showing her beloved Aggie’s black-and-white pattern. Her father welcomed her at the stable late in the afternoon and conversed with the horse in Yiddish, giving both the questions and the answers.

The next day, though, doubt about the story crept back. She was glad when Kolkowski came two days later, before returning to his village.

“Isn’t farming difficult?” she asked, thinking about her father’s aching back.

“Aren’t Jews used to difficulties? When did we have it easy?”

She smiled and stroked Kolkowski’s back, letting her nails hypnotize him into talking.

He went on. “In the Baron’s villages, Jews are learning new forms of agriculture. We give them equipment, instructions, and even credit, so one day they can own the land.”