Batya sat at the table in a client’s mother’s home. She watched as Efram, a young Talmudic scholar and one of her regulars, dipped his pen in the inkwell, checked the amount of ink at the tip, then dabbed it against the blotter. Today she wasn’t employing the services of the Professor, who was the favorite among the caftans to write their prostitutes’ letters. Her father appreciated the Professor’s Yiddish-language prose. His flourishing words are a feast to my eyes and ears, every description a masterpiece of literature that tells me of your good luck, he had written. When we are finally united in Buenos Aires, this is the man with whom I would be honored to have a Talmudic debate.

Unlike the scribes in the service of the pimps’ organization, Efram would fear turning her in for this infraction; he knew as well as she did the wrath of Zwi Migdal against anyone who’d steal from a member his just earnings, and indeed Batya would pay Efram with a private, unauthorized reward. Luckily, Efram’s mother’s house was not far from the market, and Batya would make up for the stolen time by shopping fast and seducing a couple of merchants to come see her at the house.

The lace curtains in Efram’s mother’s parlor were drawn to block neighbors’ curious eyes, but the large window had to be kept open to let in fresh air, which nevertheless did little to relieve the heat of the day, as the audacious summer was refusing to give way to the next season. Across the street, a sweets seller was rearranging his display of dried fruits, caramelized walnuts, and sugar crystallized on miniature sticks. Batya spotted a large earthenware jug whose clay sides kept liquid cooled. She fanned herself. She could almost taste the chill of the almond drink she would buy as soon as she left.

That cold, sweet drink had to wait. She turned her attention back to Efram, hunched over his letter. He wound his long, reddish peyes, corkscrew sidelocks, around his ears to keep them from dropping onto the paper and smearing the ink. His mother was visiting some cousins for a few days, and, by prior arrangement, Efram feigned a stomach illness so he could stay home from his yeshiva, the Jewish religious school. Batya had waited a whole week for this opportunity.

Efram read to her what he’d written, having embellished her dictation almost as well as the Professor would have. “I want to share my bounty with all of you. I beg you, my dear father, help me make it happen. Please travel to Odessa to register with the Jewish Colonization Association for resettlement here in Argentina,” he finished, raising his ginger-colored eyes to Batya.