First, though, her father must agree to take the necessary steps on his end. Now that Surale had a husband who could also register with the Colonization Association, her sister might be out of danger of being snared into a brothel. In fact, a healthy young man in the family would surely add to its appeal for the Baron’s agents, Batya figured. Upon her family’s arrival, she would escape to join them deep in the vast land of Argentina. The farther they lived from any main city, the safer she would be.

It was a daring dream; she’d never heard of a prostitute who had escaped Zwi Migdal—certainly not lately, when its network, which stretched throughout the entire South American continent—seemed to be getting bigger and richer. But the Baron’s project was surely clear of Zwi Migdal’s influence. She must secure its protection.

“Tell my father to be careful with his money,” Batya told Efram, thinking of the forged one-hundred-ruble bill Moskowitz had once given him. “He’s quite gullible.”

Efram read back to her. “Please do not trust any agent other than the Baron’s. Some desperate emigrants fall victim to unscrupulous crooks posing as agents who offer to get their documents in order. They get falsified passports while the ‘agents’ disappear with all their savings. Believe no one but the Baron’s representative—”

Batya cut him off. “Inside—Efram, please emphasize this word—inside the Baron’s office, not even right outside its front door. And tell him I’m enclosing three money certificates.” She dictated, “The first, send to Keyla. Cash the second one at a reputable money changer to pay for your trip to Odessa. Save the third one from robbers on the road until you are ready, in Odessa, to pay for the passports for you, my sisters, and their families.”

“You won’t be able to see your family. The colonies are very far away,” Efram said. “Argentina is as big as Russia. You can’t just travel easily from place to place.”

“Knowing that they’re out of danger will be enough,” Batya replied, inserting into her tone all the sweetness she could muster. Maybe even Hedi might change her mind and join them. Her goy husband might have turned out to be no less a drunkard than most Russian men. If Batya had an address, or even just the name of the village where her sister lived, she would write to her and offer her this chance to join the family. Maybe her children, raised Christians, wouldn’t be taught to hate Jews, wouldn’t be told that Jews deserved torture and death.