“Where are you heading?” he asked Batya’s father.

“Wherever my horse will take me.”

The man looked around, puzzled, then laughed as he caught the joke. “A Jew can’t get very far like this,” he said. “May I invite the ladies to ride with me?”

Batya couldn’t believe their good fortune. She helped her father hitch the cart to the back of the carriage and tied Aggie behind, and after her father conferred with the coachman about the pace Aggie could keep, Batya climbed with her mother and Surale into the cabin. While her mother fingered the red tassels framing the windows, Batya turned to check on her father as he settled on top of their belongings.

“I’m the king presiding over my kingdom,” he called out, grinning.

Batya could hear in her head her mother’s reaction, unuttered in front of the thoughtful stranger: When God decides to punish a man, He starts by removing his brains.

Inside the carriage, Batya leaned back into the smooth leather of the seat. Beneath her, sturdy springs absorbed bumps on the uneven road, and the rubber-covered wheels did not squeak.

“I am Yitzik Moskowitz from Buenos Aires,” the stranger said, smiling.

“God should shower blessings on your head for your generosity, Reb Moskowitz.” Batya’s mother bowed her head in respect as she addressed him with “reb,” the title of veneration for a man of distinction.

“Aren’t we Jews commanded to stand for one another? Who else would help us, the goyim?” He chuckled. “God, blessed be He, has been generous with me. Some would say too generous with Yitzik the Pitzik, who came from humble beginnings just like yours. I was beaten and punched. I starved until my stomach became glued to my spine. Now I am ordered by Him to do mitzvahs wherever I go, wherever I can, with whatever means He’s made available to me.”

“Reb Moskowitz, I’ve never heard of your shtetl. Is it beyond the Mountains of Darkness?”

“It’s far away in America.” He shook his head with vehemence. “There, I drink fruit nectar every day. But I return to visit my birth country here, and what do I discover? The czar is still at it: heavy taxes on anything Jewish—from the ritual slaughtering of cows to burial. Now he wants us out. Out!”

“Or dead,” Batya’s mother said.

He leaned forward without removing the cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. “You tell me how I can help.”

Batya’s mother shrugged. “Speak to the czar?”

“I may do that.” He laughed.

Batya sucked in a quick breath. It was common knowledge that some men of substance—Jewish or not—helped the czar fill his coffers. How amazing that she should meet one such man in the flesh just when her family needed help the most. Her father had been right to throw in their lot with God.