Dora sat curled on the floor in the corner. She didn’t raise her head.

“Good morning. Are you hungry?” Batya trilled, hoping yet again for a response that she doubted would be forthcoming.

When the girl made no sign that she even saw her, Batya sat down on the floor facing her and crossed her legs. “Look at this food, at this room. You can have a good life. What difference does it make where you work?” She took Dora’s hand. “Dora, if you do housecleaning, you will work just as hard, but it will take you ten years to make what you can make here in a month.”

Dora let out a guttural sound, more like an angry animal’s than a human’s.

Batya pulled the tray closer. “Only rich matrons are blessed with a good life. Most women are dirt-poor, and they hate the drudgery of their lives as much as you do prostitution. But it can get a lot worse for you if you continue to resist. I’d like to help you.”

When Dora still refused to acknowledge her, Batya left the room and locked it. There was no use. If Dora committed suicide, the cost of it would fall on Batya, yet in her heart Batya admitted that ending her life might be the better option for Dora.

Back in the kitchen, as she finished her chores, the excitement of the upcoming evening’s adventure returned. Batya renewed her singing and was wiping dishes and stacking them when three sisters entered the kitchen for their cooking duties.

“Why are you singing?” Glikel asked Batya, her eyes glazed. Glikel’s affinity for opium had increased; Freda and Moskowitz didn’t begrudge sisters who spent their earnings on it, since it motivated them to better serve clients.

“I’m going to the theater tonight!” Batya grabbed a broom as her partner and danced while humming the thief’s Yiddish tango.

Glikel interrupted. “It’s my turn to go to the theater, but you stole it from me with that new dress of yours.”

Batya stopped, tossed a glance at the girl, and put the broom away. She hated the bickering, the jealousy, the competition among some girls. Glikel was beautiful and had more generous regulars than most. Even before the opium, she had no reason to be spiteful.

“It’s Batya’s turn,” replied Juliet, a delicate, flat-chested girl with cropped hair who catered to men who wouldn’t admit to preferring boys. “She hasn’t been to the theater yet. You went twice this year. After Batya, it’s my turn.”

“Go present Yitzik Moskowitz with a list of whose turn it is and see what he says,” said Clara, so named for her very clear skin, eyes, and hair, as though God had painted her with a one-color brush before sending her out into the world.