“Do you know why this boulevard is called ‘de Mayo’?” Moskowitz asked, and then, assuming her ignorance, answered, “To commemorate the May Revolution of 1810. That’s when Argentina became independent from Spain.”

It had taken a revolution to achieve freedom, she thought. Fishke’s ideas about a Russian revolution landed him in prison, but here another revolution had succeeded. An insane thought flashed through Batya’s head: Could the thousands of Buenos Aires’s prostitutes unite to rebel?

“So, you haven’t guessed where we’re going?” Moskowitz asked her.

She shook her head. Most of the Yiddish theaters were in Once, Spanish for “eleven,” named after the neighborhood’s Once de Septiembre train station, not in this most elegant part of town. If Moskowitz hadn’t dressed so lavishly, she would have assumed that he was about to deposit her at a private party in a casita. “Where?” she asked.

Up ahead, more horse-drawn open carriages and even two horseless automobiles carried well-dressed people, the privileged high class, all heading in the same direction.

“We’re going to Teatro Colón, of course,” Moskowitz said, and ordered the coachman to slow down. Then, as if pulled by invisible strings, his shoulders straightened and his neck stretched. He lit a cigarette and, in a slow, calculated gesture, placed it between his lips. His eyes glanced sideways without turning his head, as if to check the impression he was projecting.

Teatro Colón! Batya dared not speak and reveal her excitement.

Moskowitz went on. “The Italian patron who financed the renovations of the theater died twenty years ago. The city had no money to finish this grand project, but guess who solved the problem? The Warsaw gang. Zwi Migdal. That’s who. We make the business engine of this city run, and now, with our support, culture will make Buenos Aires the most prominent city in all of South America.”

You feed the engine with the meat of our bodies. Moskowitz probably expected her to say some words of adulation about how influential he was, but Batya couldn’t bring herself to give him the satisfaction.

The carriage stopped in front of the theater, and Batya gasped. The mass of scaffolding she had seen whenever she passed here was gone, and instead there appeared an imposing palace. The giant busts and bas-reliefs on the façade seemed poised to jump off the building.

“Wait until you see the inside,” Moskowitz said with pride. “It’s as palatial as any grand opera house in Europe.”

Batya smiled, although his comparison meant nothing to her; she’d never seen either a palace or an opera house. Nor did she know what “opera” meant. She waited till the coachman opened the side door and placed a small stool on the ground, then she climbed down, lifting her dress to keep it off the sidewalk in what she hoped was an elegant gesture.