Moskowitz walked slowly, taking his time to cover the short distance between the curb and the entrance. He tilted his head in salutation to acquaintances, each with one or two young women hanging on his arms.

Entering the theater with her arm looped into Moskowitz’s didn’t dampen Batya’s excitement or suppress her grin. They stepped into an enormous vestibule with marble columns reaching up to a huge stained-glass dome. Batya heard her own intake of breath at the sight of the immense lobby, with an endless row of massive crystal chandeliers multiplying in the mirrors on both sides.

Moskowitz’s fingers on the small of her back guided her protectively as if she were his wife, not his kurve, toward a grand marble staircase as wide as a street and flanked by commanding pillars. She raised the hem of her dress and stepped on the first stair, laying her hand on the balustrade. It felt luxuriously cool to her fingers. Marble. The word rang of opulence, as did the hued veins running through the stone, delicate serpentine streaks of color that hinted at their depth.

Moskowitz stopped at the first landing and looked around like a proprietor. Scanning the vestibule below, Batya could view the women’s dresses of lustrous silk, gossamer, or organza embroidered with pearls. Swathes of lace or Spanish shawls embroidered with sensuous flowers in red, purple, and yellow covered the women’s shoulders, and when the lights ignited their diamonds and precious stones, their collective brilliance blinded Batya with their class statement. Yet, with all their fine fashion and elaborate hairstyles, these women were devoid of makeup other than a discreet touch of cheek rouge, the well-placed black dot of a faux beauty mark, or perhaps the finest rice powder to lighten the skin. Batya wished she could wipe the bright red from her lips and erase the charcoal with which Rochel had accentuated her eyes.

After more greetings, Moskowitz guided her to the third floor, where a uniformed usher bowed. “Your box seat is ready, señor.” He pulled the brass handle of a heavy mahogany door and led them into a small enclosed area, where he drew open a double-layered curtain. Batya glimpsed eight chairs set neatly in two rows facing an upholstered railing.

She caught her breath yet again at the sight of the vast theater below and the horseshoe-shaped galleries above. She touched the plush scarlet velvet of a chair. Her eyes drank in the gilded molding that framed the balconies, columns, and entrances. Every centimeter was decorated with either red or gold.

“Sit,” Moskowitz ordered.

Batya hesitated, uncertain whether someone like her was permitted to sit on such a beautiful chair.

“Sit, I said, and close your mouth,” he repeated. “You look like a stupid polaca, gawking like this.”