She winced at the term and sat down. Leaning forward, she dared look over the railing. In the main hall, men and women seemed to be in no rush to take their seats as they crowded the aisles, the women giggling modestly behind their fans. A heavy curtain blocked what Batya assumed was the stage, framed by a huge border of decorative paintings. Outside the box balconies ringing the theater, hundreds of crystal sconces cast a dim yet rich glow.

She must memorize every detail to report to the sisters in the house. She counted six floors of spectators, and above them all, rising like the canopy of God’s sky, a grand cupola painted with beautiful scenes of crowds following musicians.

The cacophony of voices was drowned out when dozens of musicians broke into a discordant concert like an army of night insects. Is this opera? Batya wondered, then figured that like the klezmers, they were only tuning up. She pointed her finger and began counting the men.

“You can’t count over a hundred,” Moskowitz sneered. “This orchestra pit holds one hundred and twenty musicians. Like the best of the European opera houses!”

Batya dared not ask him what “opera” was. So much of the world was still beyond her grasp.

A hush fell over the theater. Here and there a throat cleared and taffeta rustled. Then the orchestra began to play. The harmonious sounds spread like buckets of pearls tumbling from the sky, yet instead of falling, they were carried by a playful wind. They picked up Batya and transported her to a place where only dreams could live.

At first, the sisters didn’t believe her story. Horses and camels onstage? Pyramids and a whole army of soldiers and another army of servants?

“The opera is called Aida.” Batya repeated the running explanation Moskowitz had provided the night before. “It’s about a Nubian princess captured and enslaved in Egypt by Pharaoh—” Batya stopped, almost choking with the recollection of how she had identified with Aida, except that the beautiful chocolate-skinned princess had lived inside the magic of the dazzling stage rather than in Batya’s nightmare, made more real by Moskowitz’s chattering. “The Egyptian military commander falls in love with her, but Pharaoh’s daughter is in love with him. Aida’s father, the Nubian king, plans to invade Egypt to rescue his beloved daughter—”