Although winter in Argentina wasn’t as freezing as it had been in Russia, it was nevertheless rainy and windy—and often cold. The many rooms of the house had no heat. The open public spaces had been constructed to serve long months of hot, humid weather, and the coal stove in the corner of the pavilion failed to offer relief from the chill that blew in through the large, loosely fitting windows. The stone wall in the front of the house helped curb the heat but was porous to the moist cold that penetrated the bones. In Batya’s room, only the sheepskin rug she threw on the stone floor kept her feet—and the clients’—warm.

Standing in front of the heater in the pavilion, now empty, Batya rubbed her hands. It was summer in Russia, and she wondered what her father was doing. It was maddening to wait for his response; she must find out what could be done on her end to start the process. It was time she spoke with the Baron de Hirsch’s emissary, Señor Farbstein.

The opportunity came merely an hour later, when Freda sent her to the apothecary for ointment for her aching knees. Wearing her red coat—the only one she owned—Batya set out to also see Señor Farbstein. His name had become an incantation that could bring her family out of poverty. The man had acquired an ethereal quality when Efram reported that not only had Señor Farbstein never been seen entering a brothel, but he had joined the chorus of Jews who berated the community for allowing the pimps to support the Yiddish theaters and to subsidize the synagogues where, in return, they were given the honor of aliyahs on Shabbat.

“I heard Señor Farbstein speak in our synagogue. He’s not afraid to say that he wants to destroy Zwi Migdal’s empire. It’s a moral cesspool, he said.”

Batya cringed at these words. She was part of that cesspool. “Will he?” Batya asked.

“This corruption and graft has been going for almost thirty years,” Efram replied. “My father says that no district attorney or judge would dare tackle it. Everyone knows that the men who run the country and its civic law—the police, the judges, and the politicians—are all on Zwi Migdal’s payroll.”

Walking toward Señor Farbstein’s office, Batya told herself that he wouldn’t want to talk to her. She should just turn around before being humiliated. Just then, like an apparition, the image of her mother appeared before her, reminding Batya of her obligations. “You must give it a try,” her mother whispered as though she were nearby.