“Where, may I ask, are you all heading?” Reb Moskowitz asked.

“The Pale of Settlement,” Batya’s mother said, mentioning the only area of Russia where Jews were permitted to live. “Unless the czar, may he be afflicted with a blister on top of a boil, has moved the borders again. Some shtetls that were within the Pale’s boundaries last year are now suddenly outside it.”

“I’ll drive you there. That’s the least I can do for my fellow Jews.”

“May God bless you with good health and long life.”

Reb Moskowitz relaxed back in his seat. His lemon-and-cinnamon fragrance filled the cabin. “What are your names?”

“I’m Zelda, and these are my daughters, may the evil eye keep away from them, Batyale and Surale.”

“Batya,” Batya mumbled. Her sister might not mind the diminutive of her name, Sarah, but Batya hated it.

Reb Moskowitz tossed her a sympathetic glance, and Batya shrank into the seat. Even occupying the same space as this man was above her place in society. Here was a man who drank fruit nectar every day. Who was she, who wore filthy clothes and whose uncombed hair was lice-infested, to have his attention bestowed upon her?

“And what does a gentleman of your high standing do in that place where you say you live?” Her mother’s voice was tinged with respect even though her brazen questions made Batya wince.

“Buenos Aires. It’s in America. But I have business interests all over the world.” Reb Moskowitz’s hand brushed one of his lacquered, pointed shoes to remove a speck of dust that didn’t seem to be there.

Business interests. Both words so foreign, they silenced even Batya’s mother.

During the many hours of the ride, Batya mulled over the words “business interests.” She knew what a butcher, a tailor, a blacksmith, a shopkeeper, a peddler, a water carrier, a cantor, a money changer, an undertaker, a scribe, a winemaker, and a dairyman did. She even knew what a tax collector and a ganef, a thief, did. But what did a man with “business interests” do?

Chapter Three

Before sunset, they reached the Pale of Settlement. With luck, the first village would give them a place to stay at least until tomorrow, when the three stars announcing Shabbat’s departure would appear in the sky.

The carriage entered a shtetl that at first looked as dilapidated as Komarinoe, although larger. The smell of woodsmoke, excrement, and mold welcomed Batya with the sense of the familiar, but Reb Moskowitz pulled out a white handkerchief, doused it with rosewater from a vial he retrieved from his leather case, and brought the handkerchief to his nose. As any nobleman would do, Batya thought.