Three men leered at her, an unchaperoned woman, and Batya was jolted from the near trance of the music. She tightened her coat and moved on until, a few blocks farther, she stopped at the sight of the Parisien building, where, she could tell by the street activity, an auction of recently captured girls was taking place on the second floor above the opulent café. Half hidden by large displays of flower arrangements that two sellers offered visitors to the cemetery, Batya watched, and cold perspiration erupted on her neck at the sight of pimps she recognized. One, a fat-bellied man in a silk shirt and striped blue suit, a diamond pin sparkling on his tie, wore a top hat and carried a walking stick that made him look distinguished. His companion, no doubt the helper who did his dirty work, had broad shoulders, his open-collared shirt and unpressed trousers revealing months of oil and food stains. The two men shook hands with a third who wore the long black caftan of an Orthodox Jew, along with dangling peyes. Like Dora before them, girls would be hauled off the boats with fake marriage documents, broken by rapes and beatings. On this cold day they were being paraded naked, their private parts probed as if they were horses sold in the market.

Batya bit her lower lip and raised her eyes to heaven. Please hit the place with a bolt of lightning. Spare the girls my life, or worse.

The men turned into a side entrance of the building, where a staircase led directly to the second floor. As Batya was about to resume her walk, a horseless carriage driven by a uniformed chauffeur stopped a few steps away. Two men descended, and from their cream-colored suits, fine straw hats, and dark skin color Batya guessed that they were Argentine judges or politicians arriving for a preview of the new merchandise. Unlike the auction conducted over Brutkevich’s barbershop, or even the one in Zitnisky’s restaurant, the Parisien auction attracted elite customers.

The flower sellers where Batya loitered sent her questioning looks. If she weren’t heading to Señor Farbstein’s office, she would have bought a red flower and tucked it in her hair. Not today. She crossed the road and entered a smaller street, whose shops were as fashionable as those of Junín Street but less flashy. She dabbed off her red lipstick and scanned the street and its shoppers. No one seemed to be spying on the JCA’s building. She approached its entrance, aware of how out of place she must look with her flaming-red coat. At the door, she paused, glanced about her, then touched the small brass plaque carrying the organization’s name and brought her fingers to her lips, as if the plaque were a mezuzah blessed with divine powers. So much of her family’s future depended upon this moment.