“A great disaster has befallen me,” she dictated. “My beloved husband, Reb Yitzik Moskowitz, has died unexpectedly after a bout of high fever. His sister, Freda, whom I had considered my only friend and family here, turned against me overnight. Through her attorneys, not only did she throw me out into the street, but with the help of her husband—whom Reb Moskowitz had generously employed—she has captured all his businesses. They’ve left me with almost nothing.”

Efram put the pen down. “I can’t be a part of this.”

“You know I can’t tell them what I really do.”

“It’s not the lying. The sages would be on your side, saving your family from angst. It’s the danger to me.”

“Who will know?” She stroked his back. “This is the last one. I promise.” She picked up the pen again and placed it back between his fingers, then dictated:

“I’m sending you my last money, for Keyla, too. My only hope now is for you all to come here. Together we will start a new life in one of the esteemed Baron’s new settlements. Will you do that for me even with your last breath?”

When Efram readied to leave, she combed his red hair with her fingers. His face closed up, and when she brought her mouth to his, he returned a perfunctory brushing of the lips. She swallowed and forced a smile. She had pressured him too much; their liaison was no longer just fun for him. Her heart hoped it wasn’t the last time she saw him, knowing it was.

She closed the door behind him and let silent tears fall.

Part III

Buenos Aires, 1894–1895

When you buy a Hebrew slave, he shall serve six years, and in the seventh he shall go out free, for nothing.

—Exodus 21:2

Chapter Thirty-Five

Summer 1894–1895

The new client sat alone at a small side table in the pavilion, smoking. He sipped his Italian-imported limoncello in measured movements while examining the room. His white linen trousers were clean, their center crease pressed, and his black boots shone as bright as his onyx eyes. The coconut oil with which he’d slicked back his hair gave it a blue-black sheen. His sharply trimmed sideburns reached the center of his cheeks, looking painted, as did his thin black moustache. When approached by two sisters, he turned them away with only a slight wave of his long fingers, then continued to study the room from under a lowered brow.

The sisters huddling on the sofa with Batya speculated. “A ship captain?” “A tax collector?”

“Ship captains are a hungry lot; he wouldn’t wait this long.” Batya chuckled. “And tax collectors dress shabbily.”

“Tax people are paid handsomely by Zwi Migdal. They wouldn’t bother its members,” said Rochel.

“I bet he’s a poet,” Clara said.