In her room, he sat down on the upholstered chair. She untied her shawl, let it drop to the floor, and sauntered toward him. She reached to loosen the top of his shirt, but he grabbed her wrist and shook his head. Smiling, she tried again, as if his game was a play-out of their dance downstairs.

“No, please,” he said in Spanish. “I’m not here for what you think.”

“How do you know what I think?” She let out the girlish giggle men liked.

“I have a pretty good idea,” he replied, this time in Yiddish. “But I’m not here for that.”

Batya stared at him, stupefied. He looked Spanish through and through, not at all like a Jew. “Well, thank you for a great dance,” she replied in Yiddish, her mind buzzing with the possibilities of what he had in mind. A pervert? He hadn’t paid Freda extra. “What can I do for you?” she purred.

Still seated, he pulled her down to perch on his knees. She smelled the raw heat of his body, the aftermath of his exertion on the dance floor, mixed with his clover-scented cologne. His mouth was next to her ear, and his breath smelled of mint and tobacco.

“Is anyone listening?” he asked.

She shook her head, wondering what his game was, and touched the tip of her tongue to his earlobe.

He put his hand up to block her mouth. “I’m serious. I have a business proposal to discuss with you.”

Batya searched the new man’s face, and something in her dislodged, like the wheel of a cart finally extricating itself from a groove in the mud. Some extremely lucky sisters found a patron to take them out of the brothel and install them in their own apartments as mistresses. Such good luck happened mostly to the French courtesans, the ones with haughty mannerisms, who peppered their conversation with French words and who strutted their wares by walking down the boulevards with little white dogs called poodles. It had become prestigious for a man of influence to flaunt a French mistress around town.

This luck didn’t happen to polacas. Even the devoted Ulmann, who was visiting more often, was tight with his gifts. In spite of Batya’s hope, he had made no overture toward anchoring their relationship.

A business proposal. This could be a turn of her fate. She stilled her heart and fluttered her eyelashes. “It’s safe here,” she whispered back. Sooner or later, though, some love sounds must come from her room.

“You’ve tried to see Señor Farbstein.”

Her back straightened as if lashed, and she jumped to her feet. Dread filled her. Was this man collaborating with Moskowitz? Would he torture her to extract a confession?

“It’s all right,” he whispered in his husky voice, and extended his hand to pull her back onto his lap.