She remained standing. She wouldn’t fall into a trap set by Zwi Migdal. “Let’s get into what you’ve paid for,” she purred. “Got your token?”

He handed it to her. “I’m here on Señor Farbstein’s behalf.”

Señor Farbstein’s secretary had never asked for Batya’s name, and Batya would not have given it to her for fear of retribution. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she murmured.

“Please don’t be afraid. One of our men followed you here,” the stranger whispered.

“You can pay to dance with me or to have sex with me. Which one is it?”

“My name is Sergio Rosenberg.”

A Jewish last name. That made him just as likely to be colluding with Moskowitz as with Señor Farbstein. Batya walked to the dresser, dipped her fingers in the bowl of water, and touched them to her forehead. Her head swimming in confusion, she turned to look at him and his strong, dark features. He was taller than most Spaniards, probably a descendant of Cossacks. His ancestors, Slavs mixed with Tartars, might have been warriors who had swept through the Eurasian Steppes, raided shtetls, and raped Jewish women, passing on to their offspring their ferocity along with the high cheekbones and olive skin.

“What is it that you wanted to speak to Señor Farbstein about?” he asked, still whispering. “Is it about your family?”

Batya could barely find her voice. “You’re sure you’re Jewish?”

“I won’t drop my pantaloons to prove it to you,” he replied in Yiddish, then began to chant a prayer, “Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu—how is that for proof?”

She couldn’t help smiling. Yet she mustn’t fall for his charm—or Zwi Migdal’s trap. “How do I know that you really work for Señor Farbstein?”

“I swear.” He raised his hand, and his stretched fingers split into two pairs in the manner of the Jewish priests in the days of the Temple in biblical times. “Let’s talk more and you’ll understand.” Again he extended to her his other hand. This time she accepted it, resettling on his knees. “What would you like our office to do for you?” he asked.

Her mouth was dry. She chose her words so they could be open to interpretation. “My father and my sisters. And their families. They’re all in Russia.” It was awkward to sit so close yet whisper a conversation that wasn’t seductive.

He looked at her with his raisin-black eyes, waiting for her to continue.

She was silent for a moment, wrestling with doubt, then said, “I want them to sign up for the resettlement program. But my father is stubborn. He doesn’t understand, uh, why I can’t just bring him over myself.” She cleared her throat. “He’s really good with horses and cows. He’s been a dairyman all his life—” She halted, feeling foolish.