“So you would like the Baron’s agents to reach out to him?”

The conversation made no sense. Why would a professional tango dancer, who looked like a Cossack, pretend to be a client yet be an employee of the Baron’s emissary and come here to ask about her family? Batya bit her lip. “There must be hundreds—thousands—of people asking Señor Farbstein for his help.”

Before he had a chance to reply, a light knock sounded on the door. “Is everything all right?” Freda asked.

“Yes, superb,” Batya replied. She rose to her feet. To Señor Rosenberg she whispered, “We must pretend to make love—unless you wish not to pretend, of course.”

“We’ll pretend.” He sat on the bed and bounced a bit. “Come lie down,” he said, and placed his head on the pillow.

She stretched out next to him, their faces close. He pressed his foot against the bedpost and kicked it in a repetitive rhythm. “You need the Baron’s office to help get your father’s papers and all the documents for your family—and bring them here?”

She blushed. “That’s asking a lot. I know. Why would you bother with me?”

His whisper was even lower as he enunciated every word. “To put it simply: we are trying to bring down Zwi Migdal.”

She felt a twitch in her eyelid. “Not possible. No one can fight them.”

“We could—with help from the inside.”

She sat up, fear gripping her stomach so hard that she felt nauseated. “Why me?” she finally asked.

“You’re the only prostitute courageous enough to try to see Señor Farbstein. More than once or twice, right? We believe that you have more of that valor hidden inside of you.”

We. This man and Señor Farbstein and God knows who else. Batya looked down at her fingers, clasped together so hard her knuckles were white, then remembered to bounce on the bed, making the springs creak.

“Were you lured away from your family with lies?” Señor Rosenberg asked.

She nodded.

“How old were you then?”

“Fourteen.”

“How old are you now?”

“Sixty.” When he showed no reaction to her joke, she said, “Nineteen.”

“What was your name before Esperanza?”

“Batya.”

“Daughter of God.” He paused. “Why are you still alive?”

She glanced at him. “You mean why haven’t I died from the beatings? Or from disease?”

“That, too. Or why have you not committed suicide?”

It astonished her that he understood. None of the men in this bedroom had ever hinted at grasping the truth that glared in their faces. Each should have suspected that a Jewish girl wouldn’t stoop to prostitution unless destitute or coerced.

Tears filled Batya’s eyes. “Because of my family. I promised to get them out. So far, I’ve done nothing. My mother died disappointed in me.”