Batya let out an acerbic laugh. “Some pimps are mature women. How would a naïve girl know the difference? Both must be telling her the same story. ‘Don’t trust anyone but me,’” she imitated in a mocking voice. She recalled the matronly woman in a carriage at the port, luring a young woman. Her intentions were revealed with the first question, “Do you need a job?”

Señor Rosenberg let out a loud series of groans, then with a last gasp rose from the bed. He bent toward Batya. “We’ll get your family out and place you under our protection. In hiding. Think about it. I’ll be back in a few days.” He smiled. “Have your dance shoes ready.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Batya waited for Moskowitz to finish counting his money. She heard the familiar click of his vault opening, then the sound of it closing and locking. As he left his office, Moskowitz brushed against her at the door, but made no sign of acknowledgment. He knew she was coming to collect the old newspaper for the lavatory, and for him she was no more than a piece of useful furniture. Even an obedient dog occasionally received an affectionate stroke. A slave.

Since Señor Rosenberg had uttered the word, she’d been searching the newspapers for mentions of slavery. She hadn’t encountered slaves in Argentina but now learned that the Negroes she’d seen were Africans who had, for centuries, been captured in droves and shipped to North America and other places whose names she didn’t recognize. There, each person was bought and legally owned by someone. Like she had been.

Slave. That night, at last alone in her bed and after the new streetlamp wired for gas went off, the word burst again in her head. A slave. It shocked her to the core. She wasn’t God’s daughter but a slave. Her mind resisted accepting it, yet as she mulled over the word, her limbs numb with fatigue, her private parts chafed, she had to face the truth. Her philosophizing father would have quoted the Passover Haggadah, that the opposite of slavery was freedom. Indeed, while she was granted permission to walk outside—she had no chains on her legs like the Hebrew slaves in Egypt—she was bound to Freda and Moskowitz body and soul.

In Batya’s first year, Freda had taken her to the municipal magistrate to record Batya as belonging to her. Rochel had explained that the law allowed only women to operate brothels that employed underage prostitutes. Now nineteen, Batya was still a minor for two more years, and still belonged to Freda. Nor would she be freed or gain legal rights as a free adult once she reached her majority. The only difference would be that Moskowitz could replace Freda as her lawful owner.