When Moskowitz spoke again there was delight in his voice. “As far as the goyim are concerned, who do you think finished the renovations of Teatro Colón? Zwi Migdal saw the need, and Zwi Migdal has come to the rescue. You tell me now, how can they not respect us, when we help bring culture and glory to Buenos Aires?” Batya heard the rustling of papers, then Moskowitz went on. “Look. Read it yourself, a letter from the largest yeshiva in Jerusalem. I personally support them. I personally pay for a dozen soup kitchens, hospitals, and immigrants’ charities in Buenos Aires, Rio, and Montevideo—and the Holy Land. You name them, they all come to Yitzik Moskowitz, and Yitzik Moskowitz never turns away any worthy cause.”

Batya was about to slide away into the depth of the corridor when she heard Freda’s footsteps coming down the back staircase. In a few seconds, she’d be caught eavesdropping. Having no choice, Batya stepped up to the door for her original purpose, to collect the newspapers.

“Here you are,” Moskowitz said to her. These past couple of years he’d gained weight, and his previously rounded face was now pulled down by his jowls. His blue eyes sank between bags of fatty skin. He smiled, and cold sweat erupted on Batya’s back. She’d known that smile, of the snake before it struck. In her mind’s eye, she saw the hole in the kitchen yard, the one Dora had been thrown into.

Señor Rosenberg turned and let out a plume of bluish smoke. “Oh, I’m glad you’re here. Come in.”

Her feet were lead, and she held on to the doorframe for support.

“Señor Sergio Rosenberg here is making an offer.” Moskowitz licked his lips.

An offer? Batya clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle a yelp of sorrow. She had been gullible to trust Señor Rosenberg. Now she would become his first prostitute in his new enterprise. She’d be taken away from this house, separated from the sisters she loved, to work at some dingy apartment all alone.

Her new enslaver wasn’t looking at her as he spoke but regarded Moskowitz as if for approval. “I told him that I would like you to join me as my dance partner in a competition.” Señor Rosenberg turned his head toward Batya. “If you want to, of course.”

Batya’s glance traveled from one man to the other, her emotions ricocheting. His dance partner, not prostitute. Why would Moskowitz allow her out of the pavilion or away from her window?

Responding to her unasked question, Moskowitz gestured with both arms magnanimously. “You will bring honor to our house.”