She looked down at her toes in pink house slippers and tried to make sense of it all. She must think fast. Perhaps Señor Rosenberg had promised to pay for her lost earnings, and her public appearance would draw more men back here. If Señor Rosenberg won his competition, Moskowitz would have a higher-class prostitute for whose services he could charge more.

When she didn’t respond, Señor Rosenberg asked her, “What do you say?”

She fought the tears gathering in her throat; crying would only annoy Moskowitz. She shrugged.

“It’s decided, then.” Moskowitz rose from his chair and extended his hand to Señor Rosenberg. “You can take her for your practice today, as long as she’s back right after siesta time.”

Confused by this new development, Batya went to her room to change. On the other hand, she told God, at least I’ll be out of the house, doing something I love. But missing my midday meal and my siesta? I’ll be tired all evening. How is that for a reward?

She put on her ankle-length black skirt and her red blouse, tightening the string that gathered up the scooped neck so the fabric covered her chest rather than exposed her cleavage. She had danced only in her Spanish shawl, which barely concealed her nakedness. At least now she would practice in clothes.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Walking next to Señor Rosenberg, Batya seethed. He had deceived her with false promises to take her away. Now he made sure to keep her in Buenos Aires. It was her fault for having trusted him. She kept her gaze straight.

They entered the Jewish barrio Once and passed through crowded streets filled with synagogues, mikvehs, and brothels and lined with vendors’ carts. Among the eclectic mix of Jews from Eastern Europe mingling with Jews from Morocco and Syria, no one paid attention to Batya, and, in spite of her frustration at Señor Rosenberg, she enjoyed being chaperoned even if her clothes indicated that she was a prostitute. Having a man at her side—and one so imposing—gave her an air of respectability that kept other men from making lewd remarks and women from raising their noses with superiority.

“Thank you for agreeing to be my dance partner. Officially, that is.” Señor Rosenberg glanced at her. “This is all part of the plan.”

“I’m a stupid polaca. Explain to me what you’re doing and why I’m still in Buenos Aires.”

“I thought I had. Sorry if I wasn’t clear.” In the lull of foot traffic, he stopped. Facing her, he put both hands on her shoulders. His voice was just above a whisper. “Moskowitz has admitted to me directly what he’s been doing. I’m getting closer to being able to destroy him. In the meantime, we’ll participate in tango competitions. These are my excuses to get you out of the house.”