“We’re fighting anti-Semitism by draining out the pus in our midst,” Señor Rosenberg continued. “Your testimony will go a long way toward making that happen. It is the key to opening new channels in our investigation.”

It was ludicrous to think that the words of one prostitute—of a white slave—could be the key to halting anti-Semitism in Argentina. Batya said no more as they entered the wealthy district of Recoleta. She wished that Señor Rosenberg would slow his long stride so she could examine the large private family homes with arched windows, breezy porticos, and lush trees peeking over high walls. This was the life Moskowitz had falsely promised her.

A matron and her daughter passed by in a carriage. As soon as the mother’s gaze fell upon Batya, she put her hand over the girl’s eyes, forcing her head away. Batya cringed. If Señor Rosenberg had noticed, he gave no sign of it as he turned into a side street. A block away, he indicated a building with heavy wooden double doors. “Here we are.”

The doors opened into a milonga, dimly lit by red lamps. Only a half dozen couples danced at this midday hour to music played on the small piano.

Batya stopped in her tracks at the sight of the musical instrument. There was no musician. The keys were moving of their own accord.

“A ghost!” She held her palms forward to ward off the bad spirit.

“It’s a pianola.” Señor Rosenberg pointed to the side of the instrument. “You see that perforated paper roll? It pulls the keys down from the inside. No ghosts in this building.” He nodded his head to the proprietor at the bar and led Batya to a staircase.

Feeling foolish, she followed him up the two flights to a large loft that extended across the length of the building. He threw open the shutters of the windows at both ends. As a pleasant breeze glided in, he walked to a small table in the corner where an earthenware jug sat and poured two glasses of water. He handed one to her.

Tears filled her eyes.

“Is everything all right?” he asked. “Not another ghost?”

She shook her head, busying herself with the drink to hide how grateful she felt. How could she tell him how much the simple act of handing her a glass of water meant to her? Clients offered her wine or fruity liqueur, but not as a gesture of kindness. Even when she visited Rafael, she always asked for his almond drink; the simpleton never thought of it on his own. The last time a man had shown her such a basic courtesy was in the bowels of the ship, the water brought by the boy looking for his lost sister, whose fate Batya now understood.