“We aren’t in contact with her. Your father only knows to wait for her because of one letter he received.” Batya barely had a moment to rejoice when Sergio went on. “In the meantime, you are helping not only the entire Jewish community but also the many thousands of Jewish refugees who will arrive here soon.”

She stopped in her tracks and faced him. “You talk about your Jewish reputation. The good reputation of those kosher Jews who snub women like me, who think that we are the dirt of the earth.” Her hand swept to encompass the city. “Let’s say you free the prostitutes. What will happen to them—to us? There are thousands of us in Buenos Aires. How are we going to live? Who’s going to employ us—and in what jobs?”

He touched her elbow to indicate that they should resume walking. She took a long step ahead of him, her anger percolating. When he caught up with her, she spat, “Would your wife employ a former prostitute in your home? Would your married sister bring one into her house? What about your mother—wouldn’t she be worried that your father would crawl into the new maid’s bed?”

“I don’t have a wife or a sister, and my father is deceased, so my mother wouldn’t be harboring such thoughts.” He paused. “But I see your point.”

“I know a woman, Leila. She used all her savings to buy her freedom from her pimp and planned to take in laundry to wash and iron for clients. No one would let her touch their soiled clothes. She was starving. Finally, she had no choice but to beg her pimp to take her back.”

Sergio was silent for a moment as they continued to walk. “You’re right. We’ll need to think of a solution, but with so many women I can’t imagine what it could be.”

Chapter Forty

Fall 1895

Ulmann rested on Batya’s bed. He’d been in her chamber for almost two hours; lately he made sure to purchase from Freda enough tokens to satisfy his need for Batya’s companionship.

“You have no idea how it feels to spend every evening sitting alone in my house with not a soul to talk to,” he said, as if Batya hadn’t heard it before. “My boys are busy doing their homework, and my wife is like a mummy wrapped in sheets, lying in her room with her night maid knitting by her bed.” He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “The more I read literature and poetry, the more loneliness is eating me up.”

He passed his hands over Batya’s naked back and asked her to emulate his movements with her hands on his bare skin. “The human touch,” he whispered. “No soul can survive without this very simple need being fulfilled. Thank you for bringing me back to life.”