She shrugged. “They are young and make a very good impression.” She thought of Moskowitz’s first appearance in her life. He no longer traveled to Eastern Europe. In his mid-thirties and tending to fat, he might be suspected of being a widower with children; younger men had better luck with teenage maidens. “They look for agunot, too,” she added, “and—”

Señor Ramos raised his hand to stop her. “Agu—what?”

“Married women abandoned by their husbands,” Sergio interjected. “They can’t remarry without a Jewish divorce, called a get. In their extremely poor society, without financial support, they have no means of survival.”

Batya added, “Some matchmakers give the alfonsos lists of agunot in their villages, so they can offer these women jobs here. If an aguna has a daughter, it’s a double coup. They call the girl ‘lightweight.’”

“Thank you.” Señor Ramos leaned forward on his elbows and looked into Batya’s eyes. “Do you know of any other woman in your situation who might talk to me?”

Batya pretended to consider the question, knowing the answer. She wouldn’t approach Rochel. Since Nettie’s death, Rochel, too, had changed, as if some light had dimmed in her and had been replaced by sadness. Or perhaps it was just fatigue. Batya also was exhausted from this life, but at least she had hope to sustain her. “There’s no way for me to know,” Batya finally said.

“What about someone who seems brazen, who talks back to Moskowitz?”

Glikel could never be trusted. Batya shook her head.

“Please say ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ so my clerk can write down your responses.”

“No.”

“How about someone from another house who fights with her pimp?”

“No.”

“Let me get it straight: You do not know of any girl—in your house or elsewhere—who fights with her pimp?”

Batya shrugged. “Many fight with their pimps. They are family. Fighting doesn’t mean anything.”

“Explain that, please?”

“They make up. The women give in. What’s their other option?” Annoyance crept up Batya’s spine at having to spell out the obvious. “We are told many times not to go to the authorities, because prostitution is legal. We are legally registered, so you know who we are. The police regard our pimps as our husbands and don’t get involved in ‘domestic disputes.’”

Señor Ramos scribbled something in his notepad. “You’ve heard conversations about the Jewish community ostracizing Zwi Migdal?”

“Sure. They lump the caftans and the kurves together. As if we—I—have a choice.”

“What about antislavery organizations. Any talk about those?”

Batya thought of the matrons Sergio had mentioned. She let out a puff of air in dismissal. “Those do-gooders are only interested in saving girls before they are trapped. They wouldn’t help someone like me. Anyway, Zwi Migdal has spies everywhere.”

“Spies. Any names you suspect?”