Lying on her back was easier than these endless probing questions. Esperanza could tolerate a lot more than Batya could. She should accept Ulmann’s offer and be done with all of this.

“No.” Batya yawned, not bothering to cover her mouth as Moskowitz had insisted women should do. “I’m missing my siesta.”

“Let’s take a break,” Señor Ramos said.

Sergio ordered a cool ginger drink and a plate of media lunas, flaky, crunchy cookies shaped like half-moons and sprinkled with white confectioner’s sugar. While Batya ate the pastry and drank the spicy drink, she half listened to the honorable prosecutor and his clerk chat with Sergio.

“The Italian community and the French don’t have a problem living with pimps and prostitutes,” the young man said to Sergio. “Why the difference?”

“We have a strong moral zeal. One of our decrees is that ‘all Israel is responsible for one another.’ We are one people.” Sergio paused. “Also, because the Jews are a majority in this business, we are facing a new wave of anti-Semitism. Argentina should be a safe haven for us, not another source of hatred.”

“We’ll take them down one at a time,” the older man said. “All these criminals, not just the Jews, are staining our country’s reputation, just when we are moving forward and developing at such a fast pace.”

The future of Argentina and its Jewish community had nothing to do with her, Batya thought. She was tired. If she were with clients, she would have faked interest in their talk. No need to expend such effort now. She pushed her plate away. “How much longer?”

“Forty-five minutes?” Señor Ramos pulled out a file crammed with papers, opened it, and showed her some of the letters she had stolen. The Yiddish letters were marked with asterisks and numbers corresponding to a list of comments in Spanish on another sheet, which the prosecutor consulted. He pointed to names of associates in Europe, showed her photographs from another file, and questioned which of them she had met personally or had heard about from other prostitutes.

At the repeated questions—asked from new angles but returning to the same points—Batya’s patience ran thin. “I don’t know him, or him, or him,” she said, poking each photograph in front of her. She regretted having provided the letters.

She turned to Sergio and said in Yiddish, “You said you wanted to destroy Moskowitz. How many more pimps do you need to investigate before you take me away from here?”

“Sorry, but it is all part of the same plan. Bring down Zwi Migdal.”

Batya thought of Ulmann’s dwindling patience. If Sergio wanted to investigate every pimp in Buenos Aires, she’d be stuck slaving for Moskowitz for years.

Señor Ramos waited through the exchange, then, responding to a nod from Sergio, handed a Yiddish letter to Sergio. “Please read it to her.”