She had slid out of bed and pulled out the trunk. She lit a candle instead of the kerosene lamp, so no light would be seen from her window while she examined the caricature of Dreyfus. Her finger stroked his face. The plight of this man across the ocean had touched her because, like her, he was trapped in a web of lies; like her, he’d lost his freedom. Like her, he didn’t know who his real friends were.

The next morning, Moskowitz had asked her, “How is your dance practice coming along?”

Batya’s heart skipped a beat. She shrugged. What if he came by to watch? The fact that she hadn’t yet been caught giving her testimony to Señor Joaquin Ramos was a miracle.

But miracles never happened to her. Ulmann wouldn’t bring her family over, and if she were murdered by Zwi Migdal’s thugs, her family wouldn’t be rescued either. If she were to continue working with Sergio, something must change.

Chapter Forty-Two

Winter 1895

Winter arrived with barely the benefit of autumn, and the sunlight that washed the world dimmed. For days, rain came down with no reprieve, driving into the windowpanes, and chill burrowed into the porous walls and penetrated the bones.

Ulmann hadn’t been to the house for two weeks. Maybe he was busy with the upcoming Rosh Hashanah orders, sitting by a table at the back of his store late into the night, fashioning fine jewelry for rich customers. Or perhaps he was ill; so many people suffered from severe coughs. Having sent three girls to the hospital, Freda refused clients who obviously posed a health risk.

Batya stood in the corridor outside her chamber. Winter wind blew in from the patio and whistled an eerie music through the cracks around the ill-fitting window frames, and it echoed through the corridor, as if an evil eye were searching for a soul to capture. Batya buttoned up the green cardigan that Glikel had knit for her as what had at first seemed like an olive branch. Batya had purchased the wool according to Glikel’s instructions, but when she completed the cardigan, Glikel requested payment for her labor. Her opium consumption had increased and with it her need for money.

Batya tucked her hands into the cardigan’s deep pockets, fearing Glikel’s mean spirit knitted into each stitch. She preferred the warmth of her magenta-colored velvet robe, which flowed luxuriously down to the floor, but the pretty robe had to be kept pristine, worn only when she worked. From the top of the stairs she confirmed that no client was waiting in the pavilion, so she descended and made her way through to stop by the coal-burning stove. Later in the afternoon, the musicians would station themselves in front of it in order to keep their fingers nimble.