Minutes later, she watched from her window as, surrounded by giggling sisters sharing umbrellas, Moskowitz stepped outside, wearing his hat. Freda carried his leather briefcase and handed it to him once he was settled in the carriage.

Batya knew what she had in her possession: Zwi Migdal’s accounting book. But she wouldn’t give it to Sergio until he liberated her and her family from their respective hells.

Or unless Ulmann forced her hand—whatever happened first.

The evening after Moskowitz’s departure to Rio de Janeiro seemed interminable. Batya danced and serviced long into the dawn hours, but when she finally curled up in bed alone, every joint in her body aching, fear kept her awake. The ledger was tucked between her dresser and the wall. If Moskowitz discovered the theft early enough, he would take the train back to search the house. His men would wreak havoc in every room, turn every piece of furniture upside down, empty the contents of every drawer until they found it.

Batya struggled with dread another full day, until it occurred to her the following night that one place Moskowitz wouldn’t turn upside down was his office. She secured the ledger to her waist with a belt and crept downstairs; if she bumped into anyone, she’d say she was heading to the kitchen to warm a glass of milk against the chill.

The skeleton key to Moskowitz’s office—similar to the one Ulmann had given her—was hanging where she’d seen it.

Careful not to make any noise, Batya unlocked the door, slipped into the dark room, and felt her way to the bookcase. She stretched to the highest shelf she could reach and, in the predawn light streaming from the window, tucked the ledger among a row of books.

Chapter Forty-Three

From what Batya gathered later, when Moskowitz thundered out the story to Freda, he blamed the theft of the ledger on the train’s conductor or one of his cabin mates. The thief had also relieved him of a bundle of cash, he told Freda—one hundred thousand pesos—and Batya figured that Moskowitz had added this lie to prove to the members of Zwi Migdal his own personal loss in this debacle.

“They will see who Yitzik is,” he ranted. “Not only did I lose the election, but they’ve fired me from my position as treasurer! No one was ever as good at this job!” He cursed Pedro and the rest of the members. “Imagine they dared call me Yitzik the Pitzik? After all I’ve accomplished—and after all I’ve done for them and for our community? But wait and see. I have big plans. They will all see who Yitzik is. They’ll come crawling back to me, begging me to take over the presidency.”