When Batya entered his office the day after his return, eager to collect the newspapers and read about Señor Dreyfus, she dared not raise her eyes to the shelf where the ledger was placed. Would Moskowitz notice it up there? Its brown spine was as unadorned as the other volumes, yet, without looking, she knew that it was lighter and thinner than the bindings of the books on either side. If Moskowitz found it in this unlikely spot—and Freda would deny ever placing it there—the search for the true culprit would be focused on the sisters. Batya didn’t want to think what methods Moskowitz’s thugs might use to extract a confession from each of them.

For now, all she could do was pick up the newspapers and rush back to her chamber to catch up on the news. An article told of someone by the name of Emile Zola who had written an essay in a French newspaper that was causing a great stir in France. Titled “I Accuse,” it denounced the French government for its anti-Semitism and the unlawful jailing of Alfred Dreyfus. Zola’s letter wasn’t included in the newspaper Batya held in her hands, but the article hailed the author for his courage. Batya tore out the article and put it away next to Dreyfus’s picture and caricature.

Moskowitz’s return from Rio de Janeiro marked a change in the house. He was upgrading his operation, he announced to the sisters. Only the most beautiful and alluring, most creative and productive prostitutes would be entitled to work in his new deluxe brothel, so the girls who were slacking had better shape up.

He proceeded to acquire the building adjacent to the house, a former mansion that had long been converted into a rooming house with families crowding every floor. In three days all the tenants who had cooked on open fires in the verandas and had strung laundry lines between them were gone—either after accepting cash payments or, if they demanded too much, forcibly evicted by Moskowitz’s thugs. On the fourth day, construction crews arrived to demolish the beehive of temporary interior partitions, remove piles of accumulated debris, and scrape the outside walls of layers of mold and crude paint until the building’s fine original carvings were exposed.

Over Freda’s objections, Moskowitz engaged Rochel to help him in his plans. Rochel, who had been forlorn and remote for months, seemed revived. She spent hours in Moskowitz’s office, poring with him over blueprints an architect brought over.

A week later, Rochel approached Batya in the kitchen yard, where Batya was washing her underthings. The winter day was dry and warm, and Batya liked the feel of the sun on her back.

“Moskowitz is elevating my status,” Rochel whispered.

Batya turned to look at her. “Elevating it to what?”