Batya tried to digest what she was hearing. Would Rochel work in any of the rooms, or would she become the matron running the place? Batya pushed away her apprehensions. “How about an Indian room?” She thought of her necklace with the filigree work and the description she’d heard from a sea captain about that mysterious country. “They wear saris made of long swaths of silk shot through with gold and silver threads.” She turned away from the sink, wiped her hands on a towel, and demonstrated in languid dance movements the allure of peeling such fabric away from her body. “You could also drape silk of all colors of the rainbow all over the room to turn it into a giant tent.”

Rochel nodded enthusiastically. “That’s why I’m telling you this secret plan. You can work with me, especially now that you’ll be dancing professionally. We’ll decorate a room for you based on One Thousand and One Nights.”

“What’s that?”

“I heard about it from a storyteller in the market. It will be an Arab desert room, and we’ll have girls trained in belly dancing perform either alone or in a group of three. You can take a few lessons in belly dancing.” Rochel smiled at her. “It’s your chance to raise your status. The new brothel will be the best in all of Buenos Aires and will attract only the wealthiest and most influential clients.”

Batya lowered her head to hide the horror that was seeping into her heart. For her part in building this new brothel, Rochel would surely be rewarded with becoming the matron. She would receive a share of the profits. Before long, she might be accepted as a member of Zwi Migdal, which had women, too, among its hundreds of pimps.

Rochel went on. “You know those clients that want to be tortured? The ones Nettie used to whip?” She laughed. “There will be a torture room for them, complete with chains, handcuffs, and leather straps hanging from the wall. Also a cot made of nails.”

Batya dipped her hands back in the water to hide their tremor. Rochel had always been practical about their circumstances, had always adjusted to make the best of it. Yet this?

“I got a real French girl, too,” Rochel whispered. “Not even Jewish.”

Batya turned to look at her. “How?”

“One of the alfonsos roams churches in the French countryside. In one he saw a well-dressed girl lighting a candle, praying to Jesus and Maria and crying her eyes out. So he knew that she’d lost her virginity.”

“How did he figure that out?”

Rochel opened her arms as if the answer was self-evident. “For these Christian girls, it’s the end of the world.”

“It was for me.” And I’m sure for you, too.