Batya peeked through the open side of the warehouse-like structure. Several well-dressed people glided inside a fenced area. The swooshing scrape of their blades on the ice accompanied the music. She bent down and snaked her hand through the railing to touch the ice. The skin of her fingers stuck to it; after years of being away from it, she had forgotten that it could burn.

She straightened and rushed on to her appointment. Rather than pick her up, Sergio had secured Moskowitz’s permission for Batya to go by herself to the costume store. It would take two hours to get her dressed and ready.

Batya walked into a shop filled with gowns made of layers of flowing chiffon and dotted with glittering sequins.

The shop matron’s eyes raked over Batya. “So you are Señor Rosenberg’s new metziah?” she sneered, and then, as if Batya weren’t around, said to her helper, “Where else would he find a dancer but in a brothel? Take her to the storage room so our good clients don’t see her trying on our dresses, or we won’t be able to sell them.”

The insult felt stale, like chewing on old bread. “Maybe I should go elsewhere to rent a dress,” Batya said, pretending to start for the door.

The matron grabbed Batya’s hand. “But I have the perfect one for you.” Her bluff called out, the woman’s tone changed to pleading. “Just take a look.” She removed a magnificent pink dress from a rack and nudged Batya to a dressing room whose walls were upholstered in cream velvet.

“Pin and sew the hem,” Batya ordered when she put on the dress. “I don’t want to catch it with my heels.”

After selecting a pair of shoes with medium-height heels, Batya sat down and gave herself over to the ministering of the assistant.

The young woman parted Batya’s hair in a straight line two centimeters off the middle and pulled it tight into a severe chignon, then smoothed down with coconut oil any stray strands. Using a soft black pencil, she lined Batya’s eyes, elongating them almost to her temples, and then darkened the light-brown eyebrows into black arches. To finish the look, she wet the tip of the pencil with her tongue and dotted a beauty mark on Batya’s cheekbone. “Don’t look yet,” she told Batya, and secured a pink hibiscus flower in her hair.

The proprietor returned with Batya’s hemmed dress and helped her into it. Batya turned to look at herself in the mirror. The woman who stared back at her had little resemblance to the woman she’d known as herself—or even as Esperanza. That’s better, she thought. Like in prostitution, hiding behind a mask helped her fight her trepidation about performing for a large audience and being judged.