Tucking her jewelry pouch and bankbook in her skirt pockets, Batya rushed downstairs. A dozen sisters hugged her, offering prayers for the road and good wishes for the competition. When it was Rochel’s turn, Batya held her tight, holding back tears.

“You’re not scared of the competition, are you?” Rochel untangled herself and looked at Batya with concern. “Don’t be. You’ll be great!”

Batya nodded, glad that her friend had misinterpreted her goodbye. To hide her misted eyes, she turned her head toward Sergio as he picked up her bag, and allowed herself to be led out, his hand on her lower back.

Giggling and chattering, the sisters followed them to the carriage that had been waiting. Once Batya was inside, the carpetbag in her lap, she smiled and waved at the sisters. She glanced up at the climbing vine reaching the blue shutters. She would never see this house again. A vision of Aida onstage flitted through her head. Like the Nubian princess, she was being rescued—if Sergio allowed her on the journey once he learned the truth.

The carriage pulled away. In a moment, Sergio would ask for the ledger. A tremor that had begun in Batya’s lips traveled down her throat. She coughed.

Against the clip-clopping of the horse’s hoofs, she heard the ringing bells of a fire wagon and moments later saw it rush by, followed by two more, each with a large water cylinder and pump at the back and uniformed firemen urging the horses in the front. At the loud ringing of their bells and shouts of the firemen instructing everyone in the street to open the path, Batya put her hand on her heart to still it.

Chapter Forty-Eight

At the train station, a tall, slim man in a European charcoal-gray suit and matching hat waited for them. He carried a bag, and now Batya noticed that Sergio had none, only her performance dress. The memory of Moskowitz transferring her to Grabovsky in the lobby of the hotel struck her, and she clutched Sergio’s arm.

Without speaking, the man started along the platform, Batya and Sergio following. Suddenly, he glanced about, then turned abruptly into the nearest car. Batya rushed to climb in behind him, afraid to look back. With Sergio making way for her, they pushed through the car of high-backed wooden benches, under which passengers stacked packages, straw baskets, and suitcases. Children tried to run up and down the aisle, dodging people’s legs.

Three cars later, Batya and her two companions entered a quieter car divided into private compartments, each with leather-upholstered seats facing each other. The man in the gray suit led them into one and closed the door behind them. He handed his bag to Sergio and planted himself in front of the door’s window, his hands clasped and his gaze straight into the corridor.