In another miracle, her father had lived through his illness in Odessa and made his dream of seeing the Holy Land come true. He had been able to make the voyage from the Black Sea into the Mediterranean, and, upon disembarking the rowboat that had transferred him from the ship to the dock in the port of Jaffa, fell on the ground and kissed it. However, too sick to continue the three-day trip to reach the Galilee by a diligence, the stagecoach passenger service, he was checked into the missionaries’ hospital. There, he wavered between life and death, waiting for Batya’s arrival.

He was lucid the day she stood by his bed, holding his hand, both of them weeping. She bent and buried her face in his beard, breathing in the never-forgotten dairy scent, now mixed with the odor of the looming Angel of Death.

“I’m sorry you lost your fine husband,” her father murmured, his eyes closed.

This was the moment to erase the lies that her father would otherwise take with him to the next world. Her mother, who was surely waiting for him to continue their decades of bantering, would reveal to him Batya’s secrets. The obedient daughter must be cleansed from the lies.

“Moskowitz wasn’t the man we all hoped for,” she said, unsure whether her father had heard her, and she added for good measure, “He was a very bad man.”

His hand gave a light squeeze, and a wave of relief washed over Batya. He’d heard her and she’d rid herself of the falsehood. Her mother would tell her father the rest. Batya brought her father’s hand to her lips the same moment that he took his last breath.

She had managed to get her family out of Russia and at least give three of her four sisters a better future. Was it worth the suffering? The longer Batya lived, the more it became evident that God’s plans were beyond her human comprehension.

Batya finished nursing Yaakov and bounced him on her knee. He squirmed, eager to slip from her hold and crawl on the ground. His hazel eyes took in the world around him with awe. Nothing escaped his scrutiny, and he seemed to want to touch and taste everything.

“In a month or two he’ll be walking.” Surale laughed. “He’ll be a handful.”

Batya smiled. “What did you bring me to eat?” she asked. Besides caring for the youngest children while the older ones were in school, Surale raised chickens, baked the family bread, and tended to the kitchen garden. Keyla alternated between toiling with Batya in the family’s field and hiring herself out to care for farmers’ cows. Batya hoped that in a year or two they’d be able to buy their own cow. They would name her Aggie.

Surale didn’t answer but remained sitting on her haunches, grinning into Batya’s face.

“What is it?” Batya asked.