“If a kosher matchmaker should bring the right groom for each of you, that’s a good thing.”

“Reb Moskowitz is an excellent groom,” Surale said. “He’s so rich!”

Their mother shook her head. “A matchmaker is a must.” Her tone softened. “Batya, remember the daughter of Pesha, my second cousin three times removed? She married a visiting scholar from Germany. Even though there was no rabbi, it was the matchmaker who brought two witnesses, and the wedding took place in a shtiebel.”

“What happened to her?” Batya asked.

“She moved to Germany, where every year she vacationed in hot springs. She sent money to her mother and promised a train ticket to a city called Frank-something, but then Pesha, the poor soul, one day caught a cold and died.”

“Where is she now?”

“Pesha? I’m telling you she’s dead.”

“No. Her daughter. Where is she now?”

“How would I know? Probably getting pampered in a hot spring.”

Some girls, even poor ones like Pesha’s daughter, were lucky, Batya thought. Maybe Surale was right to dream of a match so high above their low social station. But certainly her mother was right about a matchmaker; her father must have misunderstood Reb Moskowitz’s interest.

Congregants began to file into the synagogue, and Batya’s father was recruited again for the decreed minyan.

The day was cold, so the three women found refuge again in the women’s section. Even chilled to the bone, at least they were dry and could sit down, albeit on hard backless benches. Batya was hungry for warm food that wasn’t cheese or uncooked onion—a cup of hot, sweetened tea maybe, or even her onion, but fried in chicken fat.

While the men were praying, a woman dressed in a wool suit approached Batya’s mother. “I’m the representative of the Benevolent Society,” she said, not bothering to give her name. “Come with me.”

Wearing leather boots that withstood the mud, she led Batya’s mother up the street, with Batya and Surale trailing behind. She made a left turn into a narrow alley and stopped in front of a hut. It had been abandoned, the woman explained, and now could be rented from the Society for a pittance. “It has a table, a bench, and a sturdy loft for sleeping.” She paused, then added, “We’ll lend you a working stove.”

Batya eyed the pack of mangy dogs that roamed the street. Their thinness reflected the poverty of the village, where even the shopkeepers couldn’t spare scraps of food. “We can’t rent a hut if we’re on our way to America,” she told her mother, but her mother gestured to her to hold her tongue.

“What about pogroms?” Batya’s mother asked.

The woman shrugged. “We’re always a target. But where can we go?” She glanced at Batya and Surale. “If I were you, I’d dig a hiding space for them.”