How could it possibly be true? Reb Moskowitz’s gaze was upon her, scrutinizing her face. He smiled. “I came all the way from across the ocean to find a bride here. Do you know why?” Without waiting for her reply, he answered, “American women are spoiled. You are virtuous.”

Feeling her cheeks burn, Batya lowered her eyes. She couldn’t begin to imagine what American women were like, spoiled or not. The heat spread down into her collar, doubling her discomfort. With the tip of her clog she drew circles in the mud.

Her father wiped his brow. “Where will she live? There are some cultured Jews in Moscow and St. Petersburg, but who wants to be so close to the czar?”

“Who’s talking about Russia?” Reb Moskowitz laughed. “Remember. I’m from Buenos Aires.”

“You want I should send my little girl to America alone?”

Batya raised her eyes to see Moskowitz’s arm sweeping the village. “Where else will she have any future? Here?”

“On the other hand,” her father said, “we’re all going to America, to my brother in Pittsburgh—”

“When will that be?”

“With Hashem’s help, before the Messiah arrives.”

Reb Moskowitz drew his billfold out of his trouser pocket and opened it, exposing a thick wad of pinkish rubles. Batya had never seen paper money. Her father was always paid in coins, mostly kopeks, rarely even a single ruble, and not ever a gold one. “We’re forbidden to handle money today, so I won’t touch it.” Reb Moskowitz fanned the open billfold. “But to look? To look we’re permitted. See this? There’s a lot more where it comes from. This evening, I’ll be at your home with a generous gift that will help your family manage until Batya is of age.”

Her father gulped. “Money is the most perishable substance, more than cheese and cream.” His eyes glued to the billfold belied his dismissive words.

Batya didn’t know whether to stare at Moskowitz’s money or examine his face. Could this respectable man really be her husband one day? She closed her eyes, wanting to curl up in a corner and was unsure why. Matchmaking talk was supposed to be good news; girls were happy at getting betrothed. With this man for a husband, she would be eating an orange every day.

“It’s a great surprise,” she heard her father’s soft voice say and was uncertain whether he spoke to her or was explaining her shyness to Reb Moskowitz. “On the other hand, a Jew is never ready for what God plans for him.”

God’s plans. Batya wasn’t ready to entertain thoughts of marriage. Yet she also hadn’t been ready for the pogrom, or for Miriam’s death, or for exile.

“Batyale, what do you say?” her father asked her.