“He also talked about ‘a generous gift,’” Batya’s father said. “If it’s fifty rubles, God willing, we’ll buy a second milk cow and a new horse—a bit old because I’ll forever miss my dopey horse—”

“Koppel.” Batya’s mother snapped her fingers in front of his face as if to wake him up. “We’re talking about our daughter now, not your horse. What if Reb Moskowitz finds a more suitable bride and returns two years from now, not to marry Batya but to demand we return the money?”

“I know an honorable man when I see one. He would never do such a thing. On the other hand, Zelda, we will follow our daughter to America.”

“If there’s anything left after you buy yourself a horse and a cow, we need to get Batya a trousseau, and maybe there will be some left for a samovar.”

Chapter Six

Three stars shone bright in the sky, indicating that Shabbat was over. The three women were busy unloading their belongings off the cart and setting up the household. Batya located Surale’s old rag doll and gave it a quick hug before turning to lift her mother’s butter-churning bowl. Just then Reb Moskowitz knocked on the open door and walked in.

A whiff of his lemony cologne entered with him, momentarily masking the hut’s stench of mildew. His shirt under the brushed suit gleamed white, which meant that he owned more than one good shirt.

“I apologize for not having cooked borscht to welcome you into our humble abode,” Batya’s mother mumbled, bowing her head, and Batya’s heart ached at her mother’s face-saving pretense that she had beetroots and just hadn’t had the time to cook the soup.

“But I have something for you,” he told Batya’s mother, and handed her a small package wrapped in red cloth.

She unwrapped the cloth to reveal a beautifully painted wooden box. She set it on the table, and the family gathered around it.

“Take a good look at this miracle—and it’s not even Chanukah yet.” Reb Moskowitz wound a small key on the side of the box, then lifted the lid.

A collective gasp escaped everyone’s lips. Batya stared as a delicate ballerina twirled to music as clear and dainty as bells. The mirror set on the inside of the lid twinned her into a harmonized pair.

“This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” whispered Batya’s mother.

“It’s yours. Now try winding it yourself.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” Her eyes were riveted to the music box.

Batya’s father bent to peek at the back of the box to decipher the miracle.

“Zelda, it will give me great pleasure if you do,” Reb Moskowitz told her. “Please don’t be afraid.”