Reb Moskowitz was standing outside the carriage and offered his hand when she climbed down, but she blushed and reached for the side handle to help herself. Her skin felt clammy and cold. With one hand she tightened her wool cardigan around herself, and with the other she gripped the small cloth bundle with all she’d brought from home: the rags she would use for her menstrual cycle, the leftover cheese, Surale’s doll, and her uncle’s letter.

“I’ll be right back, my dear.” Reb Moskowitz disappeared behind the front door. A stable hand came to lead the coachman and the horses away, leaving Batya alone in the chilled air. She checked her surroundings and, seeing no one, crouched behind a bush to relieve herself. Straightening up, she was about to follow the stable hand so she could enter through the back door, when Reb Moskowitz reappeared and signaled to her.

Touching the small of her back, he guided her up the few steps to the front double doors made of heavy, dark wood. Inside, a warm fire danced in a huge stone fireplace, flanked by chairs upholstered in brocade and sofas covered in deep green velvet with gold tassels. The wood of the floor, visible between exquisite rugs, was polished so bright that it reflected the crystal chandelier above.

Batya examined the chandelier. It shone more brilliantly than a dozen candles—yet with no candles. Reb Moskowitz remarked, “Gas lighting,” and before Batya could ask what that was, he relinquished her to the care of a maid.

The woman tramped up many stairs lit by more fixtures without candles until they reached a small room with only a large tub in the center. Speaking Russian, the maid gestured for Batya to strip down and submerge herself in the water.

Batya couldn’t believe her good fortune. She hadn’t even arrived in America yet, and her first wish was fulfilled. She lay in the warm water, stared up at the light fixture so close to the ceiling, and wondered how it didn’t start a fire. The maid didn’t seem concerned, though, as she massaged foul-smelling liquid into Batya’s hair. It burned Batya’s scalp. This must be the concoction her mother had mentioned that people in America used against lice; they didn’t need to always pick them out of each other’s hair. Batya closed her eyes and wiggled her toes in the warm water. The wonders of America were already here.

It took the maid so long to comb Batya’s hair thoroughly and pick the lice eggs that Batya dozed off in the warm tub. She woke up when the water had cooled, and the woman rinsed her hair in rosewater. She brushed Batya’s hair several times and dabbed lavender-scented oil into it before wrapping a towel around it.