Moskowitz rose to retrieve his leather suitcase from the top shelf, withdrew a ledger similar to the one the money changer used, and, to Batya’s relief, busied himself making calculations with a pencil. The Yiddish newspaper he’d bought at the train station lay folded on the seat next to him, and words from the headlines jumped out at her: Factory. Reactionaries. Workers. Czarina. Finance. War. Criminals. Russia. She would have liked to read the newspaper, but since Moskowitz must believe her illiterate like most shtetl girls, she wouldn’t reveal to him that she could read. It would be her secret, one he couldn’t reach or violate.

The train’s chugging lulled her, and she closed her eyes, only opening them when, with screeching wheels and banging axles, the train stopped at a station.

Moskowitz lowered the window and signaled a peddler to approach. He paid for a small packet wrapped in colorful paper, which he handed to Batya.

She wanted to refuse it, but curiosity got the better of her. She peeled back the paper to reveal a dark brown block.

“Bite on it,” Moskowitz said, the kindness in his voice unchanged. “Chocolate.”

Batya took a bite, and a heavenly taste melted on her tongue. It was like nothing she had ever tasted—like spiced honey, but richer. Sweetness spread through the whole of her. If she were an angel, this was what God’s nectar would taste like.

She took another bite, and her awe almost made her forget the man who’d given it to her.

“I’m glad you like it.” Moskowitz’s eyes hooked into hers. “Where we’re going you’ll have chocolate every day.”

At his words, the sweet pleasure turned bitter in her mouth.

Chapter Ten

Two days later they stopped in a big city to wait for the ship to sail. Moskowitz took Batya to a shop where dresses that had already been cut, sewn, and pressed hung in three open armoires. Batya had never imagined that so many dresses, trimmed with lace and ribbons, would have been made without specific customers in mind.

The shop matron eyed Batya. “I have nothing for a child.”

“I’m sure you can make something fit,” Moskowitz said in his pleasant voice. “Let’s see what you’ve got here.” He rooted in the armoires and selected three dresses. “Only the best for my princess.”

Batya didn’t know how to react as the woman turned each dress toward her to inspect, their designs so utterly foreign. Even Batya’s Purim costumes had been simple, made of painted newspapers and scraps of materials worn over her own shabby pinafore.