The maid returned with a fresh pitcher of water and a small bar of soap. In a strange language that wasn’t Russian, and using hand signals, she gestured for Batya to wash up. She retrieved the chamber pot and returned it empty.

Batya changed into her nightshirt and lay under the covers, hugging her doll. The dread that crept in with the thought of Moskowitz’s return rose up her throat until she began to tremble. Let it happen already so this fear will go away, she told God. If that’s Your wish, I will obey You.

“My beautiful wife,” Moskowitz told her when he came in wearing a robe. In spite of her wish to obey God, Batya began to whimper and her body tried to wriggle away. Moskowitz grabbed both her wrists with one hand and pinned them over her head, while with the other he lifted her nightshirt. “Didn’t your mama teach you to please your husband?”

She stopped her struggle. You are not my husband. Not for two more years. But there was no point in arguing. As if watching from the corner of the ceiling, she saw Moskowitz take his pleasure from her. His penetration wasn’t as painful as the first couple of times, but the indignity of it made the Batya hovering above close her eyes.

In the morning, Moskowitz lingered over breakfast. Batya sat staring at her fingers as she clenched and unclenched her fists. In this man’s presence, she couldn’t eat a single morsel of the eggs, sausages, or toast.

“You’ve made promises to my parents,” she finally said. “You are not my husband, and I am not your wife.”

“It’s only a matter of time. Didn’t I say I’d wait until you’d look favorably upon me for marriage? It’s up to you.”

I’m only fourteen. In Batya’s mind’s eye, she saw her parents and Surale standing outside their hut, waving goodbye, crying, hoping . . .