Her untouched food didn’t seem to dampen Moskowitz’s chatty mood. “You’ll love Buenos Aires. It’s a beautiful city with wide boulevards and stately mansions. The many city plazas are decorated with huge sculptures and fountains, with gurgling water that’s music to the ears. Of course, such a city has a large harbor, with ships coming and going from all over the world—the most eye-pleasing sight, if you ask me. People travel on street cars, called tranvias. Do you know what they are? Like trains, moving on tracks, but drawn by horses—except one that now has electric wires on top. These tranvias are smaller than the train we rode, and, naturally, not so fast; people can just jump on and off.” He paused as if to let Batya visualize his words, then went on. “But the best parts are the open areas of the city, parks full of trees with flowers on them. Have you ever seen a purple tree?”

She raised her glance from her fingers and shook her head.

“Well, you’re in for a wonderful surprise. They’re called jacaranda, and when a whole street of them is in bloom it is a magnificent sight.” He smiled. “There’s another tree with a fat trunk, like a beer barrel. The legend says that the tree used to be a woman who devoted her love to a soldier. But he died in battle, and as the blood of her deceased lover spread through her fingers, it turned into flowers, and she became a tree. Beautiful red flowers this tree has.

“We also have concert halls and theaters that perform in Yiddish: drama, comedy, singing, you name it. Every night there are plays and musical productions and great dancing. The dance halls are like nowhere in the world. Everyone dances—not just the actors but all people.”

He had a way with words. Batya couldn’t help but be intrigued. Buenos Aires was a paradise city, and, Batya reminded herself, once she had made a life there with Moskowitz and he sent for her family, they would dance there together. Their only concern would be not to stub their toes on all the gems on the ground.

Breakfast over, Moskowitz brought a suitcase and showed Batya how to fold her new dresses to minimize wrinkling, then stood over her while she packed them.

She picked up her cloth bundle and, before placing it in the valise, rooted through it. Her fingers turned frantic as they searched through her menstrual rags. “My letter. The one with my uncle’s address,” she called out, panic rising. “I can’t find it.”

“Not to worry. We’ll find your uncle without it. Jews always know one another, don’t they?”