Batya looked down at the ring as if from the moon. Her mother would cry with happiness to see such riches on her daughter’s finger. Surale would dance to hide her envy. Her father would grin with the certainty of having made the right choice for his third daughter.

Moskowitz lifted Batya’s chin, and his eyes bore into hers. “Listen carefully. A woman cannot legally get a Russian passport, but Grabovsky was generous in agreeing to put you on his. Farshteyst?”

He released her chin, and she nodded her assent. Yes, she understood the words, but not what they meant.

“Say you understand,” he said.

“I do.” The words croaked.

“Good girl.” He reached for her coat. “Take it off, please. You won’t need it in Buenos Aires.”

She recoiled. It’s mine. It was your gift. Relenting, she released the buttons and stared as he draped the fine-wool coat over his arm—the coat that had been hers for less than three days.

He extracted from his pocket two wrapped packets of chocolate. “Here, my angel. For the journey.”

Chapter Eleven

The cabin in the ship where Grabovsky settled her was decorated with gilded molding. A delicate crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and flowery brocade covered both the bed and the matching chair that stood by a table secured to the wall. In a tiny commode, the chamber pot was set into a wooden seat with a lid.

Grabovsky watched as Batya hung her dresses in the armoire. In the polished surface of the mahogany, she saw him behind her, yawning, and she hid her rag doll, afraid that he’d think it a shmate, a rag, and take it away.

“Wear this dress for dinner.” He pointed at the blue taffeta. “I’ll come get you.”

After he closed the door behind him, she waited a moment, then reopened it and gazed out. To the left and the right stretched a long corridor with many doors. Two little boys in sailor suits peeked around the corner, before a hand on each one’s shoulder pulled them back. The ship had seemed huge from the outside, and a valet had led them to this cabin by a long, circuitous route. If she left the cabin, she would never find her way back. Batya retreated and climbed to stand on the bed. She looked out the round window and glimpsed the bottom of two gangplanks, one of which she had crossed thirty minutes earlier.

On the pier, porters carried valises and trunks, and long-armed iron lifts hauled boxes and crates too big to be carried. It was all frenzied, exciting, and foreign. So much to look forward to in the coming weeks. She scanned her beautiful room. As much as she had wanted Reb Moskowitz’s protection, here she would be free from his unwelcome visits.