The footmen opened the doors simultaneously, and Grabovsky and Batya stepped into a vast dining hall. Elegant groups of people sat around tables covered with white tablecloths; the chandeliers above shone down on crystal glasses and silver bowls.

Stunned by the beauty of the room, Batya was taking it all in when a pinch of the underside of her arm made her yelp.

“Smile,” Grabovsky hissed.

What for? As he squeezed even harder, she forced her lips to quirk up.

He strutted with her around tables of well-dressed diners, pinching her when her smile waned. Batya thought of the ballerina in the music box dancing to the turn of the key.

A white-uniformed servant led them to a table against the wall, and Grabovsky seated her on his side, both of them facing the room. Batya slid to the far end of her chair to distance herself from Grabovsky, but his heft spread over the edges of his seat, inescapably close.

She examined the women’s fine dresses and jewelry. Their hair was brushed into rich hills of curls, while her tight braids wrapped around her head like a Russian peasant’s. Dozens of curious eyes scanned her and her blue dress. She dropped her head.

“Look up and smile,” Grabovsky commanded.

In Komarinoe there was a dimwitted Russian boy who smiled at strangers for no reason—even at Jews. Batya didn’t want to appear stupid to this roomful of elegant people, but the threat of the pinch made her smile while she fixed her gaze on the back of someone’s chair.

A waiter delivered a basket of freshly baked bread, and the warm aroma made her salivate. She quickly said a blessing in her head, reached over, and tore off a piece. She glanced at Grabovsky lest he disapprove, but he said nothing.

A bowl of green soup arrived. She lifted it up to her mouth and gulped.

“Put it down and use your soup spoon,” he grumbled.

She did. When only a little soup coated the bottom of her bowl, she looked at him again for approval to soak it up with bread. He shook his head, and she lowered her chin in embarrassment.

Grabovsky handed her a stemmed glass of red wine. “Here. Drink.”

She’d never drunk wine outside the sacred ritual of Shabbat and Passover. She sipped. It tasted bland, yet rich in a new way, so different from the syrupy kiddush wine. And instead of just a tiny ritual sip, this entire glass was hers.

The empty soup bowl was removed. Batya’s head felt strange, as if the soup were sloshing inside it, but her attention was on a plate that appeared in front of her, with a portion of meat that could have fed her entire family. She recalled Moskowitz’s warning to eat slowly and not use her fingers.