Batya forced small bites around her growing lump of fear. Then, after drinking her hot tea, she smashed the china cup against the wall. She took off her diamond ring and placed it in the closet drawer, then clutched the curved handle of the broken teacup between her fingers, its jagged edges sticking out. Her heart pounding in her ears, she curled up in the corner of the room, trapped. Waiting.

It was late when a man came in, waddled unsteadily toward her, and reached for her.

Gripping the broken cup handle, she slashed his cheek.

Chapter Thirteen

The vibrations of the ship shook Batya awake into complete darkness. Her entire body hurt, and when she breathed, something pierced her rib cage. Her stomach ached inside and out.

She retched bile.

The floor beneath her was coarse wooden slats. Her legs touched rough planks. Raising an arm with difficulty, she met more slats. Frantically, she felt about her: she was lying inside a crate.

In the noisy thrum of the ship’s engines, rhythmic, metallic, and juddering, events of the night before rushed in—the men, the beating, being struck on the head.

She started to cry, but every breath sent that ice pick into her rib cage. Passing her hand over her neck, chest, and legs, she touched the tender bruises. Only then did she notice the lump of cloth next to her head. Her rag doll. She must have been clutching it when she was knocked unconscious and thrown in here. Batya hugged it, her sobs turning to a wail. “God help me. Please! Hear me here, Your daughter Batyale. I was a good, obedient daughter to my parents and a devoted believer in You—”

“Crying will only make you weaker.” The Yiddish words in a girl’s voice were unmistakable. Batya turned her head, but could see nothing in the darkness. “Your name is Batyale?” the girl asked. “I’m Shayna.”

“My family calls me that. I’m really Batya. Where are we?”

“You have a family?”

“Don’t you?”

There was a long pause. When Shayna spoke, Batya had to strain to hear her voice over the din. “My parents were killed in a pogrom when I was four. My brothers and I grew up in a Jewish orphanage until soldiers came and conscripted all the boys into the czar’s army.” After another pause, Shayna went on, her voice stronger. “They did bad things to the girls. Took some away with them. Of the girls that remained, four of us were chosen for jobs. We’re sailing to work as maids in good Jewish homes in Argentina.”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s where this ship is heading.”

“It’s going to Buenos Aires.”

“Buenos Aires is a city in Argentina, which is the country.”

“The country is America,” Batya said, certain in her one piece of knowledge.

“Argentina is a country in South America.”