A key turned in the lock, and a maid came in, carrying a tray containing a tin bowl of kasha with a piece of chicken and a hardtack. Despite her death wish, Batya wolfed it down, dipping the last piece of hardtack to soak up the remainder of her meal. The maid took out the tray and returned with a cup of warm tea. The cup, too, was made of tin. Batya sipped the tea, sweetened with sugar, breathing in its fragrance. Anything was better than the horror of being caged down below, but she wouldn’t give up on her death wish, even if her body’s instinct to live defied her soul’s desire to escape her misery.

A few hours later, Grabovsky barged into the cabin. Batya hoisted herself to the top shelf and scooted to the corner, shrinking her body into a ball.

“You want to cause more trouble and stay belowdecks?” He pulled her down and threw her on the bottom cot. “Is that what you want?”

Clammy fingers of dread crawled from Batya’s neck down her spine. Whimpering, she shook her head. She could never again face the rats, the cockroaches, and the confines of the cage in the darkness.

“Let’s see, then.” His gaze hooked on her as he unbuckled his belt.

She shut her eyes tight, feeling tears escaping. Expecting the assault, her body began to shake.

“Open your eyes. No man wants to fuck a corpse.” He slapped her so hard that it felt as if a rock bounced inside her skull. “Open your eyes, I said.”

She forced her eyes open to see his bulbous nose and the hair growing out of his nostrils even as she shut down her soul and deadened her heart.

Two days later, the ship reached harbor. It anchored at a distance from the piers, where it bobbed on ripples of waves. The engines fell silent.

A maid brought a clean pail of water and a bar of soap. Batya could barely wash herself. She felt feverish, and in spite of the heat she shivered. Impatient with Batya’s sluggish movements, the maid grabbed the sponge from her hand and swiped it across Batya’s shoulders and back and down her thighs. She handed her a brush, but Batya’s head hurt as if a barrel hoop were tightening it, and her arms were too weak to fight the knots in her hair.