The maid placed wooden clogs on the floor and laid out Batya’s white dress. The sleeves had indeed been cut off. Batya put it on, and, after the maid had departed, raised herself to the porthole and saw in the distance a bustling pier with long rows of windowless redbrick buildings. A gigantic steel arm lifted massive crates from a nearby barge. Farther down, the end of the pier was enclosed by a high iron-bar fence with a gate. A huge crowd of people looking like the shtetl poor—men in dark, shabby vests and coats, heads covered in black felt hats, and women in flowered headscarves, bundles slung over their shoulders—pushed and waved papers. Policemen shoved back the crowd and separated them into lines that fell apart as the crowd pressed forward again.

Somewhere, past the fence, Moskowitz’s sister was waiting for her. But how would the woman recognize Batya? How would Batya even manage to ask for her? In his hasty departure, Moskowitz had forgotten to tell her his sister’s married name.

Batya dropped down from the porthole. Once she left the port with Grabovsky, she would look for a lady waiting in a carriage. If necessary, she would scream to get her attention. Someone would help her.

The hours passed, and the air in the cabin heated up. Batya was being cooked alive. Moskowitz had said it was hot in Buenos Aires, but who ever imagined such sweltering heat? She lay on the cot, her head light, perspiration dripping from her body onto the mattress. A sudden wave of shivers made her teeth chatter. Thirst dried her mouth and felted her tongue. She was sick, she realized. Death would finally find her. Just make it come fast, she prayed. Take pity on me.

When Grabovsky opened the door, carrying her valise, the gust of air that entered with him revived Batya enough for her to try to sit up. She dragged herself after him up the stairs, through air that remained as hot and damp as steam rising from a samovar.

“For the officials, you’re my wife,” Grabovsky said. “Understood?”

She lowered her eyes in assent.

“And raise your head. Don’t look so sick, or they won’t allow you in.”

Chapter Fifteen

A sailor picked up Batya under her arms and handed her down to another who stood in a bobbing wooden boat. Grabovsky followed, as did other passengers and their luggage. When the boat was full, the sailors rowed it the length of the harbor to the pier.