The steady ground under Batya’s feet felt as if it bucked and swayed. She tried walking on legs that refused to move in a straight line. Her insides were on fire. Grabovsky’s arm wrapped around her waist, too tightly, forcing her forward. Before they reached the crowd pressing on the fence, he pushed her through the side door of a building. In a huge hall, behind a row of tables at the far end, sat officials in short-sleeved, khaki-colored uniforms. Without hesitation, Grabovsky approached a short man with bushy eyebrows whose desk was angled so he could supervise the others. Speaking in that strange language, Grabovsky presented his papers. The man raised his glance at Batya and unfolded the papers. Batya saw him slipping the money tucked in the document onto his lap before he sent a look of understanding to Grabovsky.

Outside, they walked onto a long, busy ramp paved in a black substance and crisscrossed above by metal beams and hooked ropes. The stench of rotting fish and sea salt filled the air.

Batya gathered all her strength to keep walking. In a few minutes she would say goodbye to her captor. Passing a row of warehouses, she and Grabovsky moved along with a bustling crowd of people wending their way around horse-drawn carriages and porters pushing carts heaped with boxes. All around, people spoke Yiddish or that clucking, high-pitched language.

Her head swimming, Batya searched the awaiting carriages, but no woman waved to her. “I must wait for Reb Moskowitz’s sister,” she managed to say. “She’s supposed to meet me here.”

He let out a chuckle. “I’m taking you to her.”

Batya shook her head. No way was she going with this man beyond this spot. She scanned the street as he tugged at her arm.

“You want some police officer should take you to jail?” Grabovsky hissed. “Let’s go.”

If the police were like the ones in Russia, they must be avoided; nothing good ever came of them, especially if she had no passport. Batya sniffled. She was sick, didn’t speak the language, and had no money. Her only valuable possession, her diamond ring, was stashed in a drawer in some plush cabin on the ship. She relaxed her resistance; this was the very last time she would listen to Grabovsky.

As she allowed him to pull her forward, pain gripped her abdomen and she doubled over.

He muttered a Russian curse. “Next thing you die on me?” He motioned to the nearest coachman and shoved Batya up into the carriage.

The bench in the carriage was hard, but sitting offered a reprieve. Batya shrank to its farthest end. As much as she tried to disappear, Grabovsky’s thick thigh still rested against hers.