Lick them? Batya gasped at the open wounds and the suggestion. She spit on her fingers and tentatively touched each of the gashes. “I’m Batya,” she said.

The girl didn’t turn back. She gestured to Batya to continue her ministering. “I am a polaca. That’s what they call all prostitutes from Eastern Europe. I am a kurve to the Jewish men and a puta to the Spaniards and Portuguese.”

“Were you—eh—a prostitute back home?”

The girl shook her head and turned toward Batya. “I was too ugly for that.”

Batya took in the broad forehead, flat nose, and bowed legs. “You have lovely brown eyes,” she said.

“Who’ll bother to look at them when I’m on my back?”

Nina burst in. “What are you whispering about?” she demanded.

Batya lowered her head. She wanted to ask the girl whether she, too, missed Russia, her family’s hut, the mud in the road, the soot from the stove. The cold. Whether she missed the Russian language the goyim spoke. Anything in Russia was better than this. Even the czar’s vicious edicts.

“Don’t contaminate her with your attitude,” Nina ordered, and Batya slunk back to her chamber.

Outside Nina’s brothel the bright light sent a sharp pain into Batya’s skull. She had forgotten how blinding the sun could be, although she knew well its trapped heat. That morning, Rochel had passed by and told Batya to expect to be moved to her home. Batya didn’t want to go there either, especially when Grabovsky came to fetch her.

Batya hugged herself, sadness clutching her. The alley was bustling with people—peddlers, pushcarts, coachmen and horses. Did they all eat a chicken every day, or did all those men visit prostitutes as Rochel had said?

Death was her best solution, Batya thought as she spotted a body of water at the end of the alley. Her eyes searched for a break between boats where she could hurl herself into the river. Once in, she would run deeper, and when her feet lost the bottom, she would drown. Courage. She looked down at the oversized, open rubber sandals that Grabovsky had brought. To escape, she must sprint barefoot in the debris, but even this small movement deepened the pain in her belly. Grabovsky would catch her. Then it would be his belt—or another rat-filled dungeon.

When he poked her rib, she followed him, attempting to keep up with his fast pace. But her legs were weak, and the sandals kept slipping off. Even the touch of the dress on her skin made it feel raw. The sun’s heat and its pulsating brightness caused her head to swoon. She stopped, doubling in pain. The blood rushed to her lowered head.

Grabovsky’s steel fingers clutched her arm. “If you faint, I’ll take you back to Nina.”