At Grabovsky’s shout, the driver stopped the tram. Grabovsky jumped off, pulling Batya with him. Standing in the shade of a building, he withdrew a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his sweating brow. Batya was thirsty. In her eagerness to escape Nina’s house, she had not drunk any water from the pail a boy had brought to the brothel. Her father would never believe there were water carriers in America. Water here was supposed to flow from pipe faucets, like the ones her father had reported seeing in the homes of Bobruevo’s rich.

Grabovsky rounded the corner into a cleaner residential street of two-storied houses that touched one another, creating an impenetrable front. He stopped in front of one painted in muted sunset orange. A climbing vine with magenta flowers twisted around the iron grilles of its second-floor verandas. Batya glanced up at the bright blue window frames that gave the house a fairy-tale look.

Grabovsky’s thick finger poked her spine and prodded her inside.

The door opened into a large room with a floor paved like a carpet in small, colorful tiles. The geometric pattern stretched unbroken onto a spacious patio bordered by planters with fantastical blooming shrubs—large, voluptuous flowers in riotous colors, looking like mythical birds in one of Batya’s mother’s stories.

The indoor and outdoor were separated by open floor-to-ceiling windows, their gauzy curtains swaying in the breeze. In the pavilion, long swathes of colorful fabric were strung along the tops of the walls and gathered in places by decorative masks and gilded plaques. The air was suffused with flowery perfume, aromatic cooking, and cigar smoke. The beat of music sounded, though Batya couldn’t see the musicians.

Men and women flowed out of the pavilion to the patio and back. The women were in various states of undress—some, to Batya’s embarrassment, with breasts fully exposed. A few women danced with each other. Men played cards, two of them with young women seated on their knees. Batya felt that she had dropped into an obscene version of a Purim carnival, the joyous Jewish holiday when everyone wore costumes and many imbibed. But this festivity wasn’t make-believe; these people seemed to be celebrating a trouble-free, happy life.

A few meters away, on a round sofa, sat several half-clad women with painted faces. One of them rose and sauntered languorously toward Batya, her hips swaying. She held a cigarette in a long holder. She kissed Batya on both cheeks and wrapped her in a hug like a long-lost relative. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Rochel?” Batya was bewildered by the transformation. Only the voice remained the same.