“Who else?” Rochel laughed, the twin dimples punctuating her cheeks. “You’re hot.” With a flick of her wrist she flipped open what looked like a stiff lace handkerchief shaped like a half-moon. She waved it in front of Batya’s burning face, then handed her the device. “This is a fan. It will help you bear the heat, but you can also use it in a most feminine way.” She crushed her cigarette in an ashtray and took Batya’s hand. “Come meet the sisters. We’re one big family.”

Batya turned back to seek Grabovsky’s approval and saw him disappear through a side door.

Deep inside the pavilion, she spotted the source of the music: one klezmer played a violin, and two others played instruments she’d never seen—one an oddly shaped stringed instrument and the other a rectangular bellow-like device with dozens of buttons on both sides. The melody was strange, and the girls dancing to it thrust their hips and tossed their torsos so their long hair flew. The kicks of their legs barely missed each other’s shins. The way they held their spines like haughty ladies of means while they alternated between challenging glances and resting their cheeks against each other was both haunting and brazen.

“That’s tango,” Rochel said. “A Buenos Aires specialty. A lot of it is about lovers and heartbreak. Very romantic.”

Romantic. Batya had forgotten that she and Miriam used to wonder about the nature of that mysterious emotion. Now that she knew about the degrading way of men with women she also understood that romance was for stories, not real life.

Rochel led her to a sofa where more women with painted faces chatted and fanned themselves. “Meet Batya, my new little sister,” Rochel declared. As each of the girls rose to kiss Batya’s cheeks, three men came over. Batya cringed, hating their heady smell of tobacco and cognac, but Rochel seemed to enjoy their presence; she laughed and batted her eyelashes at them. “Checking out the new merchandise? Not yet. The poor thing has just arrived from Paris and needs to rest.”

“Paris?” A man chuckled, and said in Yiddish, “You all wish you were like the Parisian courtesans. They’re the best. But give me my old-fashioned Jewish girls, with a bit of horseradish.”

“You like your gefilte fish, all right,” Rochel cooed, and hit him playfully with a second fan she had withdrawn from between the sofa cushions. “You’re naughty, but I like you.”

Batya blushed at the bantering.

“Dimples,” the man said to Rochel, “I’m your slave as long as you pull those tricks on me.”

“Wait for me, then,” she replied. “Don’t go cheating on me with anyone else.” She laced her fingers in Batya’s. “Let me show you to your room.”