“Well, then. Come.” She led Batya to a side kitchen yard separated by a wooden partition from the main back garden and its mosaic-paved terrace. A pot of melted wax sat on a charcoal brazier, and eight girls, their hair gathered and knotted on top of their heads, were busy grooming.

“Take care of her,” Freda said to no one in particular, and walked away.

“Welcome,” said one.

“You’re Rochel’s new little sister,” said another.

“I’ll be with you in a few minutes,” said a plump girl in a cheerful voice.

Batya watched the nearest girl spread wax on another’s leg, tap and blow on it for a few seconds, then yank it off to the shrieks of that girl and the laughter of the others. One girl with dark hair, whom the others called “the Armenian,” had dark fuzz felting the entire length of her legs and arms. When her friend had her lie on her stomach and pull down her bloomers, Batya saw that the Armenian’s buttocks, too, were hairy, like a man’s. From the bantering, Batya understood that this girl required a full-body waxing every week.

Batya had never given the blond fuzz on her shins any thought until the plump girl bent down to examine her legs. She smiled at Batya as her fingers felt her leg hair. “Only from the knees down. We’ll do your pubic hair after the doctor checks for bugs.”

“Bugs?” Batya recalled with alarm the cockroaches in the bowels of the ship. “What kind of bugs?”

“Mendeveshkes. Pubic lice.” The girl giggled. “They’re so tiny you can’t really see them. Do you itch?”

Batya shook her head. Her abdominal pain wasn’t an itch. She shivered at the new dread. If bugs hid in the hair on her body, she wanted it all removed at once.

“I’m Nettie. Sit down here.” The girl collected wax on a wooden stick. “You’re beautiful.”

Tears sprouted to Batya’s eyes. After the cruelty of her recent days, the kindness of yet another stranger soothed her despair. “You’re beautiful, too,” she replied. Nettie’s breasts were large and her limbs long. Her gray eyes smiled even when her mouth didn’t. Batya liked her instantly. “Where are you from?”

“From a place I’d rather forget.” Nettie spread warm wax on Batya’s legs. “Aren’t we all?”

Batya shook her head. “I miss my mother and father. And my sisters—”

Nettie cut her off. “My father sold me through a matchmaker, may her name be burned with that of Haman.”

“The matchmaker helped sell you?”

“She knew that this man was a swine.” Nettie yanked on the cooled wax, and Batya yelped. Nettie pressed her hand on the raw spot to soothe it. “Better?”

Her touch felt good. “Maybe the matchmaker lied to your father,” Batya ventured. “They always try to make their clients look better.”