After ten minutes of plucking and yelping from Batya, Nettie presented her with a mirror. Batya stared at the young woman with thin arched eyebrows that indeed framed her eyes, making the green in them shine. As the sisters gathered to admire the results, Batya didn’t dare say that she hated looking appealing to any man. She blushed at the attention, and tears threatened to erupt yet again. Pulling down her hair, she let it fall over her face to hide it.

Before noon a doctor arrived, and two dozen girls who weren’t working lined up in front of one of the rooms. Freda led Batya to the head of the line and, once inside, instructed her to lie on the bed, legs splayed. To Batya’s relief, Rochel came in to hold her hand.

The doctor stationed himself on a low stool at the bottom of the bed, adjusted a monocle into his eye socket, and looked between Batya’s legs. A wave of humiliation swept over Batya at this new violation, and she brought her knees together. Without a word, the doctor swatted them apart and dug his fingers into her. He palpated soft spots inside, and Batya cried out at the searing pain.

“Tsk, tsk.” The doctor shook his head sadly. “What do we have here?”

“She’s leaking puss,” Rochel said.

“I thought so,” Freda said. “She stinks.”

The doctor shook his head, ignoring Batya’s cries of pain. He gave her thigh a light slap. “Stop moving.”

Freda placed a short rope between Batya’s teeth to bite on, and the doctor inserted something hard deep inside her. A moment later, fire exploded in her abdomen. Batya screamed and clutched her stomach.

Rochel grabbed her arms and raised them over her head. “Let him do his job,” she whispered.

“Abscess.” The doctor leaned back. “This requires surgery.”

“It will cost too much. I’ll just get her auctioned off,” Freda replied.

“No, please!” Rochel grasped her hands in supplication. “Please. I’ll pay.”

Freda shrugged. “If you want.” She opened the door and left.

“I need to finish seeing the others,” the doctor said to Rochel. “I’ll come back after the siesta.”

“Shouldn’t she be in the hospital?” Rochel asked.

“If you want to wait two or three months for surgery.” He wrapped a felt piece around his monocle and placed it in a small case. “The infection is already spreading through her abdomen, as her fever indicates.”

“Please come after your siesta.” Rochel’s tone turned playful. “I’ll make sure it will be worth your while.”

He pinched her cheek, stroked her buttock, and left.