Finally there was silence and comfort as all voices receded and Batya’s body became so light that it floated up until God emerged from a lit tunnel. In the sudden respite from pain, He laid Batya’s body on a bed of clouds, and she heard her father chat with Him. “I am Koppel, and I thank You for watching over my third daughter, my Batyale. The daughter You and I share.”

A wave of shame washed over Batya at hearing her father’s voice. She ordered him back to Russia, to never see his child in this state, in this place.

As Batya’s fever subsided, she became aware of Rochel supporting her head and feeding her spoonfuls of chicken soup with kneidlach. And when Batya managed to swallow more, Rochel cut each airy matzo ball into tiny pieces and placed them in Batya’s mouth. One day Nettie fed her cooked carrots mashed with butter, and a soft egg.

Then there was the day that Batya opened her eyes, her mind aligned to the present, and saw Rochel seated by her bed, her mouth moving in what seemed like a prayer.

“You’re awake.” Rochel squeezed her fingers. “Any pain?”

Batya shook her head. Her body was light with the absence of pain. In the periphery of her vision, a river of anguish drifted, but for the moment she couldn’t recall what it was about.

“The doctor cut off the abscess. A sac of it, you poor thing, but now you’ll have no more leaking pus,” Rochel said. “Luckily, he said, there was no chancre—that’s a sore that indicates that you’ve caught the French disease.”

“What’s that?” Batya’s voice was a whisper.

“You shouldn’t know from it. First it consumes your body with sores, then turns you meshuge.” She paused. “Girls who catch it are sent away, and when they become mad, they’re just left to die.”

“I can’t thank you for your kindness. Only God will be able to repay you.” A quiver ran in Batya’s voice. “But you should have let me die.”

Rochel stroked Batya’s hair. “It’s not a bad life here. The sisters will help you adjust. We cook together, take care of one another, we laugh, we dance.” Batya was about to drift back into her oblivion, when Rochel’s next words jolted her back. “You were also pregnant. From now on, we’ll make sure your clients use a safeguard.”

Pregnant? Of course. Her monthly flow hadn’t arrived in the bowels of the ship. Grief swept over Batya. A baby—most likely Moskowitz’s—had started growing inside her. It had been alive and was now dead. If only she could have died with it, because if Moskowitz was ever to forgive her sins and rescue her, this was one he could never overlook.