A couple of hours later, Batya woke up again, to pain. “Please, make the pain go away,” she wept to Nettie, now at her bedside. “Please ask Rochel to give me that miraculous bitter potion.”

Rochel came in and looked down at Batya, as if assessing her, then produced the tiny vial. Very little of the tincture was left. As Batya licked her lips for every drop, Rochel said, “This is the last opium I give you, or your body will get too used to it. It costs a fortune.”

Batya put her head back as the effect of the few drops spread through her.

When the doctor came to check on her a couple of days later, he palpated her insides.

Freda crossed her arms over her large belly. “Is she ready to work?”

“The entry is almost healed, but she’s not ready inside. Her young body fought the infection once. We don’t want her getting infected again, do we?” He still didn’t address Batya. “I’ll remove the stitches next week. We’ll see then.”

Batya had no time to be grateful for the small reprieve. Freda fixed an angry stare on her. “Before you waste any more time, cost us food, and bring nothing but disruption to this house, we’ll use the time to instruct you.”

At lunchtime, Rochel entered, bringing a tray of corn empanadas and a piece of meat doused with green sauce. “You must eat meat to enrich your blood. It will make you heal faster.” She pointed to the green sauce. “Eat this, too. It’s called chimichurri and it’s made of healing herbs.”

There was also a new vegetable, eggplant, whose smoky flavor Batya liked.

“Nettie and I, we’ll teach you all the tricks,” Rochel said, while Batya ate. “In time, you’ll have your regulars.”

Batya stopped chewing. She looked at her new friend. Rochel had been so kind, so caring—even paying with her own money for the surgery and the opium.

“I’m not going to do it,” she whispered. She glanced toward the door to ensure that Rochel had closed it. “I have—I had—a fiancé. He’ll come for me soon.”

“You do?” Rochel eyed her, doubt written in her raised brow. “And would he still come for you after he learns of—of everything?”

Batya shrugged, unsure of the answer. She inserted into her voice all the conviction she could muster as she said, “He’s kind. At least he’ll take me out of here and get me a decent job. But if I ‘play by the rules,’ as you call it, he will think it’s in my character.”

Rochel stroked her hair. “Until he comes to rescue you, give this house a chance. In time you’ll learn Spanish and—”

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“Spanish.”