Batya filled the pail of water at the well and then hid behind a heap of hay at the back of the barn while she washed herself with a rag as best as she could. Feeling clean made up for the freezing water that prickled her skin. Right after the full moon, she would have to take care of her monthly flow. It had started five months before, and she’d learned to wash and hang the rags to dry. How could she do that when her family was out on the open road again, pushing their cart? She shoved away the apprehension. Tonight she had work to do, honest work that would guarantee her family’s safety here from road bandits and from the snow flurries that now swirled in the air before early sunset.

Surale combed the hay out of Batya’s hair and plaited it into twin braids, then wrapped them around Batya’s head like a crown, using a dab of butter to flatten the stubborn tendrils into submission. There was nothing they could do to stop the itching of lice or remove the white eggs visible down the strands of Batya’s blond hair. The lice would continue to multiply along with the fleas in their bedding.

Batya hadn’t worn a good dress since she’d outgrown her Shabbat sarafan, the long, printed pinafore worn over a blouse, an outfit that had first served her two older sisters. When passed to Surale, the shirt had been patched too often, and the dress’s printed flowers had faded and looked no better than the tattered ensemble passed down to Batya from her mother. It felt so good now to put on the fresh white blouse and slip on the new brown pinafore.

Tying the strings of the high-waisted, striped apron behind Batya’s back, Surale gushed over its hem and collar trimmed in red and green. Batya whirled to feel the ample fabric of the skirt rise and fall against her ankles. She laughed, grabbed both of Surale’s hands, and pulled her into a spin, round and round. It seemed so long ago when they had last romped in joy, when only poverty was their steady companion, not fear and loss and the uncertainty of the coming days.

“How will we find a good shidach if there’s no matchmaker around?” Surale asked.

“You’re crazy to think of such a thing at your age!” Laughing, Batya hid her embarrassment that this past year some new longing had awoken in her, too.

“I hope my groom will be handsome and interesting and well-off,” Surale said. “Like Hedi’s—”