Everything here was beautiful. The flowers, the food, the songbirds, the pavilion, her chamber, the friendships. If only the price weren’t beyond her capability. She looked across the table at her friend. “It’s my great-grandmother’s yahrzeit,” she began, “and I would like to ask the rabbi to say a prayer for the anniversary of her death.”

Rochel burst out laughing, and her dark curls bounced on her shoulders. “I was wondering how long it would take you.” As Batya felt her eyes narrow in confusion, Rochel explained. “Every other girl who arrives here looks for an excuse to see a rabbi.” She reached over and held Batya’s hand, pity in her eyes. “There are more rabbis in this city than synagogues. There are some wretched rabbis whose congregations were destroyed by pogroms, who are now roaming the streets and muttering to themselves, as if God would finally listen to them. You’d think they would have sympathy for us, God’s lost sheep, right? Wrong. None want anything to do with the likes of us. We’re tme’ot. Sullied.” She chuckled. “Though not polluted enough to keep at least two of them from coming here regularly to dip in our honey.”

So much for her new plan. “Don’t they have wives?” Batya asked.

“This is a country of men. Hundreds of thousands of them arrive alone to make their fortunes here. Italian. Spanish. Jewish. Compadritos, you name them.” Rochel tossed her hair back in a gesture Batya now recognized. “Some leave wives and children behind. Most are still single. Some men have wives who are just tired or are too busy with children. No matter. They all need women, and we are here.”

Batya thought of her father. There must be decent men like him here, too. “Don’t they think it is immoral?”

Rochel laughed. “I’ve told you that this is America. It’s a modern culture, not backward like Russia. Get it into your head that things here are much more advanced.” She paused. “Thirty years ago, prostitutes here were all black- and brown-skinned women. But men prefer us, white women from Eastern Europe. Some businessmen saw an opportunity and began kidnapping girls.” She reached across the table and fluffed the ends of Batya’s hair, which fell past her shoulders. “You are blond. The most in demand.”

Batya sipped her maté. There were so many new things of which to make sense. She thought of Nettie’s story. She thought of Grabovsky stealing her from Moskowitz, who would never find her. “All the sisters here were kidnapped?”

Rochel shrugged. “Some arrived on their own, alone, seeking husbands, adventures, jobs, or gold in the street. What difference does it make? We all end up in the same place. There’s nothing else for a woman alone. What’s important is what we do with what fate deals us.”