Nettie approached their table, whistling a tune. Her full mane of hair was held back by a dozen small clips fashioned with butterflies, birds, and flowers. A medallion shaped like a bird hung from her neck, its long tail nestled in her generous cleavage. Nettie, who had no family, had not only accepted this life but was happy through every moment of it.

“Come. Dance with me.” She extended her hand to Batya and led her inside, to the center of the room. As the musician played, she taught Batya the first square step of the brazen dance Batya had observed the day of her arrival. “We call the Yiddish version of tango tangele,” she said. “It’s a dance not only of the feet but of your entire body, of your soul.” Nettie adjusted Batya’s torso, shoulders, and lower spine. “Control your posture, follow the lead of my chest, and put nuance into your hips. Keep your shoulders square, and use your stomach muscles to transfer energy into your legs.”

“All at the same time?”

Nettie smiled. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.” She showed Batya the basic walk in all directions, and then, holding Batya close, began to sing along with the band.

On a clear summer’s day.

As always so beautifully sunny.

When nature filled with so much charm.

Birds were singing on treetops

Cheerfully hopped about,

While we were ordered into exile.

“Are we dancing to a pogrom song?” Batya asked, struggling to keep up. “We should be crying.”

Nettie giggled. “It’s our new version of Yiddish culture in Argentina. Forward, back, step to the right, now left. Stay close to me so you can feel what I do—”

“Rochel said that tango songs are romantic—about lovers and heartbreaks.”

“That, too.” Nettie went on singing as the music gathered force.

Oh, we knew not what would become of us!

We understood all is lost.

Our pleas were of no help

Asking for friends to rescue us,

We had to flee our home.

With each line, Nettie changed direction. She indicated to Batya to whirl halfway around, caught her, then moved her in a half circle the other way. “Make a figure eight with your feet,” she told Batya. “It’s called ocho.”

When the song ended, Batya asked, “How can the murdering of Jews be sung and danced to?”

“This is what happens to sadness once it reaches Argentina. We can either cry about the past or laugh about the future. So we drown out the old pain in dance. A good lesson, don’t you think?” The side of Nettie’s foot pressed against Batya’s, and she showed her how to interpret the cue by responding with a half pivot. “Stay connected to the leader—that’s me—and let the music flow through you.”