Over the next few days, Batya found herself looking forward to the afternoon. Rotating bands of musicians brought to the pavilion the new quick sounds of polka violin, driving flamenco guitar, and the strange mournful jangle of the banjo. In the poor shtetl, no one could afford klezmers. This music, the first to fill her life, was an opulence of America that no one had spoken of when they’d fantasized about streets paved with gold.

Batya savored this richness as she did the many sweet cakes. Tango had order and discipline. In her chaotic new life, she could control her steps, even though within every exuberant move there loomed the certainty that this freedom would soon end.

Chapter Twenty-One

Tonight would be her debut. There was no escaping it. She had been living in the brothel and had heard enough to know that if she refused to work, Grabovsky would show up to discipline her or, worse, Freda would sell her to one of the miserable brothels somewhere in vast Argentina. She would be separated from her new friends, lonely and anchorless as she’d been since leaving her parents. One nauseating choice chased another nauseating choice, with no cure for either.

“Stop crying,” Rochel told Batya when she came into her room. “You can’t have swollen eyes.” She hugged her, then placed compresses of chamomile tea on Batya’s lids.

Freda entered, holding a pencil. “Show me how you hold it.”

Batya blushed, understanding the house matron’s meaning; Rochel and Nettie had had her practice.

“Well? I don’t have all day.”

Batya peeled off her bloomers, accepted the pencil and tucked it up inside her. She squeezed hard. The pencil didn’t fall to the floor.

“Walk,” Freda ordered, and Batya complied. The pencil stayed put.

Freda rose, extended her hand for the pencil. “Each client will give you a token he buys from me. That’s your receipt for service. Every week you give me the tokens and I give you a share of your earnings.” To Rochel she said, “Get her ready.”

As soon as she closed the door behind her, Rochel burst out laughing. “She wouldn’t pass the test herself, that old hag.”

Batya forced a smile. Nothing about what awaited her was amusing.

Rochel pulled a candle and a box of matches from a cloth bag. She lit the first match, blew it out, waited a few seconds, then began to paint a line along Batya’s upper right eyelid. She continued burning matches and painting until Batya’s eyelids stung from the ash. Rochel took a step back. “Gorgeous,” she declared. “Wait till you see yourself in the mirror—but not yet.” She opened a small jar and dabbed red powder on Batya’s cheeks, then, using a thin brush and some waxy substance, painted her lips.