When she finally permitted Batya to peer in the mirror, she grinned so widely with pride that Batya suppressed her shock at the woman—not a girl—who stared back at her. She wanted to wipe the paint off her face. “It’s not me,” she whispered.

“Better that you feel this way. You’ll be able to distance yourself.” Rochel spread Batya’s blue taffeta dress on the floor and opened its center. “Pretend you’re an actress onstage. You can also choose a different name.”

Batya had never seen an actress, nor a stage. “What kind of a different name?”

“Something Spanish. Let’s find a name that’s not already taken.” She ticked off a list of strange names as she helped Batya into her dress. “I got it. Esperanza. We haven’t had an Esperanza for a while. It means ‘hope.’”

Hope was a good word. “Es-pe-ran-za,” Batya said slowly, uttering the unfamiliar syllables. “Esperanza.”

Nettie entered to check on their progress, carrying a feather boa.

“Meet Esperanza,” Rochel said.

Nettie twirled the boa around herself and pivoted twice. “A good name. With a name like Batya, Jewish men would think they’re screwing their mother or sisters.”

Rochel sighed. “She’s gained weight. I can’t button the dress.”

Nettie dropped her boa around Rochel’s neck and pulled at Batya’s dress herself. “Let me see what I can do.” She left and returned moments later with scissors, a suicide tool that was never left unattended around Batya, and a wide silk ribbon. She slit the back of the waist to release the fabric and tied the ribbon as a belt to cover the gap. Then she adjusted the front, lifting most of Batya’s breasts out of the confines of the dress to form a cleavage Batya had never had before.

“Go get them,” Nettie said, and clapped her hands.

“Make money to bring your family out of Russia,” Rochel whispered.

Her first evening. Not a captive chained to the bed, but a captive nonetheless.

Batya thought of the lessons her friends had taught her—how to tie a man down with silk scarves, or disrobe playfully—and couldn’t reconcile them with the person she was. She certainly would never use her tongue and fingers all at once the way the sisters had shown her. Perhaps Esperanza would be able to initiate such acts. It would be Batya, though, who would remember to douche with vinegar between clients, to cleanse herself of the filth.

She stood at the bottom of the stairs, clutching the railing. The pavilion was in her full view, yet her feet refused to move toward it. I can’t do it.

A slap on her bottom jolted her, and she heard Freda’s gravelly voice behind her. “Get going.”