Rochel gently elbowed Batya’s side. “Pretend you don’t mind about the cockroaches or he’ll torture you with them,” her friend whispered in Yiddish as Batya rose to her feet.

Rochel wasn’t in the pavilion when Batya descended the steps, but Nettie handed her a glass of chilled, sweetened lemonade with mint leaves. Batya took a sip, then rolled the cold glass against her burning forehead.

She had cried when she cleansed herself not only from the cockroaches running on her naked body, but more so from the man’s delight at torturing her. No token was worth it. She hated having to treat him pleasantly when every fiber in her body recoiled, when all she wanted, yet again, was to die.

Four sisters embraced her and led her to the sofa. Batya drank a second glass of lemonade to push down waves of nausea and fought back another bout of tears. Freda was watching her.

For the sake of the men around them, the girls pretended to giggle. Batya lowered her head and reached her arm up, as if she were fixing her hair, her elbow blocking Freda from her view.

“Everyone knows this client, and she charged him double the rate.” Nettie stroked Batya’s arm. “He enjoys the uninitiated girls who show fear. Pretend you like it until the next new girl takes him off your hands.”

“Don’t mind Freda. The old hag wishes she could have a man between her legs,” a sister whispered in Batya’s ear.

“She pays the delivery boys to service her,” chimed another.

Their gossip was interrupted by a joyful squealing. Batya looked up. A man who’d just entered the room was surrounded by a group of welcoming sisters. Sitting low, Batya had only the view of their backs—until he stepped forward.

It was Moskowitz. He had found her!

Batya jumped off her seat, almost spilling her drink, and was about to rush over when she stopped in her tracks. She had just been initiated with her own consent. She had allowed her soul to be sullied. Yet, looking at him before he’d spotted her, his solicitous smile directed at the girls around him, she knew that she’d never stopped believing that he was her salvation. Compared with the brutality she’d suffered since their separation, his violation of her seemed mild—and had been accompanied by kindness. Even the dress she was wearing now had been his gift.

“Reb Moskowitz! Reb Moskowitz!” she cried out, returning to the honorific “reb” she hadn’t used since their first night on the road. Pushing through the circle of girls, Batya flung herself onto him.

“My dear.” He guided her into the corridor, away from everyone’s sight. “You look beautiful.”