His hand swept toward the pavilion past the corridor. “All these girls? I took them out of the hell of Poland, Latvia, Ukraine, Belarus, Lithuania, Hungary, and Russia, and gave each one of them a better life. They are all grateful, and so should you be. For the first time in your life you aren’t starving, right?”

Batya’s mind ticked off the women she’d met. Nettie had told her about “the swine” who’d taken her as his third wife. Others had hinted at being tricked with the promises of jobs in the homes of Jewish families. Rochel said women had been kidnapped. Others had been “married” in a worthless shtile chuppah without a rabbi. All to Moskowitz?

A wave of despair took Batya’s breath away, and she crumpled to the floor.

Part II

Buenos Aires, 1893–1894

The night gleams at me in the dark,

Gray and cold;

Terrifying corpse-shadows

Fill up my void soul.

Fearful of death, I look all around

For a glimmer, a spark somewhere!

I stare and, creeping, crawl

Ever nearer to the door.

—Yiddish poem by Zelda Knizhnik, 1900

Chapter Twenty-Two

Spring 1893

Better that I should open the letter for you,” Freda said to Batya, holding a stained envelope that, like all the letters before it, had been passed through many hands over many months. “I should read it for you.”

Batya trembled with the desire to grab the letter and rush to her room. She still couldn’t—wouldn’t—reveal that she could read. That secret had grown larger these past four years. It dwelled where her true self resided, untouched, her last hold of pride—and a thread of a promise. It was the part of her that clung to life against all the many hours of despair.

A letter from her family reminded her why she was still alive.

Sisters crowded around her. News was news, and a letter—no matter from whom it came and to whom it was addressed—was exciting and so rare. Many girls had lost touch with their families in Eastern Europe. The victims of frequent pogroms, families dispersed or perished, never to be heard from again.

Without waiting for Batya’s approval, Freda snaked a thick finger under the fold of one side and tore into the paper. Batya cringed. Careful, she wanted to say, but didn’t dare.

The sisters squeezed closer as Freda’s eyes scanned the page. She sighed. “Your mother died.”

“What?” The word sent a lightning rod through Batya. Died? “How? What happened?”

“In childbirth. Five months ago. You have a baby sister. Vida. Congratulations.”

Died. Too stunned to cry, Batya took the letter and stumbled upstairs. When Rochel took a step to accompany her, Batya shook her head. “Later.”