Encroaching on men’s spiritual territory was heretical. Women weren’t allowed to imitate the religious service that required ten men for public prayer, but Batya needed all her friends’ comfort. Clutching her father’s latest letter, on which the ink had smeared from his tears—and now from her own—she could hardly speak her gratitude.

It was late afternoon, and clients were filling the pavilion below. Rochel managed to gather eight more sisters in Batya’s room.

“Where’s Nettie?” Batya asked her.

“Resting. Let’s begin.”

Recently, the light had dimmed in Nettie’s eyes. For weeks she had been forlorn, her joyful whistle silenced. Sometimes her mouth slackened; other times, her breath slowed down and she seemed confused. Just the week before Batya had noticed that one of Nettie’s regulars had selected a newcomer, Ariana, a petite blue-eyed girl who exhibited the vivaciousness Batya had always appreciated in Nettie.

In spite of Batya’s entreaties, Nettie had refused to see a doctor. She was fine, she insisted.

There was no time to get Nettie now. In a few minutes the sisters must rush back to work.

Rochel began chanting. “May God remember the soul of Batya’s mother, Zelda, daughter of Tova, who has gone to the next world. May her soul be bound with the souls of our Mothers—Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, and Leah. May she not be judged by her daughter’s wanton ways and be permitted to join all the righteous men and women in the Garden of Eden. Amen.”

“Amen.”

The sisters scattered when Freda arrived. To Batya’s surprise, Freda, who checked a girl’s menstruation pads to allow a single-day break only if the flow was heavy enough to upset the clients, pronounced that Batya must take the week off for the decreed shiva, seven days of mourning. “It’s a mitzvah never to be broken,” she said, and handed Batya a modest black dress with a black collar. “Tear only the collar to show your grief,” she ordered, “not the rest of the dress.”

Batya covered the mirror in her chamber and folded blankets on the floor for visiting sisters to sit down on, as mourners weren’t supposed to enjoy the comfort of chairs. Relishing the feel of being fully covered by the black dress, she curled up on the blankets. Fresh tears streamed down the side of her face. It was liberating to no longer keep secrets from her mother. Now that Rochel had performed the ceremony and her mother had been accepted in heaven, Batya felt less alone.