Since Freda forbade the sisters to leave lit Shabbat candles in their rooms—and tradition forbade blowing out these sacred candles—each of the girls had to light hers in the kitchen. Many sisters had invested in silver candlesticks; Batya’s were brass, to remind her of her mother’s. She struck a match, brought the flame to each of the two wicks, then covered her face. Saying her prayer, she communed with her mother and with all Jewish women throughout history who had suffered strife yet survived. Even if it cost her her life, she swore yet again, she would get her family out of poverty and misery, out of pogroms and repeated exiles.

The non-Jewish clients sat around the pavilion and the patio, drinking Quilmes beer and bitter aperitivos, joking, listening to the music, and conducting business. They played cards for hours, seemingly not in a great hurry to take their turns in the private chambers. The smoke of their cigars, cigarettes, and opium swirled around their heads. Batya inhaled it; tobacco was good for one’s health even if her lungs couldn’t tolerate smoking it. She loved how these smells mixed with the aroma of boiling coffee and heady perfume. She hated how they turned stale on her clients’ breath.

The musicians broke into a tango, and Ovad, a swarthy Moroccan Jew, a building contractor, nodded at her from across the room. She sauntered toward him, her hand fanning her blond hair over her right shoulder, her eyes locked in his while he stepped forward. The music swept through Batya as Ovad took her hand and held her in a close abrazo. She didn’t like Ovad the hairy client, but she enjoyed Ovad the dancer. Her full breasts pressing against his torso, she gave herself to the illusion of romance, closed her eyes, and immersed herself in the harmony of their moves. Her sharp yet fluid steps exposed her skin through the Spanish shawl tied like a skirt, its long fringes swaying with each swivel. When she danced, her body was hers alone, and in the flow of the music, Ovad let her shine.

From the corner of her eye she saw Freda exchanging clients’ money for the tokens they would leave with the prostitutes. Every week, when Batya handed Freda her tokens, the matron deducted food and rent, leaving her just enough to entice her to continue working. The first year of Batya’s bondage, Freda had deducted the cost of her ocean passage from Russia. At least now Batya was free of that debt.

After two songs, Batya stopped dancing and gestured toward the stairs. She had to work. Besides the token, she knew Ovad would leave her a gift of money.