When she reached the Sephardi synagogue, she stood in front of the building with its ornate arched façade. Only then did it occur to her that since Ovad’s people had emigrated from Morocco, not only did they not speak Yiddish, but their Hebrew pronunciation of the prayers must be incomprehensible. For all she knew, God didn’t understand it either and wouldn’t listen to such prayers any more than He would to prayers coming from a church. She must make her way to the Ashkenazi synagogue that had been opened recently near Vella Crespo, where merchants and government clerks built villas for their lawful wives.

She would go there first, she decided, then return to San Telmo to complete her market shopping. In spite of Shabbat, she hailed a carriage to take her the twenty-five blocks’ distance.

During the ride, Batya removed her hat and pinned her hair up with four tortoiseshell combs. However, when she put the wide-brimmed hat back on, it failed to block a view of her hair, so unlike the tight head coverings married women wore in the synagogue. Virgins didn’t cover their heads, but what was the rule of halacha for a woman who was neither married nor a virgin? If Batya raised her shawl to fully cover her head, would she be deceptive, pretending to God that she was a respectable married woman? He knew well that she was the lowest of all humans in His vast universe.

Or maybe He knew differently. Maybe for Him, she was forever Batya, “God’s daughter,” His child. It was Esperanza, the other girl, who engaged in filth.

When Batya arrived, the Shabbat morning services were just starting. She entered the building, her eyes downcast to avoid catching the eyes of men she knew—not only her own clients but also those who frequented other sisters in the house.

Immediately to the left of the entrance rose a staircase that must lead to the women’s section. The circular wooden stairs were hard to navigate with her ample skirt. She had to lift it above her ankles and wondered how women with little children could make their way up.

Upstairs, only five women sat on the backless wooden benches. A mother and a teenage daughter huddled, the mother’s arm around her child, and from their heaving shoulders Batya guessed that they were praying for a sick relative or for the soul of a recently departed loved one. The other three women sat far away from one another, each with her eyes shut while her lips moved in a silent prayer. All were dressed in simple, dark clothes, and the stark contrast to her own colorful, high-quality attire made Batya want to shrink and disappear.