by Talia Carner
At sunset, in her hotel room, Batya untied the package of dresses that a steward had delivered, all refitted to her size. She gazed at each, hardly believing that she owned so many, delighting in them, yet apprehensive about looking beautiful. Of all her new dresses, the only one she felt comfortable wearing was the gray pinafore she had had on since the maid at the inn had handed it to her the first morning.
To her relief, Moskowitz didn’t dine with her that evening. The maid who brought her food used a key to enter and, upon leaving, locked the room behind her. To keep her safe, Batya now understood. She couldn’t miss noticing the strangers eyeing her in the hotel’s foyer and dining hall.
Alone, with nothing to occupy her, Batya stripped a bed pillow of its case and, with the rope that had tied the package, created a new doll. The one Surale had given her must have been burned along with her lice-infested clothes. She should be above such girlish make-believe, yet hugging this improvised doll to her chest made the pogrom, Miriam, and her own agony melt away.
“No one will hurt you,” she whispered. “I’ll be your good mama.”
The maid returned with a fresh pitcher of water and a small bar of soap. In a strange language that wasn’t Russian, and using hand signals, she gestured for Batya to wash up. She retrieved the chamber pot and returned it empty.
Batya changed into her nightshirt and lay under the covers, hugging her doll. The dread that crept in with the thought of Moskowitz’s return rose up her throat until she began to tremble. Let it happen already so this fear will go away, she told God. If that’s Your wish, I will obey You.
“My beautiful wife,” Moskowitz told her when he came in wearing a robe. In spite of her wish to obey God, Batya began to whimper and her body tried to wriggle away. Moskowitz grabbed both her wrists with one hand and pinned them over her head, while with the other he lifted her nightshirt. “Didn’t your mama teach you to please your husband?”
She stopped her struggle. You are not my husband. Not for two more years. But there was no point in arguing. As if watching from the corner of the ceiling, she saw Moskowitz take his pleasure from her. His penetration wasn’t as painful as the first couple of times, but the indignity of it made the Batya hovering above close her eyes.
In the morning, Moskowitz lingered over breakfast. Batya sat staring at her fingers as she clenched and unclenched her fists. In this man’s presence, she couldn’t eat a single morsel of the eggs, sausages, or toast.
“You’ve made promises to my parents,” she finally said. “You are not my husband, and I am not your wife.”
“It’s only a matter of time. Didn’t I say I’d wait until you’d look favorably upon me for marriage? It’s up to you.”
I’m only fourteen. In Batya’s mind’s eye, she saw her parents and Surale standing outside their hut, waving goodbye, crying, hoping . . .
Her untouched food didn’t seem to dampen Moskowitz’s chatty mood. “You’ll love Buenos Aires. It’s a beautiful city with wide boulevards and stately mansions. The many city plazas are decorated with huge sculptures and fountains, with gurgling water that’s music to the ears. Of course, such a city has a large harbor, with ships coming and going from all over the world—the most eye-pleasing sight, if you ask me. People travel on street cars, called tranvias. Do you know what they are? Like trains, moving on tracks, but drawn by horses—except one that now has electric wires on top. These tranvias are smaller than the train we rode, and, naturally, not so fast; people can just jump on and off.” He paused as if to let Batya visualize his words, then went on. “But the best parts are the open areas of the city, parks full of trees with flowers on them. Have you ever seen a purple tree?”
She raised her glance from her fingers and shook her head.
“Well, you’re in for a wonderful surprise. They’re called jacaranda, and when a whole street of them is in bloom it is a magnificent sight.” He smiled. “There’s another tree with a fat trunk, like a beer barrel. The legend says that the tree used to be a woman who devoted her love to a soldier. But he died in battle, and as the blood of her deceased lover spread through her fingers, it turned into flowers, and she became a tree. Beautiful red flowers this tree has.
“We also have concert halls and theaters that perform in Yiddish: drama, comedy, singing, you name it. Every night there are plays and musical productions and great dancing. The dance halls are like nowhere in the world. Everyone dances—not just the actors but all people.”
He had a way with words. Batya couldn’t help but be intrigued. Buenos Aires was a paradise city, and, Batya reminded herself, once she had made a life there with Moskowitz and he sent for her family, they would dance there together. Their only concern would be not to stub their toes on all the gems on the ground.
Breakfast over, Moskowitz brought a suitcase and showed Batya how to fold her new dresses to minimize wrinkling, then stood over her while she packed them.
She picked up her cloth bundle and, before placing it in the valise, rooted through it. Her fingers turned frantic as they searched through her menstrual rags. “My letter. The one with my uncle’s address,” she called out, panic rising. “I can’t find it.”
“Not to worry. We’ll find your uncle without it. Jews always know one another, don’t they?”
If Pittsburgh was like her parents’ shtetl, or even as large a town as the ones she’d passed these past three days, everyone must know one another. Batya said no more as Moskowitz lifted her suitcase. She followed him to the stairwell and down the stairs.
He stopped on the last landing before the hotel lobby. “My business compels me to stay here for a few more weeks. My associate will take you to the ship and watch over you during the voyage.”
Cold perspiration erupted on Batya’s neck. Travel across the ocean alone? Without him? In spite of what he’d done to her, he was taking care of her just as he had promised. Her future husband was all she had in the frightening world away from her family’s protection. Why hadn’t he mentioned earlier his plans to leave her?
In the foyer, he led her to a nook where a big man was seated, his legs spread wide and his large gut spilling between them. “This is Dov-Ber Grabovsky,” he said.
Batya shrank back. His given name was the Yiddish word for “bear,” and this huge man, with thick dark hair and thick lips and thick fingers, was as frightening as encountering a bear in the woods.
Unsmiling, Grabovsky rose, lifted Batya’s suitcase, and gave a quick gesture with his head for her to follow.
Batya felt the blood drain from her face. “I’m scared,” she whispered to Moskowitz, clutching on his arm. “I’m not supposed to travel without you.”
“Nothing to worry about, my dear. My sister will fetch you at the port in Buenos Aires. The most extraordinary part of our life is yet to come.”
“Will there be kosher food on the ship?”
He smiled. “You haven’t been eating kosher for three days. Has lightning struck you?” Without waiting for her reply, he turned his back to the lobby and withdrew a small velvet box from his pocket. “While we are apart, I have something to remind you of our bright future.” He opened the box, and Batya stared at the diamond ring.
“May I place this engagement ring on your finger?” he asked in a ceremonious voice, bowing from his waist.
She was too awed to speak. He gently grasped her hand, and in the brief moment before he placed the ring on her middle finger, she registered his soft skin and manicured nails against her calloused hands with chipped, bitten nails. Once again she reminded herself how lucky she was that this nobleman had chosen her for his bride over all the women in America.
“You’ve been my dream,” Moskowitz continued, his voice sweet as honey. “You have such a good soul. I’ll join you as soon as I can. I can’t wait to show you my beautiful Buenos Aires.”
Batya looked down at the ring as if from the moon. Her mother would cry with happiness to see such riches on her daughter’s finger. Surale would dance to hide
her envy. Her father would grin with the certainty of having made the right choice for his third daughter.
Moskowitz lifted Batya’s chin, and his eyes bore into hers. “Listen carefully. A woman cannot legally get a Russian passport, but Grabovsky was generous in agreeing to put you on his. Farshteyst?”
He released her chin, and she nodded her assent. Yes, she understood the words, but not what they meant.
“Say you understand,” he said.
“I do.” The words croaked.
“Good girl.” He reached for her coat. “Take it off, please. You won’t need it in Buenos Aires.”
She recoiled. It’s mine. It was your gift. Relenting, she released the buttons and stared as he draped the fine-wool coat over his arm—the coat that had been hers for less than three days.
He extracted from his pocket two wrapped packets of chocolate. “Here, my angel. For the journey.”
Chapter Eleven
The cabin in the ship where Grabovsky settled her was decorated with gilded molding. A delicate crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and flowery brocade covered both the bed and the matching chair that stood by a table secured to the wall. In a tiny commode, the chamber pot was set into a wooden seat with a lid.
Grabovsky watched as Batya hung her dresses in the armoire. In the polished surface of the mahogany, she saw him behind her, yawning, and she hid her rag doll, afraid that he’d think it a shmate, a rag, and take it away.
“Wear this dress for dinner.” He pointed at the blue taffeta. “I’ll come get you.”
After he closed the door behind him, she waited a moment, then reopened it and gazed out. To the left and the right stretched a long corridor with many doors. Two little boys in sailor suits peeked around the corner, before a hand on each one’s shoulder pulled them back. The ship had seemed huge from the outside, and a valet had led them to this cabin by a long, circuitous route. If she left the cabin, she would never find her way back. Batya retreated and climbed to stand on the bed. She looked out the round window and glimpsed the bottom of two gangplanks, one of which she had crossed thirty minutes earlier.
On the pier, porters carried valises and trunks, and long-armed iron lifts hauled boxes and crates too big to be carried. It was all frenzied, exciting, and foreign. So much to look forward to in the coming weeks. She scanned her beautiful room. As much as she had wanted Reb Moskowitz’s protection, here she would be free from his unwelcome visits.
The maid brought in bread, berry marmalade, and tea. Batya ate it slowly, trying to fill her time. The marmalade’s sweetness reminded her of the chocolate Moskowitz had given her, and she regretted having gobbled it down immediately. The next time he gave her chocolate, she would savor it slowly, in small measures.
She looked at the ring on her finger, and her heart sang at the promise of a sparkling future for her family. Betrothed. I am betrothed.
She picked up her doll, imagining that one day she would care for a baby, or many more. Hopefully, five or six babies would be healthy enough to live to adulthood in the magical city of Buenos Aires.
“The first thing I’ll do in Buenos Aires is plant a tree,” she whispered to the doll. “A tree that will have a strong trunk and grow high and bear all the fruits of the Garden of Eden for my family and my children.” Carrying the doll around the cabin, Batya showed it the beauty of the molding and the furniture, and pretended to feed it the good food she’d been served. “In our new home, in Buenos Aires,” she told it, “the streets are laid with gold, and the sun shines so bright that it turns fruit orange.”
Batya caught sight of herself in the mirror. What was she doing playing with a doll? She was a betrothed woman. She dropped the tied pillowcase on the bed and faced the mirror. There had been a small mirror in Miriam’s home, and the two of them used to make faces into it, pulling their eyes wide, flattening their noses, and sticking out their tongues. If only Miriam were here with her now to idle the many hours away. But Miriam was dead. Dead.
Batya hoisted herself on the bed again and watched through the porthole until darkness fell.
At the sound of a knock on the door, she opened it, and a uniformed steward came in to turn a knob on a light fixture that didn’t smell of kerosene. After he left, Batya pulled the chair to sit underneath the light and twisted her ring so the diamond sparkled in the yellow glow. What had her sisters felt before marriage? Neither had time for a ring or to prepare for a proper wedding. Each courtship had been secretive, and if one sister had confided in another, Batya was out of their whispering circle. Both Keyla and Hedi had fallen in love and, unlike her, had been eager to spend time with the man she had chosen.
She wished her mother and sisters were here to assure her, to guide her in the secrets of marriage. Her mother couldn’t have loved her father before they had met for the first time under their chuppah. Their mutual fondness had surely happened later. Batya hoped that she, too, would learn to feel that fondness for her husband.
The back of the hairbrush on the table featured a graceful maiden in a white gauzy dress. A virginal dress. Batya couldn’t twist away from the shame as she brushed her hair and rebraided it. It was absurd—even blasphemous—to give a picture the power to embarrass her, she told herself. Yet her own face reflecting in the mirror seemed different, more angular. Her becoming a woman showed for the whole world to see.
The maid returned to help her with the light-blue taffeta dress, buttoning it up in the back. Stroking the rich folds of a skirt the color of the sky, Batya recalled that she had imagined such a dress for Queen Esther. She was already living the life of a wealthy matron, a woman who couldn’t dress without help.
As the maid laced the silk cord at the front under the chest, Batya looked down. Her breasts had budded the previous year but had been hidden under the layers of her blouse, pinafore, and the bib of her apron. This bodice made them seem fuller.
The maid left the room, and Batya sat on the chair to wait for Grabovsky, her shoulders hunched to minimize her chest.
Chapter Twelve
The ship jolted as it detached from the pier. A deep, distant rumble rose, and like a Leviathan, the ship turned slowly. Batya held on to the sides of the chair as a low hum vibrated through the walls. She lifted her skirt and climbed on her bed to look out. The lights on the pier were receding, while more ships glided into view, their hundreds of windows lit as though the starred night sky had fallen into the water.
Soon, those ships, too, were left behind.
A sense of desolation enveloped Batya. She was sailing to America all alone.
Only when they were in open sea, with nothing left to see outside but tar-like darkness, did Grabovsky return for her.
He crooked his finger. “Come,” he ordered, not waiting for her as he marched away into the corridor.
Batya stood. The floor shifted beneath her, and she grabbed the bed for stability, then took careful steps through the cabin and braced herself against the doorframe. Grabovsky was already far ahead, so she closed the door behind her and hurried after him. She bounced against the wall, then regained her balance, only to bounce against another, as she followed him along the hallway, up a flight of steps, through another corridor.
In spite of his bulk, Grabovsky moved briskly. Batya’s legs tangled in her petticoats, making it hard to keep up with him. Finally she caught her breath when he stopped in front of a pair of glass doors guarded by twin uniformed footmen. He lifted Batya’s right hand onto his left arm, then placed his right hand over her fingers, locking her hand in place.
The footmen opened the doors simultaneously, and Grabovsky and Batya stepped into a vast dining hall. Elegant groups of people sat around tables covered with white tablecloths; the chandeliers above shone down on crystal glasses and silver bowls.
Stunned by the beauty of the room, Batya was taking it all in when a pinch of the underside of her arm made her yelp.
“Smile,” Grabovsky hissed.
What for? As he squeezed even harder,
she forced her lips to quirk up.
He strutted with her around tables of well-dressed diners, pinching her when her smile waned. Batya thought of the ballerina in the music box dancing to the turn of the key.
A white-uniformed servant led them to a table against the wall, and Grabovsky seated her on his side, both of them facing the room. Batya slid to the far end of her chair to distance herself from Grabovsky, but his heft spread over the edges of his seat, inescapably close.
She examined the women’s fine dresses and jewelry. Their hair was brushed into rich hills of curls, while her tight braids wrapped around her head like a Russian peasant’s. Dozens of curious eyes scanned her and her blue dress. She dropped her head.
“Look up and smile,” Grabovsky commanded.
In Komarinoe there was a dimwitted Russian boy who smiled at strangers for no reason—even at Jews. Batya didn’t want to appear stupid to this roomful of elegant people, but the threat of the pinch made her smile while she fixed her gaze on the back of someone’s chair.
A waiter delivered a basket of freshly baked bread, and the warm aroma made her salivate. She quickly said a blessing in her head, reached over, and tore off a piece. She glanced at Grabovsky lest he disapprove, but he said nothing.
A bowl of green soup arrived. She lifted it up to her mouth and gulped.
“Put it down and use your soup spoon,” he grumbled.
She did. When only a little soup coated the bottom of her bowl, she looked at him again for approval to soak it up with bread. He shook his head, and she lowered her chin in embarrassment.
Grabovsky handed her a stemmed glass of red wine. “Here. Drink.”
She’d never drunk wine outside the sacred ritual of Shabbat and Passover. She sipped. It tasted bland, yet rich in a new way, so different from the syrupy kiddush wine. And instead of just a tiny ritual sip, this entire glass was hers.
The empty soup bowl was removed. Batya’s head felt strange, as if the soup were sloshing inside it, but her attention was on a plate that appeared in front of her, with a portion of meat that could have fed her entire family. She recalled Moskowitz’s warning to eat slowly and not use her fingers.