by Talia Carner
Batya closed her eyes. Her only hope was that Moskowitz would find her and take pity on her even though she had been sullied. She must hold on to that hope or she’d go mad.
In spite of the constant pain that had spread throughout her abdomen, Batya forced herself to leave the bed in the morning. She retrieved her food from the kitchen nook. As she hobbled back with her plate, she caught sight of a girl in the chamber adjacent to hers seated on her bed and balancing a plate on her knees. They made eye contact, and the girl gave a minute wave. Batya entered, and the girl slid down her bed to make room for Batya.
The girl turned to show Batya two deep gashes on her back. “Look what he did with his belt buckle. If you lick them, it will make them better.”
Lick them? Batya gasped at the open wounds and the suggestion. She spit on her fingers and tentatively touched each of the gashes. “I’m Batya,” she said.
The girl didn’t turn back. She gestured to Batya to continue her ministering. “I am a polaca. That’s what they call all prostitutes from Eastern Europe. I am a kurve to the Jewish men and a puta to the Spaniards and Portuguese.”
“Were you—eh—a prostitute back home?”
The girl shook her head and turned toward Batya. “I was too ugly for that.”
Batya took in the broad forehead, flat nose, and bowed legs. “You have lovely brown eyes,” she said.
“Who’ll bother to look at them when I’m on my back?”
Nina burst in. “What are you whispering about?” she demanded.
Batya lowered her head. She wanted to ask the girl whether she, too, missed Russia, her family’s hut, the mud in the road, the soot from the stove. The cold. Whether she missed the Russian language the goyim spoke. Anything in Russia was better than this. Even the czar’s vicious edicts.
“Don’t contaminate her with your attitude,” Nina ordered, and Batya slunk back to her chamber.
Outside Nina’s brothel the bright light sent a sharp pain into Batya’s skull. She had forgotten how blinding the sun could be, although she knew well its trapped heat. That morning, Rochel had passed by and told Batya to expect to be moved to her home. Batya didn’t want to go there either, especially when Grabovsky came to fetch her.
Batya hugged herself, sadness clutching her. The alley was bustling with people—peddlers, pushcarts, coachmen and horses. Did they all eat a chicken every day, or did all those men visit prostitutes as Rochel had said?
Death was her best solution, Batya thought as she spotted a body of water at the end of the alley. Her eyes searched for a break between boats where she could hurl herself into the river. Once in, she would run deeper, and when her feet lost the bottom, she would drown. Courage. She looked down at the oversized, open rubber sandals that Grabovsky had brought. To escape, she must sprint barefoot in the debris, but even this small movement deepened the pain in her belly. Grabovsky would catch her. Then it would be his belt—or another rat-filled dungeon.
When he poked her rib, she followed him, attempting to keep up with his fast pace. But her legs were weak, and the sandals kept slipping off. Even the touch of the dress on her skin made it feel raw. The sun’s heat and its pulsating brightness caused her head to swoon. She stopped, doubling in pain. The blood rushed to her lowered head.
Grabovsky’s steel fingers clutched her arm. “If you faint, I’ll take you back to Nina.”
She took a deep breath, then another, and fought to straighten up. Rochel and her warmth beckoned her.
Soon they were on a wide street, where a horse-drawn tram traveled on tracks in its center, just as Moskowitz had described, and passengers jumped on and off. When Grabovsky pushed Batya to climb in, she grabbed a handle for support and swung inside. To her relief, a passenger seated nearby rose to jump off. She fell into his seat.
From the tram window she saw dilapidated two- and three-story houses, laundry hanging from every window. Bedraggled men wearing yarmulkes lugged baskets, carried water pails, fixed broken stairs, or offered meager belongings for sale. A band of filthy children hit empty cans with sticks, then set upon an emaciated dog, laughing as they whacked its bony back and ribs. Through ground-floor windows Batya noticed women in headscarves hunched over sewing machines, while above them women with painted faces leaned out second- and third-floor windows, calling out to passersby. One of them dangled huge breasts, barely covered, over the windowsill.
Life seemed to be lived outside: A cobbler hammered shoe soles; a barber pulled a screaming client’s tooth to the guffaws of onlookers; women cooked on balconies; men played cards on rickety tables between houses; a tinsmith soldered a broken pot over a fire. A knife sharpener pumped a foot pedal to turn his stone, and its screech prickled the hair roots on Batya’s arms.
Some of the ground floors of houses served as shops. Through their doors, Batya glimpsed mounds of rolled cloth, meat and chicken hanging on hooks, housewares piled on shelves. Yiddish signs announced a bakery, a tailor’s shop, a bookstore, a tobacco store, and an apothecary. A moneylender sat outside his shop at a small table, a lockbox at his elbow. A woman bargained loudly with a yarmulke-wearing vegetable vendor. Farther down another street, three women rooted through a pile of alte-zachen on the cart of a ragman. Two men hauled boxes of produce, and two others unloaded furniture. Occasionally, Batya glimpsed through an open gate a shabby courtyard filled with stoves, a water well, barrels, and piles of lumber beneath the ever-present sagging laundry lines.
The houses, made of clay and stone with buckling walls and peeling plaster, were so different from the low mud-and-straw huts of the shtetl, and even from the better ones built of wood planks. Yet, for all their differences, the filth and poverty had the familiar feel of the world she’d left behind. This place was as far from the Buenos Aires of Moskowitz’s description as Russia’s snowy hills.
At Grabovsky’s shout, the driver stopped the tram. Grabovsky jumped off, pulling Batya with him. Standing in the shade of a building, he withdrew a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his sweating brow. Batya was thirsty. In her eagerness to escape Nina’s house, she had not drunk any water from the pail a boy had brought to the brothel. Her father would never believe there were water carriers in America. Water here was supposed to flow from pipe faucets, like the ones her father had reported seeing in the homes of Bobruevo’s rich.
Grabovsky rounded the corner into a cleaner residential street of two-storied houses that touched one another, creating an impenetrable front. He stopped in front of one painted in muted sunset orange. A climbing vine with magenta flowers twisted around the iron grilles of its second-floor verandas. Batya glanced up at the bright blue window frames that gave the house a fairy-tale look.
Grabovsky’s thick finger poked her spine and prodded her inside.
The door opened into a large room with a floor paved like a carpet in small, colorful tiles. The geometric pattern stretched unbroken onto a spacious patio bordered by planters with fantastical blooming shrubs—large, voluptuous flowers in riotous colors, looking like mythical birds in one of Batya’s mother’s stories.
The indoor and outdoor were separated by open floor-to-ceiling windows, their gauzy curtains swaying in the breeze. In the pavilion, long swathes of colorful fabric were strung along the tops of the walls and gathered in places by decorative masks and gilded plaques. The air was suffused with flowery perfume, aromatic cooking, and cigar smoke. The beat of music sounded, though Batya couldn’t see the musicians.
Men and women flowed out of the pavilion to the patio and back. The women were in various states of undress—some, to Batya’s embarrassment, with breasts fully exposed. A few women danced with each other. Men played cards, two of them with young women seated on their knees. Batya felt that she had dropped into an obscene version of a Purim carnival, the joyous Jewish holiday when everyone wore costumes and many imbibed. But this festivity wasn’t make-believe; these people seemed to be celebrating a trouble-free, happy life.
A few meters away, on a rou
nd sofa, sat several half-clad women with painted faces. One of them rose and sauntered languorously toward Batya, her hips swaying. She held a cigarette in a long holder. She kissed Batya on both cheeks and wrapped her in a hug like a long-lost relative. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Rochel?” Batya was bewildered by the transformation. Only the voice remained the same.
“Who else?” Rochel laughed, the twin dimples punctuating her cheeks. “You’re hot.” With a flick of her wrist she flipped open what looked like a stiff lace handkerchief shaped like a half-moon. She waved it in front of Batya’s burning face, then handed her the device. “This is a fan. It will help you bear the heat, but you can also use it in a most feminine way.” She crushed her cigarette in an ashtray and took Batya’s hand. “Come meet the sisters. We’re one big family.”
Batya turned back to seek Grabovsky’s approval and saw him disappear through a side door.
Deep inside the pavilion, she spotted the source of the music: one klezmer played a violin, and two others played instruments she’d never seen—one an oddly shaped stringed instrument and the other a rectangular bellow-like device with dozens of buttons on both sides. The melody was strange, and the girls dancing to it thrust their hips and tossed their torsos so their long hair flew. The kicks of their legs barely missed each other’s shins. The way they held their spines like haughty ladies of means while they alternated between challenging glances and resting their cheeks against each other was both haunting and brazen.
“That’s tango,” Rochel said. “A Buenos Aires specialty. A lot of it is about lovers and heartbreak. Very romantic.”
Romantic. Batya had forgotten that she and Miriam used to wonder about the nature of that mysterious emotion. Now that she knew about the degrading way of men with women she also understood that romance was for stories, not real life.
Rochel led her to a sofa where more women with painted faces chatted and fanned themselves. “Meet Batya, my new little sister,” Rochel declared. As each of the girls rose to kiss Batya’s cheeks, three men came over. Batya cringed, hating their heady smell of tobacco and cognac, but Rochel seemed to enjoy their presence; she laughed and batted her eyelashes at them. “Checking out the new merchandise? Not yet. The poor thing has just arrived from Paris and needs to rest.”
“Paris?” A man chuckled, and said in Yiddish, “You all wish you were like the Parisian courtesans. They’re the best. But give me my old-fashioned Jewish girls, with a bit of horseradish.”
“You like your gefilte fish, all right,” Rochel cooed, and hit him playfully with a second fan she had withdrawn from between the sofa cushions. “You’re naughty, but I like you.”
Batya blushed at the bantering.
“Dimples,” the man said to Rochel, “I’m your slave as long as you pull those tricks on me.”
“Wait for me, then,” she replied. “Don’t go cheating on me with anyone else.” She laced her fingers in Batya’s. “Let me show you to your room.”
Upstairs, she led Batya to a tiny chamber with a pink-flowered quilt covering the bed, lace curtains on the windows, and clean towels next to a ceramic washbasin on the dresser. Batya’s blue taffeta and red dresses hung from hooks on the wall.
“We even have a lavatory inside the house, and a shower right here.” Rochel led her down the hall and demonstrated how to start the shower by turning a lever. She gave Batya a bar of soap and a bottle of almond oil to use after she soaped her hair to untangle the knots. “Don’t try eating or swallowing these. It won’t do you any good, only give you a terrible stomachache.” She pointed to a basket of sliced yellow fruit. “These are lemons. Squeeze some juice and brush it onto your hair every day. It will give it a gorgeous blond shine.” She kissed both Batya’s cheeks. “I wish I could stay to wash your hair, but I must work. Freda will be here shortly. She’s the matron here, the manager. She’s out at the market now. She barks, but her bites are not too bad. Just do as she tells you and you’ll be fine.”
“Thank you,” Batya said, and held out the fan to Rochel.
“It’s yours to keep. Open it.”
Batya opened the fan and could now see the cream-colored ribs, each carved in a delicate flower design, separating silky cloth on which two exquisite turquoise and yellow birds faced each other, their wings spread. “It’s magnificent,” she whispered with awe.
“Ivory.” Rochel pointed at the ribs. “From elephants in Africa.”
What’s an elephant, and where is Africa? The words seemed so foreign. There was so much Batya didn’t know.
Rochel kissed both her cheeks and darted away.
Alone, Batya took off her clothes and stepped into the shower stall. The water was cold and soothing as morning dew and eased the pressure of the soup-like air. She let the water run over her. Her fingers were in the roots of her hair when she realized that to remove the filth, to cleanse herself from the sins that had stuck to her flesh, only immersion in a mikveh would do. Unmarried women—virgins—did not use the communal ritual bath, but she was neither married nor a virgin.
Batya tried to recall a prayer her mother uttered before immersing. God would understand that all she had was this running water. “Dear God,” Batya improvised, “You created the world from a womb of water. You made me in Your image, pure and holy, according to Your will. As I immerse in the mikveh waters, I know that my life is sustained by Your mercy. Please purify my life from pain and sorrow, from bad influences, from my own faults and inadequacies. As these waters embrace me, dear God, may I embrace Your presence at all times and in all space, Amen.”
She was sobbing now, and her tears mingled with the water running over her. It took all her strength to wash her hair and brush the oil through it. Exhausted, in pain, and craving the inviting bed with its pink cover, she skipped the lemon treatment.
Upon returning to her room, Batya found a tray of warm food. The knish stuffed with chopped meat was like her mother’s, only meatier. The fatty soup was thickened with red beans, but its spices stung her mouth. The grainy bread was fresh, and the chicken must have been cooked in a coal oven, as it carried its savory smoke flavor. Root vegetables she didn’t recognize were heaped next to it, and when Batya tasted each, wary of the hot spice that had suffused the soup, they turned out to be delicious.
She had just lain down when a short, squat woman with dark skin, scraggy hair, and eyes buried under sagging lids brought her a slice of cinnamon cake and a cup of fragrant tea. No milk, of course. At least breaking this rule of kashrut wasn’t one more sin on Batya’s list. After she swallowed the cake, Batya prayed again. “God, please make sure that one day soon I’ll share the bounty of such food with my parents, Koppel and Zelda, and my sisters Keyla and Surale.” She would never mention Hedi the ghost along with the names of the living, or she’d draw the evil eye to them. “Instead of my next meal, I ask that, in Your mighty power, You take my tray and fly it to them. I would be forever grateful. Amen.”
It was still light outside, and the house was filled with music and laughter, not crying like in Nina’s house. Batya closed her eyes, dejected but curious about this new world. Had it been less than four weeks since she’d left Komarinoe? She hugged her pillow, trying to ignore the pulsating pain in her abdomen and praying that her parents would know the hug was meant for them.
Chapter Eighteen
The next morning, after Batya’s breakfast, a big-boned woman entered her room without knocking. Her hair was tied in a top bun so tight it pulled smooth the wrinkles around her eyes and on her forehead, while the bottom of her face remained grooved and slack.
“So you are the new girl? I hear that you’re very sick.” She sniffed as if testing the air in the room.
Batya sat up. This must be Freda.
“You’re still a child.” Freda’s eyes raked Batya’s body, then she tilted her head sideways as if assessing her. “Will you give me any trouble?”
Batya shook her head.
“Well, then. Come.” She
led Batya to a side kitchen yard separated by a wooden partition from the main back garden and its mosaic-paved terrace. A pot of melted wax sat on a charcoal brazier, and eight girls, their hair gathered and knotted on top of their heads, were busy grooming.
“Take care of her,” Freda said to no one in particular, and walked away.
“Welcome,” said one.
“You’re Rochel’s new little sister,” said another.
“I’ll be with you in a few minutes,” said a plump girl in a cheerful voice.
Batya watched the nearest girl spread wax on another’s leg, tap and blow on it for a few seconds, then yank it off to the shrieks of that girl and the laughter of the others. One girl with dark hair, whom the others called “the Armenian,” had dark fuzz felting the entire length of her legs and arms. When her friend had her lie on her stomach and pull down her bloomers, Batya saw that the Armenian’s buttocks, too, were hairy, like a man’s. From the bantering, Batya understood that this girl required a full-body waxing every week.
Batya had never given the blond fuzz on her shins any thought until the plump girl bent down to examine her legs. She smiled at Batya as her fingers felt her leg hair. “Only from the knees down. We’ll do your pubic hair after the doctor checks for bugs.”
“Bugs?” Batya recalled with alarm the cockroaches in the bowels of the ship. “What kind of bugs?”
“Mendeveshkes. Pubic lice.” The girl giggled. “They’re so tiny you can’t really see them. Do you itch?”
Batya shook her head. Her abdominal pain wasn’t an itch. She shivered at the new dread. If bugs hid in the hair on her body, she wanted it all removed at once.
“I’m Nettie. Sit down here.” The girl collected wax on a wooden stick. “You’re beautiful.”
Tears sprouted to Batya’s eyes. After the cruelty of her recent days, the kindness of yet another stranger soothed her despair. “You’re beautiful, too,” she replied. Nettie’s breasts were large and her limbs long. Her gray eyes smiled even when her mouth didn’t. Batya liked her instantly. “Where are you from?”