by Talia Carner
A long-limbed man with a shock of gray hair, whose spectacles rested on his hooked nose, sat at the desk. In front of him rested an inkwell and a plume like the one the scribe in the shtetl had used.
“The Professor will write a letter for you to your family,” Freda said. “Give him their address so we can also send them money.”
Send them money! The words were sweet to Batya’s ears. “Will you give them my address so they can write me back?” She hoped her family hadn’t moved again, or she’d never find them.
“I’ll take care of it,” the Professor replied.
Doubt hit her. “What will you tell them?”
“Only good things,” Freda said, and escorted Batya out.
“Next time you’ll be allowed to dictate the letter to your family,” Rochel told her. “He’ll embellish it beautifully.”
She had no good news, Batya thought. Whatever was happening to her needed more than embellishment.
One night, as she lay in bed, listening to the exotic music that rose from below, the laughter of the sisters, the groans and sighs from other rooms, a thought hit Batya. How would Moskowitz be able to track her down? Grabovsky wouldn’t be forthcoming in revealing what he’d done. She must seek out the city rabbi, who would no doubt know Yitzik Moskowitz, a most prominent citizen. Maybe the rabbi would hide her until her former fiancé—hopefully still her benefactor—arrived. Moskowitz would surely reward him, just as he had donated so generously to the synagogue in the Russian shtetl.
How could she find the rabbi? Even if she snuck out of the house, she couldn’t venture alone into the frightening maze of this foreign city. She would have no idea which way to go, and no way to ask for directions to the real Buenos Aires.
Right after the afternoon siesta—the rest time most of the girls took during the hottest hours of the afternoon unless occupied by clients—the sisters were drinking yerba maté tea, which Batya was growing to like. The musicians had just arrived and were tuning their instruments. Rochel gestured to Batya, and the two of them took their gourds of drink to the patio, along with plates of cakes drenched with dulce de leche that tasted as delicious as the chocolate Moskowitz had introduced her to.
The two of them settled at a round metal table with a tiled top, and Rochel lit a cigarette. “Want one?” She offered the gold case to Batya.
Batya adored the elegant way Rochel held her cigarette at the end of her long ivory holder, but the two times Batya had tried smoking, she had broken into coughing fits that brought up bile. “No, thanks.” She sucked her maté through its straw and pondered which she liked more, this bitter tea or the strong coffee with its grainy texture sweetened by three spoons of sugar.
“Smoking is good for your digestion. It also improves the skin tone and dries up pimples.” Rochel puffed out practiced rings of smoke.
“Maybe later.” Batya eyed the clay planters along the garden fence, with their gigantic flowers in luscious reds, yellows, and oranges. Beyond them, in the soil by the fence, grew low leafy plants in various shades of green, some with long, striped leaves, others with rounded clusters in dark hues. She wished she were permitted to help the Chinese gardener who came every morning to weed and water. She would have loved to feel the moist earth between her fingers, to plant seedlings that would grow into magnificent plants.
Everything here was beautiful. The flowers, the food, the songbirds, the pavilion, her chamber, the friendships. If only the price weren’t beyond her capability. She looked across the table at her friend. “It’s my great-grandmother’s yahrzeit,” she began, “and I would like to ask the rabbi to say a prayer for the anniversary of her death.”
Rochel burst out laughing, and her dark curls bounced on her shoulders. “I was wondering how long it would take you.” As Batya felt her eyes narrow in confusion, Rochel explained. “Every other girl who arrives here looks for an excuse to see a rabbi.” She reached over and held Batya’s hand, pity in her eyes. “There are more rabbis in this city than synagogues. There are some wretched rabbis whose congregations were destroyed by pogroms, who are now roaming the streets and muttering to themselves, as if God would finally listen to them. You’d think they would have sympathy for us, God’s lost sheep, right? Wrong. None want anything to do with the likes of us. We’re tme’ot. Sullied.” She chuckled. “Though not polluted enough to keep at least two of them from coming here regularly to dip in our honey.”
So much for her new plan. “Don’t they have wives?” Batya asked.
“This is a country of men. Hundreds of thousands of them arrive alone to make their fortunes here. Italian. Spanish. Jewish. Compadritos, you name them.” Rochel tossed her hair back in a gesture Batya now recognized. “Some leave wives and children behind. Most are still single. Some men have wives who are just tired or are too busy with children. No matter. They all need women, and we are here.”
Batya thought of her father. There must be decent men like him here, too. “Don’t they think it is immoral?”
Rochel laughed. “I’ve told you that this is America. It’s a modern culture, not backward like Russia. Get it into your head that things here are much more advanced.” She paused. “Thirty years ago, prostitutes here were all black- and brown-skinned women. But men prefer us, white women from Eastern Europe. Some businessmen saw an opportunity and began kidnapping girls.” She reached across the table and fluffed the ends of Batya’s hair, which fell past her shoulders. “You are blond. The most in demand.”
Batya sipped her maté. There were so many new things of which to make sense. She thought of Nettie’s story. She thought of Grabovsky stealing her from Moskowitz, who would never find her. “All the sisters here were kidnapped?”
Rochel shrugged. “Some arrived on their own, alone, seeking husbands, adventures, jobs, or gold in the street. What difference does it make? We all end up in the same place. There’s nothing else for a woman alone. What’s important is what we do with what fate deals us.”
Nettie approached their table, whistling a tune. Her full mane of hair was held back by a dozen small clips fashioned with butterflies, birds, and flowers. A medallion shaped like a bird hung from her neck, its long tail nestled in her generous cleavage. Nettie, who had no family, had not only accepted this life but was happy through every moment of it.
“Come. Dance with me.” She extended her hand to Batya and led her inside, to the center of the room. As the musician played, she taught Batya the first square step of the brazen dance Batya had observed the day of her arrival. “We call the Yiddish version of tango tangele,” she said. “It’s a dance not only of the feet but of your entire body, of your soul.” Nettie adjusted Batya’s torso, shoulders, and lower spine. “Control your posture, follow the lead of my chest, and put nuance into your hips. Keep your shoulders square, and use your stomach muscles to transfer energy into your legs.”
“All at the same time?”
Nettie smiled. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.” She showed Batya the basic walk in all directions, and then, holding Batya close, began to sing along with the band.
On a clear summer’s day.
As always so beautifully sunny.
When nature filled with so much charm.
Birds were singing on treetops
Cheerfully hopped about,
While we were ordered into exile.
“Are we dancing to a pogrom song?” Batya asked, struggling to keep up. “We should be crying.”
Nettie giggled. “It’s our new version of Yiddish culture in Argentina. Forward, back, step to the right, now left. Stay close to me so you can feel what I do—”
“Rochel said that tango songs are romantic—about lovers and heartbreaks.”
“That, too.” Nettie went on singing as the music gathered force.
Oh, we knew not what would become of us!
We understood all is lost.
Our pleas were of no help
Asking for friends to rescue us,
We ha
d to flee our home.
With each line, Nettie changed direction. She indicated to Batya to whirl halfway around, caught her, then moved her in a half circle the other way. “Make a figure eight with your feet,” she told Batya. “It’s called ocho.”
When the song ended, Batya asked, “How can the murdering of Jews be sung and danced to?”
“This is what happens to sadness once it reaches Argentina. We can either cry about the past or laugh about the future. So we drown out the old pain in dance. A good lesson, don’t you think?” The side of Nettie’s foot pressed against Batya’s, and she showed her how to interpret the cue by responding with a half pivot. “Stay connected to the leader—that’s me—and let the music flow through you.”
Over the next few days, Batya found herself looking forward to the afternoon. Rotating bands of musicians brought to the pavilion the new quick sounds of polka violin, driving flamenco guitar, and the strange mournful jangle of the banjo. In the poor shtetl, no one could afford klezmers. This music, the first to fill her life, was an opulence of America that no one had spoken of when they’d fantasized about streets paved with gold.
Batya savored this richness as she did the many sweet cakes. Tango had order and discipline. In her chaotic new life, she could control her steps, even though within every exuberant move there loomed the certainty that this freedom would soon end.
Chapter Twenty-One
Tonight would be her debut. There was no escaping it. She had been living in the brothel and had heard enough to know that if she refused to work, Grabovsky would show up to discipline her or, worse, Freda would sell her to one of the miserable brothels somewhere in vast Argentina. She would be separated from her new friends, lonely and anchorless as she’d been since leaving her parents. One nauseating choice chased another nauseating choice, with no cure for either.
“Stop crying,” Rochel told Batya when she came into her room. “You can’t have swollen eyes.” She hugged her, then placed compresses of chamomile tea on Batya’s lids.
Freda entered, holding a pencil. “Show me how you hold it.”
Batya blushed, understanding the house matron’s meaning; Rochel and Nettie had had her practice.
“Well? I don’t have all day.”
Batya peeled off her bloomers, accepted the pencil and tucked it up inside her. She squeezed hard. The pencil didn’t fall to the floor.
“Walk,” Freda ordered, and Batya complied. The pencil stayed put.
Freda rose, extended her hand for the pencil. “Each client will give you a token he buys from me. That’s your receipt for service. Every week you give me the tokens and I give you a share of your earnings.” To Rochel she said, “Get her ready.”
As soon as she closed the door behind her, Rochel burst out laughing. “She wouldn’t pass the test herself, that old hag.”
Batya forced a smile. Nothing about what awaited her was amusing.
Rochel pulled a candle and a box of matches from a cloth bag. She lit the first match, blew it out, waited a few seconds, then began to paint a line along Batya’s upper right eyelid. She continued burning matches and painting until Batya’s eyelids stung from the ash. Rochel took a step back. “Gorgeous,” she declared. “Wait till you see yourself in the mirror—but not yet.” She opened a small jar and dabbed red powder on Batya’s cheeks, then, using a thin brush and some waxy substance, painted her lips.
When she finally permitted Batya to peer in the mirror, she grinned so widely with pride that Batya suppressed her shock at the woman—not a girl—who stared back at her. She wanted to wipe the paint off her face. “It’s not me,” she whispered.
“Better that you feel this way. You’ll be able to distance yourself.” Rochel spread Batya’s blue taffeta dress on the floor and opened its center. “Pretend you’re an actress onstage. You can also choose a different name.”
Batya had never seen an actress, nor a stage. “What kind of a different name?”
“Something Spanish. Let’s find a name that’s not already taken.” She ticked off a list of strange names as she helped Batya into her dress. “I got it. Esperanza. We haven’t had an Esperanza for a while. It means ‘hope.’”
Hope was a good word. “Es-pe-ran-za,” Batya said slowly, uttering the unfamiliar syllables. “Esperanza.”
Nettie entered to check on their progress, carrying a feather boa.
“Meet Esperanza,” Rochel said.
Nettie twirled the boa around herself and pivoted twice. “A good name. With a name like Batya, Jewish men would think they’re screwing their mother or sisters.”
Rochel sighed. “She’s gained weight. I can’t button the dress.”
Nettie dropped her boa around Rochel’s neck and pulled at Batya’s dress herself. “Let me see what I can do.” She left and returned moments later with scissors, a suicide tool that was never left unattended around Batya, and a wide silk ribbon. She slit the back of the waist to release the fabric and tied the ribbon as a belt to cover the gap. Then she adjusted the front, lifting most of Batya’s breasts out of the confines of the dress to form a cleavage Batya had never had before.
“Go get them,” Nettie said, and clapped her hands.
“Make money to bring your family out of Russia,” Rochel whispered.
Her first evening. Not a captive chained to the bed, but a captive nonetheless.
Batya thought of the lessons her friends had taught her—how to tie a man down with silk scarves, or disrobe playfully—and couldn’t reconcile them with the person she was. She certainly would never use her tongue and fingers all at once the way the sisters had shown her. Perhaps Esperanza would be able to initiate such acts. It would be Batya, though, who would remember to douche with vinegar between clients, to cleanse herself of the filth.
She stood at the bottom of the stairs, clutching the railing. The pavilion was in her full view, yet her feet refused to move toward it. I can’t do it.
A slap on her bottom jolted her, and she heard Freda’s gravelly voice behind her. “Get going.”
Cold fear radiated from Batya’s center. She walked to the sofa and sat down, angling herself toward the window to dry the perspiration forming on her back, forehead, and underarms. At least she was wearing a dress, marking her as the new addition to the house. The sisters wore skimpier clothing, mostly silk bloomers and short slips that hid little or nothing, or chains of beads that streamed from necks to navels over exposed breasts.
“I got a virgin for you,” she heard Freda tell a man with a bald head, dressed in a cream-colored suit. He glanced in Batya’s direction and nodded. Though he looked like an average man of means, he seemed frightening. During the negotiation that ensued out of Batya’s earshot, she pressed her back to the corner of the couch, wishing to make herself invisible.
Freda must have asked too much, because the man declined and moved on to select another sister. Freda shot Batya a look, elongating her own neck to indicate that Batya should straighten up. The matron had been the one to teach her about the reusable rubber prophylactic she sold to new customers who failed to bring their own, custom-fashioned by their physicians. “If anyone refuses to use it, you call me,” Freda had instructed. “We don’t allow diseases in this house.”
Rochel poked Batya gently. “Smile,” she whispered, and pulled her lips wide, deepening her dimples. “Make your eyes bright. Look interested.”
“I’m so scared,” Batya replied from behind her fan. She must have been fanning not in the beguiling way she’d been taught, because Rochel touched her wrist to slow her down.
Just then a huge bug flew into Batya’s face. She screamed and swatted it onto the floor. A wave of panic climbed up her throat. Cockroaches, each as large as a man’s thumb, had been turning up on the kitchen floor; she’d seen them skittering in and out of the street sewer from her second-floor window. They brought her back to the darkness in the bowels of the ship, except that this Buenos Aires breed could also fly.
At Freda’s warning
glance, Batya composed herself. She searched the floor for the bug and was lifting her feet to avoid it when a man approached. He bent and caught the cockroach, then, holding it in front of Batya’s face, crushed it between his fingers. The scrunching sound and greenish juice brought bile up Batya’s throat, but when the man leered and put the dead, oozing bug on his tongue, she blanched and clamped her hand on her mouth to stop herself from vomiting.
She had barely collected herself when the man exchanged a quick word with Freda, and then returned and extended his hand to Batya.
Batya remained rooted to her spot, terror filling her head with images. Having just eaten the bug, would the man kiss her on the mouth?
Rochel gently elbowed Batya’s side. “Pretend you don’t mind about the cockroaches or he’ll torture you with them,” her friend whispered in Yiddish as Batya rose to her feet.
Rochel wasn’t in the pavilion when Batya descended the steps, but Nettie handed her a glass of chilled, sweetened lemonade with mint leaves. Batya took a sip, then rolled the cold glass against her burning forehead.
She had cried when she cleansed herself not only from the cockroaches running on her naked body, but more so from the man’s delight at torturing her. No token was worth it. She hated having to treat him pleasantly when every fiber in her body recoiled, when all she wanted, yet again, was to die.
Four sisters embraced her and led her to the sofa. Batya drank a second glass of lemonade to push down waves of nausea and fought back another bout of tears. Freda was watching her.
For the sake of the men around them, the girls pretended to giggle. Batya lowered her head and reached her arm up, as if she were fixing her hair, her elbow blocking Freda from her view.
“Everyone knows this client, and she charged him double the rate.” Nettie stroked Batya’s arm. “He enjoys the uninitiated girls who show fear. Pretend you like it until the next new girl takes him off your hands.”
“Don’t mind Freda. The old hag wishes she could have a man between her legs,” a sister whispered in Batya’s ear.