The Third Daughter

by Talia Carner

  The prayer ended before the grave was fully filled. Each sister picked up a fistful of earth and threw it into the hole. When it was Batya’s turn, she scooped earth with both her hands, threw it, then scooped more, digging her fingers deep in the warm soil. Rest in peace, she cried silently, not merely full of grief over her friend’s death but filled with fury over their life. Like Rochel, who had done nothing to stop Nettie, she, too, understood why Nettie had reached the end of the road. Were Batya not holding on to the hope of someday bringing her family over, she could very well have done the same.

  The grave covered, each of the sisters lit a candle, stuck it in the freshly turned earth, and asked Nettie to carry her regards to her deceased loved ones.

  Nettie, please send my love to my mother, Zelda, daughter of Tova. Please ask her to watch over me. Batya placed a small stone on top of the grave, then forced herself to turn away.

  She walked with Rochel, their arms around each other under a dense cloud of sadness. They spoke little as they made their way back to the house.

  At last, Rochel broke the silence in a voice that was uncharacteristically angry. “Although she was purified, Nettie was still tme’ah and had to be buried outside the fence.”

  “Even if she weren’t a prostitute, committing suicide is killing God’s image. That alone would have excluded her from being buried inside the fence. But God should have made an exception.” Batya raised her head heavenward. “Don’t You see that living as we do is more of a desecration of Your image than killing it?” She caught herself. She was becoming like her father, telling God how He should run His world.

  She felt Rochel’s shoulders heave and wondered how many times her friend, too, had wished to die.

  Just then, the sky opened. Rain poured down like buckets of water drained from heaven to shower dust off the trees and houses, to wash Nettie’s sins into the earth. Holding Rochel’s hand, Batya ran.

  Freda stood at the door of the house, counting the sisters as they entered, as though any of them might dare take the opportunity to escape.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Back home, Batya checked on Dora, who was still curled on her bed and not speaking. Batya assumed that she was granted days rather than weeks to break through to the girl, and was saddened that once again her entreaties bore no results. Dora sulked and remained unresponsive, until Batya just left the tray and returned to her room.

  She picked up her tkhines book, hoping that even when they were read from a stolen book, God would accept her prayers for Nettie’s departed soul and for Dora’s tortured heart. Outside her window a family of pigeons had settled in the gutter. Maybe, somehow, the pigeons would fly sky-high with her words, and God would pluck her pleas from the air . . .

  She opened the book at random. “May my dough be blessed as the blessing hovered over the dough of our Mothers Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, and Leah,” she quoted the kitchen blessing uttered by generations of women before her.

  No matter that she didn’t have a kitchen. From now on, she, too, would learn the many blessings that governed every minute action performed by women in their daily lives. She would say them as she washed her laundry, chopped vegetables, or cared for a sore on a sister’s foot. To begin, she walked to the window and thanked God for the pigeons’ company, for the moment of forgetfulness they offered.

  Heavy steps outside the door interrupted her, and Batya quickly tucked the book under her mattress an instant before the door opened. Freda must have heard her moving about; Batya couldn’t feign taking the rest of her siesta.

  “Every moment you’re not on your back is a moment lost.” Freda untied the string that gathered the fabric of Batya’s shirt above her chest, then yanked it open to expose her shoulders and the tops of her breasts. She slapped Batya’s backside toward the window and thrust a red rose at her. “Sit there, and if no one comes up within fifteen minutes, I’ll report you to my brother.”

  Instantly, Batya closed herself off, becoming Esperanza. She settled by the window. Back in Russia, Moskowitz had told Surale that in Buenos Aires there were one hundred men for each woman. In truth, there were thousands to one, and men’s sexual appetites were insatiable. Satisfied one day, they came back for more the next—or as soon as they obtained more money.

  Smiling toward the street, Batya stroked her cheek with the rose’s petals and trailed the flower down toward her cleavage. She took deep gulps of air to tamp down the fear and disgust she felt at the prospect of yet another unpredictable stranger.

  In the coming hours she hardened her heart to endure the humping, sweating, panting men who pawed at her buttocks and breasts, who kissed her mouth with slathered onion- and tobacco-stinking saliva, whose rough, unshaven faces scratched her cheeks, neck, and chest, whose bodies smelled of acrid sweat and stale sugarcane alcohol. Some wanted to watch themselves climax onto her breasts. Some paid Freda extra to climax in Batya’s mouth. God, keep my soul pure, Batya thought. Even if worms are eating my heart, please keep it pure, as it is Yours.

  The hardest men to ignore were those who enjoyed slapping and biting until her skin was black and blue. There had been men who tied her to the bedposts or even choked her. As soon as Batya detected such needs, she would make a quick flamenco dance move, banging her heels on the floor. That summoned Freda, who then charged the client for the additional services before he could proceed.

  Batya preferred the younger boys, the ones she inducted into the mystery of women’s bodies. They were confused or embarrassed, eager but always gentle, so unlike some judges, journalists, policemen, lawyers, businessmen, and politicians. Once the boys were hers, they often became regulars who paid for her time as frequently as they could afford. Invariably, they told her about conflicts in their families and shared with her the anguish and joys of their studies or emerging careers. Unlike some old men who appreciated when she revived their aging bodies but expected no more from a prostitute, the young men improved her Spanish.

  Like Ulmann, who shared his feelings with the eagerness of a youth, no one ever inquired about her. No one guessed that she was a prisoner, shackled to her bed even if no chains were visible. Even Batya’s excursions to the market for shopping were good for business. Other than washwomen and domestic helpers, honest women never left their houses unchaperoned. Moskowitz and Freda were confident that a seasoned girl like Batya knew that there was no place to run to and that she would return with a trail of hungry men following her.

  Batya washed between men and chewed mint leaves to refresh her breath. At dusk, she took a permitted break to rest, eat a light supper, and redo her makeup and hair. At least she knew what to expect from regulars, who showed up mostly in the evenings. The more income she produced from her regulars, the more she could avoid the perverts. “God, keep my soul pure,” she mumbled her refrain. “God, please show me a sign that You hear me. Save me from this hell.”

  Glad as Batya was to have the tkhines book, its theft weighed on her. On her subsequent excursions to the market, she distributed pesos among amputees exposing stumps, dark-skinned native women begging with babies tied to their chests, ancient people with no hair or teeth, and street urchins whose bellies were distended from hunger.

  But no matter how many coins she distributed, her conscience wouldn’t be sated. Her mother’s watching from above made her sin visible. While her mother might be crying with Batya over her fate, she would be unforgiving when it came to the voluntary offense of theft. Her mother was also watching Batya gobble down an abundance of food, while their relations in Russia starved. For all of Batya’s careful saving, she was a long way from having enough money to pay for passports and travel tickets for her father, Surale, baby Vida—and, if she was inclined to join them, Keyla. From Siberia, Keyla had written to their father that she’d had twins, a boy and a girl. She hadn’t mentioned that Fishke was the father, even as she continued to visit him monthly in prison, and Batya feared that her sister had been violated, all alone in that frosty wasteland of men
.

  “Help me, Mama, to get my father and my sisters out of Russia. You are closer to God. Maybe He’ll listen to you. I know that I’m their only hope. So far, I’ve failed them. I’ve failed all of you.”

  The following week Batya accompanied Moskowitz on his late afternoon outing. They walked up Calle Corrientes, lined with cafés and stores that were out of the reach of the poor immigrants who lived in this mixed neighborhood. The late afternoon sun still shone high in the sky, while the pale, humble moon hung at a distance, awaiting its turn.

  Just being outside at this time, when the house was becoming busy with its hilarity and debauchery, was a privilege. Moskowitz settled down at his favorite café, joining a table with three other pimps and their women. As much as she despised Moskowitz, Batya liked being chosen to sit at this café, so elegant that the waiters wore white gloves and where, like the wives of government ministers who met after their siestas, she sipped strong coffee and ate a delicious meringue and whipped-cream cake. She had labored hard to earn this special gift of reprieve.

  Yet she was here to work. Rearranging the bottom of her dress to flow in a feminine way, she raised her hem above one ankle. She straightened her back to exhibit her long neck and exposed cleavage. If patrons from the café came to the house asking for her, they would likely be higher-class, generous customers.

  She caught the eyes of a sister across the table and smiled. She didn’t know the woman’s name, and they couldn’t chat over the men’s conversation, but the bond of shared tragic history was a fine spiderweb that tied them together. Batya fixed her wide-brimmed, pinkish hat to uncover one side of her face and threw long glances at a corpulent man with kind brown eyes. His female companion selected a chocolate éclair from the passing tray, ignoring her man as she savored it. A waiter moved in front of the woman, leaving Batya visible only to the man. No doubt Moskowitz rewarded the waiter for this special service.

  Silently, Batya continued to work the crowd at the nearby tables. The café was large, and tables in other sections hosted other pimps and their kurves, as if the competitors had divided the territory. It was easy to distinguish the pimps from other businessmen by their meticulous haircuts—probably by the same Italian barber Moskowitz used—and their manicured, buffed nails that shone with clear polish. Moskowitz’s clean hands were a source of pride for him, a sign of his higher social standing. “My hands never get dirty in menial work,” he liked to say when he delegated the beatings and cigarette burnings to others.

  The conversation around her table flowed as the men sipped peppermint water or brandy, joked, and discussed business matters they considered to be beyond their female companions’ grasp. “When a kurve becomes ill or pregnant, it affects the cash flow,” Moskowitz said, puffing both his cigarette and his chest. “Frequent medical inspection is imperative to maintaining your investment.”

  “What about the new law that requires all our kurves be checked three times a week?” asked Pedro. He was wearing his plaid purple jacket but had replaced the green butterfly tie with an orange one.

  Moskowitz laughed. “Unrealistic even for the best house. Ignore it.”

  Batya sent a shy smile to a man across the room. The man’s moustache twitched in response. She batted her lashes, when her attention was arrested by a turn in the conversation.

  “I didn’t steal that Torah scroll,” Moskowitz declared, laughing. “When the Judaica store reopened on Sunday, I showed up early and paid for it. I also paid for the damage of the broken door, and then some, for goodwill.” He shook a finger at his companions. “No one would ever say that Yitzik Moskowitz is a thief.”

  Her tkhines book was paid for! A wave of relief washed over Batya. Smiling, she bent over her cake to allow herself a few seconds alone to bask in this discovery. The payment Moskowitz had made to the Judaica store was from money he’d extorted from her. God knew it.

  “It’s time we build our own synagogue,” Moskowitz went on. “Why depend on the stuck-up Jews allowing us in? They are colluding against us? Well then, we’ll show them what we’re made of. We’re as good Jews as they are. Our synagogue will be grand. We’ll hire the best rabbi and the best chazzan.”

  “They’ll come crawling back to us for our donations,” said the corpulent Enrico, who had been Aharon in the old country.

  “There’s an empty lot on Guemes Street,” Pedro said.

  “If the owner will sell to us,” Enrico replied.

  “It’s owned by a Frenchman’s widow living in the south of France.” Pedro winked. “I’ll make sure she’ll be happy to sell to us.”

  “If we want to move our offices there, too, there’s a larger lot on Córdoba 3280,” Moskowitz said. “We can build a mansion so that all those who scorn us will know whom they’re dealing with: the best businessmen in this country, the smartest, shrewdest capitalists in all of South America.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Pedro signaled the waiter, who brought over a bottle of champagne, popped the cork with great ceremony, and poured it. “I’ll donate the most beautiful crystal chandelier you’ve ever seen,” Pedro declared.

  “I will donate the curtains for the arc,” said Enrico.

  “Two Torah scrolls.” Moskowitz sniggered. “One I already own.”

  The men went on to discuss who would donate what furnishing, decor, and funds, but Batya stopped listening. Rather than suffering God’s wrath for his sins, Moskowitz only continued to rise in the ranks of Zwi Migdal.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Summer 1893–1894

  She was forever wrapping her head around the fact that while summer was in full force in Buenos Aires, in Russia winter was holding on to the earth and sky, merging them into one icy substance. It had been as hard to breathe in Russia’s freezing air as it was to breathe here in the humid heat.

  At least in her room, the stone wall stayed cool. Batya leaned her back against it, fanning herself, and contemplated what her chatty morning client had just revealed.

  He was a gaucho, a rancher of cattle, dressed in leather leggings with a gun tucked in the back of his brown-black belt, but his white shirt was clean. To her astonishment, he spoke Yiddish. She’d never heard of a Jewish gaucho, a Jew who rode a horse rather than harnessing it to a peddler’s cart. His name was Kolkowski, and he said he’d come down to Buenos Aires to greet Jewish immigrants arriving from Odessa as guests of the Baron.

  “What baron?” Batya had asked, thinking it was a game.

  “Baron de Hirsch. Maurice—Moses de Hirsch.” When Batya seemed confused, Kolkowski added, “Haven’t you heard of his initiative?”

  No, she hadn’t. “Teach me your game,” she cooed.

  “I’m serious. This Jewish German baron lives in Paris and has decided to save the Jews of Eastern Europe by establishing farming communities in Argentina. He’s already built many agricultural colonies in Santa Fe, Entre Ríos, and La Pampa, with synagogues and yeshivas. He’s bringing over shiploads of Jews.”

  Batya had known that there were vast empty areas beyond Buenos Aires, but she hadn’t heard of anyone choosing to live there. “What will they do there?”

  “Resettle in the ranches. What else? Moïseville, Mauricio, these are Jewish colonies in the Pampas. We teach them agriculture, mainly, but also how to raise cattle.” Probably seeing Batya’s skeptical expression, Kolkowski added, “The Baron is paying the czar to let the Jews leave. He wants to empty Russia of the Jews and bring them all here.”

  She couldn’t hold her laughter. The man was delusional. “Like Exodus? Does God also split the ocean for you all to cross?”

  “Not God, but the Jewish Colonization Association does. That’s the Baron’s project for resettlement,” Kolkowski replied, seemingly unperturbed by her ridicule. “One million Jews. You’ll see soon.”

  There was no point in arguing with a madman. “Let my people go,” Batya intoned, and broke into a dance.

  “Really. The Argentine government wants people from all over the world to
come here, to help build the country. Jews are good at commerce. The Baron—”

  She had stopped Kolkowski by placing her hand playfully on his mouth while the other traveled downward. He’d paid for a short visit but was wasting it on nonsense.

  Now Batya rose, dressed, and checked the pavilion. No clients waited there. It was early, and the midday meal wouldn’t be served for a while. Freda was occupied in the adjacent house. If Batya used the new tram—now electric—it would take her fifteen minutes to reach the port. She threw on her lightest dress and hat and ventured out. In spite of her disbelief in Kolkowski’s tale, she wished to ascertain with her own eyes whether any part of it could be true.

  She had just walked a block when an old woman clutched the bottom of her skirt, and Batya swiveled around.

  “Please, señora,” the woman pleaded, her eyes brimming with tears. “Let me launder your clothes.”

  Batya took in the cheeks blotched in caked rouge that failed to make them look healthy. Her tone soft, she asked, “Sister, what’s your name?”

  “Leila.” The woman held on to Batya’s skirt. “No one else allows me to touch their clothes. I’ll do a good job. I’ll wash and iron everything. Please—”

  “Come to that house at siesta time,” Batya replied, pointing. “Now I must rush.”

  She disembarked from the tram near the port’s administration building and walked to the wide pier to examine the docking ships. Two women in flowery, ruffled dresses and kohl-blackened eyes approached her. “This is our spot,” one yelled. “Move away.”

  Batya shrugged and crossed the road, where she still had a view of the customs gate. Unlike four years earlier, the ships now docked at the new pier, and hordes of immigrants carrying cardboard valises and canvas packages streamed down the ramps instead of being rowed in by small boats. Prodded by policemen into orderly lines, the newcomers joined the mass of humanity crowding behind the high gate. Children cried, men held packages over their heads, fistfights broke out, women called over the crowd to keep their families together. Batya stepped into the shade of a warehouse, afraid she would be seen by someone she knew from home.