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The Third Daughter

Page 21

by Talia Carner


  Batya wanted to stamp her feet in frustration. Oh, no. Please don’t, she begged, then read on.

  Every time I think of the wonderful life the Master of the Universe has blessed you with, my heart expands like in a holiday. I can’t wait to have all my teeth capped in gold, as I’ve heard is the custom in America. I count the days until I’ll see you again, may they be as numbered as the coins in my pocket.

  Attached to her father’s letter was a note from Surale, written by a scribe:

  Dear Most Esteemed Sister Batya,

  All our prayers are with you, my darling sister. May your beauty shine through the universe the way it fills my heart with light. Please remember us, your loving family, with your very generous heart. For the blessed memory of our beloved mother we beg you to send us the passage tickets you promised so long ago.

  A detailed list of the nine names and dates of birth of each family member followed. Batya sighed. The dates in the Jewish lunar calendar were useless for the issuing of official documents. When the time came, Efram would have to convert them to the Gregorian calendar. Most important, Keyla and her children were listed, which meant that Surale had reached her in Siberia. Batya also learned from the list that Surale must have given birth to two boys, but her baby girl had died. Poor Surale. God should protect Surale’s sons.

  Batya picked up the second page of her sister’s letter and read its closing paragraph.

  To my great distress, our beloved papa, may he be blessed with long life, is ill. His cough is getting worse. Every night I pray that he will survive the coming winter. He laughs it away and says, “A Jew lives and breathes with one foot in the grave.” You know how Papa is, never losing faith with our Father God in Heaven. My husband, Duvid, is a very good man willing to take any work, except that there is none. With babies in the house, they should be blessed, and nothing to feed them and no coal to heat our bones, I am sinning gravely by losing hope. Please hurry up and rescue us.

  Batya returned to Rafael’s cart. His coconut drink failed to revive her spirit. “I’ll visit you in the dark,” she whispered to him, hating to have to pay with her body, telling herself it was a mitzvah to give this simple good man what he needed.

  What else could she do but try again to speak with Señor Farbstein? In the following ten days she visited his office twice more, only to be turned away by the secretary. In spite of the risk of being seen in the street, Batya waited outside each time with the hope of catching Señor Farbstein as he entered or left. She noticed the stream of people that entered the building: some with the dress and demeanor of recent Jewish immigrants, some gauchos with horse-bowed legs, some Argentine officials arriving in carriages driven by uniformed coachmen, but no one who might be Señor Farbstein.

  Her plan to meet the Baron’s emissary was not to be. Batya had to face the fact that she must find another way to compel her father to act. Since her fairy tale about her wonderful married life had worked against her, she must tear apart this story to get her father to apply for the resettlement program.

  If only Efram would overcome his discomfort with her letters. It would be another week before he received his monthly allowance and, she hoped, visited her. Waiting, all she could do was pray that the Baron’s project in Odessa would still accept her father, sick and old as he was. Duvid should help tilt the balance in the family’s favor; one young man and one useless old man with seven dependents. Nine passages for which she’d stopped saving since Freda had begun to deduct payments for Dora’s purchase price.

  It was siesta time, and the house was quiet when Efram arrived, probably cutting classes. He paid Freda the fee, and Batya led him by the hand to her chamber.

  “Where are your paper and ink?” she asked as she helped him unbutton his shirt.

  “How could I bring them? I’m in the midst of a studying day.”

  “Don’t you write there?”

  “We only read and recite, or argue Talmudic points.”

  “For twelve hours?”

  “That’s what Torah studies are.”

  Twenty minutes later, spent, they lay quietly with their limbs tangled. He fingered her hair, then kissed one blond tendril after another.

  She smiled to herself and stretched lazily. “When can I come over to your house?” she whispered.

  “My mother is ill,” he whispered back. “She hasn’t left our home in weeks. Two maids and a cook service her. The house is never empty.”

  “Then you must come back here. This week. Bring paper and ink.”

  “I can’t until my next allowance.”

  Batya sauntered to the dresser, feeling his eyes on her bare buttocks. She liked this passionate boy–turned–passionate man more than she should, even more than she did Ulmann, as much as she enjoyed the jeweler’s company. She retrieved a banknote from her linen drawer and tucked it in the pocket of Efram’s black caftan, thrown on the chair.

  She returned to the bed and kissed him hard on the mouth. “Promise you’ll come back before Friday. With ink and paper.”

  He didn’t return her kiss. Instead, he flung his legs off the bed and stood up.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked, her heart sinking.

  “These letters of yours. You’ll get yourself killed. Or me.”

  She laughed, pretending that disappointment wasn’t crawling in her rib cage. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  She helped him button his shirt, her fingers grazing reddish chest hair. His body had filled out since she’d first met him. His ginger-colored beard was thicker, and he moved with certainty, as if his proven manhood with Batya bestowed confidence in other areas of his life.

  She rubbed her breasts against his chest, and, pacified again, Efram buried his face in her neck. “If she is a wall, we will build towers of silver on her. If she is a door, we will enclose her with panels of cedar,” he quoted from Psalms. His hug was possessive, tight.

  Batya savored the words of endearment as she guided him to the door. Very soon, the rabbi would marry him off. At least for a while, until she became pregnant, Efram’s wife would satisfy him.

  Batya was relieved when he returned a week later. After paying Freda with Batya’s money, he stood by Batya’s dresser with paper and ink at the ready. “This is the last one,” he said, leveling his gaze at her, the gaze of a man who knew his mind. “I came because you’d given me the money, and I, in my weakness, God should forgive me, didn’t refuse as I should have.”

  This was it, then. Her last chance to convince her father.

  “A great disaster has befallen me,” she dictated. “My beloved husband, Reb Yitzik Moskowitz, has died unexpectedly after a bout of high fever. His sister, Freda, whom I had considered my only friend and family here, turned against me overnight. Through her attorneys, not only did she throw me out into the street, but with the help of her husband—whom Reb Moskowitz had generously employed—she has captured all his businesses. They’ve left me with almost nothing.”

  Efram put the pen down. “I can’t be a part of this.”

  “You know I can’t tell them what I really do.”

  “It’s not the lying. The sages would be on your side, saving your family from angst. It’s the danger to me.”

  “Who will know?” She stroked his back. “This is the last one. I promise.” She picked up the pen again and placed it back between his fingers, then dictated:

  “I’m sending you my last money, for Keyla, too. My only hope now is for you all to come here. Together we will start a new life in one of the esteemed Baron’s new settlements. Will you do that for me even with your last breath?”

  When Efram readied to leave, she combed his red hair with her fingers. His face closed up, and when she brought her mouth to his, he returned a perfunctory brushing of the lips. She swallowed and forced a smile. She had pressured him too much; their liaison was no longer just fun for him. Her heart hoped it wasn’t the last time she saw him, knowing it was.

  She closed the door behind him
and let silent tears fall.

  Part III

  Buenos Aires, 1894–1895

  When you buy a Hebrew slave, he shall serve six years, and in the seventh he shall go out free, for nothing.

  —Exodus 21:2

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Summer 1894–1895

  The new client sat alone at a small side table in the pavilion, smoking. He sipped his Italian-imported limoncello in measured movements while examining the room. His white linen trousers were clean, their center crease pressed, and his black boots shone as bright as his onyx eyes. The coconut oil with which he’d slicked back his hair gave it a blue-black sheen. His sharply trimmed sideburns reached the center of his cheeks, looking painted, as did his thin black moustache. When approached by two sisters, he turned them away with only a slight wave of his long fingers, then continued to study the room from under a lowered brow.

  The sisters huddling on the sofa with Batya speculated. “A ship captain?” “A tax collector?”

  “Ship captains are a hungry lot; he wouldn’t wait this long.” Batya chuckled. “And tax collectors dress shabbily.”

  “Tax people are paid handsomely by Zwi Migdal. They wouldn’t bother its members,” said Rochel.

  “I bet he’s a poet,” Clara said.

  “Look at his long fingers. Like a painter’s,” Glikel said. She took Batya’s hand. “Let’s show him something.”

  Glikel was trying to get the intriguing stranger’s attention by choosing the best tango partner among the girls, Batya knew. She’d give it to her, and then some. Tango relied on improvising, and she had become expert in teasing the moody, deeply sentimental melodies to life. Now, as she swiveled halfway back and forth in a series of ochos, the long fringes of the shawl tied around her hips revealed her legs in stockings held up by garters. Across the room, observing her, the new man tapped his foot to the music.

  It took two songs for him to rise and walk over to her. Cutting Glikel out, he extended his hand to Batya.

  From his first smooth square step she knew he was an expert dancer, a professional whose tall, lithe figure moved with ease and grace. His torso rigid with an open embrace that allowed space between their chests, he guided her with the certitude of a man in full control. Batya let herself surrender and follow as their bodies conversed in an emotional harmony. The stranger swept her around the dance floor, holding her back as she double-stepped and swerved over his extended leg. The feel of his thigh guided her to kick while avoiding his shins before he broke the turn to spin her in the opposite direction.

  The song ended, and the man dipped her so low that both their bodies leaned dangerously close to the floor. His arm supported her shoulder blade while applause erupted.

  Batya straightened and smiled into his face, but his expression remained solemn, his gaze piercing. For the first time since Efram’s exit from her life eight months earlier, Batya felt a sexual heat rising.

  Before the clapping and whooping subsided, the musicians broke into a new song, and the stranger nodded an invitation to her. Just as she accepted, another man stepped forward. He wore sunglasses so dark that Batya couldn’t see his eyes, and his bald head was covered by a hard felt hat. He cut in, challenging the handsome stranger, who performed a minute of solo dance before cutting back into their embrace. As the three of them dominated the floor, the two men wooed Batya, fighting over her in a choreography in which she was the prize. At the end, she would choose the winner. For the duration of the dance, she was in charge.

  She let the alluring stranger win. He paid Freda, then followed Batya toward the stairs. Upon reaching the staircase, still in full view of the pavilion, he cupped her buttocks. She glanced down, and he grinned, revealing straight white teeth.

  In her room, he sat down on the upholstered chair. She untied her shawl, let it drop to the floor, and sauntered toward him. She reached to loosen the top of his shirt, but he grabbed her wrist and shook his head. Smiling, she tried again, as if his game was a play-out of their dance downstairs.

  “No, please,” he said in Spanish. “I’m not here for what you think.”

  “How do you know what I think?” She let out the girlish giggle men liked.

  “I have a pretty good idea,” he replied, this time in Yiddish. “But I’m not here for that.”

  Batya stared at him, stupefied. He looked Spanish through and through, not at all like a Jew. “Well, thank you for a great dance,” she replied in Yiddish, her mind buzzing with the possibilities of what he had in mind. A pervert? He hadn’t paid Freda extra. “What can I do for you?” she purred.

  Still seated, he pulled her down to perch on his knees. She smelled the raw heat of his body, the aftermath of his exertion on the dance floor, mixed with his clover-scented cologne. His mouth was next to her ear, and his breath smelled of mint and tobacco.

  “Is anyone listening?” he asked.

  She shook her head, wondering what his game was, and touched the tip of her tongue to his earlobe.

  He put his hand up to block her mouth. “I’m serious. I have a business proposal to discuss with you.”

  Batya searched the new man’s face, and something in her dislodged, like the wheel of a cart finally extricating itself from a groove in the mud. Some extremely lucky sisters found a patron to take them out of the brothel and install them in their own apartments as mistresses. Such good luck happened mostly to the French courtesans, the ones with haughty mannerisms, who peppered their conversation with French words and who strutted their wares by walking down the boulevards with little white dogs called poodles. It had become prestigious for a man of influence to flaunt a French mistress around town.

  This luck didn’t happen to polacas. Even the devoted Ulmann, who was visiting more often, was tight with his gifts. In spite of Batya’s hope, he had made no overture toward anchoring their relationship.

  A business proposal. This could be a turn of her fate. She stilled her heart and fluttered her eyelashes. “It’s safe here,” she whispered back. Sooner or later, though, some love sounds must come from her room.

  “You’ve tried to see Señor Farbstein.”

  Her back straightened as if lashed, and she jumped to her feet. Dread filled her. Was this man collaborating with Moskowitz? Would he torture her to extract a confession?

  “It’s all right,” he whispered in his husky voice, and extended his hand to pull her back onto his lap.

  She remained standing. She wouldn’t fall into a trap set by Zwi Migdal. “Let’s get into what you’ve paid for,” she purred. “Got your token?”

  He handed it to her. “I’m here on Señor Farbstein’s behalf.”

  Señor Farbstein’s secretary had never asked for Batya’s name, and Batya would not have given it to her for fear of retribution. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she murmured.

  “Please don’t be afraid. One of our men followed you here,” the stranger whispered.

  “You can pay to dance with me or to have sex with me. Which one is it?”

  “My name is Sergio Rosenberg.”

  A Jewish last name. That made him just as likely to be colluding with Moskowitz as with Señor Farbstein. Batya walked to the dresser, dipped her fingers in the bowl of water, and touched them to her forehead. Her head swimming in confusion, she turned to look at him and his strong, dark features. He was taller than most Spaniards, probably a descendant of Cossacks. His ancestors, Slavs mixed with Tartars, might have been warriors who had swept through the Eurasian Steppes, raided shtetls, and raped Jewish women, passing on to their offspring their ferocity along with the high cheekbones and olive skin.

  “What is it that you wanted to speak to Señor Farbstein about?” he asked, still whispering. “Is it about your family?”

  Batya could barely find her voice. “You’re sure you’re Jewish?”

  “I won’t drop my pantaloons to prove it to you,” he replied in Yiddish, then began to chant a prayer, “Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu—how is that fo
r proof?”

  She couldn’t help smiling. Yet she mustn’t fall for his charm—or Zwi Migdal’s trap. “How do I know that you really work for Señor Farbstein?”

  “I swear.” He raised his hand, and his stretched fingers split into two pairs in the manner of the Jewish priests in the days of the Temple in biblical times. “Let’s talk more and you’ll understand.” Again he extended to her his other hand. This time she accepted it, resettling on his knees. “What would you like our office to do for you?” he asked.

  Her mouth was dry. She chose her words so they could be open to interpretation. “My father and my sisters. And their families. They’re all in Russia.” It was awkward to sit so close yet whisper a conversation that wasn’t seductive.

  He looked at her with his raisin-black eyes, waiting for her to continue.

  She was silent for a moment, wrestling with doubt, then said, “I want them to sign up for the resettlement program. But my father is stubborn. He doesn’t understand, uh, why I can’t just bring him over myself.” She cleared her throat. “He’s really good with horses and cows. He’s been a dairyman all his life—” She halted, feeling foolish.

  “So you would like the Baron’s agents to reach out to him?”

  The conversation made no sense. Why would a professional tango dancer, who looked like a Cossack, pretend to be a client yet be an employee of the Baron’s emissary and come here to ask about her family? Batya bit her lip. “There must be hundreds—thousands—of people asking Señor Farbstein for his help.”

  Before he had a chance to reply, a light knock sounded on the door. “Is everything all right?” Freda asked.

 

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