The Third Daughter

by Talia Carner

  Moskowitz peeked out of his office again. “Stop the racket, or you’ll go with no food at all.”

  Batya pulled back into the yard and touched her middle. Her stomach’s softness had indeed melted away in recent months.

  Glikel’s final points had hit where it counted. Two days later, Freda hired two cooks. Due to the large quantities of provisions they required, farmers delivered produce to the house a few times a week, which meant that Freda didn’t send Batya to the market as frequently, cutting into Batya’s daily excursions outside the house.

  Now that she was venturing out only twice a week, the highlights of Batya’s days were Ulmann’s weekly visits and the times she tangoed in the pavilion, practicing with a sister, or especially when her partner was Señor Rosenberg. He still refused to use his tokens for what they were supposed to buy him, but on the dance floor he displayed Batya’s beauty as if she were his prize mistress. She became acquainted with his body, the minute shift of his firm torso or the press of his right palm on her back. Her body followed his as he led her backward and sideways, whirled and dipped her. In his arms, she became confident enough to point one leg to the sky, draw an imaginary wide arc, and land it gracefully far behind her.

  How she loved the applause!

  “Bravo!” a man had shouted recently as he clapped his hands. “You should enter the competitions.”

  “I might do that,” Señor Rosenberg had replied, bowing. “With this fine partner here we will even win.”

  For two months now, Batya had been collecting trash from Moskowitz’s wastebasket and giving it to him, yet no word from her family had reached her.

  “They were contacted,” Señor Rosenberg finally told her on his next visit. “They have been in touch with your sister Keyla, and she’ll get on her way to them when summer arrives.”

  It was hard to imagine that the freezing winter was now reigning in Russia while the sweltering heat in Buenos Aires didn’t seem to let up. Even when the icy Siberian roads would finally melt, a woman alone with two toddlers would be at risk from robbers and God knows what else. God, please watch my sister Keyla, daughter of Zelda, on her dangerous travels.

  Batya handed Señor Rosenberg more documents. “Maybe the rest of the family should wait for Keyla in Odessa? It’s safer from pogroms, right?”

  Señor Rosenberg nodded. “We can arrange that.”

  Batya recalled her family’s exile five years earlier. They had been only four people then. This time, though, her family would take no furniture or household items, and she was certain that none had a change of clothes.

  Three weeks later, while rhythmically kicking the bedpost, Señor Rosenberg whispered to Batya that her family was in Odessa, at a hotel.

  If only Keyla hurried up, in a few months, Batya could see them all again! A sudden urge to meet little Vida rose in her. She would adopt and raise her as the daughter that her scarred uterus could never produce. A wave of protectiveness came over Batya. She recalled two big cities where she had stayed with Moskowitz overnight. Had she sailed from Constantinople or Odessa? She’d been too awed and shy then to ask. By now she knew that both had ports from which ships sailed all the way to South America. They were safer from pogroms, but how could her father manage in such a place, waiting for weeks on end? The peasant Surale would be as overwhelmed as Batya had been at fourteen, too paralyzed with fear to even cross the street.

  “How do they eat?” Batya asked. “Where do they live? Are they warm enough?”

  “We house and feed them. Don’t worry.”

  She sighed. “You know about my family’s whereabouts while I can’t even get a letter from my father for months. I want to hear from him directly.”

  “I’ll ask that one is sent through our own courier.” Señor Rosenberg smiled at her. “Do you have more documents for me?”

  Another month passed, another hot, sticky month in which she hated the string of men she had to please. She recalled Nettie’s argument: Did factory or sweatshop workers have it better, chained to their machines all their waking hours? Life was survival, and survival was hard work.

  At least Batya’s time with Ulmann no longer felt like work. His conversation and neediness made her feel valuable, all the more so when he asked her opinion about his artistic designs. For her attention, he rewarded her with a measure of humanity and self-respect.

  Moskowitz surprised her one day when he asked her to accompany him to lunch rather than an after-siesta outing. Unlike cafés that served only drinks and desserts, Calle Florida was a restaurant that roasted a whole cow on a rotating grille right in the street. The smoky smell welcomed Batya and made her mouth water. She sat down with great anticipation for the feast of succulent red meat.

  “Remember your table manners,” Moskowitz told her, just before he was joined by two uniformed military officers and soon by Pedro in his colorful plaid jacket and two other pimps whose names Batya didn’t know. “Act like a French whore, not a polaca,” Moskowitz added, and she lengthened her neck to assume a queenly posture.

  When the slabs of juice-dripping meat were placed in front of the men, Batya received a small, empty plate. Moskowitz sliced off a morsel of his steak and dropped it on her plate, while Pedro and the other men went on to suck on fatty bones, laughing and chatting, never acknowledging Batya’s presence. She took dainty bites of her tiny piece of meat, feeling more like a stray dog that had come begging than a desired high-class French courtesan. Recalling that Freda deducted the cost of the cakes Batya had eaten at the café, she decided it was better not to be charged for this sumptuous meal.

  Lunch over, Moskowitz gestured to Batya to climb into the carriage of the two officers, who took her to a casita.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Midmorning, Batya was about to enter Moskowitz’s office to collect the newspapers when she stopped at the sound of Señor Rosenberg’s voice. She hadn’t seen him in a couple of weeks, had been anxious to receive more news of her family, but now, peeking in, she glimpsed him seated in the guest chair, seemingly in the middle of a friendly chat. Moskowitz laughed at something as Señor Rosenberg gestured with a lit cigarette.

  No! Her heart beat so hard she heard it. Señor Rosenberg had betrayed her. Batya pressed her back against the wall, her head cocked to one side to hear better.

  “Our profession is not for everyone,” Moskowitz said. “Yes, anyone can sell his wife’s services to make a few pesos, maybe recruit one more girl to work for him. But to be a successful businessman, one needs to be both shrewd and charismatic; seductive, while exercising self-control; a skilled manager and a comforter of hysterical females.” He paused. “You need to teach these girls manners, how to save their money, how to make something of themselves. It brings them joy, while you increase their value. It’s a profession that demands the whole of you—your character, your perseverance, and your expertise in many areas, from finance to personal hygiene.”

  The hair stood on Batya’s arms. Was Señor Rosenberg becoming a caftan?

  “You are very proud of your business,” he said.

  “Why shouldn’t I be? Me, Yitzik the Pitzik Moskowitz, a pisherke, a little pisser—a nobody from a poor shtetl, beaten by my father, by my older brothers, by the horse master, by the tavern keeper, you name it. Always beaten and left to rot in the mud. Now, here, every day, when I’m called upon by important people in government, in academia, in the police, I’m showing them all who I really am. ‘Here comes Yitzik Moskowitz,’ they say up and down the street, wherever I go.” His voice as he uttered his own name was deep with self-importance. “They even talk about me in Berlin and New York. And all of this because of what? Because of my entrepreneurial spirit, because of my vision, my clear-eyed ability to smell where the dog is buried. That means having a sixth sense about the market and being able to pick the choice merchandise to meet its demand.”

  Señor Rosenberg let out a chuckle. “And I thought that pimping was easy money. So many people are entering into it.”
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  “Don’t call us that. ‘Pimp’ is a name for criminals, not for my kind of entrepreneurs. We help the economy, which in turn strengthens the government, which is the foundation of stability. We are gentlemen with a strong moral code of mutual aid. We support and help one another. The loans Zwi Migdal gives? We do that by a handshake only; no one signs a piece of paper the way a bank requires you to do. We want our members to succeed, because when the individual becomes stronger and gets respect for his honest dealings, our union becomes stronger and gets more respect.”

  “By ‘respect’ you mean from the goyim?”

  Moskowitz took a deep breath. “I see what you’re hinting at. You’re saying that we have a problem with the stuck-up Jews here? Not really. It’s just talk. They don’t utter a peep of protest when we give them business. The tailors, the jewelers, the importers of silk and brocade, the merchants of the fine china and crystal we buy for our wives—they all bow when we enter their shops. And what about artisans of cabinet and furniture making? The masons and the marble carvers? You name one Jewish business that doesn’t benefit from our largesse.”

  Señor Rosenberg made a noncommittal “Hmm.”

  When Moskowitz spoke again there was delight in his voice. “As far as the goyim are concerned, who do you think finished the renovations of Teatro Colón? Zwi Migdal saw the need, and Zwi Migdal has come to the rescue. You tell me now, how can they not respect us, when we help bring culture and glory to Buenos Aires?” Batya heard the rustling of papers, then Moskowitz went on. “Look. Read it yourself, a letter from the largest yeshiva in Jerusalem. I personally support them. I personally pay for a dozen soup kitchens, hospitals, and immigrants’ charities in Buenos Aires, Rio, and Montevideo—and the Holy Land. You name them, they all come to Yitzik Moskowitz, and Yitzik Moskowitz never turns away any worthy cause.”

  Batya was about to slide away into the depth of the corridor when she heard Freda’s footsteps coming down the back staircase. In a few seconds, she’d be caught eavesdropping. Having no choice, Batya stepped up to the door for her original purpose, to collect the newspapers.

  “Here you are,” Moskowitz said to her. These past couple of years he’d gained weight, and his previously rounded face was now pulled down by his jowls. His blue eyes sank between bags of fatty skin. He smiled, and cold sweat erupted on Batya’s back. She’d known that smile, of the snake before it struck. In her mind’s eye, she saw the hole in the kitchen yard, the one Dora had been thrown into.

  Señor Rosenberg turned and let out a plume of bluish smoke. “Oh, I’m glad you’re here. Come in.”

  Her feet were lead, and she held on to the doorframe for support.

  “Señor Sergio Rosenberg here is making an offer.” Moskowitz licked his lips.

  An offer? Batya clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle a yelp of sorrow. She had been gullible to trust Señor Rosenberg. Now she would become his first prostitute in his new enterprise. She’d be taken away from this house, separated from the sisters she loved, to work at some dingy apartment all alone.

  Her new enslaver wasn’t looking at her as he spoke but regarded Moskowitz as if for approval. “I told him that I would like you to join me as my dance partner in a competition.” Señor Rosenberg turned his head toward Batya. “If you want to, of course.”

  Batya’s glance traveled from one man to the other, her emotions ricocheting. His dance partner, not prostitute. Why would Moskowitz allow her out of the pavilion or away from her window?

  Responding to her unasked question, Moskowitz gestured with both arms magnanimously. “You will bring honor to our house.”

  She looked down at her toes in pink house slippers and tried to make sense of it all. She must think fast. Perhaps Señor Rosenberg had promised to pay for her lost earnings, and her public appearance would draw more men back here. If Señor Rosenberg won his competition, Moskowitz would have a higher-class prostitute for whose services he could charge more.

  When she didn’t respond, Señor Rosenberg asked her, “What do you say?”

  She fought the tears gathering in her throat; crying would only annoy Moskowitz. She shrugged.

  “It’s decided, then.” Moskowitz rose from his chair and extended his hand to Señor Rosenberg. “You can take her for your practice today, as long as she’s back right after siesta time.”

  Confused by this new development, Batya went to her room to change. On the other hand, she told God, at least I’ll be out of the house, doing something I love. But missing my midday meal and my siesta? I’ll be tired all evening. How is that for a reward?

  She put on her ankle-length black skirt and her red blouse, tightening the string that gathered up the scooped neck so the fabric covered her chest rather than exposed her cleavage. She had danced only in her Spanish shawl, which barely concealed her nakedness. At least now she would practice in clothes.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Walking next to Señor Rosenberg, Batya seethed. He had deceived her with false promises to take her away. Now he made sure to keep her in Buenos Aires. It was her fault for having trusted him. She kept her gaze straight.

  They entered the Jewish barrio Once and passed through crowded streets filled with synagogues, mikvehs, and brothels and lined with vendors’ carts. Among the eclectic mix of Jews from Eastern Europe mingling with Jews from Morocco and Syria, no one paid attention to Batya, and, in spite of her frustration at Señor Rosenberg, she enjoyed being chaperoned even if her clothes indicated that she was a prostitute. Having a man at her side—and one so imposing—gave her an air of respectability that kept other men from making lewd remarks and women from raising their noses with superiority.

  “Thank you for agreeing to be my dance partner. Officially, that is.” Señor Rosenberg glanced at her. “This is all part of the plan.”

  “I’m a stupid polaca. Explain to me what you’re doing and why I’m still in Buenos Aires.”

  “I thought I had. Sorry if I wasn’t clear.” In the lull of foot traffic, he stopped. Facing her, he put both hands on her shoulders. His voice was just above a whisper. “Moskowitz has admitted to me directly what he’s been doing. I’m getting closer to being able to destroy him. In the meantime, we’ll participate in tango competitions. These are my excuses to get you out of the house.”

  Someone emptied kitchen garbage out a third-floor window, and the neighbor below poked her head out and screamed upward, waving her fist.

  Batya looked around to make sure no one was close enough to hear, and whispered through clenched teeth. “If you want me to believe you, just take me away from Buenos Aires.”

  “I promise again that I will—after you tell your story to the prosecutor.”

  She stomped her foot. “After I get killed?”

  A group of youngsters in school uniforms burst from a building for their midday break. Señor Rosenberg resumed his walk, and Batya followed. When no one could eavesdrop, he murmured, “You and your identity will be kept strictly confidential. I give you my word on that as well.”

  They passed a section where many tall buildings were under construction, their iron protrusions making the area look like a petrified Siberian forest. Hundreds of laborers perched on scaffolding. Come evening, these downtrodden immigrants—exhausted, disillusioned with life, and resigned to their low status—would shun their crowded bedrooms, spending their money instead on cheap beer while waiting in long queues for their turns with the poorest, most wretched prostitutes of La Boca. That could be Batya’s fate when she aged out of Freda’s brothel or became sick.

  Señor Rosenberg stopped by a vendor seated on the ground who roasted chestnuts on top of a charcoal brazier. He ordered a dozen, and the vendor placed them in a torn newspaper rolled into a cone.

  Batya glanced at the stack of square-cut newspapers by the vendor’s side, then stared. On the top was a caricature of Alfred Dreyfus, showing him as a rabbit with an exaggerated hooked nose. The rabbit sat in a copper cooking pot, about to be stewed. One word, i
n a foreign language, was posted on the pot.

  Noticing her stare, Señor Rosenberg picked up the top paper and nodded his head sadly as he handed it to her. “This is why we mustn’t allow anti-Semitism to spread here in Argentina the way it has in Europe.”

  “Poor man,” Batya mumbled. “What does the word say?”

  “Traitor, in French.”

  “He’s innocent. He’s an honorable man.” Batya felt hot with indignation. “May I keep this?” she asked the seller, and after he shrugged, Batya folded the edges around the drawing and tucked the caricature in her pocket.

  Señor Rosenberg paid the vendor and accepted the chestnuts. He handed Batya the packet, then asked, “May I?” before helping himself to one.

  As they resumed walking, Batya sucked on a meaty chestnut, savoring its earthy, yam-like taste, but the image of the French officer burned in her pocket. She had seen Jewish caricatures in Russia, had cut them away when she and Surale used newspapers to make their Purim costumes.

  “We’re fighting anti-Semitism by draining out the pus in our midst,” Señor Rosenberg continued. “Your testimony will go a long way toward making that happen. It is the key to opening new channels in our investigation.”

  It was ludicrous to think that the words of one prostitute—of a white slave—could be the key to halting anti-Semitism in Argentina. Batya said no more as they entered the wealthy district of Recoleta. She wished that Señor Rosenberg would slow his long stride so she could examine the large private family homes with arched windows, breezy porticos, and lush trees peeking over high walls. This was the life Moskowitz had falsely promised her.

  A matron and her daughter passed by in a carriage. As soon as the mother’s gaze fell upon Batya, she put her hand over the girl’s eyes, forcing her head away. Batya cringed. If Señor Rosenberg had noticed, he gave no sign of it as he turned into a side street. A block away, he indicated a building with heavy wooden double doors. “Here we are.”