The Third Daughter

by Talia Carner

  The doors opened into a milonga, dimly lit by red lamps. Only a half dozen couples danced at this midday hour to music played on the small piano.

  Batya stopped in her tracks at the sight of the musical instrument. There was no musician. The keys were moving of their own accord.

  “A ghost!” She held her palms forward to ward off the bad spirit.

  “It’s a pianola.” Señor Rosenberg pointed to the side of the instrument. “You see that perforated paper roll? It pulls the keys down from the inside. No ghosts in this building.” He nodded his head to the proprietor at the bar and led Batya to a staircase.

  Feeling foolish, she followed him up the two flights to a large loft that extended across the length of the building. He threw open the shutters of the windows at both ends. As a pleasant breeze glided in, he walked to a small table in the corner where an earthenware jug sat and poured two glasses of water. He handed one to her.

  Tears filled her eyes.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked. “Not another ghost?”

  She shook her head, busying herself with the drink to hide how grateful she felt. How could she tell him how much the simple act of handing her a glass of water meant to her? Clients offered her wine or fruity liqueur, but not as a gesture of kindness. Even when she visited Rafael, she always asked for his almond drink; the simpleton never thought of it on his own. The last time a man had shown her such a basic courtesy was in the bowels of the ship, the water brought by the boy looking for his lost sister, whose fate Batya now understood.

  A small, dark man appeared at the door, wiping perspiration from his face after the difficult climb. He unpacked from its case his bandoneón and, at Señor Rosenberg’s gesture, began to pump this accordion-like instrument, his fingers running over the keys on both sides.

  “First, now that we are official partners, call me Sergio.”

  Batya placed the empty glass on the table and shrugged as if it were all the same to her, but it wasn’t. He was a man, like all others. Keeping the honorific “señor” would remind her not to fully trust him. “Sergio,” she murmured.

  He took her palm in his. “We’ll prepare three dances. One you already know, but we’ll add adornos, embellishments to our performance. I’ll lift you up in the air, and you’ll help me by vaulting into position.” He demonstrated his part and then marked hers. “Let’s try it.”

  It took a couple of fumbling attempts before Batya had enough confidence in both herself and him to jump and stay up, held aloft. “Hold your arms straight up; curve your spine back,” he instructed once she stayed in place. He supported one leg and told her to extend the other. When he brought her down, his fingers above her head sent her into a double spin.

  “Wow.” She smiled. How she loved the freedom of being airborne!

  He worked with her on a quick succession of steps that required her full concentration—a brisk tapping against her own shin, front and back; the hook of her leg on his; wrapping her bent leg around his hip; and the scissoring of her feet between his.

  “Splendid,” he said. “Stretch and practice on your own between lessons.”

  He gestured to the musician to start another song and laid his hand on Batya’s shoulder bone in an abrazo. The music rushed through Batya, down to her toes. All her muscles were taut, and passion surged through her limbs. Yet as Sergio guided her into a series of syncopated grapevine steps, she avoided responding to the challenge of his smoldering stare, to his masculine authority. While she gave her body to the dance and her cheek touched Sergio’s in a simulation of romance, she held back from giving her heart to the longing for another life and love. It would only weaken her.

  An hour had passed when two well-dressed men entered the room. These must be the organizers of the dance competition, Batya thought, looking at Sergio for an explanation. He danced her toward them. Stopping, he bowed to the older gentleman, and then pointed the younger man toward the table in the corner. The younger man, with pink cheeks and wearing a brown suit, pulled the table away from the wall and set up two chairs on each side.

  “Take a seat, please,” the older man said to Batya. He was dressed in black and had silver hair that, although oiled, fanned out like a dandelion.

  Sergio nodded his assent. “Meet the Honorable Joaquin Ramos, the prosecutor,” he said to Batya in Yiddish. “He wants to ask you a few questions.”

  They spoke little on the way back. Batya was emotionally drained from reliving the horrors of her initial captivity, from articulating its experiences in words. Señor Joaquin Ramos’s probing questions—asked kindly but unrelentingly—brought back the fear and agony of those early days five years before. The rapes, starvation, caging, and beatings rushed back with all their force. At one point, she bolted from her seat and, gagging, ran to the spittoon in the corner of the room.

  While she was vomiting, a cool palm pressed her forehead, and she glimpsed the bottom of Sergio’s pressed white trousers. When she straightened, coughing, he let go of her and went out to the stairwell, where he called down an order for a meat sandwich, tea, and cake.

  Once she had revived, though, the questions continued.

  Now, walking in the streets, her legs felt as weak as if she had danced those two hours of interrogation. Hopefully, she could salvage a half hour’s siesta before the late afternoon work, which wouldn’t end until just before dawn.

  Her cheeks ached from speaking Spanish; she had never used that language for more than flirting with a client, bargaining with a vendor, or instructing the house helpers who handled the heavy laundry and lavatory cleaning. When she stumbled or was at a loss for words, Sergio came to her rescue. She told him the Yiddish words and he translated them for her, but for the young man taking notes, it was required that she utter the Spanish herself.

  Señor Ramos must have been dissatisfied with her story, because he kept grilling her for more details. Just the recollection of how he had made her repeat or expand on every moment of her suffering had made her feel exploited all over again. Sergio’s presence nearby, hearing everything—well-meaning though he was—magnified her disgrace.

  At the end of the session, the young man asked Batya to sign every page of his large notepad. How proud she was when, presented with an ink pad for her fingerprint, she instead courageously took his pen and signed her name. She knew how to do it only in Yiddish, not in Spanish—and had never held a pen. The ink smeared while her hand moved over the letters from right to left, but it was her name. She’d written it herself in ink!

  “A signature is a signature, and we are witnesses,” Joaquin Ramos had said.

  Now she and Sergio rounded the corner onto a tree-lined street, and he finally spoke. “Thank you for telling it all. I knew you women suffered, yet I didn’t imagine how much.”

  Batya placed her hand on her heart to still it. With all her reporting, she hadn’t really told how bad it was. She had been unable to express the feelings on the ship, when she’d wake from a stupor as more men mauled her nipples and kneaded her flesh; how their rough-skinned hands pawed her and how they tore into her small body while she screamed, only to be beaten for crying. She recalled, but had not spoken of, passing out, only to wake to that throbbing pain deep in her gut, that burning below, that degradation of the person she had once been. She had reported wishing to die, to follow Shayna into the ocean, but not her frustration at hearing the ocean’s blessed roar just outside the steel walls, out of her reach.

  That roar suddenly filled her head, and the world shifted. Batya stumbled.

  Sergio caught and steadied her. “Are you all right?”

  “No.” She took in a deep breath. “And I won’t be until I’m out of here.” She took a tentative step forward.

  His hand still held her arm. “You understand why I can’t be one of those men in your chamber?”

  She glanced at him and was astonished to see his reddened eyes. She took another step and then, feeling secure on her feet, marched on.

  S
ergio’s tone was soft when he spoke again. “Your testimony will be a great service for the entire Jewish community.”

  “Was that a testimony? I thought that it would take place in a courtroom.”

  “In a courtroom you’d be exposed.”

  And murdered by nightfall. She snorted. “What will Señor Ramos do with what I’ve said? Prostitution is legal.”

  “Prostitution may be legal, but not kidnapping and enslavement, nor is the use of brutal force. And corruption of officials is definitely against the law.”

  “Zwi Migdal has spies everywhere. Moskowitz will find out what you’re doing—what I’m doing—”

  “Very few people know about this investigation. Our cover—training for competitions—is good. I promise.” As he had done before, he raised his hand, his fingers split into two pairs, like a biblical Jewish priest. “In the meantime, I have news to cheer you up: your sister Keyla is making the journey to join your family.”

  “By train?”

  “There’s no train in Siberia. She’s probably traveling by various coaches across the endless steppes, over rivers and through forests and swamps.” He paused. “It might be shorter to travel the other direction, through Shanghai, but not less complicated and grueling.”

  A surge of worry swept over Batya. “She’s a woman alone. Can’t your Baron do something?”

  “We aren’t in contact with her. Your father only knows to wait for her because of one letter he received.” Batya barely had a moment to rejoice when Sergio went on. “In the meantime, you are helping not only the entire Jewish community but also the many thousands of Jewish refugees who will arrive here soon.”

  She stopped in her tracks and faced him. “You talk about your Jewish reputation. The good reputation of those kosher Jews who snub women like me, who think that we are the dirt of the earth.” Her hand swept to encompass the city. “Let’s say you free the prostitutes. What will happen to them—to us? There are thousands of us in Buenos Aires. How are we going to live? Who’s going to employ us—and in what jobs?”

  He touched her elbow to indicate that they should resume walking. She took a long step ahead of him, her anger percolating. When he caught up with her, she spat, “Would your wife employ a former prostitute in your home? Would your married sister bring one into her house? What about your mother—wouldn’t she be worried that your father would crawl into the new maid’s bed?”

  “I don’t have a wife or a sister, and my father is deceased, so my mother wouldn’t be harboring such thoughts.” He paused. “But I see your point.”

  “I know a woman, Leila. She used all her savings to buy her freedom from her pimp and planned to take in laundry to wash and iron for clients. No one would let her touch their soiled clothes. She was starving. Finally, she had no choice but to beg her pimp to take her back.”

  Sergio was silent for a moment as they continued to walk. “You’re right. We’ll need to think of a solution, but with so many women I can’t imagine what it could be.”

  Chapter Forty

  Fall 1895

  Ulmann rested on Batya’s bed. He’d been in her chamber for almost two hours; lately he made sure to purchase from Freda enough tokens to satisfy his need for Batya’s companionship.

  “You have no idea how it feels to spend every evening sitting alone in my house with not a soul to talk to,” he said, as if Batya hadn’t heard it before. “My boys are busy doing their homework, and my wife is like a mummy wrapped in sheets, lying in her room with her night maid knitting by her bed.” He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “The more I read literature and poetry, the more loneliness is eating me up.”

  He passed his hands over Batya’s naked back and asked her to emulate his movements with her hands on his bare skin. “The human touch,” he whispered. “No soul can survive without this very simple need being fulfilled. Thank you for bringing me back to life.”

  After he got dressed, he lingered, a pleasant smile on his face. “I’ve brought you a poem I know will touch you.” He settled on the upholstered chair, had Batya perch on his knees, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper typeset in Yiddish. “It’s called ‘The Circus Lady,’ by Celia Dropkin.”

  I’m a circus lady,

  I dance between the knives

  standing in the ring,

  tips pointing up.

  My lightly bending body

  avoids death from falling

  by brushing lightly, lightly against the blades.

  Breathless, they watch me dance

  and someone prays for me.

  Before my eyes the points

  flash in a fiery wheel,—

  and no one knows how I want to fall.

  I’m tired of dancing between

  you, cold steel knives.

  I want my blood to scald you,

  I want to fall

  on your naked tips.

  Tears had gathered in Batya’s eyes even before he was done. Did a client finally understand?

  He touched her face and kissed her mouth. Then, still seated, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a key and dangled it in front of her face.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “What does it look like?”

  “A key.” Her heart gave a flip. Was it finally happening?

  “That’s right. I’ve purchased an apartment in Barrio Norte, and I am asking you to live there.” His voice lost its force. “If you want me, of course.”

  She couldn’t believe her good luck. Yet— “Your poor wife. Will she get better?”

  He shook his head. “The doctors agree that she’s deteriorating.”

  Batya dropped down to her knees, closing her arms around his waist. “Of course I want you.” She tilted her head back and, using her sweetest tone, said, “You’ll talk to Moskowitz?”

  “I’m prepared to pay him. I am a man of comfortable means, but not wealthy. My store is small, and my expenses are high, what with my wife’s medical bills and my saving for my boys’ education. The oldest is about to leave for boarding school in England.” Ulmann held both of Batya’s hands in his and brought the tips of her fingers to his lips. “I can guarantee you a small stipend, enough to pay for your food and those little things you women find so charming. Also some clothes—nothing extravagant, but of the style you can wear to accompany me to the theater.”

  Her heart sang. Ulmann didn’t need to add that he would be her only man. She would be done with her life of prostitution. Being a mistress was a thousand times better—and there could never be a more gentle, more considerate patron.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, and planted little kisses all over his face. “I will make you very happy.”

  “What was your given name, your Jewish name before Esperanza?”

  “Batya.”

  “Batya,” he repeated. “I’m Bernardo. Baruch at the synagogue, but call me Bernie.”

  Baruch meant “blessed.” He was her blessing. “Bernie,” she whispered.

  “My Batya.” He looked deeply into her eyes. “Of all the letters of the alphabet, both our names begin with bet. We’re meant for each other.”

  The moment felt ceremonial. Batya, not Esperanza, was being chosen. She smiled, unable to find more words of gratitude.

  He drew her close and spoke into her hair. “Will you be my lifelong companion? It’s settled, then?”

  Gently, she pulled back and cleared her throat. “There’s just one thing.”

  “Moskowitz. I know. I’ll take care of it.”

  She swallowed. “I’m saving to bring my family out of Russia.”

  “Your parents?”

  “My father and two sisters.” She couldn’t even mention their families. Nor Vida, the orphan baby sister she wanted to adopt. “Will you help me do that?”

  Ulmann rose to his feet and looked down at her. “So you will be encumbered by taking care of them? That would negate the whole point of our arrangement.”

  She felt herself falling off a
cliff. Please, God, don’t let him rescind his offer. I can’t lose this good man. She stood up to face Ulmann. Her voice was sore to her own ears as she said, “Will you give me time to make the arrangements?”

  He nodded, but the magic seemed to have evaporated from the room.

  The next morning, Batya stood in her window, holding in her palm Ulmann’s promise—she still couldn’t think of him as Bernie. Her key to freedom. She closed her fist on it, feeling its long, cold shaft and its cluster of sharp teeth. How much time would he give her? His emotional needs would surely pressure her into a decision.

  This was her one and only chance for happiness; there would never be another. The comfortable middle-class neighborhood of Barrio Norte wasn’t the expensive Recoleta, where some wealthy patrons installed their French mistresses, but the prospects of the new life awaiting Batya in her own home—a lifelong companion of only one man, a most pleasant gentleman—far exceeded the dreams of any polaca. Even if Ulmann wasn’t handsome, he dwelled in a world of beauty through his love of poetry and his exquisite jewelry. When she looked at him, she no longer saw his bland features, but rather his insightful soul that appreciated subtlety. In his sensitivity, Ulmann must have seen the purity of her heart—of Batya’s, not Esperanza’s. And even if he wasn’t wealthy, he seemed to have just enough to support both his family and a mistress. He was still young. With her encouragement, he would expand his business.

  But unlike Ulmann, Sergio had promised to bring her family over. How could she let down poor Keyla, who suffered so much and was struggling through the wild, vast Siberia to make her way here? And Vida, for whom Batya already felt deep love? Sergio’s words, though, were only that—words, and any prostitute who believed in promises was a fool. For all Batya knew, his scheme might come to naught, and in her gullibility she would miss her only chance to break away from Moskowitz’s shackles.