The Third Daughter

by Talia Carner

  “What kind of an offer?”

  “I’ll be gone tomorrow or the day after.”

  He pointed at the letter resting on the dresser. “I’ve held up my part of the deal.”

  “And I mine.” Batya bit her lip, thinking of the ring. Dear Ulmann. He would speak with Moskowitz in the morning. “Send me to one of your villages immediately. When my family arrives, they’ll join me.”

  Sergio let out a deep breath, but stared at the ceiling as if the answer were written on it.

  “Well?” she demanded. “You need me in Buenos Aires to steal more documents?”

  He sighed, then gave the bedpost a series of kicks. “Your family’s delay complicates things. I can’t send you to one of the colonies.”

  “Why not?”

  “A woman alone? There are some young families there, but the majority of settlers are men.”

  “I can work the land as hard as any man. Just give me a chance.”

  The furrow between his eyes deepened. “The committee will regard an unchaperoned woman as a scandal. And a former prostitute sent to a village filled with lone men?” Sergio shook his head as if hearing the voices of argument. “It’s a question of morals. You may put this life behind you, but others might not view you the same way. We must be careful to help build a society of the highest principled values, and it might seem to some—”

  Cold, sharp pain constricted Batya’s rib cage. She cut him off, her tone bitter. “It might seem to some that I will contaminate the village?” This was no different from her visit to the women’s section in the synagogue. For the “good” Jews, she would be forever tme’ah.

  “Only if you are alone there. I’m concerned about your safety.” He looked at her. “Also, until twenty-one you’re not even of emancipated age. We’re not sending unaccompanied minors—”

  “It’s settled then.” She could barely suppress the fury in her voice. After all these months he was letting her down. “I’m taking the other offer.”

  “Please don’t. Give me two weeks.”

  She felt a roar in her head. “Ten days. Not a day more.” Her heart contracted at the recollection of the ring and its intertwined letters. She must find a way to buy this time extension out of Ulmann. She stuck her hand inside the mattress, retrieved the page she had torn from the ledger, and handed it to Sergio. “Or you’ll never see the rest of this.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The next morning Batya woke up earlier than her usual late morning habit. Skipping breakfast, she seated herself at her window, her shawl covering her shoulders, in order to catch Ulmann before he spoke with Moskowitz. Her anxiety mounted at the thought that by the end of the day she could be free and installed in Ulmann’s apartment, but instead she must beg him for ten more days. Ten more days in which strange men would use her body and she must pretend to enjoy their foul nearness.

  And Surale’s words in her letter kept pushing at her guilt. Every one of her family members would be disillusioned, either in the farming colonies or in a Buenos Aires slum. When Freda sent her to the market today, Batya would visit the bank and ask the clerk to help her mail to Surale the succinct response she had managed to scribble by herself: I told you how things are for me. Now act.

  On top of it all, there was no twisting away from the fact that she was willing to deceive Ulmann when keeping both his ring and her options open. Her good, honest man deserved better, except that she couldn’t figure out what else she could do.

  To Batya’s surprise, she caught sight of him exiting the house, having missed his arrival. Even with the padded coat, his shoulders seemed to gather downward.

  “Ulmann!” she called out. “You’re not coming to see me?”

  He turned to look at her, his brow contorted in pain.

  Her heart sank. “Please come up.” She pouted her lips to mouth the word “Please.”

  When he handed her the token he’d just purchased from Freda, Batya slipped it right back into his pocket. “Keep it. Just talk to me.” She removed his coat and led him to the upholstered chair, then settled on the sheepskin rug. Resting her chin on Ulmann’s knees, she looked up.

  “I can’t pay him enough.” His voice broke as he stroked her hair. “His share of your winnings in the competition has made him greedy.”

  Batya’s stomach clenched. How could she let this gentle, beautiful-souled man vanish? If her family was going to be stuck in Odessa all winter and Sergio wouldn’t send her to the colonies alone, Ulmann was her only lifeline. She pressed her breasts against his legs. “Couldn’t you take a loan?”

  “And then what? I’ll have to pay it back.” He shook his head sadly. “I’ve calculated my expenses carefully.”

  The money Sergio had given her was for her family. Afterward, though, she might be able to help. “What if I continue to participate in the tango competitions?” Batya asked Ulmann. “Many are taking place all over Argentina. If I win when we live together, my share will be yours to pay back.”

  He shook his head again. “I won’t be your pimp. Even if I can’t make you an honorable married woman, I must still treat both of us with the respect you and I deserve.”

  Didn’t he see that by treating her with respect, he was condemning her to the degradation of prostitution? Batya rose to her knees and took his face between her palms. “Listen,” she whispered, “dancing is reputable.”

  He frowned. “Your winning is not guaranteed. I’ll be in debt if you don’t.”

  Would he ask for his ring back? Batya racked her brain for something to say to convince Ulmann to hold on to their dream. In her mind’s eye, she saw the apartment and her plant-filled veranda. There was no visual picture of the obscure future Sergio still dangled in front of her. “Do you know why I’m not encouraging offers from other suitors?” she asked Ulmann. “Because I want the same thing you do—for us to be together.”

  He let her comfort him in her bed. It was Batya, not Esperanza, who made love to him, Batya who didn’t need to insert her protection cup, trusting that Ulmann wasn’t carrying diseases from other women.

  When he was about to leave, he hugged her tightly and buried his face in her hair. “Cherish our ring and remember that this is the last time I’ll be traveling to Montevideo without you.”

  So he’d still try to figure out a way to buy her from Moskowitz. With tears brimming in her eyes, Batya hugged him back.

  Sergio returned a few days later. “There’s a tango competition coming up in Río Negro. That’s south of here, a long train ride that will require an overnight stay,” he told Batya in her chamber. “I’ve secured Moskowitz’s permission.”

  “No more, I said.”

  He let out a small smile. “Instead of heading south, though, we’ll go north, to Santa Fe. It will take Moskowitz two days to realize that you’re gone.”

  This was it. What she had prayed for. Yet with the sudden exhilaration came the pang of never seeing Ulmann again, of the fantasy of their life together evaporating—and the ugliness of her deception. “What will happen when I don’t return? Zwi Migdal will come down on you.”

  “As soon as I return I’ll report that you ran away. Got off at one of the stops.”

  She stared at him. “They’ll look for me. I’ll be forever a fugitive, wanted by the police for escaping my ‘husband.’ I’m registered with the city as belonging to Freda.” Her slave.

  “Because you’re still a minor, you’ll be adopted by a recent widow. You will officially become her daughter under a new name, and you’ll live in her house.”

  Fear crept into Batya’s heart. For the second time in her life, she would accompany a man to some destination of which she knew almost nothing, and instead of starting a new life as a mistress of her own home, she would become someone’s child, or, more likely, her unpaid maid.

  For now, she and Sergio had to re-create their make-believe sex. Batya moved on the mattress, creaking the springs beneath. “When?” she asked.

  “The competition, wh
ich we’ll miss, is scheduled for Friday night. We will leave Thursday afternoon so we can arrive in Moïseville before Shabbat. The only thing I need from you to finalize the arrangements is the ledger.”

  It was Monday. Only three more days of servicing men. “I don’t keep it with me here.”

  “Where is it?” His tone was sharp.

  “Hidden in a safe place.”

  “I must have it.”

  “I’ll bring it to the train with me.”

  He stiffened. “Don’t you trust me?”

  “I trust my mother in heaven and my father, may his name remain with the living.” She wasn’t sure whether she trusted God, the way He’d failed her.

  Sergio swung his legs off the bed. “You’re sure it is safe, wherever it is?”

  “Yes.” She ignored the flash of anger on Sergio’s face. “You asked me to trust your promise. Now I ask that you trust mine.”

  For a while he said nothing while she rocked the bed. “Don’t think that we are not grateful for what you’ve done,” he said. “It took courage. You took risks for the Jews that you dislike—”

  “Jews that despise me and the likes of me,” she corrected, then paused. “I have an idea for when you bring Zwi Migdal down. About all the sisters you will release from bondage.”

  “What is that?”

  “A women’s village. No men. Just women working in agriculture. While your Baron is liberating Jews from across the ocean, how about the thousands of us who could be liberated here? We’ll learn new skills and start a new life.”

  A twinkle of a smile flitted in Sergio’s coal-dark eyes. “Not a bad idea, but quite impractical,” he said. “Who will teach women the agricultural skills if we don’t allow men in the village? We need the help of the gauchos and other experts, and sadly, none of them are women.”

  “For one thing, I will have a head start. I could be learning some of these skills very soon.”

  He laughed. “It takes years to become an expert at irrigation, land management, and husbandry.”

  “We are a tough bunch. We’ve been through a lot. Try us.” Her hand swept the outside of the room. “What hasn’t killed us has made us stronger.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  She was finally leaving. Rescued. How Batya wished she could say goodbye to her friends. The sisters had become her family; even the bellicose Glikel was a part of her emotional landscape. How could she just walk away forever, never to see the sisters again?

  Not forever, she reminded herself. When the Honorable Joaquin Ramos proceeded with his prosecution, the enslaved prostitutes in this city and beyond would be set free. She imagined herself on the train back to Buenos Aires, arriving just as Kolkowski had done, to pick up the first group to settle in their own women’s village.

  Unlike the bewildered Jews whom Kolkowski had led to the train, the sisters would laugh and sing all the way to Moïseville, and from there to her village. Esperanzaville. To her village of hope. Batya giggled at the play on her name. In their gardens, the sisters would plant vegetables. They would grow their own cucumbers, beets, carrots, peppers—and those other odd vegetables Batya had learned to like in Argentina: squash, tomatoes, and eggplants.

  The sisters mistook the smile gracing Batya’s face as she moved about her chores for their own excitement about the upcoming second competition. Batya would win, they all agreed, and they shared advice about hair and makeup. Glikel insisted that Batya take her carpetbag for her overnight trip, because it would bring Glikel good luck. After a polite refusal, Batya had to accept it, knowing that she wouldn’t be returning it. Sergio had warned that she wasn’t to raise suspicion by packing all her belongings, only one outfit and a change of underthings. At the last moment, she would remove her bank savings book, her family’s letters, and the hidden jewelry.

  As she watched her friends as if from a distance, it occurred to Batya that she had been so engrossed in her dreams that she had deluded herself that they all craved freedom. But Rochel had just charted a new future for herself. Glikel, like many other sisters accustomed to this life, enjoyed her opium and the privileges that came with earning money—pretty clothes, jewelry, café and theater outings, wine and champagne, abundant food, and nightly parties. Why replace such a fun-filled life with one of hard homestead labor? Not unlike the way many sisters failed to save their earnings for the future, they failed to face the transient nature of this lifestyle.

  The following days passed in a haze. Ulmann had left on his trip, and she would not be saying goodbye to him. Dear Ulmann, who wanted her only, not her large family, and she understood. Whoever heard of a man taking on someone’s parents and children? Batya regretted breaking his heart, but they would both get over their shattered dream, she told herself. In the meantime, she worked hard to lure clients so Moskowitz and Freda wouldn’t find an excuse to pose a last-minute obstacle to her travel. Rochel was watching her, too, assessing her candidacy for the new brothel. Going through her chores, servicing the clients, Batya transported her thoughts toward her new life. At long last, it was close.

  Thursday morning, after a rainy night, Freda sent her to the market early to shop. Batya headed first to Rafael’s cart. But when she rounded the corner into his street, she stopped in her tracks and stared, stupefied.

  The cart wasn’t in its usual spot.

  Batya’s eyes grazed the empty space, her heart sinking. She walked to the nearest vendor, who sold pineapples. His hands moved quickly as he sliced.

  “Have you seen the sweets seller?” she asked.

  “He’s not here.”

  “I know he’s not here. I’ve come for my almond drink. Where is he?”

  The pineapple vendor shrugged. “His brother took him away two days ago.”

  “The doctor said I must have my almond drink. Wasn’t he supposed to be going home only on alternate weekends?”

  “Brother was angry.”

  “Angry about what?”

  “What am I, their mother?” Two customers reached for slices of pineapple, and the vendor made an impatient gesture with his knife. “Señorita, buy or move.”

  Her heart pounding in panic, Batya bought a slice, trying to figure out what to do. This afternoon Sergio would pick her up. Only when they arrived at the train would he learn that the promised ledger was gone. She would explain, apologize, and beg not to be sent back.

  Yet he might do just that.

  Her stomach knotted, and her apprehension mounting, Batya returned to the house. She had just dismissed the boy she’d hired in the market to carry her baskets when she spotted Sergio in the pavilion, hours earlier than had been agreed upon. He wore a cream-colored travel suit and a white shirt, its collar open. Next to him rested a long cloth bag, out of which peeked her rented pink performance dress.

  For a split second Batya thought that he’d found out about Rafael’s disappearance.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, smiling uncharacteristically widely, probably for Freda’s sake.

  “I thought you weren’t leaving until later,” the boyish Juliet piped from the depth of a sofa, where she sat with three other girls. They all rose up. “We’ve planned to give you a proper farewell.”

  “The train schedule has changed,” Sergio interrupted, and his eyebrows zigzagged at Batya. She understood enough not to question him.

  She ran up to her chamber to gather her belongings. Earlier, she had folded the change of dress into the carpetbag along with the baking soda with which she cleaned her teeth, her hairbrush, the eye kohl, cheek rouge, and lip coloring, and the cream she used to remove her makeup. Now she retrieved her father’s letters from her dresser drawer and threw them into the bag, then slid under the bed, moved the trunk, yanked out the loose stone, and withdrew her treasures. She wondered whether she should leave Ulmann’s ring behind, but there was no time to unfurl the jewelry pouch.

  Just as she pushed the trunk back and scrambled to her feet, Glikel entered her room.

  “What’s down ther
e?” Glikel’s eyes darted from the bed to the packet in Batya’s hand.

  “None of your business. Leave my room.” Batya tossed a last glance at the room, purposely left as if she had gone out on a stroll: her velvet robe that she so loved was thrown casually on the bed, her comfortable pink slippers strewn like neglected children by her dresser, where half her clothes remained. She pushed Glikel out and closed the door. Behind her she heard her door reopen, but there was no time to fight. In a minute, Glikel would crawl under the bed and find enough objects of desire in the trunk to sell for her opium consumption. It would make up for Batya’s failure to return the carpetbag.

  Tucking her jewelry pouch and bankbook in her skirt pockets, Batya rushed downstairs. A dozen sisters hugged her, offering prayers for the road and good wishes for the competition. When it was Rochel’s turn, Batya held her tight, holding back tears.

  “You’re not scared of the competition, are you?” Rochel untangled herself and looked at Batya with concern. “Don’t be. You’ll be great!”

  Batya nodded, glad that her friend had misinterpreted her goodbye. To hide her misted eyes, she turned her head toward Sergio as he picked up her bag, and allowed herself to be led out, his hand on her lower back.

  Giggling and chattering, the sisters followed them to the carriage that had been waiting. Once Batya was inside, the carpetbag in her lap, she smiled and waved at the sisters. She glanced up at the climbing vine reaching the blue shutters. She would never see this house again. A vision of Aida onstage flitted through her head. Like the Nubian princess, she was being rescued—if Sergio allowed her on the journey once he learned the truth.

  The carriage pulled away. In a moment, Sergio would ask for the ledger. A tremor that had begun in Batya’s lips traveled down her throat. She coughed.

  Against the clip-clopping of the horse’s hoofs, she heard the ringing bells of a fire wagon and moments later saw it rush by, followed by two more, each with a large water cylinder and pump at the back and uniformed firemen urging the horses in the front. At the loud ringing of their bells and shouts of the firemen instructing everyone in the street to open the path, Batya put her hand on her heart to still it.