The Third Daughter

by Talia Carner

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  At the train station, a tall, slim man in a European charcoal-gray suit and matching hat waited for them. He carried a bag, and now Batya noticed that Sergio had none, only her performance dress. The memory of Moskowitz transferring her to Grabovsky in the lobby of the hotel struck her, and she clutched Sergio’s arm.

  Without speaking, the man started along the platform, Batya and Sergio following. Suddenly, he glanced about, then turned abruptly into the nearest car. Batya rushed to climb in behind him, afraid to look back. With Sergio making way for her, they pushed through the car of high-backed wooden benches, under which passengers stacked packages, straw baskets, and suitcases. Children tried to run up and down the aisle, dodging people’s legs.

  Three cars later, Batya and her two companions entered a quieter car divided into private compartments, each with leather-upholstered seats facing each other. The man in the gray suit led them into one and closed the door behind them. He handed his bag to Sergio and planted himself in front of the door’s window, his hands clasped and his gaze straight into the corridor.

  Batya felt the air thickening with tension. Any moment, before someone came to get her, Sergio would ask for the ledger, and she would have to tell him where to retrieve it in a few days when Rafael returned. If the silent man who was checking the traffic outside their cabin was one of Moskowitz’s goons, he would break her bones for the deception.

  Sergio took a few items of clothing from his bag and laid them on the seat next to Batya. “Change into these.” He rose to turn his back to her.

  She fingered the unfamiliar clothes. “What are they?”

  “A gaucho’s outfit.”

  Her anxiety was assuaged at the safety precautions. She quickly pulled on the dark trousers—the first pair she’d ever worn—and removed her skirt. Her white shirt fit under the short leather vest, though it failed to hide the bulge of her breasts. She tied the red scarf around her neck, then glanced at the filth of the wide-brimmed brown felt hat. Gathering up her mane of hair, she tucked it into the hat’s cavity.

  When she sat down again, she saw that Sergio had tied a similar scarf around his neck, smeared a dark substance on his already tanned skin to make himself look dirty, and put on a similarly old hat.

  Passengers passed in the corridor, and Batya could hear the thumping of valises in the cabins to the right and left. Porters called out, men gave orders, and women fussed over their broods and packages. Once in a while Sergio glanced through the glass at the goings-on or stepped into the corridor to check the platform, clearly alert to some danger.

  “Sergio—” Batya began, but he raised his hand to hush her. She pressed her back to the seat. The last time she had been on a train, she was grieving the separation from her family, ashamed of her rape, and fearful of the unknown future. That old dread now felt like drinking milk that had gone sour. She was tired of being afraid.

  The minutes stretched. Batya fidgeted in her seat. She would have liked to watch the platform to see for herself if someone was pursuing her, but her window faced away from it, onto other tracks and trains. She closed her eyes and willed her heartbeat to slow down.

  The conductor passed through the corridor, calling out, “All aboard! All aboard!”

  The tall man withdrew tickets from his pocket and fanned them out to count. Six, Batya noticed. He had bought the whole cabin, just as Moskowitz had once done. He handed them to Sergio, took the dress bag, nodded an acknowledgment to Batya, and closed the door behind him as he left.

  A moment later the door reopened. Batya was shocked to see Ulmann. His hair was disheveled, he dragged his jacket by its loop, and perspiration damped his cotton shirt. Forgetting that she was dressed as a gaucho, she stood up, and recognized her mistake only when Ulmann’s eyes widened. “I thought I saw you just as I got off my train from Montevideo. What are you doing?” His glance rested on Sergio and pain crinkled his brow. “You’re running off with another man?”

  Batya pasted a reassuring smile on her lips, hating what she had to do. “Oh, no! I’m only going to a dance competition. Remember?”

  “Why are you dressed like this?” He shook his head. “And where is that competition supposed to be?”

  “In Río Negro.”

  “You’re on the wrong train.”

  A huge whistle tore the sky, and the train jerked. Sergio rose to his feet. He was taller and broader that Ulmann.

  “She’s mine.” Ulmann began to weep. “Where are you taking her?”

  “I must ask you to leave.”

  Forced to back away, Ulmann craned his neck to see Batya. “You told me not to give up. I’ve sold my merchandise. I have the money—”

  Clammy fingers of fear traversed Batya’s spine. If he believed that she wasn’t running away, Ulmann might go directly to Moskowitz to negotiate. He’d report which train she was on. She stood, fighting her panic, hating to lie. “Please,” she said. “Bernie, it’s not what you think.”

  “You’re coming back, then?” he cried as Sergio’s chest pressed against him to edge him out of the cabin. “Don’t leave me—”

  She froze at his cry. Sergio might let her off at the next stop. Ulmann was handing her yet again her last chance at happiness. Batya reached out her hand, wanting to call out to him that she might be returning after all—

  “Out!” Sergio, his back to her, commanded. When Ulmann stood his ground, Sergio pushed him.

  “Please don’t hurt him,” Batya cried out. She collapsed on the seat, her hands over her ears to block the scuffling outside. “I’m so sorry, Ulmann,” she whispered. “So sorry. You couldn’t give me what I wanted most in the world.”

  The train began to move. Sergio returned alone.

  “Is he hurt?” she asked, her tears welling up. “He’s a dear man. A friend—”

  “I should have considered we’d run into an admirer.” Sergio shook his head. “I warned him that if he told Moskowitz you’d be killed.”

  Batya lowered her head. She had betrayed the one man who had ever given her his heart.

  The car clanked as it hit another before settling into a rhythm and crawled out of the station. After the train gathered speed, Sergio rose, checked the corridor, then sat down.

  “Sergio—” Batya began. “I don’t have the ledger.”

  “I know.”

  The roots of her hair contracted as the blood drained from them. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you sure you had it in the first place?”

  “Of course I had it! I’d torn a page for you.”

  “It was found in the possession of some wretched man on the other side of town. Some villager brought it to the police.”

  “I—I hid it—”

  Sergio held up his hand, stopping her. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Let me talk.” His voice was just above a whisper.

  Her cheeks burned. Poor Rafael. His brother must have found the ledger and handed it over to the authorities. That’s why he had been angry with Rafael, as the pineapple vendor had reported.

  “Are you listening?” Sergio asked. When Batya leaned forward, too, he continued. “There was a bombing this morning. In Joaquin Ramos’s house. He was killed. His office burned down.”

  The meaning of Sergio’s words sank in slowly, like dandelion seeds drifting into the grass. The prosecutor was dead. His investigation—his notes, the letters she had stolen, her written testimony—all had gone up in smoke. Batya dropped her face into her hands. There would be no revenge. No destroying Moskowitz, no taking down Zwi Migdal, no releasing of the thousands of sisters from bondage. She recalled the sight of the frantic charge of fire wagons. The blaze must have raged for hours after the bombing. It must have spread to nearby houses.

  No! Please, God. The syncopated chugging of the train hammered in Batya’s ears, noise filling her head. She heard the screams of people being burned alive. Her theft of the ledger had set off a deadly chain reaction. “It’s me,” she whisper
ed. “I caused it. I hid the ledger in a sweets seller’s cart—”

  Sergio grabbed her hands. “No, you didn’t. We know from our contact at the police that the ledger was delivered after the bombing. It couldn’t have been the result of it. Do you understand? It could have resulted from no more than a suspicion based upon the many interviews Joaquin Ramos had conducted. He’d made his stance on the matter known.” Sergio’s voice softened. “We failed, but not because we didn’t do the right thing.” His hand rested on Batya’s shoulder. The two of them were quiet for some time. She felt his hand tremble.

  Although she’d never seen it unclothed, she knew his body so well. He was suffering, too.

  “Tickets!” The conductor opened the door, breaking their contact. “Concepcion del Uruguay,” he announced.

  Uruguay? Ulmann was correct that she was on the wrong train. Batya waited until the conductor left before she asked, “Am I not going to Moïseville?”

  “In light of the discovery, it’s not safe for you to stay in Argentina. I’m taking you to Montevideo. There, you’ll embark on a ship to Marseille, and from there, as soon as our agent finds a ship to Jaffa, you’ll sail there.”

  She stared at him. “In the Holy Land?”

  He smiled. “Is there another Jaffa?”

  Jaffa, where Jonah had tried in biblical times to escape God’s mission. Batya’s brain worked slowly as she processed this new development. “What’s in Jaffa?”

  “Your father.”

  She sat up. “My father? My sisters, too?”

  Sergio nodded. “He can’t make the long ocean crossing to get here, but he can make the trip to the Holy Land. It is his wish, too.”

  “Is he well enough to travel?”

  “The boat trip from Odessa to Jaffa takes several days, not weeks. They will all arrive there long before you do.”

  Batya smiled, a long-forgotten exhilaration rising in her. She would be reunited with her family! She would breathe her father’s beard, meet Surale’s husband, cry in Keyla’s arms, meet all the children—and kiss Vida for the first time. Her mother’s presence would envelop them all in its protective wings.

  “What will we do in the Holy Land?”

  “The same thing you’d planned to do in Argentina. The Baron has been supporting agricultural villages there.”

  She looked out the window. The Argentine landscape rolled by. She’d never ventured outside the city boundaries and now saw for the first time green fields stretching into the distance, their furrows like sheared corduroy. Soon, they were replaced by a farm with bales of hay stacked in an open barn. A few laborers, unshaven and wearing striped ponchos, sat around a fire. One of them poured from a kettle what must be yerba maté tea. Another turned a chunk of meat on a spit. It sizzled and smoked.

  The train sped on, and Batya saw a farmer on a large cart, its bed piled high with green produce she couldn’t identify. The cart was pulled by a pair of healthy bulls harnessed under a carved wooden yoke. The man wore a large straw hat, and his blue kerchief was tied low, over the center of his chest. From the upward tilt of his throat, she could tell he must be singing.

  Next, Batya observed two women sitting on stools outside a stone farmhouse. Their legs were apart, their aprons sagging with the weight of the vegetables they were peeling. Moments later, a lake reflected the blue sky, and two fishermen cast their poles at its edge.

  This was the Argentina she would never get to know, even if she knew its men too intimately. At last, she was departing, never to return. She was saying goodbye to the exotic fruits and vegetables she had grown to love and to the bustling city of Buenos Aires she had grown to enjoy. She would also be saying goodbye to tango and the passions it evoked—and, more so, to Sergio, this man who, by refusing to view her as tme’ah, had given her a new sense of herself.

  Her carpetbag rested on the seat next to her. Batya opened it, took out a pouch, then rose and slid open the window. She held it against the rush of air, loosened her grip, and let the wind snatch it out of her hand.

  “What was that?” Sergio asked.

  “My face paints.” Batya broke into a laugh. It heaved and turned into a sob. The full sense of freedom she had so anticipated finally flooded her.

  Esperanza was no more.

  Epilogue

  The Galilee, 1897

  Batya adjusted the wide-brimmed hat that protected her face from the harsh sun. She straightened her back, wiped her brow, and gazed around her at the field. In both directions stretched furrows of soil she and the others had dug and turned, breaking the stubborn packed, reddish earth into soft clods eager to accept the next seeding. The field was cut into the slope and was enclosed by a low stone fence constructed of the thousands of rocks that had previously made the field impossible to plough. It had been liberating to smash each stone into smaller pieces so she could lift and carry them.

  She had imagined each rock as Moskowitz’s head.

  There would be more opportunities for her silent revenge when she cleared the rocks out of the next section of the field—her own land, which hadn’t been cultivated since biblical times. God must have sent her here to do His work.

  In the distance she saw her neighbors, a husband-and-wife team, laboring together. Like the rest of the local farmers, all Yiddish-speaking, these were hardworking men and women who had arrived several years before Batya and welcomed every willing pair of Jewish hands. The settlers on this land had very little; every Turkish piastre and lira had to be saved for seeds and farm tools. But they gave their neighbors their hearts—and whatever energy was left in their arms and backs after toiling on their plots to eke out sustenance.

  They had escaped pogroms. They had come broken yet revived by a Zionist zeal to reclaim the land of their ancestors. Each had a story—slaughtered siblings, mothers raped in front of their children, fathers’ beards yanked out with the skin. None spoke of their private horrors; no one asked for anyone’s story beyond “Where did you come from?” The name of the place told them all they needed to know.

  Batya had said that she was from Komarinoe, where, she knew, no Jew had been left. No one could verify or dispute her story. Yes, she admitted to her sisters, she was the widow of a rich Argentine Jew, but after her sister-in-law’s betrayal, she had erased that part of her life.

  “It would add to your status,” Surale had claimed.

  “I didn’t come to the Holy Land to brag about my good fortunes. I’ve learned how fleeting they are. In my heart, I never left Komarinoe—or you.” When Surale persisted, Batya recruited Keyla, now living the dream she and Fishke had never brought to fruition.

  “We’re building an equal, just social order,” Keyla explained to Surale. “Here no one is better than anyone else.”

  Batya had buried her five and a half years of captivity. If she had been robbed of her youth—of her innocence—she was still only twenty-two years old.

  She would never speak Spanish again. Instead, she was learning Hebrew. The children in the family picked it up fast in school, and she tried to decipher words as she listened to them playing. Some of her male neighbors had learned to read it in their yeshivas or synagogues, but they, too, stumbled on the spoken version of the language that had only recently been revived from its biblical roots. It was pronounced differently, in the Sephardi style, that of Ovad’s people. The revived Hebrew coined new words that hadn’t existed in the Bible in order to fit these modern times, words that ranged from “brush” and “cream” to “wheelbarrow.”

  Batya smiled and raised her hoe again, striking the ground in short chops. Exerting her muscles felt good; it gave her a sense of her power. No one here had escaped their past unscathed—they had all suffered—but who had time to indulge in idle thoughts? They were creating a new Jewish identity in the Holy Land, each Jew both a soldier and a farmer. She looked forward to tonight, when they would dance the newly invented dance, so different from tango. Tango was the intertwining of man and woman—the masculinity and resolut
ion of men against the softness and acquiescence of women. Their embrace excluded the outside world. The new dance, a Romanian hora, was about togetherness among a group of equals. With everyone’s arms around one another’s shoulders to create a circle, the slow gait quickly led into a faster beat that could go on for hours. Jumping and kicking in unity, the dancers would bond as they sang at the top of their lungs. Their new songs celebrated their vigor and commitment to rebuilding the land of their ancestors. Batya found it curious that Russian songs that had never been a part of their Jewish heritage had also been nostalgically translated into Hebrew, just like tangele had merged Yiddish culture with Argentine music. Jews adapted in so many ways, assimilating into the societies in which they lived while still maintaining their core beliefs.

  Afterward, under the canopy of a night lit by a million stars, they would light a campfire and boil strong coffee. Exhausted from dance but not from the fervor of new ideas, they would speak about socialism and the combined power of laborers, swearing never to be exploited by capitalists. In their just community of the highest values, they would all share in the common good. What were scorpions lurking under rocks or the threat of malaria from attacking mosquitoes when Jews had such a glorious mission to build a fair and moral society? Even in Vienna, a journalist by the name of Theodor Herzl—who, like Batya, had been deeply touched by the Dreyfus affair—had begun a movement to settle the Holy Land and wrote about creating a Jewish state.

  From a distance, Batya saw Surale stepping over the low wall of a neighbor’s field terrace, three young children running alongside her and a baby propped on her right hip. As Surale crossed the furrowed lot, Batya waved, and the sight of the baby caused her breasts to wet with milk.

  She planted her hoe in the soil to mark the spot where she should return and walked to the edge of her field, where an old sycamore tree cast a welcoming shadow. Surale met her there and handed her a tin canteen, and Batya drank the blessed water from a spring that fed the Jordan River.