by Talia Carner
But then again, no one would have recognized her now.
She watched as a pretty young woman carrying a carpetbag emerged from the customshouse, then stopped, bewildered. A matronly woman in a carriage called out to her in Yiddish, “Do you need a job? Do you have relatives to take you in?”
After a short exchange, the young woman climbed into the carriage to what Batya was certain would turn out to be a life of prostitution.
A monk marched out of the customs building with four teenage boys in tow. A policeman parted the way for him and let the monk—whom Batya recognized as an Italian pimp—walk out with his new entourage. Even from a distance she could tell that these were girls dressed as boys to fool the customs clerks. She was certain the policeman knew it, too.
And then she spotted him: Kolkowski emerged from the port’s office ushering a group of mostly men, but also some families, all carrying bundles and boxes tied with ropes. They looked pale and emaciated in their bedraggled clothes. Most had taken off their coats and struggled with carrying them along with the rest of their belongings.
Batya counted fifty people. She followed them through the two short blocks to the expansive dormitories that made up the Immigrants’ Hotel. This part of Kolkowski’s story seemed true, as unlikely as it had first sounded. She followed him back to the port and took her post by the warehouse. He disappeared behind the gate, only to come out fifteen minutes later accompanying a smaller group.
Batya allowed a small hope to bloom in her chest. Might she have found a solution for her family? As she walked away, she saw two women in black mourning clothes and head scarves, with five little children between them, standing in the middle of the street, dazed as she had once been by the piercing bright, hot sun and disoriented in the unfamiliar surroundings. No men accompanied them. No relatives showed up to welcome them. These desperate widows, who must have come here seeking a better future for their children, would end up as destitute and resourceless as they had been in the old country. Batya wished she could warn them against the couple that was approaching them, a husband-wife team she was certain were pimps. The man made an attempt at respectability by wearing a shiny top hat that was incongruous with his frayed jacket. But Batya doubted that these confused, tired mothers would heed her warning against this benevolent-seeming couple who was handing the children chocolate and, in a few moments, would offer the mothers shelter for the week. Soon after, Batya knew, in order to feed their children, the women would be pressured into prostitution.
The idea of Jewish colonies in remote parts of Argentina stayed with Batya throughout her waking hours. In her dream that night she saw herself riding a horse and rounding up a herd of cows, all showing her beloved Aggie’s black-and-white pattern. Her father welcomed her at the stable late in the afternoon and conversed with the horse in Yiddish, giving both the questions and the answers.
The next day, though, doubt about the story crept back. She was glad when Kolkowski came two days later, before returning to his village.
“Isn’t farming difficult?” she asked, thinking about her father’s aching back.
“Aren’t Jews used to difficulties? When did we have it easy?”
She smiled and stroked Kolkowski’s back, letting her nails hypnotize him into talking.
He went on. “In the Baron’s villages, Jews are learning new forms of agriculture. We give them equipment, instructions, and even credit, so one day they can own the land.”
She would have a vegetable garden, she thought. Having discovered tomatoes, a couple of years earlier she had planted a tomato plant in the kitchen yard behind the concrete trough where they scrubbed clothes. Freda had thought it was a waste of Batya’s working time. She poured the soapy water on the plant, killing it. More important, Batya thought, she would plant a tree. Permanency was symbolized by a tree planting, by the confidence that one would always be there to watch it grow.
“Did you say Jewish schools?” Batya asked Kolkowski.
He nodded. “The Argentine government doesn’t forbid Jewish studies, and certainly doesn’t kidnap the students for the army.”
Her father had been delighted to have only daughters, free from this danger that loomed over boys. Forcefully conscripted before their bar mitzvahs and reeducated in military schools, they served in the czar’s army for twenty-five years. By then they were no longer Jewish. “Your Baron really plans a mass exodus?” Batya asked. “A million Jews?”
“It’s already started. We have an office here, in Buenos Aires. Señor Farbstein, who runs it, buys the land, sends experts to show our people how to ranch, and hires teachers for the Jewish schools. No one calls them ‘dirty Jews,’ and no priest accuses them of killing Jesus.”
Her family’s salvation was right here in Buenos Aires! Señor Farbstein. Batya rolled the name on her tongue. She could taste the hope.
The next morning, she snuck out again, this time straight to the Immigrants’ Hotel, and watched as the newcomers, still wearing their too-heavy peasant clothes, loaded valises onto wagons. Batya approached a woman sitting on a bench and nursing an infant under a cape. “Where are you all going?”
“To the train station, to take us to Moïseville.”
Moïseville. A new Moses, like his namesake who had led the Israelites out of Egypt, was freeing the Jews from the czar and his incessant edicts. Decent people like her father could rise from abject poverty to farm in peace. Could it be true?
“Just one more question, please,” Batya said as the woman rearranged herself and picked up a large bag. “Who paid for your ocean passage?”
“The Baron. May his name be linked to the greatest tzaddikim’s. That’s who.”
Batya skipped on the broken sidewalk on her way back to the house. Moïseville. Her family’s salvation. Her own safe haven. It had a name. Once there, never again would a man come near her body. Never again would she dress and paint her face, sit at her window, and smile at passersby.
Batya completed her morning chores, retreated to her room, and opened her tkhines book. She prayed for the Baron, for his good health and long life. The new Moses. Miracles happened after all.
Chapter Thirty
Batya sat at the table in a client’s mother’s home. She watched as Efram, a young Talmudic scholar and one of her regulars, dipped his pen in the inkwell, checked the amount of ink at the tip, then dabbed it against the blotter. Today she wasn’t employing the services of the Professor, who was the favorite among the caftans to write their prostitutes’ letters. Her father appreciated the Professor’s Yiddish-language prose. His flourishing words are a feast to my eyes and ears, every description a masterpiece of literature that tells me of your good luck, he had written. When we are finally united in Buenos Aires, this is the man with whom I would be honored to have a Talmudic debate.
Unlike the scribes in the service of the pimps’ organization, Efram would fear turning her in for this infraction; he knew as well as she did the wrath of Zwi Migdal against anyone who’d steal from a member his just earnings, and indeed Batya would pay Efram with a private, unauthorized reward. Luckily, Efram’s mother’s house was not far from the market, and Batya would make up for the stolen time by shopping fast and seducing a couple of merchants to come see her at the house.
The lace curtains in Efram’s mother’s parlor were drawn to block neighbors’ curious eyes, but the large window had to be kept open to let in fresh air, which nevertheless did little to relieve the heat of the day, as the audacious summer was refusing to give way to the next season. Across the street, a sweets seller was rearranging his display of dried fruits, caramelized walnuts, and sugar crystallized on miniature sticks. Batya spotted a large earthenware jug whose clay sides kept liquid cooled. She fanned herself. She could almost taste the chill of the almond drink she would buy as soon as she left.
That cold, sweet drink had to wait. She turned her attention back to Efram, hunched over his letter. He wound his long, reddish peyes, corkscrew sidelocks, around his ears
to keep them from dropping onto the paper and smearing the ink. His mother was visiting some cousins for a few days, and, by prior arrangement, Efram feigned a stomach illness so he could stay home from his yeshiva, the Jewish religious school. Batya had waited a whole week for this opportunity.
Efram read to her what he’d written, having embellished her dictation almost as well as the Professor would have. “I want to share my bounty with all of you. I beg you, my dear father, help me make it happen. Please travel to Odessa to register with the Jewish Colonization Association for resettlement here in Argentina,” he finished, raising his ginger-colored eyes to Batya.
He adored her now, but soon, when he turned eighteen, he’d be married off by his rabbi. Orthodox Jews, concerned about their youngsters’ sexual urges, married them off in a hurry. Efram would turn his back on the prostitute who had made him a man.
Efram dipped his pen in the inkwell. “This resettlement program needs more explaining,” he said to her. As eager as he was to conclude this part of their exchange so they could retreat to his bedroom, he also seemed to want to do well by her. Such a sweet boy. She trailed her fingers on the back of his neck and felt him shiver in response. He went on speaking while writing. “The Baron de Hirsch from France, may he be blessed with a long and healthy life, envisions farming in Argentina to end Jewish blood flowing in the streets of Eastern Europe.”
“That’s very good.” Batya smiled, wondering how much of her plans Efram had guessed. Her father had often said, “A Jew shouldn’t trust even his own dog.”
“I like your face when you think hard,” Efram said, and closed the small distance between their heads. He kissed her on the lips. “Let’s finish this letter,” he whispered, his breathing heavy.
“Yes, we must.” She licked his ear. “Please add to the letter, You and my dear beloved sisters, Keyla and Surale, whom I miss terribly, will be safe here.”
Was it right to convince Keyla to join them here, now that Fishke had died in the gulag? Her father had written that Keyla and her children were starving three times a day. With the money Batya would be sending, her sister must find a way to make the dangerous way west with two toddlers. Keyla had been breaking her back in the fields as a hired hand for years and could work just as hard in the new Argentine settlement. But a widow would be a target for pimps.
She’d leave it to God, Batya decided. The proof that He’d already determined the outcome for His people was that He’d sent this second Moses.
“You will all be transported to a newly built village,” Efram went on, “where you’ll start a new life free of discrimination and strife. My nephews will attend yeshivas and bring us all honor.”
Batya waited while Efram dabbed the blotter on the first written page and set it aside to dry. As soon as she mailed the letter, she’d find a way to speak to Señor Farbstein. She took a deep breath as she began to dictate the second page. “Papa, you know your way with both horses and cows. You will be of great help to your fellow Jews. They will look up to you.” If nothing else, her father cared about being respected. This might be the incentive he needed.
First, though, her father must agree to take the necessary steps on his end. Now that Surale had a husband who could also register with the Colonization Association, her sister might be out of danger of being snared into a brothel. In fact, a healthy young man in the family would surely add to its appeal for the Baron’s agents, Batya figured. Upon her family’s arrival, she would escape to join them deep in the vast land of Argentina. The farther they lived from any main city, the safer she would be.
It was a daring dream; she’d never heard of a prostitute who had escaped Zwi Migdal—certainly not lately, when its network, which stretched throughout the entire South American continent—seemed to be getting bigger and richer. But the Baron’s project was surely clear of Zwi Migdal’s influence. She must secure its protection.
“Tell my father to be careful with his money,” Batya told Efram, thinking of the forged one-hundred-ruble bill Moskowitz had once given him. “He’s quite gullible.”
Efram read back to her. “Please do not trust any agent other than the Baron’s. Some desperate emigrants fall victim to unscrupulous crooks posing as agents who offer to get their documents in order. They get falsified passports while the ‘agents’ disappear with all their savings. Believe no one but the Baron’s representative—”
Batya cut him off. “Inside—Efram, please emphasize this word—inside the Baron’s office, not even right outside its front door. And tell him I’m enclosing three money certificates.” She dictated, “The first, send to Keyla. Cash the second one at a reputable money changer to pay for your trip to Odessa. Save the third one from robbers on the road until you are ready, in Odessa, to pay for the passports for you, my sisters, and their families.”
“You won’t be able to see your family. The colonies are very far away,” Efram said. “Argentina is as big as Russia. You can’t just travel easily from place to place.”
“Knowing that they’re out of danger will be enough,” Batya replied, inserting into her tone all the sweetness she could muster. Maybe even Hedi might change her mind and join them. Her goy husband might have turned out to be no less a drunkard than most Russian men. If Batya had an address, or even just the name of the village where her sister lived, she would write to her and offer her this chance to join the family. Maybe her children, raised Christians, wouldn’t be taught to hate Jews, wouldn’t be told that Jews deserved torture and death.
Efram finished writing the letter and showed it to Batya. “Your handwriting looks so beautiful,” she purred, her hand on the inside of his thigh, moving upward. “You must be the best Talmudic scholar in your yeshiva.” She bent over his chair and rubbed her breasts against his sunken chest. “It’s been a while since you spoke Spanish to me. Tell me what you want me to do to your body.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed, and his face flushed when the bulge in his trousers grew. She buried her face in his neck, enjoying the fresh smell of his skin, unsullied by tobacco or alcohol.
She loved the closeness after lovemaking, which happened with only a few of her regulars. The glow of Efram’s satisfaction was combined with the gratefulness he showed her. But she couldn’t bask in it now. She couldn’t even linger in the luxury of the bathtub in the white-tiled room, the second such bath in her life. Her letter in her pocket, Batya left Efram’s home. She must figure out how to mail it from a post agent not under the control of Zwi Migdal—surely not one in the center of Buenos Aires.
Within moments outside, in the humidity of this midday hour, perspiration formed on Batya’s upper lip and underarms. She was ready for that chilled almond drink.
As she started across the street, she noticed a commotion around the sweets seller’s cart. Four teenagers were stealing from him in broad daylight, and rather than fleeing with their loot, they taunted him—hopping around him, shoving fistfuls of his sweets into their mouths. Red-faced, his moustache trembling, the man begged them to leave him alone. He didn’t shout or raise a club to fight them off. He cried and pleaded with his tormentors.
The man’s powerlessness pulsated under Batya’s skin. In her mind’s eye she saw her father’s goods stolen by cruel goyim who had ordered cheese, buttermilk, and cream but, when he delivered, sent him away with no pay. She saw the czar’s soldiers confiscating all the butter she and her mother and sisters had churned for hours.
Passersby had stopped to watch, leering, enjoying the scene. Without thinking, Batya rushed into the fray. She swung her arms, slapping, shoving, punching. When a boy turned to her, astonishment on his face, she raised her knee into his groin. He fell to the ground clutching his private parts while his friends fled.
Some spectators clapped; others, aware of her status, shouted lewd remarks. Blood rushed to Batya’s face at her public humiliation. She gathered her courage to ignore them. “I’ll have the almond drink, please,” she said to the sweets seller, who stood stupefied. At Ba
tya’s feet, the youngster writhed and groaned.
Concern spreading over his brow, the sweets seller leaned across his cart to watch the boy. Up close, Batya saw that the man was a simpleton, his tongue too large for his mouth, his round eyes bewildered.
To Batya’s relief, the young attacker crawled to his feet and scrambled away. The small crowd dispersed. The show was over.
The sweets seller turned to fill the tin cup from the earthenware jar shaded under a canvas stretched with three poles.
“You must be so smart to know how to make all these sweets,” Batya said in Spanish.
“The almonds, they are from my family’s orchard.” His eyes were drawn to the ample skin showing above her breasts.
She passed the tips of her fingers lazily down her neck to her cleavage. “And where is that place where this orchard grows almonds?”
He named a village she’d never heard of, adding, “The sugar, too, is from my village. From sugarcanes.” He handed her the cup. His hand shook.
She sipped. “It’s so good. The best ever!” She licked her lips slowly. “What’s your name? I’m Esperanza.”
“Rafael.”
“That’s a good name. In the Bible it means ‘God heals.’”
“It does?” His round eyes grew rounder. She noted the creases in his forehead and the dryness of his skin. His gums were gray with disease. He was older than he’d first looked, like that old man in her shtetl whose simplicity made the worries of the world slide away before they could mark his face.
She fished in her purse for a coin.
“Oh, no.” He waved her coin away. “You are a good woman.”
A good woman. She was warmed by the compliment; no one had ever referred to her as good. “Thank you. You are a good man yourself.” She dropped the coin back in her purse and sipped more. “Is your village far? How do you get there?”
