Her father, a melancholic bookbinder, had five daughters and no sons. He taught them all to read Hebrew, but only Pepi learned to lean like a man. She’d watch the khasidim sway in the study house—the way they planted their boots, spat into the snow, laughed from the belly. By twelve, she could mimic a tailor’s swagger. By fifteen, she was stealing his old waistcoats and cutting her hair with kitchen shears.

And that is how a Ukrainian city’s forgotten daughter became the king of every stage she touched.

“I’m no boy,” she said, and lit a cigarette exactly the way he did.

Zelig laughed for a full minute. Then he hired her.