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gloating. When Papa called us to take our places for the seder, she placed herself modestly at the foot of the great table, from which vantage point she could look directly into my face without being observed. To a casual eye, she was her usual sleepy, slow-witted self. But, even though I tried to keep my eyes on the prayer book, I could feel her eyes boring into mine, taunting me with the secret we shared.
    Finally we came to the climax of the ritual, that moment when the youngest of the house rises to ask his father the Four Questions. Jehiel stood tall at Papa’s side, his tiny waist encircled with a gold link belt and his sturdy little body encased in a padded velvet doublet. He had a taste for red, and Papa had ordered him a pair of borzacchini which the cobbler swore were the smallest pair of trimmed boots he had ever made, ever so fetching in soft black leather with a turnover cuff of red velvet and a rosette of green and peacock ribbons fastened to the right boot. Since the time of our first condotta with the Gonzagas, they had permitted the dei Rossi men to display their colors.
    To complete Jehiel’s ensemble, Mama had fastened to his hair just above the widow’s peak a pearl which nestled there amid the chestnut curls like a glowing charm. He was a prince that night. He made our house a palace. My father was a king and all of us were members of a royal family.
    And when that little boy took hold of our precious illuminated Haggadah with its velvet and filigree cover, and began to read the ancient questions in the ancient tongue, he was letter-perfect. Nothing about his manner suggested that he had been through the most terrifying experience of his short life a few hours before. Not the slightest hesitation or stammer marred his performance.
    “Wherefore is this night different from all other nights?” His reedy boy’s voice sang out like Pan’s pipes.
    As he and Papa went through the ancient dialogue, my memory of the afternoon retreated. Somehow our famiglia would be saved from the frate ’s marauding boys just as the Jews had been saved from Pharaoh centuries before.
    By the time we got to counting the ten plagues which were inflicted on the Egyptians — frogs and gnats and mullein (whatever that was) — I was spilling out the droplets of wine that marked each plague with the same gleeful abandon as the other children.
    Now, it was my turn to glower at Cateruccia. “See, you slut, what happens to those who persecute the Jews! Flies and dust and boils and mullein.”
    But my happiness was short-lived. Halfway through the meal, a loud ringing of the outer bell announced a visitor. At first I thought it was Elijah, for whom a silver cup is always placed in the center of the table in the unlikely event that he decides to make a miraculous appearance. But the adults of the famiglia knew that trouble comes to the door in the dark night far more often than a miracle. And indeed, the messenger, a distant Gonzaga connection by the name of della Valle, had brought evil tidings.
    He held in his hand a grido issued by the Marchese that very hour warning the Jews of Mantova to remain in their houses for their own safety. A disturbance had broken out in the Gradaro district. Rulers never use the word “riot” unless they have to. “But the Marchese has instructed me to advise you that your family has no cause for worry,” the equerry assured Papa, with the excessive condescension that courtiers always use when addressing those they consider their inferiors. “The dei Rossis occupy a particular place in my lord’s heart,” he intoned, as if conferring a benediction. “As a mark of his affection Marchese Francesco has sent with me two carts to carry your famiglia to the Porto Catena and an armed escort of ten men to see you safely aboard a boat bound for Ferrara, where you will be safe in the bosom of your family until the unnatural fever of our people has burned itself out.” No mention was made of how many