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imitation of some desiccated cleric, “I seem to have forgotten to send these treasures to the monastery for safekeeping. Where can my poor memory have wandered?”
    Pretending to search for his lost wits in the folds of his camicia , he drew out a large leather purse which must have been hanging from an inner belt. “What have we here?” he asked.
    This time what poured out onto the table was a shower of gold — chains, buttons, rings, and plaquettes.
    “What to do? What to do?” Papa wrung his hands. “So much treasure. We cannot leave it behind for the barbarians, can we?”
    He held up a rope of large, creamy pearls. “The young Marchese would never forgive me for neglecting the care of this necklace. It belonged to his dear mother, the Duchessa Barbara of sainted memory, and is destined to grace the pretty throat of his intended bride, little Isabella d’Este. He has told me that he intends to redeem it in time for her thirteenth birthday, this very year . . .”
    He paused as if to consider what course to take, then picked up the matched emeralds and held them aloft. “And what are we to do with these, pledged only last month to tide the treasury over until the spring taxes are farmed.” Very gently, he cupped Mama’s delicate hand and placed the huge gemstones in her palm. “I appoint you guardian of the Gonzaga emeralds, my dear Rachel. Let us hope we will not have need of them to buy our safety. But, if we do . . .”
    At last, Mama smiled. Jehiel, who had been looking on gravely until then, quickly reached out for a small gold rabbit he had spotted. Squirreling it away inside his borzacchino before anyone could stop him, he announced, “I shall be the guardian of this.”
    I took nothing. In the Holy Book, we are told to carry forth naught of the flesh abroad out of the house, not even a bone. I was not certain if the prohibition against bones included jewels, but I was taking no chances. For I had persuaded myself that if I followed God’s instructions to the letter, He might bring us forth safely on this Passover as He brought forth the Jews out of Egypt in bygone days.
    In all our lives in Mantova, neither Jehiel nor I had ever been to the port. One look was enough to tell why. It was a sewer of a place, the stink of the air exceeded only by the squalor of the denizens. In the midnight darkness — it was six of the clock by then — the odd flickering candle disclosed a litter of layabouts, women as well as men, huddled on the steps. Many of the women wore the yellow badge of the prostitute.
    There is an inn at the top of the steps where sailors go to game and carouse. There went Papa, leaving us huddled at the shore in the feeble hands of Rov Isaac and Davide, the tutor — poor Davide almost as close to tears as his wife, Dania. But Jehiel and I, more through innocence than bravery, danced about the piers investigating the various crafts and speculating which one we would be boarding.
    The Marchese’s golden bucentaur lay at anchor there and Jehiel believed that it would carry us to Ferrara. Being two years closer to cynicism than he, I was certain that the gilded barque was not for us. But there were at least five worthy crafts tethered to various poles, any one of them spacious enough to accommodate our famiglia plus the ten or more oarsmen needed to power the craft along the river should the wind fail.
    However, when Papa returned after a while with a half-drunken barge captain in tow, we were led around the bend of the river, away from the Marchese’s barque and the fishing fleet, to where a single open boat lay at anchor without so much as a canopy to protect the passengers from the wintery winds.
    Seeing it bobbing up and down forlornly, Mama uttered a piercing “No!” Jehiel ran to her side and began to cry. How could we survive the chill of the river in that scow? As if to emphasize our peril, a light snow began to fall. Dante’s ominous warning came to my mind: “Abandon all hope,