And my mother gave audience.

Her faded kerchief halfway off her head, her black ringlets straying, her apron often at her eyes, she received her guests in a rainbow of smiles and tears.

She was the heroine of Polotzk, and she conducted herself appropriately.

She gave her heart's thanks for the congratulations and blessings that poured in on her; ready tears for condolences; patient answers to monotonous questions; and handshakes and kisses and hugs she gave gratis.
What did they not ask, the eager, foolish, friendly people?
They wanted to handle the ticket, and mother must read them what is written on it.

How much did it cost?
Was it all paid for?
Were we going to have a foreign passport or did we intend to steal across the border?
Were we not all going to have new dresses to travel in?
Was it sure that we could get koscher food on the ship?
And with the questions poured in suggestions, and solid chunks of advice were rammed in by nimble prophecies.