all? Again I was at a loss.

The clink of iron-shod heels in the corridor and an officer, followed
closely by two privates, the white cross of the Landwehr in their
helmets, stood at the door.

"Your papers, please," he said curtly but politely.

I handed over my American passport.

"This has not been viséd," said the officer.

With a pang I realized that again I was at fault. Of course, the
passport should have been stamped at the German Consulate at Rotterdam.

"I had no time," I said boldly. "I am travelling on most important
business to Berlin. I only reached Rotterdam last night, after the
Consulate was closed."

The lieutenant turned to one of his guards.

"Take the gentleman to the Customs Hall," he said and went on to the
next carriage.

The soldier appropriated my overcoat and bag and beckoned me to follow
him. Outside the platform was railed off. Everyone, I noticed, was
shepherded into a long narrow pen made with iron hurdles leading to a
locked door over which was written: Zoll-Revision. I was going to take
my place in the queue when the soldier prodded me with his elbow. He led
me to a side door which opened in the gaunt, bare Customs Hall with its