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 long row of trestles for the examination of the passengers’ luggage.  In a corner behind a desk was a large group of officers and subordinate officials, all in the grey-green uniform I knew so well from the life in the trenches.  The principal seemed to be an immense man, inordinately gross and fat, with a bloated face and great gold spectacles.  He was roaring in a loud, angry voice: 

“He’s not come!  There you are!  Again we shall have all the trouble for nothing!”

I thought he looked an extraordinarily bad-tempered individual and I fervently prayed that I should not be brought before him.

The doors were flung open.  With a rush the hall was invaded with a heterogeneous mob of people huddled pellmell together and driven along before a line of soldiers.  For an hour or more babel reigned.  Officials bawled at the public:  the place rang with the sounds of angry altercation.  After a furious dispute one man, wildly gesticulating, was dragged away by two soldiers.

I never saw such a thorough examination in my life.  People’s bags were literally turned upside down and every single object pried into and besnuffled.  After the customs’ examination passengers were passed on to the searching-rooms, the men to one side, the women to the other.  I caught sight of a female searcher lolling at a door ... a monstrous and grim female who reminded me of those dreadful bathing women at the seaside in our early youth.

The fat official had vanished into an office leading off the Customs Hall.  He was, I surmised, the last instance, for several passengers, including a very respectably dressed old lady, were driven into the side office and were seen no more.

During all this scene of confusion no one had taken any notice of me.  My guard looked straight in front of him and said never a word.  When the hall was all but cleared, a man came to the office door and made a sign to my sentinel.

At a table in the office which, despite the sunshine outside, was heated like a greenhouse, I found the fat official.  Something had evidently upset him, for his brows were clouded with anger and his mastiff-like cheeks were trembling with irritation.  He thrust a hand out as I entered.

“Your papers!” he grunted.

I handed over my passport.

Directly he had examined it, a red flush spread over his cheeks and forehead and he brought his hand down on the table with a crash.  The sentry beside me winced perceptibly.

“It’s not vised,” the fat official screamed in a voice shrill with anger.  “It’s worthless... what good do you think is this to me?”