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 viséd," the fat official screamed in a voice shrill with anger. "It's worthless... what good do you think is this to me?"
"Excuse me ..." I said in German.
"I won't excuse you," he roared. "Who are you? What do you want in Germany? You've been to London, I see by this passport."
"I had no time to get my passport stamped at the Consulate at Rotterdam," I said. "I arrived there too late in the evening. I could not wait. I am going to Berlin on most important business."
"That's nothing to do with it," the man shouted. He was working himself up into a fine frenzy. "Your passport is not in order. You're not a German. You're an American. We Germans know what to think of our American friends, especially those who come from London."
A voice outside shouted: "Nach Berlin alles einsteigen." I said as politely as I could, despite my growing annoyance:
"I don't wish to miss my train. My journey to Berlin is of the utmost importance. I trust the train can be held back until I have satisfied you of my good faith. I have here a card from Herr von Steinhardt."
I paused to let the name sink in. I was convinced he must be a big bug of some kind in the German service.