We were to get out at the station of Kibart on the Russian side, and apply to one Herr Schidorsky, who might help us on our way.
The letter goes on:-- We are in Kibart, at the depot.

The least important particular, even, of that place, I noticed and remembered.

How the porter--he was an ugly, grinning man--carried in our things and put them away in the southern corner of the big room, on the floor; how we sat down on a settee near them, a yellow settee; how the glass roof let in so much light that we had to shade our eyes because the car had been dark and we had been crying; how there were only a few people besides ourselves there, and how I began to count them and stopped when I noticed a sign over the head of the fifth person--a little woman with a red nose and a pimple on it--and tried to read the German, with the aid of the Russian translation below.

I noticed all this and remembered it, as if there were nothing else in the world for me to think of.
The letter dwells gratefully on the kindness of Herr Schidorsky, who became the agent of our salvation.

He procured my mother a pass to Eidtkuhnen, the German frontier station, where his older brother, as chairman of a well-known emigrant aid association, arranged for our admission into Germany.