All letters received by us were first read by the commandant, and subjected to a strict censure; they were also tested with a solution of chlorate of iron, to see whether any entries had been made in them with invisible chemical ink. But what was most cruel was that we were not permitted to answer on our own account; we might only send a post card in the name of the commandant, acknowledging the receipt of a letter or other communication, and giving the briefest information as to health, somewhat in this fashion: “Your son (brother, nephew) is well. The money (or whatever it was) sent to him by you has been received, and he begs you to send him the following—--” This is signed by the commandant, but as the card is written by the prisoner himself, his correspondents may be assured from his handwriting that he is alive and is in possession of their missives, nothing further. Under such conditions correspondence is often a torture to both parties, yet those who could have even this much intercourse with home were envied by the lonely ones who never expected letters at all. There was more than one such among us, and how often when the letters were distributed would one or other of them say sorrowfully, “If only someone would send me a line!” It is terrible to think of being thousands of miles from home in the solitudes of Siberia, and not to know of a single soul who may sometimes remember one’s existence; yet, as I say, some of our comrades at Kara were in this forlorn situation. How great was the rejoicing if one of these outcasts unexpectedly received a letter from some relation, or some friend of former days! The lucky one would order tea, and perhaps even cakes for the whole room to celebrate the occasion; the letter itself would become a much-talked-of treasure, and the most interesting portions would be read aloud to intimate friends.