NOTE: Christa Winsloe the writer spent most of childhood before the boarding school at 14 in Darmstadt which has South Hessian dialect. In this part, in the beginning, Herr Alemann and Bettichen use this dialect (spelling the way how words are pronounced, and also supposedly local versions of words of standard German.) The pronunciation part is understandable because of last word of the first sentence.

Searches online and even South Hessian dictionary cannot help with some words, so apart from a translator, the "gaps" are filled by the unreliable official translation.

Sorry, but as a person who almost don't know German, it's completely impossible to understand correct meaning, and it's the only way to continue translation.

XXX

"Nah, nah, Bettichen, you can say what you want; the coffee is nothing."

"Well, still . . . If it isn't? Here needs to be economisation. You've often heard that from Kesten. Saving strengthens the character. And here she is right." Two tin spoons stir the watery coffee with milk, on whose watery brown surface black dots and small, white shreds float. One hand- "Bettichen's"-is scrawny and bony and comes out of a tight sleeve, the other is a bear's paw and belongs to Herr Alemann. Herr Alemann is in his shirt sleeves. Because it isn't worth wearing his good uniform while drinking coffee." He puts on his uniform when the doorbell rings. "Then there's still time." Because anybody who rings the bell here is modest and doesn't make any noise, waiting wait until Herr Alemann has put on his jacket and buttoned it up. Even if it takes a while, because his uniform has a lot of buttons and a high collar. Not every doorman has one of those. And then he has to "style" the beard by a little comb. Herr Alemann's chin is shaved; his two beard tips look all the more stately. Herr Alemann has the measure of the guard, and to have the measure of the guard is the ambition of every man in Hochdorf. Since old time, only the tallest lads had been chosen for the ruling prince's guard regiment. The guards' measurement was 1 metre 85, and anyone who didn't have that didn't count. For her part, Frau Alemann was small. She seemed even smaller than she was because of her stooped posture. She pulled the thin black wool dress tightly over her bony, curved back. Her pointed chin pierced the air. A flat white lace cap was on her thinning hair, and a pleates white apron was tied firmly around her thin waist.

Both sat at the neatly polished table in their narrow lodge. On the wall there were boxes with many switches. Next to them, there were telephones that could be plugged in. A small window into the hallway. It was dim there. Light like in a mausoleum. Colourfully dark window panes and a marble bust of the royal benefactress of the house that was named after her, "Princess Helene Seminary."

At the moment, the house seems to be asleep. And yet it is the middle of the day, almost noon. But the sounds do not come through the tightly closed doors. White doors. White corridors. White rooms for sleeping, for eating, for studying, for reading. Corridors: long, bright, without carpets, without curtains. Stairs upon stairs. Back stairs, ordinary stairs and then the big one in the middle of the house, covered with thick red carpet for visitors, for high-level visitors. A chapel and a gymnasium.

Steps echoed on the bare scrubbed floor of the upper corridor, but the step of the grey figure who now stepped busily from door to door could not be heard-there are silent soles. Rubber heels. The grey dress does not reveal body at all. It falls straight down. It almost seems as if the arms pressed tightly to the side and the hands folded on the stomach must hold the dress. Slightly bent forward, but with an alert peeping eye in all corners, Fräulein von Kesten heads to a low door. The small lace cap of the teacher's uniform is fastened to the sparse hair with large hairpins. The hair is colorless, and the face is colorless. Only the pupils of the indefinable eyes stand out darkly. They, too, sometimes try to hide Fräulein von Kesten. But the light eyelashes do not cover them. Without knocking, she opens the door. Without paying attention to the stooped figure sitting at a sewing machine, she goes to a coat rack and grabs a lot of clothes hanging there. All dark blue dresses. A musty dress-making smell hangs in the air.

"Marie, there's a new one coming today."

"Yes, Fräulein von Kesten, I know."

"Make her a uniform."

"Yes, Fräulein von Kesten. But there's nothing good left," comes a coughing from the corner, "I hope Fräulein isn't a princess."

"No. Free scholarship."

"Oh dear, the poor child."

"Why so? She won't get to feel it here," says Fräulein von Kesten dismissively.

"I know, I know, Fräulein von Kesten, of course."

"By the way, there are still some very well-preserved dresses, for example, this one!"

The old woman comes limping closer.

The young Fräulein von Brockenburg had that, if I'm not mistaken; well, we'll see, Fräulein von Kesten."

"Teach her how to do her hair."

"Yes, of course, gracious Fräulein."

The door closes behind the little grey lady. Again she walks busily along the corridor. Fleetingly, her hand passes over a window sill, and angry wrinkles form on her forehead. Her gaze wanders over the clear and spotless window glass, which lets the laughing blue sky look down on her. But as if this were not in order either, Fräulein von Kesten shakes her head. Now she has heard something. She stops and listens. No, can that be?. . She quickly walks towards one of the doors, behind which a waltz melody is heard. It sounds merrily from behind the closed door. Already the pale hand open wide the door. A horrified child jumps up from the piano stool and stares Fräulein von Kesten in the face.

"Marga – do you call that practicing?"

There is no reply.

"Well?"

"I've already practised, Fräulein von Kesten; I was ready," comes shyly from the piano.

"I have to talk to you."

Marga breathes a sigh of relief. Guiltily, she brushes the rebellious hair out of her forehead with both hands. Then, as customary, she puts her hands in the bib of her black apron and assumes the posture of a soldier who has been ordered to "stand at ease." Her face is still red from the shock, but her somewhat strong-boned, racy features have taken on a submissive, almost servile expression. Fräulein von Kesten's gaze rests complacently on the girl.

"Well, I know you, Marga."

She squints her eyes a little. "I'm never mistaken in you children."

Quietly and politely, Marga replies,

"I beg your pardon, Fräulein von Kesten, I am sorry . . ."

"All right, my child, all right. But another time, be content with the tasks you have been given, understand?"

"Jawohl, Fräulein von Kesten," and Marga curtsied. A little curtsy is a quick little bend of the knees. It can be done standing up and also while passing by. The curtsy is the small change of common everyday compliments. The next is the court curtsy, which is for the Princess. This is a deep sinking and bowing of the head, but still far from the genuflection to which only God requires. In between, there is a curtsey for Frau Headmistress, for aunts and parents. It is not customary to curtsy on an occasion like this, but Marga von Rasso is happy to do the similar things for Fräulein von Kesten if no one sees it.

"Marga, there is a new girl coming today, and I wanted to ask you if you would like to be her foster mother."

Marga feels excellent. She almost did a little curtsy, but that would have been too much. So she just says quickly, "With pleasure, Fräulein von Kesten."

"I ask you to take good care of her and make sure she fits in quickly and without disruption. Antway, it's not pleasant to take in a new girl in the middle of a term. But there are reasons."

"Yes, Fräulein von Kesten."

"Well, I see you understand me."

"Certainly, Fräulein von Kesten."