Lela is surrounded by a whole flock of girls. At first, she has the feeling that they all look the same and that she will never be able to distinguish them. They all wear their hair respectably sleeked back, they all have the same dark dress with the pleats over their breasts and the tight-fitting waistband, they all wear the same hideous black apron, under the bib of which they bury their hands when they are not occupied, as if they are all cold.
Marga immediately took up her job vigorously. She digs into Manuela's suitcase with both arms. Manuela stands in front of the empty locker and does what she is told. She convulsively keeps a forced smile for the hands that are stretched out to her-sometimes comradely, sometimes brusquely-with a more or less friendly "Hello." She doesn't want to show how she feels under any circumstances. Just not to cry now out of fear. Just not that. "Put that aside!" Marga hands her a dress and Lela obeys. It's a simple sailor's dress, nothing special about it, but everyone's eyes are glued to it.
"Oh, that's nice!" the little dark girl called Ilse says wistfully.
"What have you got there?"
"Books."
"Books are being handed in," Marga explains sternly.
"Handed in? Why?"
"They are not allowed, my child."
"There's no time to read anyway, only on Sundays, and then you can have the books from the library."
Ilse snatched one of the books from Marga, rushed to the window with it and started flipping through it.
"Give me the book, Ilse!" Marga calls her.
"I can't even think of it. This is magnificent."
"Give it here, Ilse. Otherwise I'll tell Fräulein von Kesten."
"Yes, snitch, you can. But be careful-if what Manuela has brought with her gets out, she'll have the biggest row.
Manuela has become restless. She goes up to Ilse.
"Give it to me, will you? I got this out of Dad's bookcase the other day;I haven't even looked at it yet."
Ilse grabs Lela by the shoulders and pulls her away. She whispers in her ear, "That's a mighty great book by Emile Zola. 'The belly of Paris'-how it sounds! Man, I'll hide it in my locker. Don't let Marga impress you, she's a nerd and reveres Kesten."
"But Ilse, if it's forbidden . . ."
"So, listen, I'll make a suggestion to you, gift it to me."
Manuela laughs, "Gladly."
Ilse grabs the book, and—with a serious face—she creeps away, out of the locker room and down the corridor, and disappears behind a door which can be locked from the inside. Here it is undisturbed and safe. Here one has peace and solitude, here one can read forbidden books.
Marga has organized Manuela's locker. Manuela's head is spinning with everything she has to keep inside of it. First, she has to learn what is forbidden. Namely: edibles— especially chocolate, fruit and sweets—jewellery and money have to be handed over, only some pocket money is doled out, but an account book has to be kept for it. Hair lotions may not be used. Own soap is also handed over. All underwear must be marked with the whole name embroidered in red on a white linen band. Chemise must lie on chemise. Pants on pants. Handkerchief on handkerchief. The locker must be kept locked. The key must be carried with you and not be lost. The key has a number. "You are number 55," says Marga. Manuela looks up at the number above her locker. A black 55. "Your clothes are number 55. Your shoes are in the boot room in compartment 55, your coat and hat are downstairs next to the building entrance in the cloakroom, compartment 55. Your wash cubicle is number 55, as is your bed."
Manuela felt herself slowly becoming number fifty-five. " So. Now I'll take you to Marie so that she'll dress you. Just tell her you're number 55 and she'll know." Marie knew. Manuela stopped in the doorway. Oh God, how heavy the air was for one's chest! How small was the window to the outside! There was no wall to be seen all around, only clothes and clothes from which mist was emanating, like that of many people standing, wet with rain, crammed together in a room.
"Come in, number 55, I know you're there! Oh, my, what a face! Well, don't be afraid, sweetheart. No one has ever died from the uniform, now come here."
A talon-like hand reached for Lela. She pulled her towards herself into the circle of light from a lamp that burned in the dim room despite the daylight. Two lwnses of spectacles blinded by the light looked up at Manuela, who had the impression that this woman had no eyes at all. Terribly tightly plaited many small braids surrounded her head, and many dry, stringy folds of skin stretched from the collar of her neck to her chin.
"So, and now off with the clothes!" Two hands pulled the dress off Manuela's body. It lay on the floor. She stood there naked and white.
"Well, now step out, we don't have that much time!" Marie gave her a little push so that she could pick up the dress. She took the dress, also the hat that Manuela had still kept in her hand. Without a word, she walked away with it. Horrified and helpless, words escaped Manuela's lips,
"But what are you doing? Where are you carrying my clothes?"
She heard a wardrobe door creak and a key turn in the lock. Marie returned with a satisfied grin.
"There, little Fräulein, that'll be all right. You'll get your dress back when you have a permission to go out. And apart from this, you'll always wear your uniform."
"Always?" Manuela exclaimed. She had known that institutional uniforms were worn here. But these hideous clothes—it was still inconceivable that one was always—
"Well, of course," Marie replied—her toothless mouth twisting for an ugly laugh—"that's the way it is, and there's a good reason for it. Because if you actually run away, everyone will know you by your uniform, won't they? Well, you see, and then they'll take you right back to the Helene Seminary."
Manuela looked at her face in horror.
"Has anyone ever wanted to . . ."
The old woman laughed merrily; it sounded like a screech,
"Wanted? — Hahaha! —Wanted is good! More than one has already tried it. But it's no use. The police catch them or, if they make it home, parents send them back anyway. Some already wanted to. Now sit down." She pushed Manuela onto a stool and grabbed her hair. It hurt.
"No, don't, please don't!"
"But, my goodness. It has to be done, and what has to be done, gets done. The hairdo has to be right. Quite smooth. And if I don't do it, then Kesten will tear your head off later, and then you'll see; when she sets about with a comb and a brush, that's something else entirely."
The wire hairpins were pinching. Manuela felt as if the skin was being torn from her head. But she said nothing more now. A hard hairbrush, a scratchy comb maltreated her head, and Marie's scrawny fingers clutched her hair tightly, plaiting it into a braid and pinning it up. The dark blue dress the old woman had put on her felt musty and damp. Manuela hesitated.
"Well, let's see, what is it? It is not new, but it was a very clean young Fräulein—the last young lady that had worn it. Look for yourself: not a bit of underarm sweat. You are lucky that this suits you! Just don't be so squeamish, you won't get any further here, I can tell you that right away."
Manuela's hands shook against her will. A terrible horror came over her, as if she was suddenly no longer herself. As if she had no skin left. The sleeves were too short at the wrists. The skirt was wide and had many creases. The black apron was scratchy, it was made of cotton moiré and stack out from her like a board.
"See how it fits?" said Marie impassively. "Now, one more thing—a cockade—and we're done."
"Cockade?" Manuela looked at Marie questioningly.
"Yes, indeed, everybody has to wear them!" and she pushed a box of coloured ruffles to Manuela. Yellow, red, black and light blue—there was a different badge for each class. Right, all the girls downstairs had worn such carnival decorations.
"Take a red one. None of them are new, either, if you don't mind."
Manuela searched. Picking up a red cockade, she discovered that there was something written in ink on the back, where the ruffle was attached to a small white piece of cloth and a safety pin. She stepped towards the light to decipher the writing.
"Marie?"
"Yes, gracious Fräulein?"
"Marie, what does this mean? There's a heart drawn on it and an arrow and three letters: E. v. B.?"
The old woman suddenly came very close to Manuela so that she could feel her breath—which smelled of coffee—on her face. One of her brown wrinkled hands rested on Manuela's arm, and she looked lasciviously into her face to observe the effect of her words.
"What does that mean? That is Elisabeth von Bernburg. One of the 'ladies'. The ladies, they are the teachee, you must know. And as Manuela still shown no understanding, she whispered as if it were a deep secret,
"The young lady who used to own this cockade presumably had a thing for Fräulein von Bernburg.
Manuela looks at the old woman a little perplexed. She opens her eyes and—a thousand wrinkles on her forehead—bores her unclean gaze into that of the child,
"In love—she was in love with her."
"In love? With a governess?" Manuela doesn't understand. The old woman bursts into a soft, croaking laugh,
"Just take the cockade, little Fräulein; do nothing; you'll see, you'll get to know what she's like, the 'governess.'"
Marie laughs so hard that she coughs. Manuela looks at the heart and turns the cockade in her hand. She doesn't want to look at Marie any more, but she lets her pin the cockade on her. It belongs on the apron on her left shoulder, a little above the heart.