Note: In the book, Mia's surname is Wallin with an a.
"What are you doing, Manuela?" Ilse asks, when everyone is already under the blanket, and wants to laugh herself to death; because Manuela is still standing, looking suspiciously at and touching the cold white bed with the rough, many times patched hospital covers in which she is to step now.
But Manuela remains serious. She sits down on the edge of the bed hesitantly and doesn't dare to pull her feet under the blanket.The iron of the bedstead is cold against her naked legs. The springs don't yield. I'll never be able to sleep on this horrible bed frame, Manuela thinks. And then so many people in one room. Ever since she can remember, she has always slept alone. And her bed at home was made of beautiful, warm brown wood, and its pillows were dreamy and so comfortable that she liked to be in it during all her childhood illnesses. And then—it was a long time ago—there was a bed, soft to sink into, with a silken blanket that tucked itself around her when she, a little shivering child, pushing herself into it, to the softness of a quietly breathing bosom, to the warmth of the body that had borne her, and because of which, the pillows and the sheets, oh, the whole bed smelt sweet and wonderful.
Lela pulls her ice-cold knees under her chin and stares into vacancy. The scent goes away—one can't keep it in one's memory like the pictures, like the words, like all the thousand things that remind one of Mum which are has so deep inside of her. Just once upon a time–oh, God, how long ago that seems today!–there was a mother for Lela, only for a short time! She is gone!
"Manuela!" Edelgard calls her quietly. "You must lie down. Fräulein von Bernburg will be here now."
So Manuela pulls her feet under the blanket and lies down obediently. The pillow is hard. The duvet is thin. The light illuminating the room from above blinds her eyes. Bed number 55 is in the middle of the room, a narrow gangway separates it from Edelgard's bed, and on the other side lies Mia von Wallin, who has not yet addressed a word to Manuela.
They all suddenly lie quietly and almost solemnly in their beds in anticipation of Fräulein von Bernburg. For the first time, Manuela must think, they look like real children, in their long-sleeved nightdresses, from the cuffs of which their scrubbed hands—reddened from washing—are seen, and with their long, loose braids that no longer have to be forced up by wire pins at night. Only Ilse with her short-cut hair in between looks like a boy.
A door that Manuela has not even noticed opens. A breath goes around the room. Fräulein von Bernburg enters.)
"Well, children, are you all right?" she asks, and then she goes from bed to bed to say goodnight to each of the children. Ilse, whose bed adjoins Manuela's foot end, has sat up and whispers over to Manuela: "Watch what's coming now!"Her eyes are shining. She kneels in her bed, and Manuela sees that quite a few of the other children are kneeling just like Ilse, waiting for Fräulein von Bernburg. Fräulein von Bernburg approaches each child for a moment, grasps her head with both hands and presses a kiss to her forehead.
"Good night, Edelgard! Good night, Ilse!"
Fräulein von Bernburg comes closer and closer to Manuela's bed. Manuela's heart beats hard and fearfully. She does not know if it is right that she has remained lying down. Maybe she should have stood up too. Is that the rule? Oh, no, it can't be, they certainly all do it themselves; but she—who is a stranger—what should she do?
So she lies motionless—her hands on the blanket—and waits. Her heart beats ever more dully, a tremor grips her, she feels her clenched teeth knocking together quietly.
And then the very simple redemption happens. The serious woman walking through the room stops close to her bed and takes her hand—ice-cold with excitement—in her warm, soothing hands.
"We haven't really said hello yet, little Manuela!" she says. "Sleep well on first night here with us!"
And before Manuela can answer—oh, she couldn't have answered, because her eyes are full of tears and her lips are trembling as if in a fever—the hands bend, the voice bends, a warm chest bends, a person bends down towards her, and Fräulein von Bernburg kisses Manuela's forehead, as if she saw nothing of the tears that are now running down freely on both sides.
"Thank you, Fräulein von Bernburg!" Manuela stammers, but she doesn't know if she has been heard. Fräulein von Bernburg is already at the door and turning off the light.
"Good night, children," she wishes once more and has gone out.
The twelve white beds lie in the darkness. Only in one corner, a tiny night light is burning. All the windows are closed, the silence in the room is deep for moments. Manuela lies there with her eyes open, staring at the door that Fräulein von Bernburg has closed shut behind her.