The walls in the hospital are coated with dirt-repellent paint. A colour like eggshells. Snot and tears roll off these walls. When no one is looking, I test it out. My mother brings me apples, a book. I ignore her. Since she left my father, I have been punishing her. I only ask my mother for one thing: I want to go to Ines’s school. My mother refuses. Laughing, she says she’s not one of those types. She doesn’t dream in pastels and she doesn’t believe in reincarnation. Anger wells up in me. I blow my mother out. Make her fade away. After a quarter of an hour of silence, she gives up. She says goodbye. Only her apples are left behind. One of them is gleaming red. It has a bruise. I weigh it in my hand. The apple smells juicy. I give it to Ines. She pierces it with a rusty needle. I fold my hands, bow my head. Ines anoints me with its juice. She says it heals all wounds. She says I’m something special, like a precious stone. That I just need to be polished. That what makes me special is encrusted, it only catches the light for a moment at a time. But that I’m in luck: Ines recognises me despite everything. She promises to help me. I don’t need my mother’s permission to go to her school, she says. I’m the only one that matters. She says I could pass the test. She prepares me. We train hard.

I need to learn everything from scratch again. Standing, walking, even the way I sit is wrong. Ines practises with me. I have to repeat everything a thousand times. At night she wakes me and asks me what music I like, how old I am, or what my favourite colour is. Quickly, I say: Waltzes, eleven and red. Ines tucks me up again and kisses me on the forehead. I don’t forget how old I actually am or that I much prefer green. But I’m a good pupil. I’m a quick learner. I know what my teacher wants to hear. Ines is pleased with my progress. I’m pleased that she is pleased. She changes my preferences, my hobbies, my experiences. I accept everything willingly. Ines says my name doesn’t suit me. My real name, my secret name, is Eleonore. She calls me Elly. I answer to it. Ines transforms me. She gives me new clothes and even a wig. I get changed in the bathroom. When I open the door, Ines stares at me. Shocked, I ask: Have I got everything right? I pluck at my hair hesitantly. Ines doesn’t say anything. Stiff as a marionette, she reaches a hand out to me. She pulls me onto her knees. I’m too big for that, but it doesn’t bother her. She holds me in her arms, rocks me, and hums. I keep completely still. The wig is black and woolly. My own hair is blonde and thin. Ines doesn’t care that the wig looks fake. She strokes my pretend hair. A cleaner catches us. She laughs at the sight. I feel helpless, angry. Ines is shaking. She is in danger of losing her composure, I can see it. But she pulls herself together. The next minute she is my queen again. Powerful, untouchable. The cleaner says we should go outside, get some fresh air, not just lock ourselves away in the room. We fling ourselves onto our beds. She swishes the mop around us. We let her talk. The grown-ups believe it’s all just a game.

The doctor calls the children from the room next door to my bedside. They are allowed to watch. The plastic thread on my scar is about to be taken out. The doctor pulls my pyjama trousers down below my belly button. I’m afraid they will slip further. I try not to breathe. The doctor plucks at the red bulge on my skin with tweezers. Finally he catches the blue thread. A boy is staring at my stomach. He pulls a face, he’s disgusted. I hate him. Ines walks out. Immediately the room seems darker. The doctor holds the blue thread up in the air. We’ll soon be shot of you, he jokes. He praises me: The wound is healing in textbook fashion. When he has gone, Ines passes me her rusty needle. I dip it in the toilet. Then I pick my scar apart with it. Ines helps me. We spread the sheet over the blood. The cloth soaks it up. The fever comes almost at once. The nurses can’t explain it. They give me juice. I spit it out when they aren’t looking.