To the left, past the cigarette machine, there is an inner courtyard with two trees and a bit of sky.

Here a whole bunch of people hastily pulls on his cigarettes.

Straight ahead is the ward room, also frosted glass panes and closed doors, a nurse is watching the camera monitors.

Behind it, around the curve at the lounge, the long corridor with the patient rooms extends.

The gray floor and the yellow walls are stained, sometimes there is a smell of urine.

Schmidtmann is really a kind of lighthouse - one that never completely lets its surroundings out of sight.

As soon as he has said a sentence, he turns around again.

"I have to go there, it doesn't work that way."

He is heading towards the angry woman.

“What's going on today, Ms. S., what's annoying you?” He wants to know.

"What kind of a wretch are you, what are you thinking of?" She snaps back.

“Oh, Ms. S., don't do anything.

You know who I am.

I am your doctor, Mr. Schmidtmann.

So: what's going on? ”She ponders for a moment.

Then she growls: "Strawberries." "I beg your pardon?" "Strawberries for strawberry cake," she says.

“It's someone's birthday, I have to make strawberry cake.

But the others don't believe me. ”“ What if I believe you? ”“ Do you?

Really? ”It's like a spring wind has blown away the storm clouds.

It could be due to Schmidtmann's unimpressively friendly smile.

Ms. S. smiles all over her face and laughs out loud.

Then she gets up and hops and prances towards the room with the lunch buffet.

“There's strawberry cake!” She laughs.

"It's someone's birthday!"