While taking a hike into the mountains, Hans recalls an important encounter from his childhood in the form of a flashback:
He was thirteen years old, a seventh-grader in short pants, and he was standing in the schoolyard talking with another boy about his age, but from a different class [...] It was during recess between the last two periods of the day for Hans Castorp’s class—between history and drawing. The schoolyard—paved with red bricks and cut off from the street by a high shingled wall with two entrance gates—was filled with pupils, some walking back and forth in little rows, some standing in groups, some leaning or half sitting against the tiled abutments of the school building. There was a babel of voices.
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