The Soldier with the Golden Buttons - Adapt For Youth

(, Biba crossed by mistake over the "trespassing prohibited" sign and arrived at the part of the camp where the German officers live. They punish her for that in a sadistic manner.) Slowly, she walked over the soft carpet and halted when he told her. Now she was surrounded by boots again, by officers in uniforms and belts and revolvers. That was how they looked when they turned up for roll call. And they had such grins on their faces as they’d had when they’d taken away The Big Girl and the girl who wouldn’t beat her mother and the dead boy’s body. She was ready to obey their commands. The officer who had a girl like Biba stepped forward and sat on his heels before her. “Look, Biba,” he said, “see these plates on the table here? Well, each plate contains one of the dishes we’ve had for dinner today.” He was speaking slowly, taking his time, making sure she understood. “Now, there’s only one thing on each plate—a piece of meat, a slice of bread, some lettuce, and so on. You can look at it all, and then you can choose one single dish.” Biba waited for him to say what he had to say. The Soldier with the Golden Buttons asked, “Did you understand that? From all you see on the table here, you can take one—but only one! You are to choose.” She raised her head and slowly lifted her eyes to look straight into his. Her eyes did not waver. For the first time, she stood before him with her back straight and her head erect, unafraid. She looked at him calmly, with dignity, with a smile on her lips—the way he had looked at her the first time. It came to her that she had waited a long time for this moment, and she was glad that it had come and that she had the courage to meet its challenge. He threw his head back as though to remove a strand of hair from his forehead, and a nerve by his mouth began to twitch. He glanced round uneasily, checking to see if the others had noticed the sudden difference that had come over Biba or his own nervousness. Yet, he wouldn’t give up so soon. He spoke again, controlling his voice, “Whatever you choose will be yours. Look, there’s water here too. You may drink a whole glass!” Biba looked at the glass. Her parched mouth opened slightly, but her arms remained stiffly by her sides. Motionless, she gazed at the table, at the plates, the food, the water. They all seemed unreal, like pictures in the sand that would dissolve at a touch. She looked beyond the lined-up dishes and saw a vase filled with daisies, their large, white petals towering majestically over the range of plates, an island of reality. She kept her eyes on the flowers, and they shone with all that was absent from this room—light and space and warmth and beauty. They filled her with a marvellous sense of having something that was hers alone. An idea struck her. She would take a daisy. Yes, she would take a single white daisy. They had said she could take what she wanted from the table, so why not a daisy? It was the only thing she truly wanted. She glanced at the officers and then back at the vase. Yes, she would do it. No doubt they’d be stunned. They no doubt thought she was having difficulty choosing a dish because she wanted them all, but she would let everything stand and take just one white daisy. Then she would walk past all the boots, through the garden, past the tree, and across all the small suns in the sand. She would walk all aglow with the splendour of her flower, walk through the camp, past all the huts, and past all the beds till she came to the bed where her mother lay. There, she would stop. She would stand before her mother, hold out the flower, and say, “Happy birthday, Mama!” And Mama would take the flower and smell it, and its smell would bring back the colour to her cheeks and the strength to her limbs. She would recover like in that story about the boy and the heart … “Well, what’s up?” the voice of The Soldier with the Golden Buttons woke her from her trance. He turned her roughly towards him. “Do you want something, or don’t you?” “Yes, I do!” she replied firmly. She looked at him fearlessly. There was nothing he could do to her any longer. He had lost his power over her, and he knew it. She looked at the others, and they grew uneasy under her gaze and averted their eyes. Biba moved to the table, and the flowers seemed to beckon her on. She could already picture Mama standing there, gay and happy, her long hair loose on her shoulders, her face flushed with pleasure, impatient for Biba to get through her birthday poem so they could dance through the room together. Her hand reached for the flower, and then another picture formed in her mind—a picture of Mama as she was today, now, there in the laundry hut, bowed, thin, her face old and grey and lifeless, her shaking hands holding a piece of bread and bringing it carefully to her mouth crumb by crumb. This picture was here, alive and real before her eyes. She turned her eyes away from the flowers and searched among the plates for a slice of bread. She found it—a thick slice, as big as three days’ rations. She knew she was about to do what the officers expected she would, knew she was giving them one more reason for laughter, for triumph, but she also knew it was bread her mother needed. She put out a hand and took it. Then she turned on her heel and moved to the door. She walked between the two rows of black boots out of the room. She walked over the white gravel path, past the sign with its warning. The officers’ laughter followed her, but Biba heard nothing. She reached the laundry and peered through the keyhole, and when she saw that Mama was still there, she leaned against the blazing wall of the hut and waited, the bread in her hand like a flower, whispering, “I’m a little mouse … a little mouse …” But try as she would, she could not remember the rest of the poem.