The Soldier with the Golden Buttons - Adapt for Youth

By Miriam Steiner Aviezer

The Soldier with the Golden Buttons - Adapt For Youth

“The Soldier with the Golden Buttons - Adapt For Youth” presents a child’s view of the Holocaust. It is the story of Jewish children wrenched from a carefree childhood to be overwhelmed by the brutal savagery of war. A few days are enough to turn them into adults forced to content with hunger and thirst, fear of death, and with the horror of being taken away from their mothers. Closed in a wagon, children are helping each other. The relation between six-year-old Biba and three-year-old Nicole written in warmth simplicity is most touching, and the tragic end of Nicole burns itself into the reader’s mind and heart.

Only their inner world of childlike imagination of dreams and fairy tales, can help them confront reality while maintaining their innocence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798823081504

Miriam Steiner Aviezer

Miriam Steiner-Aviezer is a teacher who was in charge of youth and cultural activities in the Jewish communities in the post-war former Yugoslavia. She immigrated in Israel in 1971. The Soldier with the Golden Buttons was originally written in Slovenian and first published in Ljubljana, Slovenia.

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© 2023 Miriam Steiner Aviezer. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/17/2023

ISBN: 979-8-8230-8151-1 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-8150-4 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Yad Vashem holds copyright to the Yad Vashem English edition.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

In memory of little Nicole and Jewish

children who perished in Holocaust

The Soldier With The Golden

Buttons - Adapt For Youth

Miriam Steiner Aviezer

The Soldier with

the Golden Buttons

Adapt For Youth

Translated from Hebrew by Miriam Arad

Originally published as Vojak z zlatimi gumbi

By Mladinska knjiga,Ljubljana, 1964

In Hebrew published by Moreshet, Tel Aviv,1977,1988

In English, titled The Soldier with the Golden Buttons published by Yad Vashem, Jerusalem,1987,2005

In Croatian published by A. Cesarac, Zagreb,1980

This is the first English edition of The Soldier with the Golden Buttons - Adapt For Youth

© Miriam Steiner Aviezer

Preface

In 1946, at Crikvenica on the Adriatic Sea, the American Joint Distribution Committee organized a holiday camp for Jewish child survivors of the Holocaust. Nearly all the children had been in one Slovenian death camp or another. Its horrors were still fresh in their minds and marked all of their conduct, from the way they ate and walked to the way they played on the beach.

But it was at night, in bed, that the past would come wholly alive. In the darkness, the children would tell one another their stories. I was one of those children, and I, too, told my stories. What we all had in common was our inability to describe our feelings. During the Holocaust, the majority of children were separated from their mothers and blamed them for not being with them. The children felt that all of their love for their mothers was trapped inside them. They were looking for a way to express their affection and to be able to freely love their mothers.

It is those stories, told a few months after the event, that I have combined in this book and made into the story of Biba.

One

The last of the morning mist was lifting over the village. The shepherds were taking their flocks out to pasture, bearing baskets in which to collect the mushrooms and blackberries that filled the woods at this time of year. The herds shuffled along, working their way between the village houses with a great bleating and tinkling of bells.

The little village was coming awake.

Curls of smoke rose over roofs, issuing from the chimneys in heavy puffs as though pushed by someone from below. Bedding appeared on the windowsills, followed by the heads of sleepy peasant girls leaning out over pillows and eiderdowns as they called to each other, exchanging first bits of gossip. Men went to draw water from the well, listen to their neighbours’ morning news, and return to homes fragrant with coffee and fresh-baked bread.

The village was coming alive.

Young girls in wide, newly washed skirts with the edges of starched petticoats showing emerged into the road. Their numbers grew as they crossed the village and were joined by other girls, all on their way to the railway station. There, as on every other morning of the week, they would catch the train into town, bearing eggs, milk, cheese, cream, and blackberries and the early-summer smells of meadow and forest and farm. Last came the women toting washtubs and wooden scrubbing boards and going down to the river to sing and chatter and joke as they did their washing.

The big children were going off to school, while the small ones headed for the slope below the mansion and, as though by prior agreement, raced to the tracks to meet the morning train.

They could hear it coming in the distance—a cheerful whistle—and then could see the engine itself appearing round the hill, a huge, kind-hearted monster rushing towards them. It blew a thin cloud of smoke as it swept past and gave a drawn-out whistle as though greeting the children, Hello there! See you tomorrow! It pulled a string of cars behind it as lightly as if they were cardboard boxes.

The children raced the train, laughing and waving and shouting Godspeed! till the last car had gone out of sight beyond the turning. The sound of its whistle faded, and still they stood by the tracks and gazed after the vanished train, thinking what it must be like to sit at one of those windows and speed past forests and villages and towns, on and on till you reached the big city. There, in the city, you had smooth, paved sidewalks instead of muddy pathways. There were tall, many-storied houses, tramcars and automobiles, and shop windows filled with toys, books, and lovely clothes. They had agreed that if one of them should ever go on the train, all the other children would wave till he or she was nothing but a tiny speck by the window.

The last trace of smoke and coal smell had blown away, and at last, the children turned from the tracks and started for the hillside near the river, their usual playground.

It was Maria’s turn to preside over the day’s games. It had just recently occurred to them to appoint a different game monitor each day, the way the big children had their class monitors at school. The child who won most of the day’s games would be the next day’s monitor. It was a large, new world, a new responsibility.

The monitor was in absolute command. He or she would invent new games, choose helpers if the game demanded it, and even decide not to play at all, in which case they were supposed to sit still all morning without doing anything. Biba was wishing they would play hide-and-seek. She had discovered the most wonderful hiding place where no one would find her and was sure she would win. Then her great wish would come true: she would be monitor tomorrow.

Maria was taking her task very seriously. She frowned, scolded, and issued commands. Come here, everybody! You too, Mojca! Be quiet! You heard me, Breda! Listen, I’ve decided on two games for today. First, we’ll play hide-and-seek, and then the prisoner’s base.

Hurray! Biba shouted.

Hurray was a new word she had only just learnt from her father. She felt very grown up using it.

Why can’t we play prisoner’s base first? Lučka demanded.

Because I said so, and I’m in charge today. It’s hide-and-seek first, and I don’t want to hear another word about it. Come and be counted!

They gathered round her, hands behind them, heads bowed, and Maria started counting, touching each child’s head in turn.

Air-bair, you are a hare. Og-bog, you are a hog …

Biba was terrified she would come out last and have to be it, so when she was counted out the third time round, she uttered a little shriek and skipped a few times round the big oak for joy. Breda was it. Just as Breda went to stand by the tree with her face in her hands and Biba was about to run to her new hiding place, a distant voice began calling, Biba! Biba!

Everyone turned to where the voice was coming from and saw Tonček. Tonček should have been at school, but he had stayed home that day because of a bad eye. They watched as he scampered downhill, arms flailing, and then waited for him to catch his breath.

Still panting, he turned to Biba and announced, You are wanted.

Me? Why? It’s not even lunchtime yet. I don’t want to go.

You must. Your papa wants you.

Papa? Biba said, surprised. Is my papa at home? Do we have visitors?

I guess so. Everybody’s there. Hurry up.

It seemed a shame to Biba to have to leave just when she had such a chance to win.

Please, she asked Maria, couldn’t you play prisoner’s base till I’m back?

Oh, all right. Don’t be long, though.

Biba set off at a run. After a few steps, she turned to see whether Maria was keeping her promise and then ran on, satisfied. Swiftly, she climbed the hill to the mansion, wondering who the unexpected visitor might be.

Could it be Uncle Zvonko? He did always turn up when no one was expecting him. He would turn up just like that in his big motorcar with the funny-sounding horn that always brought all the children running. He generally had a nice present for her too. He would take all the children on a ride through the village with a great deal of noise and horn-honking. It was very likely he’d brought her that big doll with the black lace petticoat.

But maybe it wasn’t Uncle Zvonko at all. Maybe it was Grandma.

Oh, but if it was Grandma, then some preparation would be called for. Biba stopped for a moment to check whether her nails were clean and her frock neat. She wiped her muddy shoes on the grass and walked on, carefully stepping high, mindful of the instructions that preceded each of Grandma’s visits. She could see herself coming up the stairs to the large drawing room reserved for visitors and great occasions. She would keep her eyes half closed as she crossed the room, on account of the scary pictures on the walls, but would take good care not to stray from the narrow red carpet leading straight up to Grandma’s armchair. Grandma would be sitting there bolt upright, very likely dressed in the black lace blouse with stand-up collar. Papa and Mama would be standing over her, answering questions. Biba would make a little curtsy like a ballerina, and Grandma would chuckle and open her arms wide. Then Biba, happy to have the formalities over, would climb onto Grandma’s knees, hug and kiss her, and chatter to her heart’s content.

Biba loved Grandma very much. True, Grandma would often look awfully grim—she was stiff and severe and moved about with difficulty—but Biba always felt that the frowning forehead and the grave eyes were just a cover for the smile underneath.

Grandma would tell her stories—always the same stories—but Biba could never quite follow them because she couldn’t speak Grandma language (that is, German, though Biba didn’t know it was called that) very