Between Two Tongues: Shadows of Silence

Ich erinnere mich an den Klang der Stimmen vor dem Schweigen. They were bright, unguarded—children’s laughter in the stairwell, neighbors calling out, the cadence of a mother’s lullaby drifting through an open window. But that was before the new Authority, before the words themselves became suspect. Now, even our thoughts are measured, our sentences clipped short, as though we might betray ourselves with a careless syllable.

My name is Anna, or at least it was, before. Names are dangerous now—they are hooks that catch on the tongue, reminders of a time when we belonged only to ourselves. In official papers, I am “A—743,” a neat black stamp on a yellowed file. At home, in whispers, I am still Anna, though my mother’s voice trembles when she says it.

Jede Bewegung ist kalkuliert, jedes Wort abgewogen. To live here is to become a creature of habit and restraint. We eat together at the table, backs straight, eyes lowered. The Authority has decreed that all households must display the national crest above the hearth; ours hangs slightly askew, as if in silent rebellion.

There are rules for everything now. How to greet neighbors (a nod, never a smile). How to address the officials (always “Sir” or “Madam,” never by name). Which words may be spoken in public, and which are forbidden. The blacklists grow longer every month, and with them, the boundaries of language shrink, leaving us stranded in a landscape of sanctioned phrases and hollow greetings.

Sometimes, late at night, I dream in the old language. Es ist warm dort, voller Licht und Geräusche. In those dreams, I am weightless, unburdened by the need to translate myself with every breath. But morning always comes, bringing with it the Authority’s language—angular, precise, and cold as iron.

My father used to say that language is a shelter, a place to hide when the world grows dangerous. “Sprache ist ein Zuhause,” he’d murmur, pressing a finger to his lips as if to seal the secret. But what happens when the shelter becomes a cage? When every word is a window for someone else to look in?

On the streets, the Authority’s patrols glide like shadows, their boots echoing against the cobblestones. Faces blur behind mirrored visors; voices filter through radios in clipped, metallic syllables. There are stories—always stories—about disappearances, about neighbors who said the wrong thing at the wrong time, about children who slipped a forbidden word into their homework and were never seen again.

We are taught to forget. “Vergessen ist Überleben,” the teachers say. Forget the old songs, the old stories, the names of the dead. Forget the taste of freedom on your tongue. But forgetting is a violence, too, one that hollows us out from the inside, leaving only a shell behind.

Every morning, I walk the same route to the factory, past the statue of the Founding Father with his outstretched hand and blank, benevolent smile. The air is thick with the scent of coal and damp wool. Men and women in gray uniforms move in silent procession, their eyes fixed straight ahead. We are a city of ghosts, haunting our own lives.

Manchmal frage ich mich, ob die Sprache, die wir sprechen, uns verändert hat. Have I become less myself, or simply someone else? My thoughts flicker between English and German, the words tumbling together in my mind, refusing to settle. Some days, it feels as though I am two people—one who remembers, and one who obeys.

At home, my mother keeps the old recipe book hidden beneath a loose floorboard. On Sundays, she risks baking bread the way her mother taught her—braided and golden, rich with butter and memory. We eat in silence, savoring each bite as though it might be our last. The flavors are forbidden, a quiet act of defiance in a world that punishes difference.

One night, after curfew, I hear a knock at the door—three sharp raps, then silence. My mother freezes, her hands trembling around a chipped mug. My father’s eyes narrow. No one visits after dark unless something is wrong. I hold my breath as he opens the door a crack, peering out into the darkness.

A girl stands on the threshold, shivering in a thin coat, her hair plastered to her forehead with rain. Her eyes are wide, wild with fear and hope. She speaks—halting, desperate—in the old language. “Bitte, ich brauche Hilfe.”

For a moment, the world holds its breath. My father glances at my mother, then at me. He opens the door wider.

“Come in,” he says softly, in English. “You’re safe here.”

The silence splits, just for a moment, and the shadows shudder.