CHAPTER 291: SOON THEY’LL NO LONGER DREAM IN THEIR OWN LANGUAGE. ONLY SILENCE WILL REMAIN.

The first weak rays of dawn came through the gray skies over Tallinn next day.

The city, now draped in Soviet banners, awoke slowly, numbly, and silently.

Soldiers moved like ghosts, patrolling streets that felt empty even when filled with subdued crowds.

Shopkeepers quietly hung propaganda posters bearing slogans of unity and strength beneath Stalin’s stern gaze.

At his Kremlin desk, Stalin lit another cigarette, glancing impassively at reports spread across his table.

Beria stood silently nearby, hands folded respectfully.

"Initial consolidation?" Stalin asked without looking up.

"Proceeding smoothly," Beria responded softly. "Local police disarmed, all major institutions under our immediate control. Schools begin Russian instruction immediately."

Stalin exhaled a slow stream of smoke, eyes narrowing. "And resistance?"

"Minimal. Small pockets. Isolated intellectuals, poets, teachers harmless idealists, mostly."

Stalin’s fingers tapped gently on the desktop. "Harmless idealists breed dangerous ideals, Lavrentiy. Ensure they vanish quietly."

Beria nodded solemnly. "Already being handled."

Stalin looked directly into Beria’s eyes, his voice quiet but chillingly clear. "No heroes, no martyrs. Only silence, until their memories fade entirely."

Beria bowed slightly, stepping back. "Understood, Comrade Stalin."

In Tallinn, the NKVD moved swiftly and discreetly.

Officers in civilian coats visited homes before daylight, softly knocking on doors.

Lists of teachers, priests, journalists, and students passed from hand to hand, names whispered like prayers before vanishing.

One by one, influential Estonians quietly disappeared.

Friends and neighbors would later mention an empty house, a classroom missing its teacher, or a familiar face absent from morning prayers.

Yet, no questions dared be asked openly.

In a modest apartment near the university, Professor Jakob Saarinen watched quietly as NKVD men searched his study.

A young officer lifted a book from the shelf, holding it curiously.

"You wrote this, Professor?" he asked softly, his voice genuinely curious.

Jakob nodded slowly. "A collection of poems. Mostly about our land."

The officer hesitated. "Beautiful?"

"Painfully so," Jakob said, holding his gaze steadily.

The older officer intervened gently. "Professor Saarinen, you’ll come with us. Quietly, please."

Jakob rose without protest, pausing only briefly at the door to glance back at his books.

The young officer looked away, uncomfortable.

Across Estonia, similar scenes unfolded in the hours before dawn.

Schoolteachers were replaced swiftly, new curricula printed overnight, history texts altered quietly but drastically.

In the countryside, villagers gathered silently to receive new Soviet passports and ration cards.

Lines formed orderly but listless.

A woman in Võru murmured softly to her husband, "Are we really expected to forget so quickly?"

He squeezed her hand gently, whispering back, "We must pretend to, at least."

Near the Narva border, Beria inspected the makeshift detention center personally, eyes coldly scanning rows of detained Estonians seated quietly on benches.

"Have they resisted?" he asked sharply.

"No violence, Comrade," replied the officer nervously. "Some refuse food. Others quietly recite prayers or poetry."

Beria’s expression hardened. "Prayers and poetry. Idealism again. Remove those who recite loudly permanently. Silence is our aim."

He stepped closer, addressing the detainees calmly, without anger. "You think you resist heroically, yet who will hear you? You will not become martyrs, you will merely disappear quietly, unnoticed."

No one met his gaze, understanding fully the ruthless intent behind his quiet words.

In Moscow, Stalin received continuous reports detailing Estonia’s swift and silent assimilation.

Schools, churches, newspapers all firmly under Soviet control within mere days.

Stalin skimmed these summaries without apparent interest, pausing only at occasional notes of subtle defiance.

"A youth group burned pamphlets in Tartu?" Stalin inquired softly, almost amused.

"Yes, quickly dispersed," Beria replied stiffly. "Leaders detained."

Stalin nodded slowly, eyes distant. "These sparks must never catch flame, Lavrentiy. Smother them quietly, but completely."

At Tartu University, now temporarily closed for restructuring, a small underground meeting took place.

Young students and professors huddled in a dimly lit lecture hall, speaking in anxious whispers.

"We must preserve our culture," a young woman named Liisa urged softly, fiercely. "If we lose our language, our stories, we lose ourselves entirely."

A knock startled them.

Hearts pounding, they watched in terror as the door opened to reveal an elderly janitor carrying a pile of Soviet textbooks.

"New orders," he said apologetically, placing the books gently on a desk. "Tomorrow, classes resume Russian only."

He glanced meaningfully at Liisa before turning away quietly.

In Tallinn, Päts remained under discreet house arrest, guards stationed unobtrusively around his residence.

He paced restlessly, reading carefully censored newspapers, frustration simmering silently beneath his calm exterior.

Helma watched him with concern. "Konstantin, you must rest."

"Rest?" he sighed bitterly. "As my nation vanishes quietly, erased without even a whisper?"

She took his hand gently. "Their silence isn’t acceptance it’s endurance. Trust your people’s memory."

He squeezed her hand gratefully, drawing comfort from her quiet strength.

Major General Yermakov reviewed his daily progress reports with satisfaction.

He saw no conflicts, no uprisings just careful notes on quiet obedience.

"This is control, Comrade Polivanova," he told Nadya confidently. "Quiet efficiency."

Nadya glanced up, eyes tired but resolute. "Efficient, yes. But beneath quiet surfaces lie deeper currents. Hearts don’t surrender easily."

Yermakov considered this, unimpressed. "Hearts will fade. Soon Estonia will remember nothing clearly but us."

Outside Tallinn that night, soldiers quietly patrolled dim streets.

In a darkened house, young Liisa scribbled urgently in a small notebook, carefully hiding it afterward beneath the floorboards.

"Why bother?" whispered her brother anxiously. "Who will ever read it?"

Liisa met his gaze steadily. "Someone, someday. If we remain silent, they win."

In Moscow, late that evening, Stalin reviewed Beria’s final summary carefully, nodding slightly.

"Perfect quiet," he mused softly. "Exactly as intended."

Beria hesitated briefly. "Yet, some say silence can hide deeper resistance."

Stalin raised an eyebrow slowly. "It can. But resistance without noise dies unseen, unheard. Silent rebellion is no rebellion at all."

He tapped gently on Estonia’s map, voice lowering to a cold whisper. "Soon, Lavrentiy, they’ll wonder if Estonia ever truly existed at all."

Beria nodded, shivering involuntarily.

Across Estonia, the silence deepened.

Families whispered cautiously at home.

Teachers obediently recited new lessons.

Priests quietly amended sermons.

On the surface, compliance appeared total, quiet, absolute.

Yet beneath ran a powerful, stubborn current of memory, loss, and unspoken defiance.

In a small rural school, children struggled through Russian lessons, mouths forming awkward new sounds.

A young boy quietly raised his hand.

"Yes?" asked the new teacher sharply.

"Will we never speak Estonian again?" he asked softly, innocently.

The teacher hesitated briefly before responding gently, carefully. "You must speak as you’re told. But you may think quietly in any language you choose."

Late at night in the Kremlin, Stalin sat alone, satisfied yet wary.

He understood clearly victory was not in flags or banners, nor even in quiet obedience but in the silence that would ultimately erase memory itself.

He closed his eyes slowly, murmuring to himself.

"Soon they’ll no longer dream in their own language. Only silence will remain."