The Silence in Between -

Introduction“Josie Ferguson is a Swedish-born author with a rich literary heritage.” (warm, steady tone, pause) “Raised in a family of writers and readers, she learned early the power of stories to shape our hearts and minds.” (slightly slower, reflective pause) “Her studies in Clinical Psychology gave her deep insight into human emotion, a gift she brings to every character she writes.” (pause, gentle emphasis)

“Her debut novel, The Silence in Between, is a moving historical story set in Berlin during two pivotal periods: the aftermath of World War II, and the building of the Berlin Wall.” (emphasize title, slightly slower) “The story follows Lisette, a mother whose newborn son is taken from her, and her teenage daughter, Elly, who sets out to reunite their fractured family.” (soft, empathetic tone, pause)

“Ferguson’s Berlin is vivid and alive. (pause) The streets, the buildings, the hidden corners—they all hold stories of fear, of resilience, and of unexpected moments of kindness.” (slightly slower, reflective) “Through Lisette and Elly, we experience grief and longing, but also courage, hope, and the quiet strength that allows people to endure even in the darkest times.” (pause, let resonate)

“At its heart, the novel asks us: How do we maintain our sense of self in a world that seems fragmented? (slightly lifted, thoughtful tone) How do we keep hope alive when separation, loss, and uncertainty press in from every side?” (pause) “Ferguson shows us that even small acts of courage and kindness ripple outward, shaping a future where connection and humanity endure.” (soft, deliberate tone, pause)

“The Silence in Between is not just a historical story—it is a meditation on love, perseverance, and the invisible threads that bind families and communities.” (slightly slower, reflective pause) “As we follow Lisette and Elly, we are reminded that the past is never truly gone; it lives in memory, in our choices, and in the courage we summon to keep moving forward.” (pause, soft breath)

“This novel is a journey of the heart, an exploration of resilience, and a tribute to the enduring human spirit.” (finish slowly, let the last line linger)

---

This version is around 370 words, keeping your reflective, emotional style, with pauses, emphasis, and gentle pacing for oral reading.

Reading 1 (Part 2)

Now – Berlin, 12 August 1961

Any parent who says they don’t have a favourite child is a liar. As Axel

finally falls asleep in my arms, a bubble of milk resting on his upper lip, a

tidal wave of love washes over me. I never had this with Elly. Not on the

day she was born or on any day in the fifteen years since. Yet even the

crippling guilt I feel at this fact is insignificant in comparison to this

sensation swelling in my chest. What I feel for Axel is bigger than me,

bigger than all of us. For a moment I let myself believe it is so big it will

eclipse everything else, including the past and all that I’ve done.

I kiss his soft, feathery hair and stroke the red pinpricks in the crook of

his arm where they’ve taken blood. He’s so little; he shouldn’t have already

experienced pain. I clutch him a little closer and I vow to take care of him,

to love him, to be better. I can’t fail at this again.

A man pushes the door open with his shoulder, his arms full of folders, a

stethoscope around his neck. The rim of a Styrofoam cup is gripped

between his teeth. He drops the folders on the cluttered desk and drains the

last of his coffee before sitting down opposite me.

‘I’m sorry you’ve had to wait for so long,’ he says, opening one of the

files and sifting through the papers. A single sheet escapes and flutters to

the floor. He reaches down to grab it with a liver-speckled hand and bumps

his head in the process.

‘Right, right, where were we?’ he says, rubbing his bald patch where I

imagine a weal is already forming. ‘Yes, Frau Hartmann and Frank.’

‘Lange.’

‘What?’

‘Frau Lange. And Axel.’ I keep my voice to a whisper but the man

doesn’t seem to notice that Axel is asleep in my arms, doesn’t understand

it’s taken me hours to get him to stop crying.

‘Right, right. Let me just … yes, here they are.’ He extracts a page from

one of the folders and holds it under the desk lamp, squinting at the

handwriting.

Reading 2 (Part 3)

Clutching our dwindling weekly rations to my chest, (pause) I pushed the door open with my bony hip. Inside, I found Mother scrubbing furiously at an invisible stain on Father’s armchair, (pause) her hands red, the skin on her fingers peeling. The smell of bleach was acrid; I could taste it on my tongue. She groaned as if in great pain, and her face was wet with tears. I dropped the bags by the door, the contents spilling across the hardwood floor.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’ I crouched beside her, took her damaged hands in mine.

She lifted her face, and I could see it; I didn’t need her to tell me.

‘Father?’

She nodded, then whispered, ‘They have declared him missing in action. Somewhere in Tunisia.’

‘But not dead?’

‘Missing. What does that mean?’ Her voice splintered, her head lolled forward as if too heavy for her neck to bear.

‘Perhaps he’s been captured?’

‘Yes. Captured. That must be it.’ The suggestion was a fragile gift she grabbed onto with both hands.

‘Yes,’ she repeated. ‘Not dead. Captured.’ The scrubbing stopped, the tears subsided. Within minutes she stood up, smoothed back her hair, and wiped her cheeks. Her poise was restored so quickly I thought she had been momentarily possessed.

‘What happened to the shopping?’ she said, seeing the mess by the door.

‘Goodness, let’s get this cleared up straight away.’

I followed her, kneeling beside her to help, all the while watching her face, waiting for the tears to reappear. My own heart felt heavy in my chest, my eyes stinging, but I remained stoic. Together we closed the door to the truth, locking it out in the cold, where it would surely be forgotten.

‘Is that the time? We must get ready – we are expected at Frau Weber’s in an hour.’

‘Let’s cancel. Please? I don’t want to see Egon. I’m not interested in him. But he simply won’t give up. And … after the news today … let’s just be us two tonight.’

I could see the internal battle on her face. Mother was never rude; manners were more important than emotions. But she was depleted. We all were. There was a shortage of food, water, and basic supplies. The bombing raids were constant. The progressive destruction of our city, the shrapnel-scarred buildings, impossible to ignore, and we lived in perpetual fear that our home would be next.

Julius was gone now, back at the front. Father was missing.

‘OK,’ Mother said. And with those words, her composure evaporated. Her shoulders slumped, and if I had not taken her arm and led her to the sofa, I doubt her legs would have held her up.

‘Will you play the piano for me?’ (soft, reflective) ‘I do love it when you play.’

‘Of course.’

Night would soon creep in, and I knew that all that awaited us was an abyss of darkness. But when I sat down to play, I could think of other things: of Julius, and that kiss which would forever be imprinted on my soul.

---

Reading 3 (Part 4)

I’ve marked out my route and committed to memory the location of the supply room, but when I turn into the main corridor, I can’t find it. It’s supposed to be the third door on the left, but I find myself in a bathroom instead.

To my right I sense movement. I turn to see a face, ashen white, with unruly hair and eyes wide and stricken. I stifle a scream—moments before I realize it’s just my reflection.

I take a few deep breaths, pull my hair into a ponytail, and return to the corridor. Slowly, the next door swings open, and I slip inside, locking it behind me.

The smell of bleach is overpowering; nausea rises. I close my eyes. I need to stay calm and focused. Everything must go according to plan. Slowly, my heart falls into sync with the steady drumbeat of my music. I open my eyes. The uniforms are neatly stacked on a shelf. I shed my clothes, tuck them into a corner, and pull on the green-and-white outfit. I grab a mop and bucket.

The door unlocks with a soft click. I move down the corridor, head bowed.

An old nurse with cloudy eyes and wiry grey hair is inside the nursery. She stands by the large window, in a patch of pale winter sun, rocking a baby. She barely looks at me as I roll the bucket in front of her. A dozen cots are lined across the room, strange-looking rabbits painted on the walls—heads disproportionately large, teeth much too long.

‘Nurse Ilse is looking for you,’ I say.

‘Really? Why?’ She doesn’t look up, attention fixed on the child.

‘She says it’s important. I can keep an eye on them. I need to mop anyway.’

Reluctantly, she places the baby in his cot. He stirs but settles.

I scan the cots. My heart hammers. All the babies look the same. Then I see him. Axel. His wide brown eyes, thin lips—a copy of Mama’s.

‘There you are,’ I whisper. ‘I’ve missed you. Are you ready to go home?’

Gently, I lift him. He reaches up and touches my nose. I want to stay, but time isn’t on our side. I snatch the blanket, wrap him tightly, and slip out of the nursery, my brother in my arms.