My grandmother, when she was little, ended up in a concentration camp. Her younger brother died of hunger, she had to carry him to the crematorium herself, so her notes began later, after the war. I only know that she played at the Philharmonic. My grandmother never liked the violin, but she loved photography with a violin. She played often. All my memories of her are associated with the accordion. Often, for no reason, just sitting on the balcony. We always heard "Katyusha" at holidays and feasts. I think her soul has settled in a big red accordion. From an early age to the end of life.
When the instrument became too heavy for her, she asked someone to give it to her and played anyway. After her death. The accordion moved to live with us on the balcony for 10 years. We decided that it was wrong and presented it to the local village school, where it lay for another 2 years and they returned it (they said it was broken). Then we found a lovely young accordionist, he went through his tunes. And now the accordion began to sound again at our holidays and feasts. 17 years after her grandmother's death, the accordion started playing for her again. Her favorite photos on her handwritten sheet music, and my flowers for her.